Your long weekend is over and you're safely ensconced back in your cubicles or behind a desk somewhere. Hopefully, today will only be a day where the words "do you want fries with that?" will be asked of you and not by you. Not to denigrate our friends who have chosen a career in fast food. Some one's got to clog America's arteries.
On the other hand I am only half way through my weekend. And New York City is a bit of a swelter right now, as the heated temps from the west have finally pushed across the country. I slept till a bit after noon and then took my time getting started. My day mainly consisted of running errands. A trip to Home Depot for light bulbs and drain cleaner, the drugstore for travel shampoo for the gym and then to the laundromat to pick up a bag of clean clothes. Having my laundry done for me is one of the few luxuries that I regularly indulge myself. A lot of people tell me they're squeamish about letting other people do their laundry. Predictably, they usually mention the underwear. I've actually had many conversations with quite a few people who do laundry for a living. I try to impress upon people who've confessed their unease with a stranger touching their butt-floss that it takes a pretty colossal ego to imagine some immigrant launderer wants to have anything at all to do with your soiled underwear, beyond pitching it into a machine. Putting it on their head and doing an interpretive dance, let alone gathering in a pack in a basement somewhere to sniff it are pretty damn unlikely when it comes to your stretched out granny panties. Quite frankly, you're just not that hot. It's way more likely that whoever is handling your laundry is on the lookout for whatever disgusting mess you've wadded up in your laundry bag and let sit for a week or two. Like that white sock you wiped up your load with and forgot about. Don't think for a minute when they pull out a crusty stiff gym sock that they don't know what's on it. I've heard many a horror story about shit covered sheets that people think nothing of sending off to be laundered. I don't care if you're nursing a nun stricken with Alzheimer's. If she craps in the bed those sheets should be thrown away or hand washed in a sink. By you. In general, the only people that should clean up your poo besides you are your mom or your ICU nurse.
So today's agenda consists mainly of getting to the gym, getting a haircut (that's assuming my hot Croatian barber with the pretty DSL is on duty today) and taking in a Gay-A meeting. Also, I've been spending the last few days organizing a response to the letter regarding my neighbor and Jet, so I'll be spending part of the afternoon comfortably avoiding the heat while composing an appropriate albeit snarky response.
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