I live in a soulless high rise apartment building. It’s a concrete filing cabinet with slots for widows, single people, and recent immigrants. Usually, two of the three elevators are busted, and the functioning one stops at every floor due to the shenanigans of bratty kids.
On the other hand, it’s rent-controlled and all-inclusive. So I don’t care. Oh, except for the basement laundry room, which I’ve taken to calling the Pit of Laundry Despair. However, instead of a wheelbarrow-toting albino, we have the Glamourous Ladies of Washing(ton). GLOW, if you will.
The GLOW engage in at least three, if not all six, of the following reprehensible communal living behaviors:
- Suck up at least five washers.
- Use at least twice as many dryers as washers, thereby creating a logjam, because for some godforsaken reason my building has twice as many washers as dryers.
- Remove said items from washers one item at a time, shaking them out, regarding them closely, and transferring them lovingly to a dryer.
- Remove and fold items from the dryer one by one, instead of dumping them on a table to be folded.
- Scatter clothes over every flat surface to be folded, preventing anyone else from folding their laundry.
- Do all of the above in ratty sweatpants with words across the rump, while their children roller-skate in circles around the folding table.
The Princess Bride had an amazing device that could suck years off your life. My building’s Pit of Despair has a similar life-shortening contraption: dryers. Somehow, of the paltry seven dryers, at least two will be out of order. And the ones that do work will convert your clothes into a tasty snack of melted cotton and stir-fried denim.
So, what can I do? Go to a Laundromat? Neat trick, except I don’t have a car. Leave passive-aggressive notes all over the basement? Building management already tried that, it was pretty hopeless. Complain on my blog, in the hopes that people will commiserate? Done!