This Post Is Everything That Is Wrong With Blogs
I have a friend, we'll call her H, who told me once that she hates blogs because they invariably become navel-gazing exercises, some "here's what I did with my day" crap that nobody else cares about. I agreed whole-heartedly and then told her about this new blog I was starting.
This one's for H.
Sorry there hasn't been regular posting here in a while. Things have been busy--and then on top of that, there's all the laundry.
Regular readers might remember that I refer to my corporate housing apartment as The Waiting Room, because of the Not-Office furniture and the sterile off-white...everything. Once in a while, though, you have to give the doctor his due. In a small closet right off of the kitchenette is a stackable washer/dryer and it has changed my life.
In Los Angeles, I go to a laundromat about a mile away from my apartment. At $1.25 to wash and .25 per 10 minutes in the dryer, it's not the worst deal in town--I know of a place nearby which is only a buck a wash, but it's a lot smaller and I'd rather not fight over the dryers. The bulk of the clientele at my place appears to be divided into two main groups--young people with scripts to read and the homeless.
Doing laundry is just enough of a hassle that I won't do it every week, which means I won't do it every two weeks, either. (My wardrobe has evolved to fit this laundry schedule--if I find a shirt I really like, then I'll buy two so that I can wear it at least twice in a laundry cycle.) It's sort of like skiing. I enjoy the actual activity, but it's the getting up early and schlepping all that crap to the mountain that I'm procrastinating. Except instead of size 15 ski boots and 210 Rossignols, it's eight loads of dirty clothes and an extra-large bottle of Tide with Bleach Alternative.
This turns laundry day into an event. First step, I have to decide that this is the day that I will finally do my laundry--this is actually the hardest part of the whole process. The final determination is usually made by the realization that there are only three clean socks left in the bag, that two of them have holes, and none of them match.
Once I'm absolutely certain that today is in fact laundry day, I have to decide which three-hour block of time will actually be dedicated to the laundry. Usually, that's the 6-9pm slot. Next, I drag all the laundry onto the bed and do the whites/colors sort, finding the five articles of clothing which could go either way. (They concern me even though everything I own has been washed so many times that the only color they still have left to bleed is Blue...ish.) Once it's all in the three laundry bags, the schlepping begins.
Each bag down the stairs, out the door, down the street to the garage, open the trunk, dump the bag, close the trunk, back upstairs, repeat three times. Drive to the laundromat. Wait for a parking space. Get into shouting match with Russian woman in Range Rover re: parking space. Wait for another parking space. Park. Shlep all the crap inside.
This is the traditional moment where I remember that I don't have any cash on me, so I have to go to the Carbolite place next door for their ATM. And once I have the cash, I don't want to be stuck with getting 20 bucks worth of quarters, so I need change. But the Carbolite place won't give change because they're next door to a laundromat. So I have to buy a soda for a buck. Every...single...time.
Now that I'm back in the laundromat with the correct amount of change, odds are 8 out of 10 that I'll next discover there's not enough Tide with Bleach Alternative in the bottle to wash all the clothes. That means .50 for the powdered Cheer! in a box that will be used on the towels.
Keep in mind, all of this crap has happened already and until now not a single drop of water has actually hit my laundry. The smart thing to do would be stagger the timing of the washing machines so that there's time to put one load in a dryer before the next machine goes off. I throw all eight loads in and walk down the line plugging in quarters like it's a race.
Twenty minutes for intermission.
Bing! The lights go out on the machines, one by one like a little blackout. It's right about this point that I see how I've forgotten to bring hangers again. No problem. On the other side of the laundromat is a dry cleaner who knows just by looking at me that I Forgot The Hangers Again, but he gives them to me anyway--despite the fact that I only own two pieces of clothing requiring dry cleaning. He's a saint.
Now it's a dance, moving from washer to dryer with a metal cart with enough jagged edges to start a tetanus colony. The direction the wheels point in have no relation whatsoever to the direction the cart is moving in. The cart and I bump into three different people reading scripts, who will in turn all bump into me when their washers are done.
The dryers heat up to roughly a billion degress in three seconds. They leave nothing to fold but ashes. Still, I stick in a few extra quarters to make sure everything is charred black because if I have to go through this routine, it's not going to be so I have soggy T-shirts at the end of it.
As the laundry comes out of the dryer, it's a quick toss to the table, then fold, fold, stack. Toss, fold, fold, stack. Toss, fold, fold, stack. Tedium sets in. (Feel it now? Feel the tedium? Thought so.) Finally, at long last, everything is finished.
Back to the car, bags first into the trunk. Then the denim, left damp to prevent shrinkage, in the front seat. And last, the hanging shirts draped on top of the denim, making sure to drag at least one sleeve through the dust on the car door--preferably a white one.
Drive home. Trunk, bag, stairs, repeat. And then...when it's all upstairs, and the car is locked and everything is in its place...you feel it. It's what the Buddhists call "paramita"--perfection. A sense of accomplishment so complete, you don't need to do anything else for WEEKS.
Total. Victory.
But in the Waiting Room, the machine is right here. You have four days worth of dirty clothes, you wash them. I brought almost every piece of clothing I own and have worn maybe a fourth of it.
The great part of it is that after 12 years of laundromat living, I am SO conditioned to have that sense of infinite light after finishing laundry...that I still get it EVEN WITH THE MACHINE RIGHT IN THE APARTMENT!!
