So, the washing machine in the basement of my building is on the fritz again. SHOCKER. Which means I have to load all my laundry into my ginormous rolly-suitcase and haul it six blocks to Chico's Laundry Land, through the disgusting brown slush that passes for snow in Jersey City. Which is SO MUCH FUN, you guys, that I've gotten into the habit of waiting until the LAST POSSIBLE DAY to do my laundry before running out of clothes to wear. Last night, I showed up at Chico's wearing a pair of bathing suit bottoms under some pink footie pajama pants and an Ace of Base T-shirt from middle school. But luckily - or unluckily - I wasn't the only one dressed like a crazy person.
Now, I know it's hard to believe that a 24-hour discount laundromat located between an abandoned gas station and a White Castle would attract any unsavory characters, but you're gonna have to trust me on this. Yesterday I met a woman wearing what appeared to be a hospital gown underneath a men's tuxedo jacket, who claimed to be married to Tiger Woods. (True, it didn't seem like much of a stretch until she also claimed to be the reincarnation of Betty Boop... who is neither real nor dead.) Also present: a kid selling bootlegged DVDs (Squeakquel, anyone?), an old man defending his two "personal" washing machines with an ivory cane and a litany of curses, and a woman who sorted whites with one hand while clutching her Persian cat with the other. (Needless to say, the cat was not pleased with this arrangement.) Sigh. So much for my initial hopes of making witty banter with cute single guys as they folded their boxer-briefs. Oh, and in case you're wondering if I tried to escape while my clothes dried, think again:
Um, gross. Alright, anyone else have any laundromat horror stories? Or maybe you lucked out and actually met the man of your dreams over a box of Tide? Speak up!