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There are five things you need to know about me in order for you to stay in the running for a BFF charm necklace:1. Don't EVER tell me a book ending if I haven't read it yet
2. Don't EVER tickle me if I mention I have to pee...especially if I am currently sitting on your lap
3. Don't EVER put a handisnack cheese-covered stick in my ear
4. Don't EVER murder a man named Eduardo and leave one of my fingers behind so that the police will think I was the murderer and just happened to be having an occasional bout of leprosy
5. Don't EVER EVER take my clothes out of the dryer if there's any time left Point #5 brings me to a story: Now me and this girl...well, um...I don't know her name...were well on our way to Best Friendship. She works at the laundromat down the street from my apartment. We always greet eachother with smiles, whether it's at 7am when she is pulling up the graffiti covered barrier or 8pm when she is locking it to the ground. I'm almost always the last washer of the day rushing home from work just in time. She knows to turn on Jeopardy whenever I get there and laughs at me as I shout out the answers. I stand on the benches when she sweeps the floor. I stick up for her when irate customers come in attempting to start a load 30 minutes after the final load time. She gives me quarters in exchange for dollars. Yup. Best Friendship was sure to happen.
It's a good thing I took my time deciding between a fake silver charm necklace or a bronze colored bracelet. Why you may ask?
Last week, I walked back to the laundromat after hanging up my un-dryer-ables on various items around my living room. (Pantyhose hanging from the ceiling looks so pretty, some days I think about doing it just for decorative purposes.) I didn't dilly, nor did I dally back to the laundromat, knowing it was nearing the time my dryer would be done crisping my soggy jeans...and then I saw it...
...my best friend, pulling MY clothes out of the dryer when there was a blue 1 minute shining brightly right next to her grabby arm!
I was SHOCKED. I couldn't believe that after all we went through she would stoop to this, THIS! Now I've already got problems with people touching my skivvies in general, but touching skivvies that had ONE MORE MINUTE left of drying. I can't forgive her. I just can't.
For the first time in my life. I. MUST. PLOT. REVENGE.
I have devised a plan. Oh, it's a good one. I plan to drive her mad. So mad she'll never want to touch my skivvies again!
Here's how it will go:
1. I will fill an entire laundry bag only with "unmentionables" I have recently discovered, upon a moment of enlightment, that I own an obscene number of underwear. I've always been one of those people that always goes towards the "well I can buy more underware at Duane Reade during lunch" option rather than actually doing the laundry. I have the world's largest collection of utterly ugly under-things. Due to this amazing feat of mine, I only do the laundry once every month and a half, and even then it's only because I've run out of socks. I'm sure I can fill a bag of underwear high enough to fill a triple loader. This I am sure of.
2. I will take that bag and bring it to the counter. While, I have never had the money for laundry service (well that and, as mentioned above...I kinda don't like strangers touching my undergarments), I am willing to spend the money FOR REVENGE. I will give her my bag of underwear and insist it be done by the next afternoon.
3. I will show up the next afternoon and pick up my bag of underwear. I will go home and watch Jeopardy by myself. 28 minutes later, I will then go back to the laundry mat with the same exact bag of folded underwear and bring it to the counter. I will insist they are not the laundry I just picked up (though I will be sure to leave the tag on) and I will insist they be washed by the next afternoon.
4. I will repeat this for five days straight, each time insisting they aren't the underwear from the day before.
5. On the sixth day I will cut all of my underware in half, then cut all of my pants in half, followed by my winter coats. Once I have a pile of fabric large enough to sew them into one giant pair of undies. I will then sew on buttons, zippers, small advertisements from The Onion, half an uneaten twinkie, naked pictures of smurfs, and sound chips that play quotes from Elizabeth Taylor perfume commercials over and over and over again...I will make The MOTHER of all skivvies. The UNDERWEAR FROM HELL.
I will bring the UNDERWEAR FROM HELL to the counter. Insist "the bag of laundry" be done by the next afternoon.
6. I will stop going to this laundromat, move out of brooklyn, move out of NY state, perhaps get plastic surgery, alter the way I walk, learn to speak without blinking, donate my ovaries to charity.
I will become completely hidden from the world.
I will be untraceable.
I will give up my life and everything I know.
But at least deep within my ovary-less heart, I will know that on the corner of east 2nd and Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn, there was a girl working at a laundromat that was SOOOOO weirded out.
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