Seriously, gets the anger going in me like doing laundry. well maybe
folding laundry, but i sure do hate washing it too. We’re lucky enough
that to have washing machines in the basement of our building, so at least
i don’t have to hump 60 pounds of dirty flannel boxers 2 blocks to a dingy
laundromat like when we were in bklyn. Even so, it’s just terrible. there
is that moment of anxiety as your round the corner to the laundry room
as you try to gauge, by the sound of activity, if there will be a sufficient
about of machines available. There is nothing like the russian roulette
of loading up clothes and soap into the one empty washer in a laundry
room/mat where all other machines are in use…will it work–will it not
work….oh the delicious gamble of it all. Naturally my mother’s voice
echo’s in my head as i load the machine “don’t’ pack in too much or you
clothes will NEVER GET CLEAN” as if the dirt would be locked in forever,
and she would have to wash each article separately in her super washer
at home, if she is ever going to rest peacefully again. Right after the
NEVER GET CLEAN thought, there is the “you waste too much money on booze
thought” and what better way to make up for it by cramming 2 loads in
to one washer, freeing up another 1.35 for beer later… back and forth
, NEVER CLEAN….MORE BOOZE…. oi, and people wonder why i talk to myself.
Maybe it’s me, but things seem to have gotten more complicated. I now
used downy balls, yes that’s right downy balls. While is sounds like the
slang term for a sexual act or condition resulting from a STD, they are,
in reality, little plastic globes that one fills with fabric softener
and puts into the washer at the beginning of the cycle. apparently the
centrifugal force of the “final spin” (awww yeah) releases the softener.
The best part is that i have 4 of these devices, I always feel like some
weird bartender filling up girly shots made of that weird blue liquor
in all the tropical drinks. blue Curacao or whatever.
After the 30 min wash time it’s the mad dash to get back to the laundry
room to make sure some dirt bag doesn’t touch my now pristine clothing
and put it on top of a dryer. I hate that, actually why the hell would
you want to touch my shit, i mean who knows if it’s really clean anyway,
and further who know what i did in those clothes to get them dirty in
the first place. Next up the task of moving the now 135 pounds of wet
laundry over to the dryers, perhaps i’m particularly uncoordinated, but
i have never extracted all my laundry, and successfully gotten it into
the dryers with out dropping at least 5 % of it on the dirty, pubic and
pet hair laden washing room floor. but chances are the clothes were NEVER
CLEAN anyway so i suppose it doesn’t matter. After it’s all in the dryers
it’s time for the fabric sheet and perhaps the most terrible task of all:
cleaning the lint screen. Man, i don’t really know what lint is, i mean
i know it is fabric particles, but all i can think of is the “80% of dust
is human skin and household fly puke/dung” statistic and well i feel like
lint is 30% fabric fluff and 70% gross human waste that gets stuck in
clothes. So here i am, touching your remains, trying to save 30 mins in
drying time and 1.50 for more booze later.
Then there’s the joyful task of either folding, or shall i say displaying
all your pit stains to your fellow washers in the laundry area, or stuffing
everything in the laundry bag, ensuring deep rooted wrinkles that will
forever brand you as a slacker/dirtbag, and folding everything at home.
Either way there is that lovely “almost have a fever/hangover hot flash”
feeling of hot laundry as you fold everything. I suppose the dream is
that whilst one is folding up their laundry there is a supermodel or stripper
or some hot chick folding her thongs up across the way. this is flawed
in many respects, probably the most obvious is the supermodels and stripper
do not have to do laundry and if they do, it’s not in my building. Secondly,
if i’m folding my laundry trying to peak into theirs, then they are looking
at my crab boxers that i got for my 19th birthday, part of my “almost
laundry time” cache of backup underwear. so what i’m saying is, there
really is no upside.
The icing on the cake is that i do not have enough space for all of my
clothes to be clean at one time. Much like a ship yard, I guess i always
assume that at least some of my stuff will be in the hamper/on the floor
dirty. so when it all comes back to port Jefke at one time…well there
aren’t enough slips to dock everything at once (nice analogy, no?). shit,
drying’s done. i gotta go get it.