Laundry and a new battery!

Working off of just the slightest fraction of the smallest bar on my airport card in this laptop I thought I would take as much time as I can until the Internet goes away to describe to you the scene I find myself in almost weekly - my neighborhood Laundromat.

Normally Joel acts as the work mule and carts our pounds and pounds of bike tights, work shirts, wool socks and favorite t-shirts in the rapidly decaying wooden box from Ikea that was once our laundry cart. Since our visit to San Francisco we've resolved to find a metal cart with four wheels and a softer handle. Proving once again that the best way to find out what you really need is to nit pick the thing you obtained thinking it would work. And since finding out there was in fact NO laundry on-site as the rental agent told Joel almost a year ago, this particular cart has been very good to us. But weekly trips over potholes and listening to us curse the illegal activity of drivers never stopping for crosswalks here in Chicago - has caused the little blonde grained planks too lose their ability to go on much further.

I'm looking straight at it - pool of melted snow and anti-freezing chemicals drying on the brick colored tiles that line the entire room. To my left are two vending machines: one terrifically retro with "COLD Drinks" sandwiching mod stripes of blue, purple and pink; the other a plastic ad for Pepsi with a NASCAR guy - Jeff Gordon I just remembered - offering up your "Choice of Victory Lane". Neither one has worked since our second visit here. We shared an orange Crush. It was lovely. I don't think they have been stocked since.

For how laundry mats go - this one has more charm than any other I've frequented. From Montana ones as a kid, through Minneapolis all around Lyndale Avenue and Grand - nothing has such touching attempts at making it look like an extension of one's home. The front window is large and clear with close to 10 large species of tropical plants acting as a living curtain between the washers and the 4 laned California Avenue (a thoroughfare in Chicago running North/South). For sitting spaces, the proprietors have offered benches that look like what one would buy when overhauling their massive garden to a more European theme.

You hear the hum of the machines - feel the floor vibrating during the spin cycles, and hope the next high pitched beep you hear will be yours - calling out to put your clothes in the dryer. Promising you are 1/3 of the way done! Like me. Right now. Excuse me.

Now as the thick tempered glass is steaming up and I watch the two loads of lights and darks try to dry as soon as they can, I can think of one thing that is quintessential "'mat" stereotype. The Argentinean owner and his wife play the same radio station every day here: smooth 70s and 80s and jazz. 95.5 W...something something. Sometimes we get lucky and the songs are the very select few you actually enjoy from that genre. The rest of the time I think of my little brother Jacob who can play the saxophone and who asked for Kenny G CDs on Christmas a few years back. I wasn't thrilled with the assignment. But, I do count my blessings that there is no TV mounted on the wall. Several security cameras (of questionable states of working order) yes, television shows showing only the worst of selections to America: no. You don't even know how happy I am to hear melodious solos of wind instruments rather than watch another Judge themed show, or a repeat of that show with the brothers and the kid - the one that still - STILL is on the air and popular!

Most of the time people disobey the posted signs and leave the premises between loads. And by "people" I include Joel and I. Guilty. We pop next door to our favorite affordable and amazing wine shop and pick out a bottle to have that evening. Usually reds. Tonight I'm having white. But only because I already purchased Joel his six pack of beer from Michigan that he requested. If the man gets beer. I get white. It's an even trade. Sort of like folding our own individual clothes even though we wash them together. Or me using the cold cycle when he's not around because I am determined that it is gentler on the clothes.

It's here towards the front I sit looking at the expanse of this facility - a full restaurant size - while watching a young mother and her daughter helping put the clothes into and out of the dryers along one of the walls. I feel calm here in this quiet. Much calmer than I can say for riding home last night and almost getting flattened sideways by a Suburban. But that's another post of course.

Wishing you quiet calms and soda machines stocked wherever you are...

Love love love,

K.