Last week the evil appliance demon struck again, in spite of the presence of St. Joseph, protector of household repairs. This time it was my high-end, five-year-old, state-of-the-art dryer. The repairman said he simply needed to replace a part.

“Sue, the bad news is the part won’t be available for two or three weeks.”

Doable. I would survive the inconvenience.

“But, given all the COVID issues, the Suez Canal, and the international shipping situation, it could be 2 or 3 months.”

What? I flashed back to memories of both my mother and grandmother hanging laundry on their clothes lines in the Ohio summer breeze. Nothing smelled better than sheets dried outside, but in Phoenix? Land of blowing sand and dust? Doubtful.

“You should just buy a Whirlpool; at least, they’re American made so you can get parts.”

Me? Get parts? Wrong, masked man, but after he left, I went and bought a Whirlpool dryer.

“Sorry, Sue it can’t be delivered until next Thursday. We’re really busy with new house construction needs.”

Ok, so I’d have to dry my cabana boy’s weekly wash outside. I decorated my patio furniture with towels, shirts, socks, shorts, etc., and the Phoenix heat dried it in no time. However, I had to shake out the dust as I folded each piece. Admittedly, I did smell one t-shirt. No fresh aroma whatsoever.

Yesterday, aka laundry day, I washed and used my dryer for the first time. The buzzer went off; mission accomplished. I opened the dryer. Wet clothes. Hmm. How about timed dry, instead of normal? After 70 minutes, buzz, still wet. Hmm. Maybe, the installer forgot to turn on the gas valve. Since gas, like electricity, scares the bejesus out of me, I looked and listened, but didn’t touch the valve. I filled the laundry room with blue language instead. I reread the manual. Finally, I decided to wait until Monday to deal with this.

An hour later, I jiggled and wiggled every dial. I turned the temperature setting from High to Low and hit the start button. I waited 20 or 30 seconds and opened the dryer door. Voila! Hotter than a Youngstown steel mill blast furnace!

As one can tell from the photo, this is not the fault of the installer, but of the manufacturer. I can imagine the nightmare of dealing with the Whirlpool Corporation about this mess, so I’ll simply write them a letter for their circular file and remember that Low = High!