Love, American Style

Last Thursday as I was pulling out of my driveway on my way back to work, just after the Best Buy truck had left my house, I had an epiphany.

A real epiphany.

I like nice things.

This epiphany was not fleeting, and it was quickly followed by a second bit of insight: I may be domestic.

Best Buy didn’t deliver and install a sexy new 48” screen HDTV or a Bose surround-sound system; they delivered and installed a washing machine.

But what a sexy machine.

Just before I went to visit my family this past Christmas, the night before I left town in fact, the agitator in my old machine wouldn’t, well, agitate. I stood there disbelieving that this workhorse I had since graduate school, no longer would, well, work.


A month earlier it had been leaking, and I had feared like Old Yeller, it was a sign it might have to be put down, but the local repairman, Russell, promised all it needed was a new pump. “Seen it before on these Kenmores. Twenty-seven dollar part. No problem.” he said. Of course he failed to tell me until the work was done that the twelve-minute installation visit would be another $60. Ah small town life, where the nearest Sears is 40 miles away.

Now the night before the-Christmas-drive-to-the-parents, I was faced with a second sign that Old Yeller may not last. Fearing that the agitator may be connected to broken belts and thus another much more expensive repair visit from Russell, I consulted my eco-friends, my fiscally responsible parents, and the Bible of all big-ticket purchases, The Consumer Report, and made the decision to buy a new machine.

After I found what I wanted and where to get it, since I live in the middle of almost-nowhere, I decided to order it online, saving the drive. Was this the first step into an exotic, dare I say kinky, new experience? Weird as it was, without going to a store, through computer, phone & fax, I ordered and had delivered and installed my new machine, and my old machine was taken away.

It was love at first sight.

Three days later I have completely fetishized it. While not a designer color (I didn’t get too crazy), it’s a white LG Tromm, Consumer Report-endorsed, front-loading, dual-drive, silent motor, energy/water efficient baby, and since its delivery on Thursday I have done maybe 7 or 8 loads of laundry. I can’t seem to stop! The promise of something different, the early blush of infatuation is turning into something more. For the last three days I have become like one of those actress/models in a 1950’s Maytag commercial, lavishing attention, even stroking my new state-of-the-art-machine. Worse, I even tell friends how great it is:

“You just won’t believe how quiet it is. It even has this cute little chiming beeper to let you know when a load is done. The length of the cycles depends on the washing cycle I select & the weight of the load!”

Luckily I made most of these comments over the phone so I couldn’t see my friends rolling their eyes. I can’t believe it myself.

But love is often irrational.

I had a step stool stored in my laundry room that I often used to rest my laundry basket. Now I can sit on it if my back is bothering me from bending over, as I unload the washing machine and load the drier. The real pleasure, however, has been sitting on the stool this morning with my coffee, watching my laundry as it quietly tumbles.

This is, at the moment, better than TV.

The pleasure of the item itself is magnified by my surprise at this discovery about myself. I’m an educator; I like books. If I wanted to make money, I would’ve gone on to law school or gotten a corporate job. My mom still has the same drier that my parents bought—before I was born. I don’t like to spend money, think of myself as materialistic, or particularly girly-domestic.

What illusions we hold of ourselves, right? Through the consumer mirror darkly of the first luxury household item I have ever bought, I’ve discovered what the big deal really is when it comes to owning “nice things.” Maybe I’ve always known this and have repressed it. Maybe that’s why my love for this washing machine has sprung forth as a 9 & ½ Weeks orgy of laundry and domestic bliss.

For now, I will fix another cup of coffee, take a deep cleansing breath, and think about what my best friend told me: “Repeat after me; It’s OK to like nice things.”