Our dishwasher died a few weeks ago. It’s been sitting there mocking us with it’s unwavering evil red eye on the control panel. We’ve researched the stuck control panel issue on the Internet and unsuccessfully tried the recommendations of pushing various combinations of the control buttons. I’ve open and closed the door about 999 times to see if it will miraculously come back to life. The hubby has turned the breaker off and on to no avail. At first I found some sort of Zen peacefulness in actually hand washing dishes but by about day two I was considering buying paper plates and plastic cups in bulk. Realizing that it would probably cost as much to get someone to repair our 8-year-old or possibly older dishwasher we inherited from our home’s previous owners as it would to buy a new one, we’ve been temporarily ignoring it because, as inconvenient as it might seem, one can live without a dishwasher.
When I came home from work Tuesday the hubby was already there and I heard the sweet, sweet sound of the dishwasher merrily whirring away when I walked in the kitchen. I believe the exclamation, “THANK YOU LORD” was shouted by me because it really was a religious experience to hear dishes being washed, and not by me. Our dishwasher had risen from the dead. It was like a holiday. He also had dinner ready in the crockpot the next night, which was yet another religious experience.
I asked the hubby how he fixed the dishwasher and his reply was basically, “You know that scene in Armageddon where the Russian astronaut is frustrated about the screwed up spaceship controls and he just starts beating the hell out of the spaceship with a big wrench? Well that was pretty much it, only I used my fist.”
This handyman tip not approved by the Maytag Man.