The value of a spin cycle.

One of the things I miss most about my parents' house, aside from the never-ending free food, is the ability to do laundry for free in machines that work.

Let me tell you about my laundromat routine. Once every week and a half or so, my laundry basket gets so full I can't possibly stuff anything more into it. Then it's time to go to the laundromat. I grab a bunch of quarters, load up on dirty clothes, laundry detergent, Bounce, and whatever I'm reading at the time, throw it all in my car, and drive over to the laundromat by the Powderhouse rotary. because it's the closest and parking is easy. I then throw my clothes into three separate machines: One for whites, one for colors (because I believe in segregation), and the third for towels, which are technically colors, but of a lower caste and not worthy of mingling with my clothes. When finished, I throw the clothes into a couple of dryers, yell: "Burn, bitches!" and start them tumbling for 50 minutes. While drying, I walk down two blocks to the Powderhouse Pub and have a beer or two, reading my book, and hoping no one Marla Singers my clothes.

(Quick note about the Powderhouse: That place is weird. The few times I've been there it appears that the clientele is largely townie---the type that are all older and probably all work either for a union or the phone company, and all know each other---but they usually play music that I'd expect for more of a younger and "hipper" crowd. It's a weird juxtaposition.)

After my beer or two, I go back to the laundromat and fold my clothes and go home, congratulating myself on a job well done.

Sometimes, however, there are deviations from the plan. Like yesterday. After washing my clothes, I go to remove them and am wondering to myself: Why are these socks and underwear, usually so light and easy to carry, so heavy? Well, the answer would be because they're soaked; the spin cycle apparently didn't work. And that would explain the pitiful groaning sound the washing machine was making a few minutes ago.

This, I think, is going to be a pain in the ass. And I was right.

I throw them into the dryer for an hour, go drink my two beers, come back, and they're about as dry as they would be if I had just removed them from a washer where the spin cycle did work.
ARGH!!, I think, followed quickly by, Hey, that girl over there is REALLY cute. Thank god for good old TV-born, American ADD.

I fold the rest of my clothes and throw the whites back in the dryer for another 40 minutes, which I know deep down isn't going to be enough, but it's all I have the quarters for. I then jump in my car and go home, because I want to take a shower and have a sandwhich, and because I have a rehearsal also that night that I have to get ready for. I figure I can pick up my wash on the way back out for that. So, about an hour, one shower, a half dozen VH1 Classic videos, and one cajun turkey and cheese sandwhich with French Onion Sun Chips and a beer later, I head back out to the laundromat. Once again I thwarted fate and Marla Singer, and my clothes were still there. (Although, I was annoyed enough that if they were gone, I would have probably felt better just driving over to Target and replacing them.) And, as predicted, they're still not dry. So, I stuff them into a bag and leave.

I didn't have to work until noon today, so when I woke up, I left a little early and went BACK to the laundromat for round three of drying. Another half hour. If you're keeping track, that's now two hours and ten minutes of dring for some tighty whiteys and socks. Luckily that pretty much did it. There are about 3-4 socks that are still a little damp, but that's about par for the course anyway.

So, a scorecard:

Minutes dried for white wash: 130
Quarters used: 13
Number of still moist socks: 3-4
Annoyance factor: 7 out of 10
Beers consumed during this span of time: 2 Sam Adams and 1 Bud Light
Number of cute girls at laundromat during this span: 3. The aforementioned really cute one, who also smiled at me when she walked by to get a cart. She must have been farsighted. Or blind. The short brunette that was listening to metal on her iPod. Maybe Metallica, I couldn't tell, but at one point it did sound like Wherever I May Roam. And the girl sitting on the folding table reading when I went back to pick up my stuff for the second time.
Pages of book read during this ordeal: Approximately 70-75