I'm pooped.

So it happened.

I was going about my day and I heard the washing machine finish the swishy swish part and I fully expected to hear the "click" and then the draining and spinning. I assumed it would happen. I guess you might say I took it for granted that it would happen.

Not so.

I went in to wiggle the Zoo Pals knives and hoped for a miracle.

Nope.

I pulled the knives out and took a good look at that little trigger. I noticed two screws and me being me went to get a screwdriver. I thought I'd "take a look". I removed the screws and the trigger fell apart and I heard its pieces descend into to the bottom of the blasted machine. I inspected the rest of the machine and could see no conceivable way of opening the thing up.

Before I get ahead of myself, I should mention that my half-done load was a ripe batch of cloth diapers. OF COURSE. I pulled the washer away from the wall to get a better look and was reminded that I have never ever cleaned under there. Yum. The machine would only come out about a foot and I realized I need to pull the drainage hose out of it's spot. Oh yes. That's right. I dropped the hose and released half a gallon of pooh water onto the half an inch of caked on grime and 10 years worth of spilled powder detergent. I found little comfort in the fact that perhaps the soap factor would cancel out the pooh factor.

Once that was cleaned up, I got on with the business of hand-wringing each and every diaper, insert and wipe and draining the pooh water from the machine.

That done, I hunkered down to attempt to open up this beast and retrieve my agitator switch. It was beyond me. And anyway, it was time to take Meg to preschool. I felt so clean and fresh.

I decided that due to the fact that we bought this washing machine from Deseret Industries 10 years ago for 140 bucks, I feel that it has done it's duty and we should part ways.

And after the sheer volume of pooh water I've waded through today, I'm opting for delivery, installation and take-away. I deserve it. I dare you to say otherwise.

Oh, and if you choose to never come to dinner at my house or take a scoop of my potluck dish again, I understand. No hard feelings.

The end of an era.