Dear Tweety T-Shirt,

If you speak English — which I know you do, because I’ve heard you muttering offendedly in the direction of a People magazine story on Nick and Jessica for the last fifteen minutes — then you really shouldn’t have any problem answering a politely posed question about whether or not the clothing in machines 14 and 15 is yours. The question is not of the trick variety; either it’s your stuff, or it isn’t. And apparently it isn’t, which is fine, but you could say, “No, it isn’t mine,” instead of rolling your eyes at me and then giving the magazine a little “I told her ass” shake, because, see, you didn’t tell me anything. You made a mug-shot face at me, and then you made a bitchface at me.

I don’t know how I’ve affronted you, madam. It’s not as though I said out loud that your beige flowered sheets look cheap, or that Nick and Jessica don’t actually care what you think of the state of their marriage so perhaps sucking your teeth in the direction of a piece of paper is futile, or that I “t’ought I taw a puddy-tat” peeing in your cornflakes this morning. I merely thought those things, to myself. But since you’ve elected to act like I stole your boyfriend anyway, what the hell: I hate your sheets, I hate your face, and shut up.

Free Sylvester,
Sarah

Dear Germaphobe,

It’s a busy Sunday afternoon at the laundromat, and the signs — plural — say pretty clearly that you need not to leave your clothing unattended. You chose to step out for a latte with two minutes left in the wash cycle, and when said cycle ended, I had every right to remove your crap from the machine and pile it into a basket. I didn’t drop it on the floor, blow my nose on it, lick it, use it as a Q-Tip or a Band-Aid or to pick up dog poo, wear it as a bib while eating barbecue, try it on, or otherwise molest it; I only touched it in order to take it out of the machine. If you don’t want strangers handling your heart-patterned underpants, get back here on time, and if you don’t get back here on time, don’t announce, passive-aggressively and with tears in your voice, to both everyone in the laundromat and nobody in particular, that you “can’t believe” “someone” “would” touch your stuff. Again: unambiguous signage + you, down the block at Ozzie’s, dithering over soy milk = my mitts on your drawers.

Either decide that city living isn’t for you after all or get over it.

I brought you these Kleenex boxes to put on your hands,
Sarah

P.S. I might have sneezed right before I opened the machine. Then again, I might not have. Sleep well!

Dear Rocco DiSpirito Wannabe,

Remember how you spent, no kidding, ten minutes explaining to the lady at the counter exactly how to wash your three-hundred-dollar jeans so that they wouldn’t fade or shrink? Remember how you went over it three times in obscene detail, as though a woman who works at a laundromat would not understand the concept of turning a pair of pants inside out, because she works at a laundromat so obviously she’s an imbecile? Remember how you offered to write the instructions down for her, and how, when she said she wouldn’t need written instructions, you told her to repeat what you’d just told her back to you?

Yeah, I have a couple of questions. If it’s that much effort to tell someone else how you want it done, and it’s that important to you that it’s done right, couldn’t you just…do it yourself? Wouldn’t that make more sense?

And do you not get that your tone of voice, coupled with the fact that you’ve requested special treatment of your inanely expensive jeans but won’t pay any extra for that courtesy, practically guarantees that she’s going to tuck a nub of crayon into the pocket, then shrug innocently at you when you come in to pick them up and freak out on her, which you inevitably will, because it’s more important to you to spend three hundred dollars on jeans, and to broadcast that fact, than it is to behave like a human being?

…You know that woman who “squeezed” past you with a really full laundry bag and “accidentally” whumped into you with it on her way out the door, and who said “sor-ree!” really sweetly? That…wasn’t me, unfortunately. I was the one openly laughing at you and calling the zoo to let them know an ass escaped.

Sit in gum,
Sarah

Dear Brain Trust,

If you see a bunch of foam boiling up out of the detergent compartment, might I suggest closing the compartment instead of standing there, agape, wondering why “the thingie is sudsing”? When the compartment is closed, the foam cannot escape, but when you stand there holding it open, the suds get all over the top of the machine and make it all sticky for the next customer, and also, it is very depressing for the person who has to explain the arithmetic of soap and water to you in the same tone used to coax rabid animals out from under porches.

Seeing you put the fabric-softener ball into the fabric-softener compartment instead of into the machine made me stupider. Please stop eating lead paint for breakfast.

WTF,
S

Dear Twitchy, Rheumy Girl On Machine 20,

Not that anyone asked the question, “What kind of simpleton thinks she can put a feather boa in a commercial washing machine?” — but it would seem that we have the answer regardless. Wouldn’t it.

We do not have the answer to the question, “What on earth did you do to/in/on the boa that washing it by hand in the sink wouldn’t take care of?” Happily, it’s not an answer we want, but you can buy a new boa for ten dollars, so the next time you barf on your Halloween costume, just throw it away.

On a not entirely unrelated note, it’s not exactly eye-liner anymore if the “line” makes you look like the Hamburglar. This is Park Slope on the weekend; relax. Better yet, skip washing the boa and stick your head in there for a cycle or two.

No, seriously. Skip washing the boa. The feathers are going to be up in people’s shit for like a week. Get some solid food in your stomach and rethink the plan.

Yes, you can totally borrow some cold cream,
Sarah

Dear Hungry Man,

Could you possibly put your greasy pizza plate down on every flat surface in the laundromat? Because I think you missed one of the folding tables and a chair or two.

Not! Don’t do that! People don’t want to put clean clothes down in pepperoni effluvium! Dickhead!

Eat a killer bee, outside,
Sarah

October 31, 2005

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