HENNY PENNY'S LOST PANTIES

Note-Just one more reason I'm crazy


My mom is old and has a terrible memory. She lives in a retirement apartment building where she's spoiled rotten.

And just to get a clear picture of this darling lady, she is a dingbat (exactly like Edith Bunker), ditzy, and scatterbrained. Her name should be something like Bambi or Candi. She should have blonde hair. No disrespect, but she has always been like this, it's nothing new. Close your eyes and picture Henny Penny, the little chicken, running down the road yelling, "The sky is falling,the sky is falling!" That's my mom.

Her only job is to get out of bed, breathe, and once a week, do a small amount of personal laundry...underwear, pants and blouses, that sort of thing. She has to walk down the hall about thirty feet to a very nice free laundry room. She, actually, sees no reason why I don't do this for her. It's a running power struggle between the two of us.

Last week, I noticed her laundry bag was full. On my way out the door, I wasn't in the mood for a discussion. I reminded her to get snapping and get her laundry done. Any discussion would just end up with me saying, "Lordy Woman, I'm surprised you don't have me breathing for you."

Her smarty comeback, "Would you? If you loved me you would."

I pay her bills, drive her everywhere, take her to lunch, and cut her old lady toenails. But even I have boundaries.

"Someone went into that laundry room and stole all my panties. I can't believe it! People will steal anything, anything!" she informs me a few days later.

When questioned, she gave me several stories, all amounting to the fact that on Tuesday or Wednesday or maybe Thursday, they were either in the washer or dryer or somewhere. Somehow they had just disappeared.

After the third story, I got dizzy and just called the apartment manager, asking if anyone had found a bunch of old lady, white, cotton panties. The manager said probably some other confused old lady took them. I got the idea that this isn't the first time there has been a panties raid in the laundry room.

I checked her closet, her underwear drawer, and I put up a sign in the laundry room. Someone surely would return the drawers, they were old, baggy, and several probably had holes in them. Mama was overdue to shop for new undies.

Last Saturday I picked her up for a trip to Wal-Mart. Now, no one in their right mind shops at Wal-Mart on the weekend, but she was down to the last pair of clean underwear. Taking forever to find a parking spot, I was already sweating and nervous. Mom does that to me.

Mama was happy to be out and about, and asked every five minutes, "Where are we? Why are we here? Are we going to have lunch here? I'm hungry."

Then she had to search her purse every two minutes, while asking, "I wonder if I have any money?"

(Just a quick note--we went through three months of her hiding her wallet and then couldn't find it. Each time she hid it, I had to listen to, "Someone stole my wallet! It was right here in my purse, I never take it out. Why do people steal?")

(Another quick note--once she quit hiding her wallet, she just started hiding her money. And, yes, each time, "Someone stole my money!")

"Mama, listen to me! I don't plan on answering you again. We are here to buy you underwear. You lost yours. And you've counted your money a dozen times! You have sixty-seven dollars. Say it three times. Just get out of the car."

"How did you know how much money I have? Why would people steal my panties? Just tell me why? There are thieves everywhere," she mumbled as I pulled to get her out of the car. She looks little, but she weights a ton.

Whether buying a toothbrush or a month's supply of groceries, Mom has to have a shopping cart. I'll push it and she stretches her arm out and grabs the side of the cart in a death grip. We take up the whole aisle. If someone heads toward us, it becomes a game of chicken. Who will be forced to give up floor space as we pass? I can tell you, it ain't Mama. She will run people into the shelves before she will walk closer to the cart.

Other days she wants to help me push the cart. She insists the cart has to be right in the middle of the aisle. Again, she just runs people down if they challenge her. I attempt to reach over and aim her to one side, but she isn't having any of that.

Thank you, Sweet Jesus, Hanes still makes white, cotton, granny panties. We go all out; we buy a dozen brand new ones. She seems happy, but still questions why people steal.

Entering the apartment lobby, mom, again, lets the manager know in no uncertain terms that a thief lived there.

I write her name in the new panties, just as if she was going off to summer camp. One of the maids stopped by to see if the panties had been found. And, yeah, you guessed it. I turn away from the table and there under the china cabinet is a bag of dirty laundry, filled with white old lady drawers and a couple of blouses.

Her only reply was, "Well, someone could have taken them. You know there are thieves everywhere."

I removed the sign from the laundry room. I stopped by and told the manager the mystery had been solved. She had a good laugh.

I went home and opened a bottle of wine. It was only eleven in the morning, but it was five o'clock somewhere... like Iceland. Close enough! By tomorrow there will be a new crisis.



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