The setting was the Brockett Apartment #12, Camelot West, a nice cozy brick building in view of I-235 and conveniently located a block from the local Chuckie Cheese. The occasion was a night out on the town for Mel, Doe, Larry, and Sue while the Nelson children entertained themselves at the apartment of Sue's parents (Mel and Doe). We were old enough to take care of ourselves, since Brad and Lisa were in high school (17 and 18, respectively) and I was 8.
The adults were all dooded up and excited for a night out. Even us kids were waiting in eager anticipation for a night alone, mainly for the cable tv and 12 tins of homeade chocolate chip cookies that were stashed at random in grandma's kitchen. So after some harried goodbyes and admonitions from mom on personal conduct and bedtimes the adults were off, leaving us all alone. Freedom.
After overloading our guts with pizza and cookies we stretched out in the tv room to watch...what else, the Bulls game or some such NBA sporting event. Let me pause here and set the scene for you:
I, The youngest of the bunch, am on the couch in my homeade pink pajamas that grams made me, holding my stuffed bunny who is suited in a matching set of pink pajamas. Brad is sitting next to me with an arm casually draped over the back of the couch and one lef up restin on the other. He's sporting a red and blue striped sweat band across his forehead, which not only functions as a sweat collector, but also prevents his white fro from obstructing his view of the game. His mint green cheetah t-short coordinates well with his gray cut-off sweatpants. Lisa, chilling on the far side of the room in another chair, is wearing her favorite pair of purple spandex and a pink Mickey and Minnie 
mouse tee, hair securely tied in a large multicolored
scrunchie, bangs well fluffed. We'll say that the NBA
shootout was on tv that night, which would have
heightened the excitement for the evening as Brad and
Lisa followed every game and kept up on every player.
During commercial breaks Brad and Lisa most likely
entertained themselves by forcing me to press my nose
down as faras possible and exclaiming to one another,
"look, she has a Scotty Pippen nose!". Other than three
feet, dark skin, and 150 lbs., Scotty and I were identical twins. And the obsession with the Bulls team didn't stop there. Brad never made a lay-up on the court without sticking his tongue out of his mouth and Lisa forced the whole family to eat wheaties every day for a month just so she could collect the boxes with the Bulls team on them. She still has them to this day in out basement along with a McDonalds Bulls team cup collection. High quality stuff. So, back to the story...commercial breaks.
It was during one of these commercial breaks that I ventured out to the kitchen. The purpose of the trip fails me because the scene that I encountered in the kitchen prevented me from accomplishing much of anything. Something was amiss. Oh, it was quiet, other than the soft whir of the 
dishwasher as it switched cycles and the soft clang of the wind chimes grandpa
had hung out on the deck. I paused at the point where the dining room carpet met the
yellow kitchen linoleum and stared in awer and wonder at Bubbleland. Yes, there were soap suds everywhere. I had just entered and 82 degree winter wonderland. My 8 year old mind was able to deduce the source of the soap bubbles as I watched the
dishwasher heave, puff, and spew them out. I knew enough about dishwashers
to bet my money on the fact that this was not a normal occurance. And though
none of us had ever used a dishwasher, it obviously hadn't prevented us from
loading it with dishsoap and running a load. Wait...did I say dishsoap? Never underestimate the power of Dawn. It will not only get those dishes spotless, it will also mop your floor or rug doctor your carpet.
After staring in amazement for several seconds, I forced my jaw closed and walked casually back into the tv room.
"Guys, there's bubbles in the kitchen." I stated rather calmly. I don't usually get worked up that easily.
"Right Chrissy." Brad gave me a look as his gaze swung from me back tot he television set. Typical male.
"Guys I am serious! There are bubbles coming out of the dishwasher!" Now I was getting riled.
Lisa gave me an odd look and roused Brad off the couch to go look with her. And there were bubbles all over. This could have been the greatest bubble bath ever, or one heck of a soap sud fight, but we were Nelsons and that meant that we'd had our share of butt beatings. We didn't see belts, spoons, and books in the same way most people did, rather we saw them as objects of wrath. So once the shock wore off all we could do was think of how to get ourselves out of this mess. Beads of sweat began to form and run down our faces. Well at least mine and Lisa's. Brad was well prepared with that nifty sweat band.
So what do you do with an 8' by 10' kitchen two feet deep in soap suds? You don't solve a story problem like that in 5th grade math class. The folks were due back within an hour and we had a kitchen full of suds. There was only one solution. We called it the bubble brigade. It involved raiding the Tupperware cabinet and treading a path to the bathroom where the bubbles were deposited in the tub, sink, toilet...anything with a functional drain. We wiped down the floors with bath towels once all the bubbles had been removed. We made a pact in blood to never tell, and we didn't tell for at least 15 years...thanks to the folks for putting the fear of God in us at an early age. No one suspected a thing when they arrived home, even the large pile of wet towels seemed to go unnoticed, probably excused as the remains of one of my famous 2 hour bubble baths.
I learned something today, a valuable piece of knowledge for anyone who enjoys spending time in the kitchen. Did you know that to prevent burning and watery eyes while cutting an onion you just put a piece of bread in 
