It Will Rub The Lotion In Its Laundry
In case anyone wondered if I'd just died, my apparent absence has not been the result of my untimely demise, but instead has been caused by a new job, and the consequent need to move to Chicago. I mentioned a while back that I needed to find a new job, but that I didn't intend to make my job search the subject of a running journal ("Chronicles of an Executive in Transition") or anything wanky like that. So I've been silent on progress and activity.
Now that I have a new position I can reveal to anyone who gives a shit that job hunting is a soul-destroying, miserable pain in the rectum. It tends to become such a complete focus of your life that even when you're not actually engaged in it you tend to forget about anything else (or at least I did) and for that reason it didn't seem like I had much else to write about. Humorous situation observed? Who cares, I'm unemployed. Read an interesting article, could write a funny observation on it? Couldn't give a shit, I'm still unemployed. Why write a blog? Go and find yourself a fucking job.
Well, now that I'm in the middle of all the "new job, find apartment, sell house, buy house, explore new city" bullshit I have plenty of stuff to fuel my writing, but precious little time that I'm inclined to devote to it. Suffice it to say that I have located a temporary apartment and am now experiencing all the joys and misery of living around other people. And I can also reveal to anyone who gives a shit that living around other people is a soul-destroying, miserable pain in the rectum.
It does have its moments of levity, however. The other night is was down in the apartment building laundry room, attempting to decipher the instructions on the washers and dryers so that I could deal with two weeks worth of assorted undergarments and other clothing detritus. It was apparent that you needed to put money on a laundry card, but not at all apparent where said card could be obtained. At this point an attractive blonde girl entered the laundry room and approached the dryer next to me.
Now I don't know about you, but when a pretty young girl comes into a lonely and remote laundry room, and I, 230 lbs of scary male, am the only other occupant, I naturally assume that she's sizing me up as a potential rapist or sex criminal, and so I'm very careful not to do anything that could be construed as rapy, threatening or just plain weird. Standing there staring at an empty dryer, with no washing in my hands and clad in black hooded sweatshirt and black jacket like a target from America's Most Wanted, already put me dangerously close to the "weird" category, though, so I figured I'd better ask her where you get a laundry card.
"They give you one when you move in" she replied.
Great, now she assumes I don't even live here, but that I've somehow sneaked into the building to prey on lone females in the laundry room, chatting them up with stupid laundry card questions to which anyone who actually lived there would already know the answer. (Thanks, apartment rental company, for not giving me either a card or instructions on the fucking laundry.)
At this point she hurriedly opened her dryer, and a pair of her white underwear fell out into the floor between us. And there, on the gusset, was a huge, brown mark. I could immediately sense the shift in priorities. "I don't care if he's a rapist, my gusset-mark is on display. I must retrieve the situation quickly." She bent down and grabbed the offending underwear, while I made my excuses and left.
Over the road was a wonderful little laundry where a friendly Korean woman took my clothes and, for the princely sum of $8.50, will have them clean and folded for me on Monday. And, what's more, she didn't once look at me as though I were a sex criminal. Fuck the laundry room - I'm going there from now on.
Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison
Now that I have a new position I can reveal to anyone who gives a shit that job hunting is a soul-destroying, miserable pain in the rectum. It tends to become such a complete focus of your life that even when you're not actually engaged in it you tend to forget about anything else (or at least I did) and for that reason it didn't seem like I had much else to write about. Humorous situation observed? Who cares, I'm unemployed. Read an interesting article, could write a funny observation on it? Couldn't give a shit, I'm still unemployed. Why write a blog? Go and find yourself a fucking job.
Well, now that I'm in the middle of all the "new job, find apartment, sell house, buy house, explore new city" bullshit I have plenty of stuff to fuel my writing, but precious little time that I'm inclined to devote to it. Suffice it to say that I have located a temporary apartment and am now experiencing all the joys and misery of living around other people. And I can also reveal to anyone who gives a shit that living around other people is a soul-destroying, miserable pain in the rectum.
It does have its moments of levity, however. The other night is was down in the apartment building laundry room, attempting to decipher the instructions on the washers and dryers so that I could deal with two weeks worth of assorted undergarments and other clothing detritus. It was apparent that you needed to put money on a laundry card, but not at all apparent where said card could be obtained. At this point an attractive blonde girl entered the laundry room and approached the dryer next to me.
Now I don't know about you, but when a pretty young girl comes into a lonely and remote laundry room, and I, 230 lbs of scary male, am the only other occupant, I naturally assume that she's sizing me up as a potential rapist or sex criminal, and so I'm very careful not to do anything that could be construed as rapy, threatening or just plain weird. Standing there staring at an empty dryer, with no washing in my hands and clad in black hooded sweatshirt and black jacket like a target from America's Most Wanted, already put me dangerously close to the "weird" category, though, so I figured I'd better ask her where you get a laundry card.
"They give you one when you move in" she replied.
Great, now she assumes I don't even live here, but that I've somehow sneaked into the building to prey on lone females in the laundry room, chatting them up with stupid laundry card questions to which anyone who actually lived there would already know the answer. (Thanks, apartment rental company, for not giving me either a card or instructions on the fucking laundry.)
At this point she hurriedly opened her dryer, and a pair of her white underwear fell out into the floor between us. And there, on the gusset, was a huge, brown mark. I could immediately sense the shift in priorities. "I don't care if he's a rapist, my gusset-mark is on display. I must retrieve the situation quickly." She bent down and grabbed the offending underwear, while I made my excuses and left.
Over the road was a wonderful little laundry where a friendly Korean woman took my clothes and, for the princely sum of $8.50, will have them clean and folded for me on Monday. And, what's more, she didn't once look at me as though I were a sex criminal. Fuck the laundry room - I'm going there from now on.
Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
3:32 PM
5 Comments:
Hey, congratulations on not being one of the layabout millions you have spent the last few years deriding on your blog. Hope the move goes OK.
The only thing I know about Chicago is what I've seen in The Blues Brothers and as that is a work of fiction I'll just need to base my entire opinion of the city on what I read in this blog. So far I know that it has high Korean population, all single men are considered rapists and all the young women have poor hygiene standards. Sounds like a pub in the East End of Glasgow.
Wow. If you're right I should probably expect to be glassed in the face sometime soon...
The other movie to look at for cultural reference to Chicago is National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Fucking cold place.
Very funny. As a female let me assure you it's embarrassing to be forced to use our inner rapist detecting radar in empty laundry rooms and other such venues of vulnerability. Mind you, it's not as embarrassing as dropping your roommate's nasty old underwear knowing full well you're going to think it's mine.
I always wear black underwear. That way I don't have to endure the "knowing look of scorn" from the Korean lady, that I just know she reserves for people who hand over laundry with visible skids...
You provide a much needed service for all the people trying to tolerate "living around other people". I'm glad you're back. And other than Chicago being cold (enough that your nose hairs freeze and just break off in winter), Chicago is a great town. Enjoy!
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