Quarters, pit bulls and panties

A laundromat haiku:

Pit bull on the floor
Seven damn quarters a load
I see your panties

Y'all, my washing machine broke this morning. I was washing a load that was admittedly probably too big for the darn thing, but why do an extra load when you can jam a few more things in there, right?

Everything was working out fine (and I was saving time by consolidating loads!) until it started doing that bangbangcrashboombang that washing machines do when they're off balance.

No big deal.

I'll just open the lid and stop the spinning and move the clothes around.

Wait.

I forgot that this stupid washing machine doesn't stop spinning when you open the lid...

...I guess it'll just have to suffer through the off-balanceness.

OR DIE.

It chose to die. It kept spinning, but kind of stopped making the normal washing machine "is on" noise. It was just quiet spinning, and I knew this was not a good sign. But it was still spinning! So, I was hoping it was fine (even though I knew it wasn't). It's always better to delay aggravation as long as possible.

Anywhos, back to my wishy washer. It made it through the spin cycle... but didn't fill up for rinse. Hmm, I says to myself, I says: Maybe if I manually turn it to rinse.

Rinse, bitch!

Like magic, the water started to fill up. Yay, water! Yay, washer! It's going to be OK!

No, actually, it's not. Now I have a washer full of water that won't spin to drain full of towels that serve their purpose much better when dry.

[enter delayed aggravation]

Grrrrrrrr! Now I have to find a laundromat that's open on Easter. Go figure. Seeing as how it is Easter, could someone just resurrect my washing machine?!

Now, mind you, a laundromat? a) I don't do coin laundry. b) I need coins. c) That thing is full of water and full of stuff -- what the heck do I do with that? Bring it dripping wet?

I'm pretty sure Jesus would not approve of my washing machine dying today.

Long story short, I find a laundromat. Every change machine in there (there are two) are out of order. There is a pit bull in a cage just sleeping in the coin laundry like that's normal. And the other lady there is doing laundry in this ridiculous dress (shirt?) that flaunts (that can't be the right word) her panties when she loads the dryer.

And they're so big, I'm sure she could fit a whole load in them. If she hasn't already.

Happer Easter, everyone.

Things you can't do if you burn the shit out of your thumb

Extreme cooking tip #1: That thing you just pulled out of the oven? It's friggin' hot.

Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.

So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:

1. Button my pants.

2. Turn my key to start my car.

3. Release the emergency brake.

4. Fasten my bra.

5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...

6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)

7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)

8. Take my finger out of the ice water.

9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.

10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!

However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.

The hoodlums in my hood

At least twice a month, I would say, the hoodlums flock to my neighborhood.

I say this because at least twice a month (at least), I am assaulted by helicopters circling and circling with their high beams on, pointed near or directly at my little slice of heaven. Today they came armed with backups -- more than a few cop cars illuminating my dimly lit streets with their vibrant red and blue swirly lights. How thoughtful of them.

I'm driving home from the gym (like a good little marathon-trainer), when I see the first cop car at the entrance, parked by the security guard (Yes, we have one. No, I'm not sure what he does... except shoot the shit with his budding and simply wave people in.). I assumed he had pulled someone over. I didn't yet know he'd unleashed no less that four of his good bad-guy hunting buddies into the "luxury" apartments at Tivoli Park.

Luxury my ass. Unless you like fake rims and 13-inch Wal-mart spinners.

Anywhos, this show happens probably twice a month. I hide out in my apartment because I just don't know who their searching for. Surely it's just some guy who drove through Popeye's and kept it moving instead of paying, but you just never know.

Countdown till my lease ends and I move to within WALKING DISTANCE TO THE BEACH: 59 days. :)

Putting laundry away

Anyone else?

I'll wash laundry day in and day out. That's no problem. It practically does itself. But PUTTING IT AWAY? I'd rather scrub the toilet, toothbrush the bathtub grout, vacuum the whole house and mow the lawn with my teeth.

So I just pile it. High. And the pile becomes my closet. Try as I often do to get someone else to put it away for me, it just doesn't happen. I have no idea why my friends wouldn't want to come over here and hang up my clothes...

Now this is a service I'd pay for. I don't need a whole maid, just someone to put my laundry away, and that's it. What do you think a reasonable fee for that would be? $10 a pile? $15? Shit, I'd pay it.

Who wants a quick 15 bucks?!?

Milk shards

I really don't even like milk. I really only use it when making random or recipes or, in this case, on a rare cereal kick. Which I'm on right now, so I need milk (but I only use enough to wet the cereal; I don't want to taste the milk).

The thing is, when you turn the cap to open the milk, there are inevitably milk shards. Now you know what I mean. Those flakes or dry milk that were hiding in the twist cap, that fall all on whatever you're opening the milk over -- in this case, my cereal.

Nasty.

So lesson learned. Open the milk over the sink, not over your food.

That plastic thing in my toilet

It's broken. Whatever ever thingamajigger it is that is attached to the whatchamacallit is cracked. And so now, every single time I want to flush (which is EVERY time, thank you), I have to lift up the lid and hand-flush it.

This think broke over the weekend, as major useful appliances are wont to do. And since I live in an apartment, I'm stuck here, flushless in Florida, until the maintenance guy decides to roll his golf cart over to my crib and fix it.

Which sucks. Because if I owned the place, I'd go buy the stupid $2 whozit and put it in myself. But since I pay waaaaaaay too much rent, I'm not about to add $2 to my monthly total. I'd rather call the office red-faced every morning ranting irate. Cause I'm right, dammit. And I don't care if those people next door's A/C is broken and they're dying of heat exhaustion... I'm not down with the manual flush.

And while we're talking toilet, here's the story of Jack Schitt. A classic.