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The Mechanical Age

Labor Day 2022

The Kitchen Aid washing machine in my Dream House is not working — as of last night. I was not the discoverer of the nightmarish non-function, due to a definite but as-yet undefined malfunction. Dear Husband was the peeved johnny-on-the-spot with what has to be his Favorite Domestic Appliance. He informed me early this morning, Thursday, 1 September, of the dreadful event: a dishwashing machine that’s been in use for 1-1/2 years is not living up to its task, or, as of midnight, last night, not living at all. I asked Hubby if the warranty had just expired, and it appears that it hasn’t. I was therefore pleased that the Corporation hadn’t pulled a fast one on this one. But wait — there’s more! The Ice Cream Maker Attachment from Kitchen Aid that Dear Husband ordered 2 months ago, to use in conjunction with our Made in the USA Kitchen Aid Stand Mixer, got cancelled this morning. The automated 2-month cancellation cut-off was effectuated, or activated, or whatever it is that terminates the Consumer from His Requested Purchase Due to Bare Shelves Bingo Gone Bust.

I am sure there are entire websites currently devoted to the venting of vexed customers over the Corporate Response to the Return of the 1970s to America, if not the World. My adorably dutiful spouse had a rough go this morning in the realm of mechanical devices that he so very much likes. As for me, there’s not a love-hate relationship going on between me and the dishwasher. my attitude is one of complete indifference. I grew up in a household where I WAS the dishwasher, and, once I’d sprung that nest, I never did catch on to the love of the dish-washing machine. My rented apartments never had such luxurious amenities because they all pretty much dated prior to the mechanical age at its zenith in America, circa 1950/1960. My priority for my second-story apartment in mid-town Sacramento of the early-mid 1980s was the immense picture window in the front room. My desire for windows (of the physical kind) massively won out over any need for modern domestic conveniences.

Dear Husband, however, as Dear Boyfriend, emphatically announced that he would not rent any apartment that did not have a brand new dishwasher. He says that he has learned to accommodate my rather unique stance in life concerning the dishwasher. While I cannot truly feel that I’ve settled into any domicile without having washed at least one sink-load of dirty dishes, Dear Husband cannot belly up to that kitchen sink unless it’s to load the dishwasher. We come from completely different directions on this noisy device, and we meet somewhere in the middle of acceptance of his working with me on my attitude that partakes of antiquity. Presently, my firm suggestion to our dish-washing dilemma — oh, did I mention that we have been put on The Waiting List for The Dishwasher Repair Man, a wait that begins tomorrow — the Friday before Labor Day — and will end sometime after Labor Day???

So sorry. Those details somehow escaped the nuts-and-bolts of my brass tacks-mind! (“We” are not going the DIY Route on this one.) My firm suggestion, therefore, is that each of us washes the dishes we each use for eating. Thus far, my elbow-grease efficiency is vastly outpacing his, but I’ve had years, decades in fact, of experience. There’s something mucho macho about his insistence upon living in the mechanical age; while there’s something ferociously facho about my refusal to leave domestic tasks to a mere machine, a big, noisy hulking mass of automated parts. Truth to tell, I’ve written down the instructions for operating the machine, and I still manage to push-button program Mr. DishCleaner wrong! I do not fear being replaced by gears, plugs, seals, sprockets, and grinders. I am, however, highly annoyed at the noise (RACKET) the dishwasher — any dishwasher — makes. I can hear the thing all the way up the stairs, from the kitchen to the second floor master bedroom.

Washing-and-drying-dishes is a much quieter method of domestic cleanliness. It’s also a soothing activity, at least it is to me. Anent germ and bacteria killing, a shot or two of Clorox spray in the soapy hot water works to allay my cootie-phobia. Twenty years ago, the mechanical age was reputedly replaced by the highly-vaunted computer era. I appear to have moved into that electronic epoch much earlier than did my spouse. The fact that the basic dishwasher is still capable of breaking down after only a year and a half of use is an indication that the mechanical age is very much here to stay — via a return to manufacturing in the USA. Our Kitchen Aid dish cleaning-machine was made in America, as were all of our major home appliances. Every day I joyously come across a new small appliance that was not made in China; I purchase the merchandise on sale, often at a cut-rate deal. That ongoing labor of mine is part of my ethical, practical, and patriotic mission to replace whatever inferior-grade junk is still functioning from my purchases during the past decade or two. I am relishing the superior craftsmanship and high-quality components.

The globalist game of peddling Chinesium to my fellow Americans is coming to its deserved dreck of an end. The Mechanical Age in the USA has miraculously prevailed over the cruddy cadre of corporate, political, and financial crooks who set out to rob us all blind, while they pulled the synthetic wool over our trusting eyes during the past 30 years. They’re running like blind mice, to other gimmicks and tricks, but the will of free people cannot be thwarted, once those citizens refuse to be the pawns and patsies of the empty suits known as politicians and CEOs and World Leaders. Those stalwart individuals, on a global scale, see the Light. That light is shining brilliantly on the past, the present, and the future.

