Yesterday afternoon, I was puttering around the house, trying to round up the Christmas decorating stragglers and the various other clutter that magically migrates to whichever room I have just straightened up, in between half-assing some laundry. Suddenly, the house started to shake and all of the glasses in the dining room began rattling, just like it did during the earthquake. It wasn't an earthquake this time, though -- just a flock of helicopters flying overhead. Living this close to Washington and its many local military bases, helicopters are a pretty common occurrence, so I didn't pay much attention.

However, when the helicopters circled back a couple of minutes later, they were even lower and seemed to be hovering. I couldn't see anything from the kitchen windows, and eventually the helicopters moved on. When they returned for a third time, though, and sounded like they were practically in my back yard, I started wondering what the hell was going on, like, FOR REALS. I jokingly wondered whether there was an escaped serial killer in the neighborhood who the police were tracking a la "The Fugitive." (I can see the headline now: "Local Woman Murdered By One-Armed Man. No, Seriously.")

Not even two seconds after my lame joke (that I made TO MYSELF, because I am a virtual SHUT IN), there was this enormous BANG! BANG! BANG BANG! from downstairs, that kind of sounded like someone was trying to rip the storm door right off of the house. Needless to say, I nearly crapped my pants in abject terror because, HELLO, THERE IS AN ESCAPED (POSSIBLY ONE-ARMED) SERIAL KILLER ATTEMPTING TO BREAK INTO MY HOUSE, AIEEEEEE!

(We all know where this is going, right?)

Yeah, that last load of laundry that I was half-assing? It contained only Mark's ski jacket, which, hilariously*, I was washing because his mother thought it looked so nice ... when it was clean, which it had not been for some time, so she sent me home with instructions on how to wash it and even included a couple of Shout Color Catcher thingies to make sure the colors wouldn't run. Anyway, our stupid washer hates a light load, so when it got to the spin cycle, the drum turned in an Oscar worthy impersonation of an escaped serial killer trying to break into the house (aieeeee!) while the machine vibrated itself all the hell over the place and I cowered in terror one floor up, barely maintaining control of my bladder and lunging for my santoku knife.

I am such a moron.

*This is hilarious because I really love his mom, and it totally wasn't passive aggressive nonsense at all, though it may read that way, especially if you have been sucked into the OH MAH GAAAAHHH of the stuff over at Emails From Your Inlaws, which was all over Twitter this morning. Not that I have done this, oh no.


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