This is not the way I wanted to start my 3 day weekend on last Saturday morning:
Yes, that's right, an afghan committed suicide in the washer.
The thing is, I have washed this stupid afghan at least twenty times already. But today he decides the gig is up, and promptly falls apart, leaving me with a godawful mess in the washer. It took 45 minutes to clean all the decomposing velveteen/synthetic/shredded crapola out of the Maytag. Why he picked today, I don't know. When I opened the washer and found this, I knew everything was going downhill from there. And I was right.
That night, my sister called and said our elderly mother was in the emergency room. So off Number One son and I went for a wild car ride in the middle of the night. Broken hip. Now she has a matching pair, since she broke the other one a little over a year ago.
Surgery Monday morning, and she came through like a trooper. Sitting up in a chair the next day, eating food, watching TV. I don't know how she does it. She's 88 and the sweetest and gentlest woman in the world. She's recovering fully and now I'm back home.
If you had reamed out my hip and thigh bones and put a long metal rod down through the bone marrow, I would never stop screaming. And that's the truth.