Weekends are more like workends for me. Errands and chores come first; fun, second. I end up squeezing one around the other, and I can’t recall the last time I actually slept in. I admire anyone who can frolic freely over the week’s end, because I’ve lost that ability.
Saturdays begin with the gym. The alarm bleats to wake me so I can get there early enough to avoid what I lovingly refer to as “the porn crowd”. Saturday’s the one day of the week when I don’t have to rush through my workout, which, sadly, I rather enjoy. On Saturdays, I take my time, listen to something fabulous on the iPod and punish my body for craving sugar and carbs, and spank my willpower for relenting. My resolve is such a wimpy bitch.
After that sweaty task, I drop off or pick up my dry-cleaning, run to the bank and hit the shower. Then it is either an appointment with the hair goddess, waxer-extraordinaire or a lunchy-brunchy date with a mate. Back at the ranch, I postpone housecleaning in lieu of “writing” or a hurried Netflix viewing (so I can take it to the post office before four).
If I’m not actually working on the novel’s next revision (which seems never-ending, yet this one is for a true purpose), I fit in a night out someone adored. Food and beverages are involved and a fair amount of fun. Otherwise, it’s Mac and me in front of cable staring at my words on Word. And I can’t describe how tedious that is becoming.
And then comes Sunday morning. The alarm goes off at seven. It’s ignored until seven-thirty, or maybe eight, when I drag myself out of bed and scurry to the Laundromat. Yes, the Laundromat. Pourquoi? you ask. Well, the neighbors who share my laundry room at my duplex complex are kind of gross slobs. Besides, I’d rather get it all done in an hour than drag it out in our single washer and dryer facility.
After an extensive search, I finally found a clean, hygienic facility with a quaint café over a mile away from my place that has a reasonably sane clientele. Or so I thought.
I’ve been going there about a month, after the last straw was pulled at the facility I used to frequent. I like the early morning crowd at the new venue. We are quiet; loading, folding or reading while we wait for our clothes to come clean or get dry. However, every so often, a disrupter stumbles into the joint.
The other day, I had the fortune to grab the two “regular” sized washers in the back. I took a chair and situated myself at the wall, cracked open my book and sipped my green tea. The next thing I knew, I was faced with a man’s ass as he bent over and stuck his face to the windows of my machines. My first thought was, Great. I’ve got a laundry fetishist perusing my smalls. He was very thorough in his investigation. It wasn’t quick glance, but several serious inspections.
“Excuse me,” I said to super freak. “Can I help you?”
“Are these your machines?” he asked. I nodded. “I don’t think there’s enough water in mine. I don’t think there’s enough water in yours.” He seemed on the verge of a frustrated panic. While I still considered him a weirdo, I was happy that he seemed to have a semi-reasonable explanation for his behavior.
“I’m quite happy with my water level. Thank you, though.” And then I gave him my “you’re dismissed” eyebrow raise. He finally left, but appeared to remain perturbed.
The next week I stumbled up the man who needed six machines for what would easily fit in two of the large capacity washers. It was a full house, so I wasn’t thrilled to have to used the larger washers for my smaller loads in two different sections of the room. As I passed him going between my two loads, I noticed that he shook out and sprayed each article before putting them in one of the six machines. I respected his process, but it seem to me to be nothing more than a waste of time, energy, money, detergent and water. But, to each his own.
The one downside of this Laundromat (besides the few strange rangers) is that their dryers either burn clothes, or leave them slightly damp, no matter how long you let them dry. I can deal with that. It beats the joint nearest my house with the good dryers and off-putting clientele (who enjoy having full-on conversations from across the room at a volume level ten). But, fortunately, there is always a rolling basket to help me gather my clothes, and clean counter space for folding. It’s a relatively peaceful way to accomplish one of the more tedious chores of life. Though, each and every time, I drive home longing for the day I’ll have my own washer and dryer, and can do a load at midnight, naked if I wanted. Not that I would, but the option would be nice.
After I unload my fresh laundry, I honor the Sunday tradition of over-priced pancakes with friends. These are laid-back occasions. Relaxed attire and minimal makeup serve as the dress code. Sunglasses help hide the dark circles of the sleep deprived. Reactions are slower. Conversations more sedate. Everything is eased as we try to slow the passing of time and forget that Monday is fast approaching.
A few Sundays ago, however, a friend and I were served a jolt. As we enjoyed our breakfast fare, we caught a surprising sight out of the corner of our eyes — all of our eyes, as a matter of fact — when a statuesque woman stood up to exit the cafe. I don't know what she looked like, because all I (or anyone else at the restaurant) could fixate on was her chest. She wore a top that couldn't have been whiter or tighter than if it was a second skin...which is what it truly had become since she opted not to wear a bra. Her areolas stared back as the entire place came to a standstill. One by one, heads popped up and jaws dropped open as we all watched her leave the establishment and round the corner. I will say she had a decent surgeon. Still, I just didn't need to see her sunny-sides-up before I finished my pancakes.
The place was silent for a good thirty seconds as we sat there, stunned. I looked over to a woman sitting in the corner with friends, mouth still hanging open, mirroring my gape. She looked over to me and we burst into laughter. The entire place shared an OMG sigh as we wondered to each other if her ensemble was intentional or accidental. And what kind of friend was the chick she was with not to say, “Um, you might want to wear a sweater. I can tell you’re chilly.” Look, I’m all for putting it out there, just not first thing in the morning. Especially not a Sunday. They are delicate enough as it is.
