I’ll never forget the first apartment I got that allowed me to have my very first Washer and Dryer set. In my early twenties, THIS was a big deal. No more Laundry Mats. No more quarters. No more carting trash bags of dirty clothes around. No more stretching my clean ones until I had a day off that I’d be cursed to spend in the Laundry Mat and not somewhere fun and interesting like the rest of my friends.
Of course, I couldn’t afford a brand new Washer and Dryer. Luckily, a family member was just starting out selling appliances. They sold me something they couldn’t exactly get rid of because of the way it looked and it’s age—a beat up, ugly ol’, lime green Maytag Washer. This thing looked a hundred years old. It was heavy, clunky and there was absolutely nothing fancy about it. Luckily my Laundry Room had a door because this set was an eyesore, complete with an off-white Dryer that had more dents in it than my first car, a used Chevette.
They weren’t pretty but baby, they could sure take a lickin’ and keep on gettin’. My now husband and I decided to move in together not long after. Now, he’s a Country boy, or what I like to call, Mountain Man. On top of bein’ a Mason, that man can dirty up some clothes and if anyone is married to either or, you know they wear lots of layers, too. So right off the bat, I had a ton of clothes to wash, every single day. And the stains weren’t sweet and easy like. They hooked their claws into the threads of the cloth and held on for dear life. But my ol’ green Washer wasn’t no new girl to any block. She was somethin’ fierce. She’d take fifty tons of clothes and jerk them suckers around like a wolf with a chew toy. She’d barely bat an eye at a stain. She’d go all in with fists ready. And that Dryer got hotter than hussy sittin’ up in church in the middle of August while a Preacher yelled a warning of damnation to every harlot and drunkard within ten miles.
When we moved back to my husband’s hometown, way out there in Deerfield, Virginia, our very first house had the worst iron water this Country girl has ever seen. I swear to each and every one of you, this iron would come shootin’ out them pipes the size of a damn baseball. Big baseballs of chunky, orange rust. As if we’d walked outside with our clothes on while some snot-nosed kid threw handfuls of orange clay at us. That’s what the hell our clothes looked like. My husband was always muckin’ with the plumbin’ because this god awful stuff would clogged everything up and wear it ten times over like that of tar. Everything we had was ruined and I just knew my Maytag wouldn’t last long. How the hell could it? If this is what that water was doing to the pipes, commodes, sinks and tubs? No way could my lime-green fighter take much of a beatin’ with all that concerned. But I was wrong.
We lived in that house for two years and my Maytag kept on gettin’. I was constantly buyin’ rust cleaner givin’ her a run through even though it hardly made a dent in the toilets, sinks and everything else. Once we moved, to my absolute sadness, my Washer finally bit the big one. She passed onto Washer Heaven and just flat out died. If only I knew what I had then, I might have hired someone to come out and fix her—if she could have been fixed. Instead, foolishly, like a fifty year old man in a midlife crisis, I traded her in for a newer model. Just like those men, my life has went hill every since.
That was over fifteen or more years ago. (Do we really have to depress things further by countin’ up the exact years?) *winks* Since, I haven’t had a Washer last more than four years and the last two, no more than two. In fact, the one I have now, went belly up while it was still under warranty, and for once, the Manufacturer didn’t find a way to screw me out of that. Well, they did in the end, but at the time, it all seemed legit. They sent out a Service Man who literally ended up replacing EVERY. DANG. THANG. THAT. EVER. WAS! I’m not kiddin’. He replaced every dern part when it was all said and done. The part I got screwed on was, he wasn’t certified to work on that particular brand and the reason he replaced everything was, he didn’t know what the hell was wrong in the first place. So, I still have problems but the new girl isn’t under Warranty anymore, so I’m basically draggin’ her along for the ride for as long as I can. *winks*
Anyway, the moral of the story, I’d give anything for that ol’ Maytag back. Sure she was an eyesore, ain’t we all at one point or another? But she worked like a dream and harder than anything they make now. All this (HE) crap is a joke. This less water BS is exactly that….BS. If you can’t wash a full load of clothes, then how the heck is using less water efficient? My Maytag girl would break my clothes down to two loads now – and I have two kids still at home and my husband, who still gets as dirty as mud. Even if my oldest was still home, my Maytag would blow the doors off this sad little joke of a Washer I got now. Now, I have to do four to five loads of clothes—compared to what my Maytag could do in two. Now to me, if I’m washing two to three times more loads of clothes a day then that’s not highly efficient. That’s a high kick in my arse. And Stains? You wanna talk about Stains? If I don’t pre-treat it with the new girls, then I’m cursed to live with the Stain forever and sometimes, even if a bunch of elbow grease and fightin’ of my own, the Stain still won’t pack up and leave. But Mrs. Maytag could whip a Stain with her eyes closed even if I didn’t catch it to pre-treat. She’d whip that sucker six ways till Sunday. Shoot, the other Stains on the second load would catch wind of that and jump clean off the clothes all on their own before they had to dance with her.
Those were the days. What I wouldn’t give to have that ol’ girl back—eyesore or not—because lord knows, all the younger models that took her place, these supposed (HE) wonders, are a big crock of doo doo.
The picture above was snatched off Google—obviously someone is selling one. The one in the pic above looks a whole lot better than the fist-swingin’, fighter I had. Oh sure, I’d take the chance and buy it but who’s to say she is what they say she is—that she can replace the ol’ lime- green queen I once had.
Those were the days……
Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?