Delivery Day Woes

I want a front-loading washer and matching dryer more than I want new shoes.

If you knew me, you'd know how big that is. It's BIG with all capital letters. Huge. Monumental. My husband, Shawn, calls me the Imelda Marcos of College Park. My shoes have their own dresser. Two, actually. I dust them. I take pictures of them. I buy outfits to match them because if I fall in love with a pair of shoes that doesn't match anything I already own, I buy the beauties anyway.

So you can see how much I want a front-loading washer and new dryer. More than shoes.

I tried to buy them. I went to the College Park Home Depot on Aug. 1 to look at them and had to dab a little bit of drool from the 7.3 cubic-foot dryer drum. And during an impromptu woman-to-washer bear hug, I'm afraid I got my sweaty palm prints all over the 13.7-inch, graphite steel pedestals that fit right under the washer and dryer and elevate them to a comfortable height so I won't have to bend over so far when I throw my clothes into them.

Sigh.

So I ordered them. The Energy Star-approved, LG Electronics models with steam-only settings and about two dozen other mind-blowing bells and whistles are expensive—I dropped about three times more than I paid for the plain Jane, plain white top-loaders I bought when I moved into my house in College Park 12 years ago. But I was willing. As you know, I really wanted this fancy laundry set.

Plus, a pleasant and knowledgeable saleswoman named Bonnie helped me pick out a model that was on sale that day and came with free delivery and installation, haul-away of my old stuff and no interest on the payments for a year. This, I thought, is as close as a thing can come to better than new shoes. So I arranged for their delivery the following Thursday.

Four days. Not much time to get ready.

I was lucky enough to find someone to repaint my laundry room's cinderblock walls (icy light blue) and cement floor (creamy beige) in a hurry so my drab-and-dirty downstairs wouldn't clash with my high-end new appliances.

And then Thursday came and so did my laundry-room jewels: Crated in four standard cardboard boxes as if they were ordinary, the cleaning machines of my dreams were about to be carried into my house to transform my unfinished basement into my favorite room. 

But the washer had a big dent in its side. And off they went: dented washer, perfect dryer, perfect pedestals.

One week and one day later, another GE truck as big as a moving van arrived with four shiny, new, dent-free devices. The truck driver walked downstairs, unhooked my 1998-model washing machine, and discovered that the water shut-off valve, which I haven't touched since I moved into my 50-year-old house, was damaged. He said he's not allowed to install a washing machine unless the shut-off valve works.

And off they went.

I'd take full responsibility for that one—even though I didn't know about the breach—except that I happened to have a contractor in my house at the time of that delivery, who was able to solve the problem within a few minutes after the delivery guys left. In fact, the guys were still loading the gray-toned lovelies back onto the truck when he finished up--but they refused to leave their cargo, which by now had sparked a strangely maternal feeling in me.

Four days later, the familiar truck was back. With a dryer and nothing else. Buh-bye.

And three days after that, they tried to deliver three perfect pieces and one ugly, dented pedestal.

Better than new shoes? What was I thinking? Nothing is better than new shoes: You try them on and buy them only if they fit your feet, make your calves look smoking hot, have a right-height heel, float your boat, and you can carry them out of the store with you. There are never any surprises when you get home (except for the one time when the heels on a pair of strappy red stilettos with patent leather trim and silver buckles were too tall to fit into the cubbyholes of my shoe dresser). No dents, no scratches on your newly painted, creamy beige basement floor, no arguments with any big, sweaty guys. Just right.

I canceled my coveted cleaning machines (hey, four strikes and you're out, right?) and calculated how many pairs of Naughty Monkeys I could buy instead (47), and then I resisted the urge to dash over to DSW to get started.

I guess I'll hold onto my cash—and my dream of a to-die-for laundry day. And I'm trying to figure out how to wear a front-loading washer and matching dryer out of the store the day I buy them.

Sharon O'Malley is a freelance writer who has lived in College Park for 12 years.