This past week, I finally decided to do something about our washing machine.

I don't remember how old this washer is; I just remember that we couldn't afford it when it was new. Our previous washer came with the house and dated from an era when appliances came in ugly shades of green or yellow but lasted forever and a day. When it finally gave out, I convinced my wife that we should buy the most expensive machine we could get, one that could handle big loads and would last for a long time. Just to be certain, I picked one that had a really classy silver royal-looking badge on the front.

I don't want to name the company that made the washer, but suffice it to say the repairman ain't nearly as lonely as the ads make him out to be. I haven't kept good records, but I believe that in the years since we bought the washer, it has broken approximately 1 gazillion times. The only part of the washer that seems to have held up well is the fancy badge on the front, which still looks like new.

The washer has broken down so many times that I've developed a variety of ways of dealing with it. Sometimes I call a repairman. Other times, I get out my tools, open it up and spend hours poking things with a screwdriver, trying to diagnose the problem before finally giving up and calling a repairman. Sometimes I just bump it -- hard -- with my hip until it starts spinning again.

A few months ago, the washer stopped spinning very fast and started making annoying creaking, squealing and moaning noises. The noises are hard to describe exactly, but they were the kind of sounds you would hear if you twisted an old lady's arm behind her back really, really hard -- repeatedly. (I've never done that, and don't plan on doing it, so am really just using my imagination. As you should.)

As time went by, the washer also slowed to a crawl and leaked regularly from the bottom. (Here, out of a sense of decorum, we need to abandon any old-lady metaphor completely.)

I agonized over how to deal with this situation. I could get the old washer fixed, yet again, or I could buy a new one. Getting a new one would involve getting the washer into our basement, a chore that involved either taking apart our back deck or trying to wedge a full-sized washer down a half-sized flight of basement stairs.

Our back deck, to make matters worse, has been covered for weeks by the remnants of a massive snowstorm. On top of the deck is one of those metal and canvas canopies that provides shade in the summer time but isn't such a good idea in the winter. During the storms, the canopy inverted like a cheap umbrella. Filled with around 800 pounds of snow, it's not only a disgrace, it's a 9-1-1 call waiting to happen.

Buying a new washer, however, would mean not having to worry all the time about strange noises emanating from the basement stairs. And getting the old washer fixed could mean paying almost as much as a new washer, taking time off from work, and having, in the end, the same old washer with other parts that might break at any minute.

I'm not the most decisive person in the world, and fretted the entire day away Sunday trying to figure out which way to go. Finally, Monday morning I called the repairman, who came right away, stomped into the basement, informed me we just needed a new pump ($225, thank you) and we'd be fine. He pushed the button to start it. No squealing, no moaning, no leaking. I sighed. For once, I'd made a good decision.

Wednesday evening, I walked in the door to find my wife in the kitchen with suspiciously wet feet. She just shook her head and pointed to the basement. I raced down the steps to find our recently fixed washer gushing water in every direction, a half-inch of water covering the floor.

I let out a cry that's hard to describe, but if you could locate an old lady, flip her around and twist her arm behind her back, hard, it'd be just like you were there.

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