Let me tell you something about Greenwich, Connecticut. As one of the US towns with the most concentration of wealth, mansions by the water, diamonds the size of quail eggs and other extravagances are everyday life for most people. This is not my case. Somewhere in this town there is a game room for a toddler the size of my apartment, an apartment that is comfortable enough for two people and their worldly belongings, except a clothes washer/dryer.
Deemed guetto by my very white husband, before I arrived, he never went to the laundromat; he had his personal one at his parents' house until the amount of clothes that magically piled up due to my constant change of outfits was too much for the non industrial equipment. I never really knew how he worked the laundry system, but I'd see him load up the car with the bins and then the clothes came back clean, impeccably folded, as if by a magic hamper elf.
A week ago Matt was away on a business trip and I was left to do the house chores alone.He does most of the cooking, so I stuck to cereal and salads, he does most of the cleaning so I just cleaned a little with my beloved swiffler,and was left to deal with grocery shopping and laundry, which he helps with and takes care of respectively. It then dawned on me that I am the household member with the day off, EVERY DAY, and yet I do very little, or nothing. Driven into action by my GG's(Guilty Garys) I resolutely scribbled down a grocery list and packed a bag with the dirty clothes. I would be damned if my husband couldn't come home to a full fridge and clean underwear.
I drove slowly down the Post Road, looking for a place to go wash the dirty duds.Then I spotted it, Laundroland. I parked the car and dragged my bags in. It was a bit sad. Stark walls, no music, just the sound of the clothes spinning in the nineteen seventies machines, the dryers big steel boxes that you could fit my three nephews in. A sign claims it is open 24/7 but I don't see anyone who works there.Still, I had a mission, and the sneaky satisfaction the anticipation of surprising Matt with the fact that I had done my housewife duty gave me. Never mind I was only doing what I was SUPPOSED to do in the first place.I felt like I was doing him a favor, yo. Now, this being unfamiliar territory I took a minute to regroup my thoughts, count the money I took from the piggy and mentally go through the process. First get change from the quarter machine, then pick a machine, then the detergent, shit I have no detergent..First, then , buy detergent ...After I got detergent, had picked a machine and was ready to start I relized I didnt know how they worked. I didnt know where to stick the coins, how to make it start, or if I was supposed to put in the detergent on the clothes first. I was going to have to do the unthinkable. I was going to have to ask for help. Now, this made me nervous for various reasons :a) they all looked like immigrants (and not spanish speaking ones)who did not want to be bothered. Its bad enough to be stuck doing laundry on a nice day, let alone have some newbie looking for a laundry mentor pester you. b) Asking for help would mean my presence would be acknowledged, and therefore provide witnesses that at thirty three years old,with a law degree, I was washing my husbands underwear at eleven a.m. on a weekday, and c) I had already gotten curious glances due to my choice of clothes and could bet they thought it was funny that leather clad, diamond sporting,blown out hair girl didnt know how to do shit- that I was a cliche....I turned my engagement ring on my finger until the diamond faced my palm, put my hair up in a ponytail and approached a black girl that looked semi sympathetic. You'd think we we playing three words or less, but I got the hang of it and started doing my thing. When the time to dry came I was embarrassed to ask for help again so I stared at the machine hoping there were instructions on a sticker somewhere,pulling handles, sticking in quarters , pushing the button to get it going. Again. And again. Nothing. (sigh). It was then that a kind english speaking soul (unemployed) told me you had to push it down for five seconds to get it going. In return for the rare gesture of kindness I let him read my New York Post. He suddenly became Chatty Cathy, going on about how he liked The Post because it was more risque, but he didn't get it at home. I said I hoped he would not be disappointed, they really had nothing there today except a little Kardashian article on how they had the Midas touch, but in reverse. Ears perked up, even immigrants know who the Kardashian gypsies are. Suddenly we were all in the conversation, heads shaking side to side to show disapproval of their antics,even the Russian girl who said "bye bye" on her way IN tried to put in her two cents.I learned that nothing bonds people quicker than common hatred. From that, while we waited for our laundry to dry,we went into each others stories of unemployment, marriages,failed careers, hopes for careers, and origins, at which point I found out that the black girl was from Accra, Ghana, and we had lived there at the same time once. The sound of my cargo pants's belt clacking as they went round and round stopped. Russia was gone, Ghana was folding. Unemployed was going on about high school specials (similar to Pollo Campero). I folded my stuff and left. Driving to my second stop, the grocery store, I thought Matt was wrong, the laundromat isn't guetto. It is the real reality show.
