My So-Called Life With Appliances
The refrigerator repair guy, the guy from an appliance service outfit without a local address or phone number that I was forced to use for warranty work because the owner of the store where I bought the icebox called me “full of crap” when I had the audacity to ask for a replacement washer when that appliance which I also bought there came with a cracked drum; the service guy who would only commit to show up to come fix an over cooling problem on the top shelf of our very chic black mirrored Jenn-Air sometime between 8:00 and 5:00 and ten days at that after a bottle of root beer froze and exploded inside; the guy dressed as crisply as the Maytag guy on TV and who is supposed to be the expert sent by the manufacturer; that guy, when he finally posted late in the afternoon, opened the fridge door and saw a gizmo inside that is part of the fancy schmantzy side-by-side, pointed at it and asked me, “Uh, what’s that thing?”
After a thorough 4:17 inspection, which consisted of pulling out some temperature gauge and holding it to one of the shelves like a doctor holds a heartbeat checker to a patient’s chest, then running his hand over the control panel and musing, “Hmm, vacation mode,” he went to his car to order some part, a computer chip panel of some sort. “When you get it,” he advised, “call our 1-800 number and set up another appointment. I’ll come and install it. That must be your problem. We’re running about ten days out now. Lots of repairs this summer.”
As if I’d ever let that guy even open the door to my refrigerator again.
That’s the kind of day I had last Thursday. And that ain’t all.
While the fridge guy was filling out paper work in his van, the TV repair shop guys came to pick up my fancy schmantzy LCD HD with picture break up problems. For the second time.
At least they do have a local address and phone number and lots of genuinely helpful people who answer customer questions. Unfortunately they have to make three attempts to fix the problem before I have the right to demand a new set under the extended warranty I fortunately purchased at a premium with the set. Also fortunate is that our household is blessed with other TV sets to watch in the interim. But that was the one with the DVD player hooked up in a cozy little room.
The last time they had the set two weeks.
So, when I grabbed my seldom used cell phone to call the Film Babe to advise her of all the days’ developments, the screen indicated I didn’t have any service. Odd. I live in an area where the phone always works. And the bill is paid up.
When I turned the phone off and back on, it still wouldn’t work. When I plugged into the wall, thinking maybe it might have been battery problems, it still didn’t work.
When I called the place I bought it, the fellow advised there were no outages in the system, that I should “take the battery out, put it back in, turn the phone on and off, and see if it works.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’ll need to bring it in.”
Long story short, my phone, just over a couple years old, and not used that much; my phone, which has never been dropped in water or pizza or even on the floor; that phone . . . died.
“You’ve had it thirty months?” asked the guy at the store. “That’s pretty long, it’s time for a new phone.”
You ever try to get a new phone at a reasonable price, when the fourteen page contract you signed says you’re still a few months away from an upgrade?
I did. Late last Thursday evening. After the refrigerator repair guy did nothing to solve my over-cooling problems. And after I waved a sad goodbye to my TV for the second time.
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