Four shirts and a pair of jeans? YES!!!!!!
This is the best thing ever.
This one's for H.
Sorry there hasn't been regular posting here in a while. Things have been busy--and then on top of that, there's all the laundry.
Regular readers might remember that I refer to my corporate housing apartment as The Waiting Room, because of the Not-Office furniture and the sterile off-white...everything. Once in a while, though, you have to give the doctor his due. In a small closet right off of the kitchenette is a stackable washer/dryer and it has changed my life.
In Los Angeles, I go to a laundromat about a mile away from my apartment. At $1.25 to wash and .25 per 10 minutes in the dryer, it's not the worst deal in town--I know of a place nearby which is only a buck a wash, but it's a lot smaller and I'd rather not fight over the dryers. The bulk of the clientele at my place appears to be divided into two main groups--young people with scripts to read and the homeless.
Doing laundry is just enough of a hassle that I won't do it every week, which means I won't do it every two weeks, either. (My wardrobe has evolved to fit this laundry schedule--if I find a shirt I really like, then I'll buy two so that I can wear it at least twice in a laundry cycle.) It's sort of like skiing. I enjoy the actual activity, but it's the getting up early and schlepping all that crap to the mountain that I'm procrastinating. Except instead of size 15 ski boots and 210 Rossignols, it's eight loads of dirty clothes and an extra-large bottle of Tide with Bleach Alternative.
This turns laundry day into an event. First step, I have to decide that this is the day that I will finally do my laundry--this is actually the hardest part of the whole process. The final determination is usually made by the realization that there are only three clean socks left in the bag, that two of them have holes, and none of them match.
Once I'm absolutely certain that today is in fact laundry day, I have to decide which three-hour block of time will actually be dedicated to the laundry. Usually, that's the 6-9pm slot. Next, I drag all the laundry onto the bed and do the whites/colors sort, finding the five articles of clothing which could go either way. (They concern me even though everything I own has been washed so many times that the only color they still have left to bleed is Blue...ish.) Once it's all in the three laundry bags, the schlepping begins.
Each bag down the stairs, out the door, down the street to the garage, open the trunk, dump the bag, close the trunk, back upstairs, repeat three times. Drive to the laundromat. Wait for a parking space. Get into shouting match with Russian woman in Range Rover re: parking space. Wait for another parking space. Park. Shlep all the crap inside.
This is the traditional moment where I remember that I don't have any cash on me, so I have to go to the Carbolite place next door for their ATM. And once I have the cash, I don't want to be stuck with getting 20 bucks worth of quarters, so I need change. But the Carbolite place won't give change because they're next door to a laundromat. So I have to buy a soda for a buck. Every...single...time.
Now that I'm back in the laundromat with the correct amount of change, odds are 8 out of 10 that I'll next discover there's not enough Tide with Bleach Alternative in the bottle to wash all the clothes. That means .50 for the powdered Cheer! in a box that will be used on the towels.
Keep in mind, all of this crap has happened already and until now not a single drop of water has actually hit my laundry. The smart thing to do would be stagger the timing of the washing machines so that there's time to put one load in a dryer before the next machine goes off. I throw all eight loads in and walk down the line plugging in quarters like it's a race.
Twenty minutes for intermission.
Bing! The lights go out on the machines, one by one like a little blackout. It's right about this point that I see how I've forgotten to bring hangers again. No problem. On the other side of the laundromat is a dry cleaner who knows just by looking at me that I Forgot The Hangers Again, but he gives them to me anyway--despite the fact that I only own two pieces of clothing requiring dry cleaning. He's a saint.
Now it's a dance, moving from washer to dryer with a metal cart with enough jagged edges to start a tetanus colony. The direction the wheels point in have no relation whatsoever to the direction the cart is moving in. The cart and I bump into three different people reading scripts, who will in turn all bump into me when their washers are done.
The dryers heat up to roughly a billion degress in three seconds. They leave nothing to fold but ashes. Still, I stick in a few extra quarters to make sure everything is charred black because if I have to go through this routine, it's not going to be so I have soggy T-shirts at the end of it.
As the laundry comes out of the dryer, it's a quick toss to the table, then fold, fold, stack. Toss, fold, fold, stack. Toss, fold, fold, stack. Tedium sets in. (Feel it now? Feel the tedium? Thought so.) Finally, at long last, everything is finished.
Back to the car, bags first into the trunk. Then the denim, left damp to prevent shrinkage, in the front seat. And last, the hanging shirts draped on top of the denim, making sure to drag at least one sleeve through the dust on the car door--preferably a white one.
Drive home. Trunk, bag, stairs, repeat. And then...when it's all upstairs, and the car is locked and everything is in its place...you feel it. It's what the Buddhists call "paramita"--perfection. A sense of accomplishment so complete, you don't need to do anything else for WEEKS.
Total. Victory.
But in the Waiting Room, the machine is right here. You have four days worth of dirty clothes, you wash them. I brought almost every piece of clothing I own and have worn maybe a fourth of it.
The great part of it is that after 12 years of laundromat living, I am SO conditioned to have that sense of infinite light after finishing laundry...that I still get it EVEN WITH THE MACHINE RIGHT IN THE APARTMENT!!
Four shirts and a pair of jeans? YES!!!!!!
This is the best thing ever.
posted by Matthew at 9:12 AM
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