There Are No Words...

... to describe exactly how much trouble the washing machine is in. It is on the most wanted list of Appliances That Will Face The Wall When The Revolution Comes. Oh yes, it better watch it's back, I tell you.

Why, you ask?



Mr. Man's sock. Knit for Christmas. Worn less than half a dozen times. GIANT HOLES ripped out of the fabric. At first I thought it was my fault, that the ends were not woven in well enough. Then I inspected it closely, and realized that no, there are just huge holes ripped out of it in random spots. HOLES. In random spots. HOLES. I managed to blow through the seven stages of grief in about fifteen minutes:

• Shock or Disbelief: What?! What is this?! A hole? Three holes? Three?!!!


• Denial: No, this can't be. I will look away, then slowly look again. Shit - they are still there.


• Bargaining: I skipped right over this one and went straight to profound and prolonged swearing.


• Guilt: I should have put it in a lingerie bag. It doesn't matter that I have washed socks in the machine without incident for years, I should have hand washed your preciousness.


• Anger: More swearing.


• Depression: I can't believe this happened. I need to go lie down and have a little cry.


• Acceptance: The washing machine must die.

I need a drink.