We stayed at my double-cousin Di’s house. (Double in that our mothers were sisters and our fathers were brothers. Same gene pool.)
Now, one of my many disabilities is that when I get emotional, my crying can turn into giggling at the snap of a finger. And it doesn't take much.
Like when my sister and I were holding vigil at Evie’s bed side and the man in the blazer walked into the room and introduced himself as Sister Judith. And started to say a prayer.
I peed a little.
And when we were supposed to meet Di for dinner and were running late and my sister Jean Anne called the restaurant to let them know we would be late. And proceeded to order her salad in “Sally” fashion over the phone. Again, at Evie's bed side.
“I’ll take the Cobb salad, no bacon, extra tomatoes, hold the onions, substitute olives for croutons. And dressing on the side.”
I peed a little.
And when I escorted a sweet old lady who walked like ET to the ICU. The doors opened toward us and as she took a step into the room the doors began to close and catapulted her into the ICU not unlike a football through the goal posts at a Buffalo Bills Game.
Yep. I peed a little.
I had only one pair of jeans with me and I was beginning to smell like a day care center.
When I asked Di if I could wash my jeans at her house she laughed. Apparently, building a nuclear plant is less complicated than doing laundry there. Remember the game Mousetrap? You got the picture.
At the rinse cycle, Di has to command the water flow, adeptly turning the spigot off and on, off and on, off and on, to prevent the water from back-flowing into the shower or toilet.
When I offered to do it, Di quickly refused. Apparently, an individual requires a minimum of 120 hours of experience before he or she can safely operate the appliance without supervision.
So I tossed my jeans into the washer, and, just for grins, added my panties.
The next morning I found my clean jeans folded neatly over the dryer door. The dryer itself was filled to the brim with the rest of the clean laundry. I decided to remove and fold the contents of said dryer in search of my panties.
Hours later I finished folding the laundry. My panties were missing.
Uh-oh. Where could they have gone? Were they in a toilet somewhere? Or in the shower? Or somewhere between?
It took hours, but I finally found them in the most unlikely of places.
Just kidding. That would have made a great ending to this story. Lest you lose sleep, I will let you know that the panties did show up. I don't know the details, but it has something to do with a neighbor's dishwasher.