Ok, I know I will sound absolutely batty, but since I've moved here, and that's been since the middle of October mind you, I have not used a laundry mat. Laundromat? Laundrymat? Ok I just looked it up, and it is Laundromat. My whole life I've totally pronounced it Laun-dree-mat. I don't even know how to say it properly. Well, that makes me look competent.
Anyway, yeeeees I have been washing my clothes. Every time I travel home via LIRR, which seems to be weekly, I take a black, rolly suitcase full of my dirty clothes. Mom's always thrilled. However, I haven't been there in a while and it was time for me to take the icy, cold plunge into the foreign waters of Laundromat Land.
I guess the reason I dreaded it so, was not because of the places itself or because I had to pay, but because I knew I'd have NO idea what I was doing. Sure I used the school laundry rooms all the time. Well, when I say all the time, I mean when laundry became so highly piled in my closet, I knew I could could no longer ignore its presence. However, those machines were easy peasy, and they were located in my building! This is completely different and foreign! I decided to go to the Laundromat across the street, which has been warned by my roommate and his girlfriend. I guess there were some machines there that didn't work when they had a go at the facilities. However, I just couldn't resist the brightly yellow painted interior, nor the white Christmas lights hanging inside from all its corners.
I felt I had good laundry-day attire on, as odd as that sounds. I had striped leggins, a striped thermal covered by a some-what large button up sweater and my cable knit cap. The color sequence was mostly blues, grays and dark purples. I felt subdued and somewhat city-bum, which strangely enough, was comforting. My look also seemed effortless, and you guessed it, like I ran out of clothes to wear.
Well, I entered with my brave face on, carrying my turquoise laundry bag over my shoulder like St. Nicholas. It was pretty much abandoned except for two ladies washing their clothes, and one woman sweeping the floor. There were signs everywhere, in both English and Spanish, describing how there are no refunds if you over-soap your load, how they aren't responsible for lost clothes, etc. I guess you really just have to cover your ass, in every business. Everything was yellow though, which I loved. The golden, somewhat dark yellow color tried to over-compensate for the poor condition of the walls, lined with smudges and marks from people and large apparatuses alike. Even the signs were this color. The only thing that contrasted was the blaring silver machines staring at each other from across the building.
Now the fun started; washing. I pretty much looked like a lost child in a mall from the very start. There's no denying that. I only brought my work clothes over, so if I messed up in some unforgiving way, I would be totally screwed and have nothing to wear five days of the week. Perfect. I studied the washing machines, and figured I would try the medium sized washer, however, these didn't have a price blinking on them. The smaller ones were $1.75 a load, the largest one was $6.50 a load, and the middle ones were somewhere in between, but where, exactly, I couldn't tell you. So I had to shuffle on over to the sweeping lady and ask her. She drew out $4.50 with her fingers while slowly saying, "four, five, zero," in a heavy Spanish accent. Since I had nothing to compare it to, I decided that must be a decent price. As I headed back to my chosen machine, I realized there was only a slot for quarters. Now I had some quarters in my possession, but not four dollars and fifty cents worth. So I apologetically asked the woman again, mid-sweep, where I could get quarters. I explained with a lot of hand motions that I saw the ATM and I had cash, but not enough in cents. Apparently the machine was right behind her. That was another "Doiy," moment. I was about to insert one paper honest Abe, when I realized another woman wanted to use the change machine too. I gestured for her to use it first, but she insisted I go. Secretly, I would have rather she gone. Then I could quietly observe her tricks of the trade, and in turn obviously look like a laundromat pro!
This woman's kindness didn't cease, however! After I let the machine eat my cash, she made sure to place her hand in front of lip where the quarters were falling into. That way, none splashed onto the floor and out of sight. Later on she suggested I use the smaller machines because, "they best." I asked her if they fit large loads, but she pointed to her decent sized pile and nodded. I'll take advice from nice, local ladies anytime! The woman I am renting from was completely right when she told me some of these Dominican and Spanish families really do take you under your wing. Here I was almost fearful that these ladies would laugh at me and call me "estupida," but one of them gave me advice without me even asking for it! She can just see the question marks in my eyes. Those are pretty apparent in any language, I suppose.
Anyway, I sat and did my laundry, like a true ADD-ULT. At that moment, I could almost be in an indie movie, and as I was writing in my journal with my laundry on spin cycle, a handsome young man would enter. He would be as clueless as I was moments earlier, since this would be his first time here, and he'd ask me if there was a change machine. I'd bring him to it, and then I'd be the one holding my hand in front to save his quarters from clanging into crevasses unknown. He'd laugh and then I'd laugh and then we'd both be laughing...and then we'd tell our children how we met one cold December night.
It felt I said. Obviously there was no man. But there was plenty of soap operas in spanish! From time to time I'd take breaks from writing to watching the screen above, which depicted women in pounds of lavishly displayed cosmetics, crying in every clip, without, mind you, mascara running down their cheeks. Their skill for instant-cry mode is envy-worthy and their make-up is as perfect as if done by drag queens themselves. Those are two things I've learned thus far from the spanish soap genre.
At any rate, I'm proud nothing shrunk, over-soaped, became stuck, tore, molded or stained in this process. I still have one more load, at least, chilling on my floor...in the laundry bag, MA! They are not just on my floor scattered about. So I will have to go to the "Yellow Room," once more. It will give me a chance to imagine my own laundromat soap opera, in English, as I sit and wait on the sun-beam colored bench. Or I could just watch more Soy Tu Duena.
Until more clothes need a'washin'.....
x0x0
Kristen
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