By the time I called the appliance service company, Stainy the Dishwasher hadn’t worked properly for months.
“I think it’s the motherboard. Probably smarter just to buy a new dishwasher. Once these start going bad…” The words of the dishwasher repair guy were still in my head a year later, as was the memory that the service call cost me $138 and rendered no more advice other than to buy a new one.
But I did not take the advice of the repair guy. I’m a man, after all, and suspected his assessment to be exaggerated, a sort of repairmanesque hyperbole. Certainly, whatever the problem, I could fix it. After all, I’m handy..sort of. Back in the day, when I lived in a house with a yard, I was fixing stuff all the time. Hell, you couldn’t STOP me from fixing stuff. Toilets, lawn mowers, light fixtures—all were within my purview. Indeed, nothing was safe from my desire to improve it.
Not so much anymore. Living downtown has made me lazy when it comes to household projects. It could be that my household no longer has any small children from whom I feel the need to escape. Or it could be that I’m distracted by other things, like writing and watching How I Met Your Mother reruns on Amazon. Regardless, in the case of the damaged dishwasher, I decided to reclaim the manly moniker of Mr. Fixit, and determined to make Stainy fully operational, using Youtube videos as my guide.
Anxious to begin, I ordered a new Motherboard from General Electric, Stainy’s manufacturer. The part was only $40 and I was super-excited the day it arrived. I was so super-excited, in fact, that the first thing I did was watch three videos on how to replace the old motherboard with the new one. Right after viewing the videos, however, I placed the new motherboard, still in its packaging, on a shelf above my refrigerator.
Why?
You see, the videos made the whole motherboard replacement process seem like a huge pain in the ass. I mean, according to the video instructors, I would have to undo the electric and water, pull the dishwasher out from under the counter, flip the whole thing on its back, remove this wire harness and that wire harness and blah, blah, blah. This was going to be a major time commitment with plenty or opportunity for screw ups. Plus, my motivation to fix the dishwasher was sapped by the fact it was still working…sort of. At least it worked occasionally. It worked enough that I never got buried in dirty dishes. It worked enough that I didn’t have to, God forbid, clean any dishes by hand. Considering that, it seemed perfectly reasonable to keep the new motherboard safe on a shelf until I absolutely had to replace the old one, until the day my dishwasher decided to permanently give up the ghost.
The replacement sat on the shelf for a year. Yes, a YEAR! Incredible, really, and a testament to my determination not undertake the repair, and thus to make the old motherboard last as long as possible.
Eventually, of course, old Stainy stopped working altogether and, faced with a growing pile of dirty dishes, I decided the time had come. I disconnected the old girl’s life support (electric and water,) and, after emptying the dirty dishes I’d placed in Stainy’s racks, I pulled the ailing machine out from underneath the counter. After shooing away my dog, who seemed to find the whole process fascinating, I removed the old motherboard and, per the instructions from the stranger on Youtube, installed the new one.
Machine reassembled and returned to its natural, upright position, I switched on the electric, expecting the control panel to light up like a Christmas tree.
It did not.
It did nothing at all. No lights. No sound. And no amount of button pushing seemed capable of bringing it back to life.
Back to Youtube.
Another stranger told me that, if the problem isn’t a dead motherboard, its most likely a bad Interface Control Unit (ICU.) In other words, there’s another board, adroitly called the ICU, through which the control buttons send their signals, and that the ICU tells the motherboard what to do.
In for a penny….
I ordered an ICU for $140 and, yes, it did occur to me that I was now into this project for $328 (not including labor) with nothing to show for it. As of yet, anyway. I waited a week for the ICU and installed it almost immediately. This time I didn’t have to move the whole dishwasher. This time all I had to do was take the door off and take it apart in order to expose its guts, all the while making sure not to sever a finger on the now exposed and surprisingly sharp stainless steel edges. Somehow, I managed to avoid bloodshed.
ICU replaced, I put the door back together and, after a bit of a struggle, reattached it to Stainy’s body.
My excitement was palpable, though tempered by history. I stood before Stainy, silently asking God for yet another favor.
With gusto, I threw the switch.
It beeped! It was alive! I pressed the Start button.
Nothing.
I pressed the Wash Cycle button.
Nothing.
With frustrated abandon I pushed button after button, receiving only an occasional, impotent response from the ailing machine. But the beeping sound and my fury signified nothing. Despite my best efforts, I could not revive Stainy. Shrugging off my failure, I returned to the interweb.
A brand new Stainy costs $398. And it works great.