Living in an urban neighborhood in San Diego is quite uncomfortable for a skinny white girl who does not speak a word of Spanish. Well, that may be a lie… I do know how to order tacos and ask where the bathroom is, just in case. However, these two requests are useless in a laundromat.
I typically try to avoid going to the laundromat on Sundays because the laundromat is disgustingly crowded every Sunday. Last Sunday was an exception because I, Queen of Procrastination, did not wash the outfits my daughter and I were supposed to wear for family pictures Monday morning. And we had to match. So I waited until 9pm to put my clothes in the wash, hoping the crowd would be gone and all their little kiddies would be tucked in bed, away from the laundromat. It seemed the crowd had dispersed when I got there, though the ground was littered with candy wrappers, detergent, and sheets of fabric softener. There were three Mexican women in the laundromat, who seemed to know each other, and two children who I assumed belonged to one or two of the women.
The women were putting their clothes in the dryer when I arrived, so I figured the timing would be perfect. They were using all three of the carts and they should be done by the time my clothes are ready to be dried. No harm done.
Now, my daughter hates the laundromat, but for reasons that differ from why I hate the laundromat. Raelynn wants to run around the laundromat while I do laundry, which I would not mind, except for the fact she also wants to run out the front door of the laundromat and onto the street. When I can, I shut and lock the door so she is trapped and can only do laps around the machines. When I cannot do that, I have to either hold her wiggling body while I put my clothes in the washer, or I have to set her down on top of the machine and block her every attempt to get down. I have tried to get her to help me with the laundry, which worked a couple times, but that was it. She only wants to run around and out the door. And forget the stroller, she arches her back and she won’t bend for nobody. There is no strapping that child in a stroller. Her strength is astonishing.
So here I am, trying to discipline my child so that she behaves, she just wiggles and fights and I just try to get the laundry in as quick as possible, having to readjust my grip on her every 20 seconds. I usually grab a cart and have her sit in it, which she will do long enough for me to get the clothes in the washer because she thinks she is going for a ride. However, the ladies were using the carts.
Eventually I get the clothes in without dropping my daughter and we walk home. When we walk back to the laundromat to put the clothes in the dryer, the ladies are still there and still using the carts.
They are taking their clothes out of the dryer one-by-one, folding each piece, and placing it in the cart… There is a folding table in the middle of the drying area for this very purpose.
I attempt to ask the woman for the cart, and she replies in Spanish, saying God knows what, but basically acting like she does not understand a word I am saying. I attempt to communicate via gestures; perhaps she is familiar with charades? But no. None of these women demonstrate understanding. So these ladies are either developmentally disabled adults, bitches, or charades is not as popular in Mexico as it is here. Regardless, there was no way I was getting a cart from these ladies.
So with Raelynn in one arm, I begin grabbing my wet laundry out of the washer with my other arm to carry it to the available dryers, with the ladies and their carts blocking the way. I am already sweating when I grab the first handful of wet clothes because I have been holding my 30 pound daughter, who has not ceased her attempts to escape my grip and run into traffic, and I have twigs for arms. It takes me about 5 trips back and forth, from the washer to the dryer, a handful of clothing each time, before the whole load is in the dryer. All five trips I made, I had to “accidentally” bump into one of the ladies’ carts just to grab another handful of clothes because they were blocking the walkway with their open dryer doors and carts full of folded laundry.
Ladies, what the fuck? I do not care what language you speak, if you are in a laundromat, it is obvious when you are blocking the walkway, especially when someone keeps running into your cart as she carries her child and handfuls of laundry back and forth.
Unless you are blind or developmentally disabled, you will notice someone struggling to get by you. I am fairly certain these ladies were simply bitches. If you will not give up the cart (even though there is a table for your folded clothes) at least get the fuck out of the way!
I was fucking dropping a sock or one of my daughter’s shirts on each trip, which was pissing me off even more than my daughter’s struggle to get me to drop her. By the time I got the dryer started, I was feeling pretty out of shape and full of hate for these bitches.
And of course, they take their folded laundry out of the cart and pack it into their fucking car just as I am about to walk home while the clothes dry…. These bitches have a car in the fucking parking lot, and they couldn’t place their folded clothes anywhere but the damn laundromat cart? I lack transportation as it is, and these ladies wouldn’t even let me use the wheels on the laundromat cart…
the laundromat… I hate that damn place.