It’s laundry day today, which means now that I’m home from the newsroom, I can look forward to spending the next few hours of this beautiful afternoon, downstairs in my dark little laundry room.
Sure, it’s a better deal than some people got. For example those who live in apartment buildings without in-suite laundry. They have to go all the way downstairs to the basement or the 9th level of hell (depending where the building managers put the laundry room) and then either wait for a machine to become available or just dump their dirty clothes in the first empty machine they find and hope that it’s clean.
I remember some less than amazing laundry adventures when I lived in Montreal in my college apartment and then for six months in Ottawa. Both times the laundry room was clean but every so often people would forget to empty the lint catcher or forget a sock or something behind. Once I even found a pair of little boy’s underwear that someone hadn’t taken out when their wash was finished. (Insert Michael Jackson joke here. Then again, he probably wouldn’t want to wash them.)
For me now, I just dump everything into the same machine, as long as all the clothes are roughly the same color. Satin blouses get washed, but are taken out and hung to dry in the bathroom afterwards, so as not to have them shrink. Everything else gets to do the laundry-dance in the washer, then the dryer then sit in my spare bedroom until I get around to putting all the clothes away.