Remember a few days ago when I told the story about the lady who sledge hammered the washing machine to create a little action? Today, midway through a giant load, my washing machine quit. So now, I have no clean clothes, a washer full to the top with dirty water, and Mount Washmore growing out of the linoleum. This is my new definition of misery.
Being angry about the washer actually helped with the scene I wrote, the build up to the final confrontation. A little of the pull-out-the-sledge-hammer approach pushed me right into the middle of the conflict. I have to admit, my family would rather see me writing than yelling about the broken washer. They left me alone to finish the pages.
Update: Mysteriously, the washing machine began to work again, but only after I removed the sopping wet clothes and flooded the utility room.