2003-02-26 11:02 p.m.
No Tide For You!
When I came home tonight I bumped into Bud on my way up the stairs. He looked disgruntled.
"Was that your laundry in there?" he asked. ("In there" meaning the two weird little closets down by the carport that pass for our building's laundry room. One closet has a washer; the other has two dryers. The washer constantly leaks.)
"Nope, I just got home. How come?"
"I was hoping it wasn't the Laundry Nazi," he said, nodding his head towards Suit Guy's door. "I've got a surgery tomorrow morning and I just can't deal with her crap tonight."
Now, I knew that Suit Guy's wife pretty well monopolizes the washer and dryers. Every time I've been home sick or taking a work at home day, she's spent all day hauling loads up and down the stairs. She and Suit Guy have a toddler, and her mother is over a lot, but that doesn't even begin to account for the truckloads of laundry she washes. (Maybe other people pay her to do their laundry, in which case I wish she'd offer her services to me. I'd be more than happy to shell out. Besides, it's the only way I'm going to get a crack at that washer.)
She doesn't even clear five feet and I've never heard her speak a word of English. (Our conversations have largely consisted of smiling and nodding while negotiationg the stairs; they're not nearly wide enough for me and her and the laundry basket all at once, so this happens often.) But to hear Bud tell it, the Laundry Nazi defends her laundering turf with the ferocity of a pit bull.
I'm not sure I want to see her in full-on staking-her-claim mode. I'm content to let this one remain one of the odd little mysteries of Stately Penis Car Manor.