The Misadventures of Joe the Vaseline Washing Machine Repair Man

Raise your hand if you are tired of hearing about the "washing machine chronicles"...  Ok, put them down.  You could not possibly be more annoyed than me, shame on you... so selfish.   So after a blissful week or so of clean clothes going from washer to dryer without incident there was a bit of a hiccup.  Something was not right, the clothes were way to wet to go into the dryer. 

The washer actually tried to cover up this fact by cleverly allowing the dial to move completely through the rinse and spin settings providing the illusion that the clothes had in fact been washed, rinsed and spun sufficiently.  I can only assume that having it's front panel shamelessly pried open, and it's inner workings laid out for the strange repair man to see was too much for the appliance to bear one more time.  And in true 8 yr. old fashion, it resorted to deception in an effort to avoid another "session" with Joe.  Internet, meet Joe.  Joe is the repair man who has practically taken up residence in our hallway.  He has been to our home many times since January when the first signs of trouble sent us to friends houses, our mini-van overflowing with laundry and dryer sheets, for dinner and a spin cycle in true weekend home from college fashion.  We have gotten to know Joe very well, so well in fact that we reached the intimately crucial "do you keep any Vaseline laying around the house?" conversation that rocketed us from slightly familiar acquaintances to up close and personal friends.  During one of Joe's frequent visits, he emerged from the laundry room (actually just a closet) and asked if I had any Vaseline.  Apparently, the directions called for Vaseline and he did not have any in the truck.  Probably a good sign as far as strangers in your home go, I prefer the non-lubricant carrying kind.  This was a uncomfortable question for Joe to ask, more uncomfortable for me to respond.  I mumbled something about the tube of "stuff" we used on the baby's rectal thermometer and it most likely being water soluble and therefore not suitable for industrial use.  In a matter a few moments, I had exchanged conversation with this relative stranger that included the words lubricant and rectal.  I was mortified that i had volunteered such information and was pretty glad when he left that day, as least i won't have to see him again.  As if my humiliation was not complete, he joked as he left on the following visit, that the neighbors would start to talk if his truck was parked in my driveway again.  Not funny.  Until today.  Truck in my driveway again, and here we are.  Modern toddler and Modern baby just smile and nod at him as if he belongs here.  He proceeded to replace a broken belt, which he had predicted would break, but our customer service driven insurance company wanted to play the "wait until it does and we can get another deductible out of them" game.  Modern Daddy was having none of that, and after a few choice words, they dispatched Joe with out further out of pocket for us.  Now the washing machine spins with a fury of a thousand washers, almost rocking itself out into the hall and down the stairs.  It's a lot like putting a Mustang engine into a riding lawn mower.  Joe's current theory is that the bad transmission put too much stress on the motor, and we should expect that to quit working sometime soon as well.  Lovely.