Let’s start with this: I hate doing laundry. I don’t mind the putting in and taking out and putting in and taking out of the actual machines, but I feel like sorting dirty clothes into piles that I can carry, just to carry them out of the apartment, around the corner, past the children and puppies, and down the stairs into the laundry dungeon is like running a race to the dentist. All of that work, and your still getting your teeth cleaned.
So obviously, I haven’t done any laundry since H left. For him, doing laundry involves only walking, doing laundry, and walking back. It isn’t traumatic. It doesn’t leave scars. And since I’m flying to Minnesota today and returning mid-workday next week, I had to have weekend clothes and at least a week of work clothes to survive.
I opened the laundry bins, sorted the laundry, decided not to wash towels yet (sorry Katherine, no fresh towels for you!), and bundled my clothes with quarters, detergent, and oxy clean. It gets your clothes powerful clean. And then I realized — I don’t even have my key to the laundry room.
After a few seconds of angry whining, I knocked on my neighbor’s door and shared way too much about where my laundry key is before asking if I could borrow his. He said “Have a great trip!” and now I’m wondering if it is really wise to tell your neighbor you’ll be out of town…
Either way, I get the load of laundry into the wash and head back to the apartment. When putting the not-to-be-washed laundry away, I discover some laundry in a basket in h’s closet that I didn’t know about. And guess who urinated in that basket? Leo. (That is my cat, in case you got confused here.) Apparently Leo likes to prove he is the man of the house by making my life miserable. I decide to wash that gross basket when I switch the other load to the dryer, and tightly close the door so Leo can’t get back into the basket.
When I come back to get the clothes, the handle breaks off the closet door. The door is stuck shut, and I’ll have to unscrew the handle and wiggle the door loose — if that will even work, since our apartment was built before electricity. I decide to deal with that later. It’s already 9:25 PM and I haven’t even started packing, because all of my clothes are wet.
Once the clothes are in the dryer I’m cleaning up a few things when I notice a bag of brand new Ann Taylor slacks that have been waiting to be altered. I grab the bag, wondering why Leo is looking at me like a little boy who put his mom’s watch in the dishwasher. Turns out, it’s because he did put my watch in the dishwasher — and by that, I mean he urinated on three brand-new, never been worn, dryclean only beautiful virgin wool slacks I bought on sale in April.
And there is a lot more to this story, but I feel like it’s getting old quick since it’s, you know, repetitive and about cat pee, so here’s the rest: I soaked the pants in vinegar and water and hung them to dry. I packed and went to sleep with the smell of vinegar and cat pee emanating from my bathroom. I didn’t have time to do everything this morning because I had to go to the dry cleaners, so instead of taking out the recycling I just put it in the bathtub. And, when I finished explaining what happened to the pants, and how I pre-treated them to remove the smell, the dry cleaner man looked at me like I was the one who urinated on them and said “Why wet? Dry clean only.”
So in case you were wondering, I feel totally calm and collected and am very excited about the work day.
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