Laundry Rant, Part Deux

Peeps, I had to hit the Laundromat again today, and rather go to the place that made me want to jam needles in my eye, I opted for driving a little further in the opposite direction and headed to scope out a different laundromat called U-Wash Laundromat, circa 1976.

(Not as creative as Rub-A-Dub Laundromat, but my twenty-dollars-a-load probably went to buy the goddamn Sonny and Cher nameplates, and I wasn’t looking to invest in the new one for Barbie.)

First, the laundromat wasn’t where I thought it was supposed to be, so I ended up driving away from it at first… I know what you’re thinking, that’s my fault and yeah you’re right.  However, this wouldn’t be a rant if I blamed myself for something right? Right.  When I found it, I hopped out of the Elantra and meandered my way inside, trying to scope the place out.  I wasn’t going to make the same mistake of going unprepared.   Immediately I knew that it was not going to be the same experience I had at the Millionaire’s Laundromat.

First of all, there were no people speaking in Spanish (presumably about me) and looking over their shoulder.  I always think people speaking a different language in front of me are speaking about me, especially when I go get my eyebrowns waxed at the mall by the Vietnamese women at the nail salon – they ALWAYS seem to be talking about me.

The only person who happened to be using the laundromat facilities was an older gentleman wearing an ill-fitted Giants’ tee shirt. Seeing him, I knew I’d be able to take him if things got a little rowdy.  I walked in and searched to see if I had to buy the damn card here, too, but alas, they rely on good old American quarters.  Too bad I sold mine back to the damn bank after looking like a fool earlier in the week.


Secondly, none of the machines had name tags!  I was in a normal laundromat.  Success.


However, there was this one machine that looked like a toilet… it even had water pooled inside of it and looked like it had a toilet seat.  I was grossed out.




Thankfully, doing laundry at this place was MUCH cheaper than doing it over at the Millionaire's Club -- it only cost me about 5 bucks to do my load of laundry.  They weren't TOO bright, though, because I found a sign that said this:





What in God's name did they sell in that machine if it wasn't soap?

Rant. Be prepared.

Our washing machine broke, so logically I thought, Hey, I'll go to the laundromat and clean my clothes.  I'll be able to get more wash done there than I ever do at home, and it really shouldn't be all that expensive because I'll bring my own laundry detergent.  Success! 

No.  I can't even believe all the capitalist bullshit that there is at the laundromat.  I'm going to spell it out for you, because you people need to know this, too, so that you're forewarned.  THEY ARE RIPPING PEOPLE OFF!

Firstly, I need you all to know that I went to the laundromat a prepared little girl.  I purchased a roll of quarters from the bank before I went over, thinking I'd be ready and there'd be no surprises, ya know?  I'd get there, put all my clothes into a few different machines, and pop my little quarters in the machines and let them be on their merry way.  

No.  Of course not.  It couldn't POSSIBLY be that simple, could it? No.  I showed up and heaved my gigantic-ass laundry basket out of my car and into the building and stuff a load into one of the washers.  I pour my detergent into the machine and look to the front to load my quarters when I notice there is NO SPOT TO PUT IN CHANGE.  

What they want you to do at the lovely Rub-A-Dub Laundromat is to PURCHASE A FUCKING PLASTIC DEBIT CARD TYPE THING for three dollars out of a machine to then load with money to put in the washers and dryers.  They don't tell you that the machine only accepts five dollar bills and that you can't get the money off of it once you've put it on unless you find a (non-existent) manager or put your card in an envelope and drop it down a mail slot so they can "send you a check" in the mail. 

Yeah, okay.  I really believe that you're going to send me my $5.95 check.  Santa's coming to vacation with me, too. 

I look and there is a digitized sign and slot that tells me how much it's going to cost me to do this goddamn load:

Good Friggin' God.

Almost 7 FRIGGIN DOLLARS to wash my clothes?  Per Load!

Oh no.  Since that was the case, I shoved every single piece of clothing that I brought with me into a 55-gallon washing machine and figured I was only gonna pay almost-seven-dollars once, and I was gonna get the most out of it, and they can go fuck themselves with their seven dollars.  

Even better was that they all had names.  The machines had NAMES.  My dryer was....

Yoko

Of course, Yoko had to be near John.  Of course.

