About a week ago, as I was folding laundry in the basement, water began to drip through the floor above me. I was running a dishwasher load at the time, so this was a rather bad sign. I went upstairs and sure enough, the dishwasher was leaking water all over the floor… ugh. Spewing a few expletives that I won’t repeat now, I put some towels down and let the load finish running. I’ve had a lot on my plate lately, and didn’t appreciate my dishwasher basically peeing on me.
We don’t see much of my husband anymore since we separated last year, so I took it upon myself, to take things apart and find the malfunction. The strips of black rubber hanging out of the pump, made it obvious that a gasket had broken. I’d watched my husband make this same repair about a year ago, so I knew what to do. I ordered the parts, and resolved myself to a week of dishpan hands.
On Sunday morning, I prepped for surgery, carefully setting out the parts that had arrived (a $9 gasket and two $5 a piece screws… cough, choke), along with a few tools. Disassembly and gasket change out went smoothly. I put the top back on and started putting in the “golden” screws. Things went along well, until about the fourth screw, I got butterfingers and the fancy pants screw slipped out of my fingers, bounced and promptly rolled down the drain hole [insert expletives... throw in a few extra for good measure]. I tried fishing it out with a magnet, but to no avail. It had run for a year missing two screws, so I finished securing the cap with the remaining screws and hoped for the best.
I ran the dishwasher empty, as a test run. No leak.
This was really a simple repair. No big deal at all. Somehow, it felt like I had just scaled a mountain, won the race & aced the test, all at once. A remedial repair made me feel like a complete and utter Super Star. I basked in my warm and fuzzy girl power moment, relishing for all it was worth, reality would be back to nip at my heels soon enough.
