Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Aftermath of the Great Flood of 2010

I returned to my apartment, Tuesday, for the first time since Sunday's flooding disaster.

Monday was spent having a minor medical procedure and recovering from said procedure.

I found a little pink piece of paper in my kitchen, from my apartment complex, informing me that they had fixed my washing machine. It malfunctioned because the balancers - little rubber strappy thingies - had broken, and that caused the hose to detach, spewing water everywhere.

The note mentioned that balancers breaking is a direct result of overloading the washing machine.

Okay, I can buy that. I had more in the washing machine than I typically put it in.

As a rule, I don't cram a ton of clothes in the washing machine, because I don't have a ton of clothes to cram into the washing machine, so they are washed more frequently, in smaller loads.

But why, pray tell, was I not informed of that when oh-so-helpful Jaime replaced the balancers on my washing machine twice before? Why was I not told that overloading the machine might be causing them to break? I definitely wouldn't have put as much stuff into the washing machine as I did on Sunday, when I was desperately trying to get washing finished, chores done, etc... so I could get to my parents' house pre-minor-medical-procedure to have dinner and rest up.

It's my fault, I know, but if the girl in the third floor apartment has to have her balancers replaced twice don't you think you should address the potential cause of said replacement with her, instead of just doing it and saying, "Okay, that's done. Have a nice day!"

He also wrote, helpfully, that I should only use the washing machine when I'm home.

Fat chance of that happening, since I have a job, and since the woman on the second floor requested I not run the washing machine or dryer after 10 pm.

The dryer makes a terrible noise when it finishes its cycle, and even I hate hearing it. The thing could wake the dead.

Maybe she's less fond of listening to me run to the kitchen to make the loud blaring foghorn sound stop, though, followed by my yelling, "Shut up, you stupid machine! I hate you!"

That could be it, too.

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