The washing machine died suddenly earlier this week, right in the middle of a cycle. There it was, full of water, ready to rinse and spin. But it will never rinse and spin again. It was difficult for us to accept, as we like to was clothes. And I had just fixed the dryer. Somehow I looked and found the problem, fiddled with it, and ba-boom, it sprang to life. No such luck with the washing machine. But before I knew just how seriously dead it was, I tried to fix it. This turned out to be a mistake.
In a very manly way, I pulled the infernal contraption away from the wall, ready to turn screws and poke and pull things. First I detached the hot and cold water connections. Happy day. Then I took to a-screwin'. A very large metal plate had to come off to reveal the guts inside. My mind was packed with images of broken belts, or perhaps a large on/off switch. Something fixable. A working trophy of my handiness sat a couple of feet behind me. The dryer. My confidence was bolstered.
Then, with frightening speed, all bloody hell broke loose. As I pulled the plate out, my fat little hand (which was holding a screwdriver) slipped and flew into the (apparently) razor-sharp edge of the plate. Blood shot across the floor. I stood up and said the only thing I could say in a moment like that. "Ah, cripes."
Nancy says that I was snow-white when I meandered up the basement stairs. That sounds reasonable. The sight of blood doesn't upset me. The upcoming trip to the hospital, however, did. It felt like such a redneck thing to do. Futzin' around with an appliance. Anything to save a buck.
On the way to the hospital, I decided not to put up a Christmas tree this year. I was ensconced in self-pity. Images of a little fat man (me) wrapped in fake, plastic branches, falling over, and subsequently impaling himself on the metal tree pole, presented themselves like a slideshow on the inside of my skull. My victory over the dryer was erased, and replaced with an embarrassing loss against the washing machine. I went from handy, to a complete bumbler, in a matter of minutes.
The hospital honeyfuggled around my hand, and they ended up putting 11 stitches in there. Oh, the humanity! As I write this, thick black wires stick out of the wound like spiders emerging from my skin. Yuck.
Let this be a lesson to all you kids. Never try to do anything. If you're anything like me, you'll blow it. With a vengeance!