Yesterday I attempted to do laundry for the first time since leaving Toronto.
I did have to recycle-wear a few things in my small suitcase in order to make it this far. It would have been easier if my lovely wife hadn't needed her suitcase, which, God forbid any police are reading this, is big enough to pack her entire body in.
Not that I would.
But I'm warning her: the cooking better improve!!
I was excited at the idea of fresh clothing, but couldn't operate the machine. It's an old decommissioned coin-op which required a "trick" I didn't know. So I went and knocked on my new basement neighbour's door. My overweight, slightly deranged neighbour who has elected to live in a basement apartment for 20 of her last 60 years. Who the fuck does that?
M- "Just a minute!"
She answered the door in what once must have been her favourite pair of black jogging pants; now, a shadow of their former self, the jogging pants were more consistent with what I know to be 'beaded curtains' than athletic wear. I use the world 'athletic' loosely. I should, as a hilarious pun, instead write 'athletic where', for there was little evidence that the jogging pants were there (and greater evidence of thigh, than I would have liked).
She was very helpful, and showed me the 'trick' with her free hand; the other hand was trying, in vain, to clutch enough material to make a veil, for modesty's sake.
After telling me not to worry, that she was a severe epileptic, and that if I discovered her lying in the hallway to go about my business (so long as she wasn't bleeding or in immediate danger), she dashed back to her room.
M- "I wasn't dressed when you knocked!"
I resisted calling back, "You still aren't!"