If This Machine's Rockin', Don't Come a Knockin'

So, I find myself laying prone on top of the washing machine. The mountain man is standing behind me, my spotter, if you will. I've got a twisted wire hanger (hello, Joan Crawford!), and I am trying to spear paper towel rolls encased in plastic that have fallen behind the washing machine...when suddenly? The wash cycle switches into a high spin. (What? Like this never happened to you?)

I search out for the mountain man behind me. I am precariously dangling over the back of the washing machine, a mere ten inches from the wall, two and a half feet from hurtling head first to the tile floor below.

I glance behind me. Actually, it was more of an upward glance, what with my head being behind the washing machine and all. The mountain man, all 260 lovable pounds of him, is gone.

I am quickly being agitated to a grim demise. "How ironic," I can hear him at my funeral, "It was the laundry that did her in."

He? In my hour of need? Is in the bedroom searching frantically for the camera. 'Cause what the good people of the Internet really need is a final departing shot of my size 10 ass in the air, legs a-flailing.

Ya just gotta love that kind of loyalty in a husband.

Oh and the picture? He never got the shot. There's good reason why I keep that camera locked up tighter than a virgin's....Well, never mind. You get the picture, and more importantly, for my dignity and your mental health, he didn't!