Who the hell decided that names on the washers and dryers were a good idea.  There could be numbers, there could be letters, there could be color-coded sections.  Those plastic little name tags that are tagged onto the machines are probably why the prices are jacked up.  Even better was that I must have been in the couples section, where fate and serendipity and whatever-the-hell-else there is out there could rub my singularity down my throat once more, as if I didn't get it enough in life.  Yoko and John were together, and were next to Ken and ____ (which I could only assume was Barbie, but the name tag was popped off) and Sonny and Cher.  

I can't believe it.  

DMV - A (semi) fictional tale

Okay, Peeps, if anyone cares, I posted (about half an hour ago) whether anyone would be interested in reading my creative writing shii---stuff from last year.  Of COURSE Maid Marian immediately said yes, so for her viewing pleasure and yours, here is the first installment of my ridiculousness that was actually submitted to a professor at MSU.  (Sort of embarassing, I must admit, but whatev.)

DMV

Saturday afternoon is finally here, but do you think I’m going to be able to relax?  No.  It’s possibly the worst day to be stuck at DMV.  Division of Motor Vehicle.  It should really stand for Death of My Vacation.  Stupid registration.  How was I supposed to know that it was expired?  “Maybe you should have looked at it once or twice,” said the cop.  Stupid pig.  He’s right.  This is my fault.  I’m not admitting that to anyone, though.

Could the old lady behind the counter take any longer?  What’s the deal, twenty minutes minimum?  They should have a fast-food-drive-thru for DMV.  3 minutes or less, or your registration is free.  I think her hair is getting progressively grayer by the minute.  I know mine is.  If DMV is anything like working in the post office, I’m not surprised people say “He went postal!”.  I’d kill myself if I had to be here every day, by choice.  Jesus.  And it’s not like they have comfortable seating, oh no.  I get the privilege to stand behind Mr. Smells-Like-Old-Bleu-Cheese while he fans himself, aren’t I lucky?

Oh good, the line moved a fraction of an inch forward.   I can actually read the old bat’s name tag.  Noreen (with a smiley face).  Just wonderful, I’m one step closer to acknowledging the poly-dent that’s crusting over her pricy porcelain pincers.  I’m sure by the time I get to the front of the line, she’ll have decayed into a pile of ashes, and I’ll be forced to the back of another ridiculous line until I, too, start to decay.

Ya know what really bothers me?  The scenery.  This place is God-Awful boring and I feel like I’m in jail.  The least they could do, since they keep everyone here for hours, is to paint the walls something other than dull, depressing, gun metal gray.  Honestly, how could they stand to be here for 8 hours a day?  I’d kill myself after a day or two of this. 

Okay, I’m next.  Thank God.  Maybe I’ll be out of here before the sun goes down.  You can bet your ass I’ll never be late with my registration again… I hope.  That’s a bullshit technicality anyway.  Once your car is registered it should stay registered.  Why do you have to renew it every friggin year?  I obviously still own the car, I still pay insurance on it, why do I have to get it registered?  Previous registration should count.  If not, it should be called “re-registration”.

            “Yes, how can I help you?” Death-Warmed-Over said.  “Yes, ma’am.  I need to update my registration.  It expired,” I’m trying to be polite.  “Ok,” she said, “just sign this, give me $45 and you’re on your way.”  I look at her, stunned.  You mean this is all I have to do?  Just sign a piece of paper and hand over some money?  I had to wait over an hour for thirty seconds of polite conversation? Un-fucking-believable.

Discovery

Kids, I've had sort of an A-Ha moment.

This afternoon while going through a lot of the stuff that I hoard in my room (a-la pack-rat-syndrome) and I came across my notebook/journal/scratch pad from the creative writing class that I took in my last semester of college almost a year ago.

I gotta say, I am pretty freakin' impressed with my skillz right now :)

I was wondering -- would anyone be interested in reading them?  I was thinking about posting them up to the awesome blog... ok, discuss amongst ya'selves. <3

"What A Week"

 "What A Week"
Sunday night, chit chat,
Empty promises,
"Baby, I miss you"'s, and all that.
Lost on Monday, missing Tuesday,
“What’s your schedule like?" on Wednesday.
Thursdays come and go, solo,
And I got my hopes up again for a no show.
Friday, I start to forget your name.
Saturday is much the same.
Slowly built up, but quickly let down,
It’s pretty pathetic I know the routine now.
All I wanted was some attention,
But you don't even deserve honorable mention.

Critical Alert

We are at code orange, or whatever the almost highest-level of alert is...

I need a hug.

