Handy Mandy

I'm cheap.  Really cheap.

And I'm resourceful.  Really resourceful. 

So when shit breaks (or when I break shit), I am loathe to call a repairman.  Instead, I insist that I can fix it myself. 

In the last few weeks, I've fixed:  Matt's dresser drawer, the kitchen sink (my bad), the dishwasher (still not really sure what I did), and. . .

Rewind to Sunday.  Matt and I went to the beach, got into a five-minute fight, got sunburnt, read magazines, headed home, bought a pineapple at the Piggly Wiggly, got home, took showers, and started a load of laundry.

Easy enough.

Except that when the washer had completed its cycle, I went to switch the load and the washer was still full of water.  Like full full.  Like "Oh shit, we're going to have to go buy a new washer" kind of full.

Crap.

So I asked Cris (Lost enthusiast and former roommate, mother of Reilly, pictured above) what she suggested, and we decided that it would be a good idea to just run it again.  Kind of a "turn the computer off and then turn it back on" solution. But it didn't work.  The washer was still full of water. 

And since I really didn't want to spend the rest of my evening emptying the washer with plastic cups, I turned to The Google, googled "washer won't drain," and discovered that there was a good chance that the draining hose thing was clogged.  Made sense, especially considering how much fur and how many coins and tubes of Burt's Bees have ended up in the washer.

So I pulled out the washer and unplugged it (figured that might be a good idea), and slowly removed the hose.  After I stared at it (much in the same way that Mitch stares at me when I ask him if he wants to order a pizza--slowly moving his head from side to side) for a few moments, Cris had another good suggestion: blow into it. 

Yeah!  Great idea!

So I blew.

And I blew, and I blew, and I blew.  (I blew more than the horrible episode of The Hills that I'm watching right now--Jesus Christ, Spencer, could you be a little more crazy?!)

And bubbles kept coming up from the bottom of the washer.  Just like farting in the bathtub.

I blew some more, at this point because I was impressing myself with my incredible lung capacity.

Then came the moment of truth.  We put the washer on the rinse or spin cycle (I can't remember), and held our breath.  Well, I didn't hold my breath.  I was kind of out of breath from all the blowing.

And. . .

VICTORY! 

And then, every 10-15 minutes for the next three days, I'd turn to Matt and be all, "Hey, remember that time I fixed the washer by blowing into it?"

Washing Machine, 0.  Mandy, 1.