The Case of the Missing Gloves.
I did laundry this morning, hung it out to dry. Later my husband Sam asked where the gloves he'd thrown into the washing machine after I'd started the wash cycle were, the white cotton ones he wears when fondling his precious record collection. I hadn't seen him put them in, didn't see them when I hung the laundry. We looked everywhere with no luck, although I did find a book behind the washing machine.
Since I usually do the laundry missing socks are nothing new (although I'll admit it's unusual for both of a pair of things to vanish, as whatever supernatural power does this finds it more amusing to leave people with large useless single sock collections, so why should gloves be any different), but Sam was unsettled. Where were they, what had happened? I explained about The Other Dimension, that when he gets mad at me for "losing" socks, well, it's not me: occasionally washing machines send clothing to The Other Dimension. Nobody knows why or how, it's something you just have to accept. Freaking out will not get your gloves back.
He thought if we washed another load of laundry the gloves might return from The Dimension. It did not work. They are gone. Fine, washing machine. Hide my books, take our foot-and-hand-wear, do your worst. At least now Sam understands why he has a large useless single sock collection and that it's not my fault. It's YOUR fault, washing machine.
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