"Last Wash is 7:50"

This morning my phone rang. I looked at it across the apartment, on the nightstand, but recognized the smooth jazz ring tone and knew it was my parents. They (meaning my mom) would call back. I was busy digging myself out of a twelve hour laundry ordeal.

Last night, Chris and I met after work and rehearsal and took the train home together from Manhattan. The idea was that we were going to be proactive about the six foot pile of dirty clothes that has been living (or dying) in our laundry closet. The clothes have been tightly smooshed, almost airtight. When I'd try to close the door, I'd gently body check it with my shoulder and wait for the latch to click. Once I heard the click, I knew it was safe to step away. If there was no click, the door would fling open and inevitably, there would be an underwear avalanche.

During the past week, I have been waking up to Chris hustling from the shower to the laundry closet, grabbing his keychain with a nightlight en route. After a few minutes of what resembles a dog looking for his buried bone, Chris will find an outfit that is suitable to wear in public. His pass/fail test takes the form of scanning each item for any stains and investing a good inhale to the underarms of torso fitting items. Unaware that I am lying in bed watching this daily process, he seems oblivious that I am actually on laundry strike. He has been working too much and I have fallen into a homemaker role and I have decided that passive aggression is my only option. The recurrence of cleaning dishes has really pushed me over the edge, I even have to bribe myself: “clean all the utensils and then you can have a cookie.” After two cookies, the guilt hits me, I realize the poor logic, and I decide that I’m not going to get fat just because Chris isn’t helping me clean. I go on dishwashing strike, too.

In any case, we get home around 6:00pm last night. Chris announces that he needs to “just sit down for a sec” and I am familiar with this phrase. It means he is going to sleep. This is understandable, after all he worked from 9:00am Sunday to 4:00pm Monday without a break and with minimal caloric intake. I’m torn between my empathy and my frustration. And because I don’t deal well with internal conflict, I decide to take a nap, too. We wake up at 7:30 and realize that we cannot go one more day without clean laundry. We divvy up the clothes which is always a tumultuous task; I think Chris is overprotective of his clothes and Chris thinks that I am colorblind. After some minor debating about what is black and what is purple, we have four separate bags that we bring to the Laundromat around the corner.

This Laundromat is run by a Spanish-speaking couple who is cordial to us but is distrusting of small things like our detergent-measuring skills. They micro-manage us. But, at $1.25 a machine, Chris and I have decided we can deal with the input. It’s 8:15 as we feed the quarters into the last washer. On our way out, I notice that the sign next to the door says “Last Wash is at 7:50” and I ask Chris if he saw it. Nonchalantly, he says, "Yeah” and elaborates that he saw it on our way inside the Laundromat. This disturbs me because I don’t like conflict. I don’t want the owners to think that we deliberately snubbed their rules. Chris really could care less, he’s wearing dirty underwear and although the line is fine with him, he has crossed into unacceptable behavior. Clean underwear must be attained tonight. Due to time constraints (the Laundromat closes at 9:00), we decide to hang dry every article of clothing we own in our modest basement studio apartment.

Waking up this morning was tough. With T-Shirts hanging over the computer, bras dripping from the TV antenna, and 73 soggy socks arranged on a sheet in the middle of the room, my sense of order felt pummeled. Thursday began with a looming cloud of defeat.

In the middle of my fifth or sixth lap around the apartment, checking to see what was wet and what was dry, in comes the smooth jazz interlude. I glance at my phone and realize that today is “JetBlue” day (see March 17 blog entry). I imagine my mom discovering the Emergency Exit Row assignment, and I just don’t have the energy to reassure her that it is actually a coveted seat and not a punishment. Wet clothes, messy apartment, mother confused over standard airline seating…I jump in the shower.

When I check the message, this is what I hear:

“Hi Erin. I wanted to let you know that Gail, Brian, and Freddy…FREDDY! LOOK OUT! OH MY GOD! FREDDY!”

That’s all.

I think about that crash landing that I jokingly predicted (see March 17 blog entry) and fear that it has taken place.

I call my mom back and she explains that it was “just Daddy driving like a maniac, as usual. He stops 8 millimeters away from the car in front of him and he doesn’t think I am going to say anything?”

The pitch of her voice reveals the excitement she has about arriving at Logan and the vacation that lays ahead. She asks me about airport parking, wondering how long it will take my dad to walk from the car to the terminal. I tell her about 15 minutes or he may even need to take a shuttle.

“Shit.” (see March 17^th blog entry)

“Have a good trip. You’ll be in New York soon. I’ve got to go to work.”

On my walk to the studio in my slightly damp jeans, I think about the very happy people in my life. My boyfriend who has clean clothes on today and my parents on their way to party like rock stars with their fellow Floridian Baby Boomers.