Oh, yes, Peeps.  It's serious if I'm posting this shit on the awesome blog.  I'll tell you what happened and my story, and you kids can let me know if I'm just a big loser or if this happens to other people, too. Also, I'm giving my gentlemanpeeps fair warning that I'm going to be talking about "female issues" in this post, and not that I am encouraging post-skipping, I understand the levels of discomfort that boys have on this topic.  I feel a warning is very polite.  Okay, onto my issues.

Saturday started off as a good day.  Not a whole lot going on in the office, working with a cool bunch of peoples, we're laughing and having a good time, but all of a sudden it was like someone flipped my switch and I went from Happy Val to Moody Blues Val.  I couldn't rationalize it.  I just knew that I was miserable and that I needed to get happy asap.

I left job #1 and went to job #2 and hoped that during the time-off/commute I'd find myself in a better mood. (Most of the time singing a song in the car will shake me out of whatever it is I'm feeling.)  This did not work.  I went to job #2 and asked my partner for the night if I could take the anti-social role for the evening.  He agreed and asked me what was wrong, and I replied that I wasn't really sure, that maybe I was just getting my period because I had no real reason.  He says, "Are you serious?  I thought that was just a myth."

Really?

So... now I'm flabbergasted on many levels. Boys really don't understand, and neither do I sometimes.  Do you ladypeeps get all uncontrollably moody during "that time" or is it just me? Also, does anyone ever get the overwhelming sensation to be held/receive hugs for long periods of time?

I hate being a girl sometimes.

"Whatever will be"

The idea from this response to the Indie Ink Challenge came from both a Maroon 5 song and a conversation with a friend.  It didn't necessarily happen this way, but my mind is a strange place to be... so... voila...

"Whatever Will Be"

The cool air was blowing against my sunburned skin as we made our way along the Garden State Parkway.  The only music we had to listen to was coming out of the miniscule speakers of her iPhone.  I resisted the urge to praise her for thinking of this, because though I appreciated the music, I wasn’t going to let her tell me “I told you so”; I was okay with the radio, even if we did hear the same song 4 times in 2 hours. 

She was laid back and relaxed, mindless humming the melody of whatever song was playing and taping her fingers against the arm rest.  I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, the explosion, if you will, of the silence, to which I would no longer be able to keep quiet about.  She and I are very similar, so I knew it was coming, I just wasn’t sure when.  Turns out it was sooner rather than later.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” she asked, suddenly, jarring me out of my inner thoughts. 

“What do you mean,” I answered back, way too quickly to fool anyone that I wasn’t just stalling for time.

“Don’t play dumb,” her tone clipped short on single-syllable words.  I could hear the roll of her eyes, it was so apparent.  She knew what I’d respond, too, so I kept it to myself while I searched for the right words to say.

I let out a sigh, not really sure what to say or how much to divulge, but it was in vain; I knew I was going to spill my guts.  “I just keep hoping that things will be different, ya know?  Like, somehow she’ll get that she’s being a tool, and just snap out of it.  I’m waiting for things to go back to normal, like how they used to be…. I know, I know, it’s not going to go back to that, because this is what it is, but I just keep having hope.”  It is at this point that I’d let my head hang in my hands, but I don’t because I’m driving and I definitely don’t need to hear about Jersey drivers.

She just gives me a look, one that you expect, but still hurts when it hits you.  “You deserve so much better” she says, like I don’t know that.

“Listen, I am the first person to agree!   If anyone told me all this, I would be the first person to tell them that it’s not worth it, and that this is not going to end well, and that they deserve the world, not this petty bullshit, but….”

“… But what?  What could you really say here to defend this inappropriate behavior?”

“I just… I know what it used to be.”

“Well, it’s not that way anymore, is it?”

“No, but…”

“No buts.”

Love is frustrating; it’s not puppies and sunshine and rainbows, it’s cold and painful.  I lean forward a little in my seat, and my burned skin drags me back to the present.  It hurts, and it's going to hurt until it heals. 

I keep hoping that things will be different, or go back to how it used to be, but I just keep getting smacked in the face with reality – you can never go back, you must keep going forward.

  It will always be this way.

The song changes, and the sharp chords of "Misery" comes through the tiny little speakers.  Sometimes fate steps in and shows you the real deal.

***
My prompt comes from the most awesome Liz Culver:  "It will always be this way." (Liz's most recent post is about sex... go read it :)  I challenged Carrie to write about an origami swan, and the response, I'm sure, will be sharp.