Dapper Derek Dumbass and the lint-laden drainpipe...

Okay - I'll admit that it's my fault that the washer drainpipe was clogged.  I washed two chenille throws that I had no business washing and the lint from said throws was everywhere - it is no small wonder that the washer drain was clogged.  I was truly amazed that the thing didn't blow up.  It was clogged so badly the washer wouldn't even drain - just kept flashing F21 on the front panel.  I wrung the stupid throws out by hand and put them in the dryer where they basically disintegrated into lint and small green fibers.  I promptly bagged what was left of the throws for the trash and had to vacuum out the dryer!  That was Sunday afternoon.  On Monday morning, I promptly called the condo office and put in a maintenance request.  When I had heard nothing as of Wednesday afternoon, I called again.  They promised me that they would see to my washer problem (at this point it's a debacle...) first thing Thursday - today - morning.  Well, at a little after three, the appointed maintenance man, if you could even call him that, knocked on my door.  He was spotlessly clean, immaculately coiffed and jumped to the side like a girl when Aggie tried to greet him in her classic cairn way.  I mentally named him Derek and directed him to the laundry closet.  He was carrying the manual for the washer as he minced across the living room in his polo shirt and pressed khaki shorts.  He became Dapper Derek at that point when I realized he was wearing top-siders and no socks. He proceeded to push buttons and unplug the washing machine, all the while consulting his pristine Sears Kenmore manual.  That's when he became Dapper Derek Dumbass.  There's just something about watching a mere mortal man flounder about helplessly trying to fix something simple that just brings out the snippiness in me.   A snip, my grandmother used to call me.  Well, I couldn't help myself.  "I know what's wrong with it," I said, a bit sarcastically.  He turned and looked at me.  "The drainpipe is clogged.  That's what F21 means."  I added helpfully, "I looked it up online."  He gave me a deer-in-the-headlights look.  "I'll have to go look up how to fix it," he said and started for the door.  There was no way I was letting this guy get away so quickly after having waited almost all day for his arrival - I couldn't afford to waste another day at home during tax season.  "I already know how to fix it," I replied.  "You take off the bottom panel on the front."  He started to speak and I interrupted him.  "There are just three screws."  And then I saw the panic on his face.  He might have to get dirty.  Or ruin his manicure.  Honestly, if you were a prissy guy, would you even take a job as a maintenance man?  When I call for a repairman, I want a dirty, unkempt guy.  I want someone who looks like he's been working.  Not some clean preppy guy whose name probably is Derek.  Just then there was another knock on the door.  "Come in!" I said, hanging on to Aggie's leash.  Thank you, Lord!  It was Sean, the regular dirty maintenance guy who knows everything.  He greeted Aggie with a pat on the head and a "Hey there, varmint."  He and Derek conferred briefly and then Sean went out to get the shop-vac to get the water out of the washing machine and drain the clogged pipe.  After a few minutes of expert maintenance conducted almost single-handedly by the unkempt regular guy, the job was done.  Sean even tightened my doorknob on the way out the door.  It's a pity we can't just contact the right maintenance guy for the job directly, instead of having to put in a request and take our chances with the repairman lottery.  All's well that ends well, I guess.  Now I just have to catch up on the laundry!