Saturdays begin with the gym. The alarm bleats to wake me so I can get there early enough to avoid what I lovingly refer to as “the porn crowd”. Saturday’s the one day of the week when I don’t have to rush through my workout, which, sadly, I rather enjoy. On Saturdays, I take my time, listen to something fabulous on the iPod and punish my body for craving sugar and carbs, and spank my willpower for relenting. My resolve is such a wimpy bitch.
After that sweaty task, I drop off or pick up my dry-cleaning, run to the bank and hit the shower. Then it is either an appointment with the hair goddess, waxer-extraordinaire or a lunchy-brunchy date with a mate. Back at the ranch, I postpone housecleaning in lieu of “writing” or a hurried Netflix viewing (so I can take it to the post office before four).
If I’m not actually working on the novel’s next revision (which seems never-ending, yet this one is for a true purpose), I fit in a night out someone adored. Food and beverages are involved and a fair amount of fun. Otherwise, it’s Mac and me in front of cable staring at my words on Word. And I can’t describe how tedious that is becoming.
And then comes Sunday morning. The alarm goes off at seven. It’s ignored until seven-thirty, or maybe eight, when I drag myself out of bed and scurry to the Laundromat. Yes, the Laundromat. Pourquoi? you ask. Well, the neighbors who share my laundry room at my duplex complex are kind of gross slobs. Besides, I’d rather get it all done in an hour than drag it out in our single washer and dryer facility.
After an extensive search, I finally found a clean, hygienic facility with a quaint café over a mile away from my place that has a reasonably sane clientele. Or so I thought.
I’ve been going there about a month, after the last straw was pulled at the facility I used to frequent. I like the early morning crowd at the new venue. We are quiet; loading, folding or reading while we wait for our clothes to come clean or get dry. However, every so often, a disrupter stumbles into the joint.
The other day, I had the fortune to grab the two “regular” sized washers in the back. I took a chair and situated myself at the wall, cracked open my book and sipped my green tea. The next thing I knew, I was faced with a man’s ass as he bent over and stuck his face to the windows of my machines. My first thought was, Great. I’ve got a laundry fetishist perusing my smalls. He was very thorough in his investigation. It wasn’t quick glance, but several serious inspections.
“Excuse me,” I said to super freak. “Can I help you?”
“Are these your machines?” he asked. I nodded. “I don’t think there’s enough water in mine. I don’t think there’s enough water in yours.” He seemed on the verge of a frustrated panic. While I still considered him a weirdo, I was happy that he seemed to have a semi-reasonable explanation for his behavior.
“I’m quite happy with my water level. Thank you, though.” And then I gave him my “you’re dismissed” eyebrow raise. He finally left, but appeared to remain perturbed.
The next week I stumbled up the man who needed six machines for what would easily fit in two of the large capacity washers. It was a full house, so I wasn’t thrilled to have to used the larger washers for my smaller loads in two different sections of the room. As I passed him going between my two loads, I noticed that he shook out and sprayed each article before putting them in one of the six machines. I respected his process, but it seem to me to be nothing more than a waste of time, energy, money, detergent and water. But, to each his own.
The one downside of this Laundromat (besides the few strange rangers) is that their dryers either burn clothes, or leave them slightly damp, no matter how long you let them dry. I can deal with that. It beats the joint nearest my house with the good dryers and off-putting clientele (who enjoy having full-on conversations from across the room at a volume level ten). But, fortunately, there is always a rolling basket to help me gather my clothes, and clean counter space for folding. It’s a relatively peaceful way to accomplish one of the more tedious chores of life. Though, each and every time, I drive home longing for the day I’ll have my own washer and dryer, and can do a load at midnight, naked if I wanted. Not that I would, but the option would be nice.
After I unload my fresh laundry, I honor the Sunday tradition of over-priced pancakes with friends. These are laid-back occasions. Relaxed attire and minimal makeup serve as the dress code. Sunglasses help hide the dark circles of the sleep deprived. Reactions are slower. Conversations more sedate. Everything is eased as we try to slow the passing of time and forget that Monday is fast approaching.
A few Sundays ago, however, a friend and I were served a jolt. As we enjoyed our breakfast fare, we caught a surprising sight out of the corner of our eyes — all of our eyes, as a matter of fact — when a statuesque woman stood up to exit the cafe. I don't know what she looked like, because all I (or anyone else at the restaurant) could fixate on was her chest. She wore a top that couldn't have been whiter or tighter than if it was a second skin...which is what it truly had become since she opted not to wear a bra. Her areolas stared back as the entire place came to a standstill. One by one, heads popped up and jaws dropped open as we all watched her leave the establishment and round the corner. I will say she had a decent surgeon. Still, I just didn't need to see her sunny-sides-up before I finished my pancakes.
The place was silent for a good thirty seconds as we sat there, stunned. I looked over to a woman sitting in the corner with friends, mouth still hanging open, mirroring my gape. She looked over to me and we burst into laughter. The entire place shared an OMG sigh as we wondered to each other if her ensemble was intentional or accidental. And what kind of friend was the chick she was with not to say, “Um, you might want to wear a sweater. I can tell you’re chilly.” Look, I’m all for putting it out there, just not first thing in the morning. Especially not a Sunday. They are delicate enough as it is.
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