27 September 2022 Whirlpool Update The Dishwasher continues to be out-of-order in my brand new house, Larkhaven. It’s been a marvelous month of marital cooperation, unity, and bonding through cleaning dishes by hand. The breakfast and lunch dishes are quickly washed, air-dried, and put away. The Dinner Dishes, however, create the work that I’d forgotten even existed in the olden days before modern appliances, aka my childhood. Dear Husband cooked a delicious Sunday dinner this past weekend — because Sunday Dinner really ought to be a special meal on the Lord’s Day of rest. Rest though took a break on that Sunday for the preparation of sautéed scallops and bar-b-qued steaks. I made the side dish known as chop-chop: available fresh vegetables with Laudemio olive oil from Tuscany, apple cider vinegar, salt, pepper, and oregano.

This meal was typical of the Thank You Brandon life-style that has overtaken the Fruited Plain. The fresh veggies were minimal and a bit stale coming right from the Market (cherub tomatoes, celery. onion, parsley), along with some chopped green olives. The scallops were very good, but the steaks were dried out. I’d suggested to Dear Hubby to cook the scallops first and then put them in the oven on a low temp while he bar-b-qued the steaks. He decided to do the reverse. The scallops might have dried out as well, but we nevertheless ate with a sense of gratitude for our Sunday meal, after having spoken The Lord’s Prayer. The clean-up of the Sunday Dinner was the manual labor that sorely tested my attitude of gratitude. I was superbly livened up by the Dessert: tiramisu, direct from Italy, with, for me, a cup of instant coffee.

I know that instant coffee is a taste-bud abomination in a nation that has become dependent on the Keurig and designer coffee. For a gal who used to drink Sanka, watered down and filled halfway with milk, during her working-girl era in D.C., I immensely enjoyed the hot blast from the past. These blasts from the past are rapidly losing their propensity for inspiration and gratitude. The repair guy who had come to diagnose the Kitchen Aid (a division of Whirlpool) on the Wednesday after Labor Day turned out to be a flake. A wormy guy who gave Dear Husband the run-around for more than three weeks. After three non-returned phone calls, My Paragon of Patience told him he was FIRED. Today, a new repairman arrived at Larkhaven, at 10:30 of the morning clock. This fine young man had come to replace the heating element of the dishwasher. This part, according to the Letter from Whirlpool Corporate Headquarters, is NOT BEING RECALLED. THERE IS NO SAFETY RECALL OF THIS PART.

Dear Hubby received this letter in early July of this year. I was not aware of its existence until last night, when my helpmate showed it to me while explaining the upcoming visit (THIS MORNING) by a repair guy for a part that is NOT BEING RECALLED — but preemptively replaced. This morning, I engaged in a lively conversation with Young Mr. Fix-It; and I learned a whole bunch of information about what is going wrong and what is not going right, and why I ought to call The Whirlpool Corporation to complain about a pump motor conking out 5 months after the end of the warranty. “Many others have done it.” “I’ll just be getting in the Complaint Line,” I stated as I tried for the third time to conduct an online transaction for a Fratelli d'Italia tee-shirt, with the 30% off code. Certain e-tailers do not like the cloaking device on my browser so I have to switch to my AT&T Cellphone Hot Spot to engage in purchasing anything from their cheaply-run website.

I am not A BOT, but at least I do not store classified national security info in a mini-storage, or delete federal emails by the millions. I shall not ever approach the 100,000 mark for emails, but the other side of my digital screen believes I AM A BOT and Public Enemy No. 1.

It can happen to the best of us. It turns out that the Whirlpool Corporation is reaping the rewards of the corporate sponsorship of fraudulent elections, fraudulent news, fraudulent fraud. No matter what atrocity happens in the U.S. of A., or to the U.S. of A., the idiot spox goes out in front of the cameras and smilingly claims everything is ENCOURAGING. I highly encourage these paid propagandists to switch their verbiage once in a while so that my screen-loads of electronic faux-news do not resemble mimeographed mantras. I must applaud Dear Husband for diagnosing the mechanical problem with the Dishwasher immediately, hundreds of dollars ago. He’s ordered the correct replacement unit, and Mr. Young Fix-It has confirmed that component is the correct model number for a spanking brand-new dishwasher, straight from the Made-in-the-USA factory. The non-recalled heating element was quickly installed in the non-operative Whirlpool dishwasher. The pump motor assembly is most definitely on the way, in the mail, via UPS.

This Thank-You-Brandon Moment has been sponsored by The Corporation, which is always wrong. I think a return to the FJB messaging is in order for all of those parts on order, on backorder, on non-existent order because of the Supply Line SNAFUs caused by the Federal Zoo and its Senile Zookeeper. My indifference for the dishwasher has effectively been replaced by a fond affection for the mechanization mode of cleaning dishes! I can at least be thankful for that change, and, come to think of it, I am. When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie That’s amore. When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine That’s amore . . .


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