Last week my underwear was held captive. I know, your thinking why? Why would anyone want to kidnap fat lady underwear? Are there really people out there that are that interesting?
Well, I’m not sure if anyone is interested in my undies, but my machinery is.
When we moved into our new place, it came with a high-falooten, new-fangled, energy-saving washer and dryer. Seemed pretty cool and it was supposed to save electricity and not use up too much soap. Great! I’m all for saving money that I can spend on better stuff like caramels and printers.
Everything was going fine till I made my monthly trip up to cybertown. I wanted to get on the road before noon because it takes me several hours to get there, and I didn’t want to miss a writer’s meeting I planned to attend.
But I had a problem. I hadn’t done the wash and since I planned on staying a few days I didn’t think I could get by with one pair of underwear, the ones I was wearing. So quickly at 10:30am I threw my wash in the turbo charged machine and slammed the door. That little yellow light came on that said, “Door Lock” under it. I didn’t think anything about it. That yellow light always comes on when I do the wash. I put the settings at light cycle, figuring it would go faster, and I let her rip.
Thirty minutes later it was still inching along, so I stopped the dial and pushed it to “Rinse.”
Nothing happened. It refused to budge.
I pushed the button off and moved the dial a pinch forward. Pushed it back on and…nothing.
So I shut it off and tried to open the door. It wouldn’t open. The washer had kidnapped my skivvies. Luckily, my husband leaves tools all over the place. I tried to pry it open with a handy hammer.
The little yellow light flashed. “Door Lock, Door Lock, Door Lock!”
It was taunting me.
“Oh, Yeah!” I shouted.
I got out my handy flashlight, reached behind it in the dark musky closet and unplugged the device. “There! That’ll teach ya!” I cried.
But the door still wouldn’t budge.
It was now 11:30. I had to get my underwear. I couldn’t go without it.
I plugged the washer back in and tried sending signals with my flashlight.
“ M-u-s-t h-a-v-e u-n-d-i-e-s!” I flashed in Morse code.
It wasn’t responding. It was totally heartless or it hadn’t taken that course on code in its factory days.
I got out my checkbook with a flourish and said, “Okay, what will it take?”
It sat there eyeing me with that blank stare it has, the yellow light flashing almost like a tapping finger. I was stumped. I was under it's power. It was just a cruel device. I could see that now, and there was nothing I could do to get my underwear away from it until…it had its way with it.
Feeling defeated, I turned it back on and set the dial to the beginning of the cycle. The washer started up again. I sat and watched it in horror for 45 minutes till it finally... finished.

I did not put my undies in the dryer. I didn't want to make them go through any more. It was OVER.

That was a harrowing experience, I’ll not soon forget.

And I haven't. Ever since I came home I haven’t run the wash. Today, I went to target (pronounced Tar-Jay) to buy new clothes and undies. "It's a BIG sale!"
I don’t know how to tell my husband that I am bitter about my relationship with the washer. How can I explain the nasty prospect of having to give in again to the evil twisted device? I’m not sure, but Glenn’s almost out of clean clothes and he only has two pairs of undershorts left in the drawer. I’m going to have to do something soon.

Pray for me.

That's the lastest from LaLa land.

Carol Wood is accepting prayers and donations for her underwear supply email her at Carol@hazelst.com