If I look like a mangy, albeit sexy conformist monkey when I'm clean-shaved, normally clothed, and so on I look like the missing link in a cholo T-shirt when I'm not. As is usually the case on laundry day, I run to the store to buy some quick nothing and use my debit card to get enough change to wash clothes for a small army of orangutangs. Usually I'm in pajama pants, which waft like tufts of textile smoke around my chimney pipe legs. This I can endure long enough to breeze in for a bag o' chips and skedaddle.
Today, however, I was clad in shorts, which as anyone who knows me and my legs can attest, make me look like a top-heavy sailboat. Not only that, I'm wearing a freakishly large Rollin' Hard T-shirt that, due to some demonic possession, apparently does NOT shrink as my others do after repeated washing. So, as pseudo-gangsta/middle-aged "Dad" I saunder into the grocery store feeling as if I could just as well be nude. (Don't linger too long on that; I'm still trying to wash the two seconds of its awkwardness from my mind.) Unfortunately, I must now traverse the ENTIRE store looking, as I promised Liz, for some "spider" spray. I know I've seen it somewhere; however, as my imagination conjures imps, gremlins, and floating heads of doom out of my everyday existence, it was probably a figment of the ol' cerebrum's awesome might, or just a bad Fig Newton.
So anyway, I smartly asked for bug spray and avoided a fastidious conversation w/ the middle-age Macey's woman who showed me to the aisle. There I saw flying insect spray, ant spray, ant and cockroach spray, and cockroach spray. No spider spray. So I bought some latex gloves for cleaning and escaped.
Oh, and right now I'm listening to some wicked weird tune by Fatboy Slim wherein some voice repeatedly says, muddled, "Druggie." Don't get me wrong. Me likey Fatboy Slim. I just don't know how I feel about being besieged by cries of druggie for around five minutes. Now when I look in the mirror I'll have to check to see if my pupils are dilated. Where are my oldies? I need to listen to The Lion Sleeps Tonight. The worst image it conjures is an elaborate puppet show. Nevermind. Don't ask. Well, okay, ask, just wear a plastic sheet. LOL. NEVERMIND.
Ta-ta.
Ah, well, I don't mind doing laundry. Granted, it would be nice to nestle in my own apartment hearing the low murmur of a washing machine, instead of traversing the main road parting my apartment complex looking like I just dug myself out of a grave and forgot to coordinate colors. However, I'm sure, being the nostalgic nightmare I am I'll miss the laundry room, oddly enough, for the scuffs on its aging floor, the few papers indicating with OUT of ORDER and the Villa's assurance they'll repair it post haste. I'll recall saying hello to a friendly face, even a stranger, as I shook residual detergent from a sweatshirt. I don't know why, but even old places grow on you if you let 'em . . .
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