Laundry and I are no longer friends.
I have a serious problem when it comes to laundry. I enjoy wearing clean clothes. I like not being dirty. My problem is this: I’ll do load after load of laundry, dump it in a hamper, throw the hamper on the floor, rifle through the hamper for clothes when I need them–dumping most of the laundry on the floor in the process, wait a couple of weeks, declare that all the clothes on the floor are dirty (even if they are probably clean and even if they pass the smell test), and wash all the clothes again. Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat.
This has always been my problem. Now, I’ll even take the time to fold the laundry (patting myself on the back heartily while doing so), dump it in a hamper, throw the hamper on the floor, rifle through the hamper for clothes when I need them–dumping most of the laundry on the floor and unfolding most of the previously folded clothes in the process, wait a couple of weeks, declare that all the clothes on the floor dirty (unless I can discern some remnants of folds or creases which incontrovertibly tell me that particular article of clothing has not, in fact, been worn), and wash all the clothes again.
Until I moved into my new apartment, none of this was that big of a deal because I’d always had a washer and dryer in my house or apartment. The last time I didn’t have my own washer and dryer was my first year in law school and frankly, I was too busy squeezing in a beer or five or a softball game into my already hectic schedule that I didn’t care whether or not my clothes were clean.
Laundry ruins lives.
Now, unfortunately, I do not have my own washer or dryer. So I’m relegated to using the laundry room in my building (which has exactly one washer and one dryer and is therefore not at all time efficient). When I moved, I swore to myself that I would do laundry every week so I wouldn’t fall behind and have to do make up laundry. I wanted to make sure I got into the best laundry college I could.
My first week in my apartment, I called a laundry service. They came and took three garbage bags full of laundry and returned it to me all nicely folded, and clean, and wrapped in brown paper. You’d be surprised how exciting it is opening up little brown packages, even when you know damn well all of the packages contain the clothes you were too lazy to wash before you moved.
Of course my laundry resolution didn’t last more than a month, and the laundry started to pile up. I’d do a load here and there–just enough to get me through the workweek if I wore a variation of the same outfit everyday. But, by November, the laundry situation had reached a critical point.
It was so bad that I had begun sleeping on the couch. THE COUCH. Why? Because the laundry had driven me out of my bedroom. It was everywhere. And it was unstoppable. As my friend Allison dryly noted: “I didn’t realize laundry was so aggressive.”
This white baby (where did it come from?) is leading the charge on the War of Laundry Aggression.
I decided that I wouldn’t let the laundry win, and I came up with a strategy to take down the laundry once and for all. I would do my more “personal” laundry in the laundry room in my building, and would do my more “I don’t care if anyone steals this shit” laundry at the… wait for it… laundromat.
Laundromats are weird places. Are you supposed to sit there and wait for your laundry quietly judging all the other laundromat patrons? Should you bring a book? A computer? Should you sit on the washer and enjoy the ride? These are important questions.
I piled all my sheets and towels into two laundry baskets, stuffed them in my incredibly small car, and drove to the laundromat near my house, smack dab in the heart of Gay USA: West Hollywood.
I walked in to the laundromat, stopping to take a look around and get my bearings.
“Ah! Washing machines. I’m pretty sure those are washing machines.”
I walked over to a row of washing machines and proceeded to fill four washing machines with laundry. I rummaged around in my wallet for some quarters–I had plenty of quarters. I’d recently used a twenty dollar bill to buy stamps from a stamp machine, and received my change in quarters.
When was the last time you bought a book of stamps with a twenty dollar bill?
I popped the quarters into the washing machines and I was on my way. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I might add. I went to run a couple of errands (I felt weird leaving my laundry there, but I really wasn’t going to sit there and wait for it) and returned to the laundromat a little while later to put all my clothes in the dryer.
Now, this is where it got tricky. I walked over to the row of dryers and attempted to figure out what to do next. The dryers were stacked but the coin slot for both dryers was in one place. You had to push a button to tell it which dryer you wanted to use, the top one or the bottom one. Ok, seemed easy enough.
So I loaded up one of the dryers, popped in the quarters, selected the appropriate dryer and pushed start. No problem. I then loaded up a second dryer and attempted to put the quarters in the coinslot. No dice. It wouldn’t fit. I assumed the dryer was broken. I removed all the laundry and stuck it in another dryer. Again, I attempted to put the quarter in the coinslot. Again, nothing.
These dryers make no fucking sense!
Then I started walking up and down the row of dryers trying to stick quarters in the coin slots. “What the hell!?“, I thought. “Can all of these dryers be broken? “
Finally I went back to my original set of dryers and I just stood there hopelessly confused. I thought to myself, “Can I really be this dumb? Why don’t I understand how to work these dryers? They’re not all broken. Look, that chick just got one to work! I really don’t get it.”
I started to look around for a laundromat customer service representative to help me. There was an old black guy in a security guard uniform. I assumed he was there to make sure no local gay hoodlums darted in to the laundromat and started robbing the change machine. He didn’t look all that helpful. I continued to look around. I didn’t see anyone.
About to throw my wet laundry in my hamper and go home, a friendly (and gay) guy walked up to me. “Honey, you’re putting your coins in the wrong slot. This one is for my dryer.”
“Really?” I asked. “It looks like the coinslots are the same for both dryers and I’m supposed to push this button to choose either the top or bottom dryer.” I was confused.
“Don’t listen to him!” A second friendly (and gay) guy rushed to my aid. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
The second guy began to assess my dryer situation. “I don’t get it,” I said to him. He looks at me, looks at the dryer, and then looks at my hand which was clutching the coins.
“Um, honey. Are you sure those are quarters.”
“What!?”, I exclaimed. I looked down at my hand which was clutching the coins and what did I see? Saca-fuckin-gawea. The coins I was trying to use were not even quarters—they were new dollar coins. Of course they were. Like the stamp machine that had produced the coins as change for my twenty dollar bill was going to give me all my change in quarters. What an idiot! how did I not notice the difference in volume between fifteen dollars in quarters and fifteen dollars in Sacagawea coins. “Oh crikey,” I thought. “I really gotta quit drinking in the morning.”
Then I looked at the second guy, “Thanks! I thought I was losing my mind…. hey wait a minute. Aren’t you that guy from Queer Eye?”
“Uh-huh,” he replied.
“Cool! I used to watch that show.”
It was Jai Rodriguez from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy:
So many hot men in WeHo. So many gay men in WeHo.
Don’t famous people have minions who do their laundry for them? Or at least don’t they have a washer and dryer where they live? Well, worked out for me. He was very nice. And very cute. And very friendly. And willing to help this hapless fool who can’t tell her ass from her elbow…. or a dollar coin from a quarter.
