10 July 2008

big bubble

"in this world nothing is certain but death and taxes." - ben franklin

he forgot to add laundry. i was thisclose to having to dress in costume for work, my closet was so weak. i had already told divo that i was going to have start wearing the 'good' lingerie as my everyday unless we got off our pile o'laundry couch asses.

so we did.

last night, between the two of us + khid, we filled at least eight 30 gallon trash bags. we had decided we were going to wash every m-fing thing. this included all our blankets and the towels that had been in the bottom of the hamper for so long because we would always skip them and just wash our essentials. i asked the khid to help pull up all the carpet in the apartment and grab the bath tub because they was getting washed too.


divo: i charged the dvd player.
khid: i'm bringing my computer. i can watch dvd's on it.
divo: hmm, i'll bring my nintendo ds instead.
dopez: kue. not like i want to talk to you nut jobz either.


"we're here to dominate your laundrymat!" i boomed as i stepped into, what i thought was an empty joint. zike. two dudes were chillang up in front. my eyes were on their eyes as they watched the bag parade follow me in. they moved the eff out the way.

these dirty clothes bout to be all up in your front loading machines getting so fresh and so clean clean.

all your machines are ourz.


how do you eat an elephant? one bite at a time.

the volume might've intimidated a lesser crew, so lucky for us we ain't that. it was too late for that anyway. we own a lot of clothes. we wear a lot of clothes...at once. san francisco is all about layering and if you didn't know that, don't let the door hit ya on the ass on your way out (but we'll gladly take your tourist $)! we own a lot of clothes. personally speaking, i have a minimum of 3 'fit changes a day, yo. i've got my gym clothes, day job costume and then my after school home outfit. you do the math.

the boyz were methodical and systematic with their attack. they moved between machines armed with cold water Tide in and on one hand (and all down the side of the jug) and mad quarters in the other. they moved with purpose, laying quarters down like they got next on ms. pac man.

"just think, once this is done, we won't ever have to leave the compound again, " divo half joked.

"and by compound, you must be referring to our wayward home for modesto boyz, " i add.


then after the show it's the after party and after the party is the hotel lobby

if our fellow launderers were not yet fully convinced of the extent of our machine domination, my taking a whole wall and a half of dryers (top and bottom!) would leave no doubt. the dryer kills your clothes but not on my watch. khid asked if i had a particular way of loading the dryers. i stumbled and stuttered and that was enough for him to move out the way. quick study. i schooled him about fabric softener and our towels and how there were to be no conjugal visits between them (makes them less thirsty over time) and how to care for your beloved denim (step 1. avoid washing 'em).

why is it, that the very lady things i don't want seen always find their way out the basket and onto the floor or tangled up inside a shirt sleeve. invariably, someone will have to call me out ("ay yo, you dropped something") or (gasp!) pick it up themselves. i likes to keep my lady props quickly moving like a hot potato. divo mocks this by putting said props on his head.

everything comes out in the wash

when you run a wayward home and have 56 loads to wash and fold you find that modesty wains. everybody's stained and torn biznazz is out there. despite, i directed the boyz to get out from under my apron strings and find machines with rectangles and squares (aka sheets and towels) to fold.

obviously, all in up in our wayward biznazz, miss lisa the listening launderer asks, "are y'all in a group home situation?"

our three faces awash with wtf. i clear my throat, preparing to tell her yes and go on and on and on with the fakery. divo beat me to it with, "yes, sorta. we all live together."

zzz. he went with the troof!

mll: oh? these are all of your clothes? wow. i thought i was laggin. wow. wow.

collectively but silently, we think, is this beezy for real? i try to look at the boyz but my eyes just roll up.

she continues with her awkward brand of banter. i express my interest by showing her my back.

why wouldn't she think we were in a group home situation?

you've got a skinny jean wearin, 'hates when he peeps late-comers now rockin' the purple american apparel hoodie he so killed last season' hipstery khid, this guy aka street justice aka divo and me - the island girl who's not sure if she's one of the kids or the chaperone. our crew is mad motley yo. no doubt, miss listening launderer heard us talk of compounds and wards of the state, she spied that our clothes were labeled with our first initial and last names and was probably hoping to get a ride in our sweet van.

we're GROWNED! lady. we wear what we want. we dirty what we want. we let it stack as high as we want.

"when i got my second eye infection, i figured it was a good time to catch up on my laundry" she says. "ew!" say none of us out loud.

second eye infection? sorry. no ride for you. we can't risk an outbreak. the state appointed nurse/country doc/horse mid-wife only visits once a month and only after last call. she smells like fail. actually, they all do. i mean did. whatever.

she then asked if we could spare an extra garbage bag as her now dry clothes had puffed up more than she expected. divo hands one to her. he should've given her two. one for her sean puffy combs clothes and the other for her talking face! you and your second stank eye get the fack outta here!

tumble. dry. fold.

onwards to the compound! waywards out.

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