After working a short Friday, I rushed back to the apartment to pack for my flight to Los Angeles. While my family is Connecticut, I’m spending the Jewish High Holy Days helping out the Los Angeles Times redesign its news sections.
Okay, so I’m not a very good Jew, but then I never claimed to be. On the other hand, I am religious about wanting to spend more time with my family. I miss them, but at least by traveling the same time they are, I’ll miss them for only two weeks instead of THREE.
And this way I get to visit with close friends even if I’m working instead of playing. I hope to post more about the trip later, but this one is about laundry.
You see, I got it into my head that I would do a load before catching my plane. I didn’t really need to clean clothes for this trip – different wardrobes for different climes – but I figured it would be wise to have clean work shirts for when I get back. I’m working 12-days straight you see and opportunities are limited.
Anyway, as I started to take my clothes out of the washer, I was a bit surprised to find women’s underwear, shorts and tops. Not a lot of pieces mind you, but a few. After years of marriage, this would not be an unusual thing, except the clothes were NOT my wife’s.
I’m thinking, “I know what happened; a coed ran back down with a few extra pieces of lingerie she found on a lamp and mistakenly put them in my washer.” So I put the clothes in the adjacent washer, which was at the beginning of its cycle.
I put my clothes in the dryer, return to my room and continue packing. Forty-five minutes later, I discover one of my socks hanging out of the dryer. It was pretty clear that someone had opened the door, but didn’t turn the machine back on.
My clothes were sopping wet, but it was time to leave for the airport! Also, the mystery woman’s clothes I put in the washer were now piled in a heap on a ledge, which means my theory was wrong.
I put another $1.10 in the the dryer and let it run as long as I could before pulling out my damp shirts, pants and underwear. Sigh, they’re now hanging all over our bedroom as I write this from Los Angeles.
While flinging my laundry around the bedroom, I discovered a halter top mixed in. I dropped it off in the laundry room on my way to the car.
Traffic to the airport was abysmal, of course. It took 1.5 hours to go 12 miles. I think it’s safe to say that Chicago traffic sucks as bad as in Los Angeles. Fortunately, I arrived at the airport in time. Good thing I gave myself 3 hours.
No, real harm done, though I’m glad I didn’t leave the apartment with ANOTHER woman’s clothes laying all over our bedroom. My wife has a good sense of humor about this, but I feel so unclean.
And I can’t help wonder why. Was some poorer-than-us coed piggybacking on my wash? Or maybe she just likes to taunt middle-aged married men and get them in trouble with their wives?
So much happens in that laundry room that I’m thinking about starting a blog that airs Chicago’s dirty laundry. Oooo, the fun I could have with double meanings.
So (deep voice over) tune in next week to our soap opera, “One Lint Trap to Live.” Or should I call it “General Washable?” How about “All My Laundry?” or “As the Clothes Turn.” (I can’t wait to see what my wife comes up with.)