Excuse me! That is my underwear.

Part of the blessing and bane of hotel living is that you don't have a washer and dryer at your disposal. This is a joy most of the time, but does have down sides. After looking at the price list of having laundry done at the hotel, we decided to look for an alternative.

There is an office building next to our hotel. On the second floor, in the back of the Starmart, there is a laundry called Laundrette. Their prices are about a third of what the hotel charges, so we thought we would give them a try for our cleaning needs.

After conferring with my honey bunch, we decided that undergarments were the priority items to test out Laundrette's skills. We sorted our unmentionables based on if they were light colored or dark and placed them in two bags for transport. On Friday, I carried the bags down to the ground floor, through the hotel, across the lawn and out the gate to the small street that separated us from April freshness. After crossing the street, I then had to go through security in the building where Laundrette does business.

I will stop here to explain something. Every building here has security. I don't mean Barney Fife style policing. The grounds of our hotel has a fleet of dogs and handlers, x-ray machines, metal detectors and a machine that sniffs inside the car when they open the doors and rear hatch. All of this policing begins the moment you drive onto the driveway. The car is searched. Mirrors on long poles look under the car and if the all clear signal is given, the large gate is opened to allow you to continue approaching the hotel. Once out of the car, you must place your purse, bags, jackets, umbrellas or whatever you are carrying on a conveyor belt to run through a scanner. This scene is re-enacted each and every time you come to the hotel, any shopping center or any large building for that matter. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the inspections as I would like to reach a riper old age than I already am.

However, upon reaching the front door of the adjacent building, I realized that my dirty laundry was about to be aired. I plunk down the bags and step through the metal detector. The young Indonesian man looks into the bags and declares it "laundry" before sliding it along to me. Nice English dude. Thanks for checking my drawers and declaring them safe.

I kind of thought the embarrassment would end there, but hold your horses. It ain't over yet. I go to the second floor, which by the way they call the first floor because the ground floor doesn't count as far as they are concerned, and go through the Starmart and back to Laundrette. A very soft spoken young woman stands at the counter. I approach with bulging bags of laundry and nerves of steel to try to make this transaction go smoothly.

Plopping the first bag of undies on the counter I ask "Cuci ini?" That means wash this. Of course I said it in such a way it was clear that it was a question and not a command. I am trying hard to learn useful words to help me along. I am a terrible language student. My North Carolina, Texas, and a little Louisiana accent totally roughs-up anybodies language. Maaf to everyone who has to experience it. Maaf means sorry. Indeed.

She shakes her head yes they can wash the clothes and begins to pull the laundry out of the bag and starts to sort things on the counter. Eeeek! Lots of counting of underthings, socks and the like. Ticking off items on a sheet and having to write in the ones that aren't on there. Oh Lord....I have two bags of humiliation to go through. Having your underwear sorted in front of a bunch of strangers in the back of a convenience store should be on everyone's bucket list.

Once the inventory ends, the signing begins. They love to have you sign things here. Giving them your name and number isn't enough. I have to sign the front of each sheet. Then I have to sign the back of the sheet. Why? Because she said so. I leave with a fist full of papers, two blessedly empty bags and a decision that I will run water in the bathtub, put in soap and pretend that I am Lucy and stomp my underwear clean the next time.

The weekend passed and the eagerly awaited pick-up date of Monday arrives. The same route was covered and we arrived at Laundrette with the copies of the four pages containing our laundry inventory. "No tickie, no undie," was the understanding I got before leaving my goods. I handed over the sheets and she located the four bags of the now clean undergarments, socks and sleepwear.

The same nice young woman indicates I must sign these same pieces of paper yet again. Why? Because she said so. The papers are handed back to me and we must go to the front to pay and then she will give us our clothes. I wait in the back with the clothes and hubby goes up and pays. Back he comes with the sheets and she takes them from us and releases our precisely packaged garments.

We carry the bags back through the hotel security. This time no one declared that it is laundry. I guess only when it is dirty it receives that designation. We get to the room and begin to check it out. I have never in my life seen such packaging, pressing and attention given to my underwear, socks and nightgown. Many of my husband's boxer briefs were individually packaged in plastic bags. The socks were paired up and beautifully arranged - all enshrined in plastic. All of it had been pressed! I swear even my bras were ironed. Everything appeared to be sorted by color before being bagged.

I never realized I was a complete slob. It never occurred to me that all of the things under my clothes should be so pressed and tidy. I realize now the shame I have brought to my family. Maaf dear ones.