See, Leora's not some rich punk. She was born spoiled before anyone could make her that way. (I maintain it's because she's a Libra, but who knows?) In all her gold-encrusted glory, she works really hard in a profession created just for her. Leora is a manicurist. In a salon just outside Detroit, she airbrushes people's press-on nails with multicolored palmettos and such. She even pastes on rhinestones.

As seriously as Leora takes her job--and her self-financed Cadillac El Dorado--she is NOT serious about tradition. Jewish tradition included. I can recall many an instance where my reputation--and my bladder--teetered precariously thanks to Leora. In synagogue, she would snort shamelessly if the cantor hit a sour note. At Passover seders, she would make faces until I couldn't keep my own straight.

So it was no surprise when, during Leora's thirteenth summer, a vexed sleepaway camp director rang my parent's phone. Leora had started a riot, the director told them. Could they please come pick her up by sunrise? Apparently, Leora had interrupted the Friday evening after-dinner prayer with another of her uncontrollable laughing fits. Her soft snickers crescendoed into loud guffaws, and her campmates couldn't help but join in. Soon, a dark shape spread across her washed silk jumper.

"I peed my pants!" she jumped up, still laughing. Rather than flee in embarassment, Leora twirled around like a sparrow in a birdbath, parading the stain for all to see.

As her bladder broke, so too did the humorless lull that had shrouded the campground all week. Leora's incontinence evoked a chorus of backup laughter that swelled louder than her raspy roar. The counselors ran in circles trying to restore order, but to no avail. The kids laughed louder and harder.

Then, from a nearby table, another girl shouted between laughs, "Oh my God! I peed myself, too!"

A fresh monsoon of laughter erupted as one by one, campers let loose and leapt on top of mess hall tables to join the circus of soiled pants.

Long story short, Leora was grounded, and as part of her punishment she had to fold the family's laundry for a month--including our underpants.

My baby sister may be a princess. But her throne is definitely made of porcelain.

Ophira is a chunky, funky, quarter-finding, bagel-eating J*E*W. You can read more of her fabulous stuff at www.ophira.com