Whereupon I Demonstrate How Unimaginative I Can Be

So for various reasons--well, mostly because my immediate supervisor was being completely and utterly insane Thursday and I figured I'd better get away from the area before I said something...actionable--I took Friday off from work.

(It wasn't just me, she really was acting like a first-class, USDA-inspected Grade-A bitch. She managed to piss off co-worker Carolyn B. so much that she almost walked off the job and Carolyn never, ever gets pissed)

And what did I do on my unexpected day off when the weather conditions were beyond hot & humid and approaching hellish? On a day when TCM was running a Vincent Price Marathon?

I washed my dishes. I cleaned the kitchen. I de-soap scummed the bathtub. I stocked up on oatmeal and grits and Ramen noodles. And then my own, personal insanity broke loose:

I did laundry.

Let's think about this a moment, shall we?

I hate, hate, HATE doing laundry. Actually, no, that's not quite the truth; I don't mind doing my laundry as long as I can do it on-premises; unfortunately, my current apartment is the first place I've ever lived without a convenient washer and dryer, which means I'm forced to challenge my mild agoraphobia, pack up my dirty clothes, grab a big-ass box of detergent, round up an infinitude of quarters, figure out what book to take that I won't mind getting soggy (one must have a book), leave the house, lug all this crap to the car, and head off to one of the local washaterias for a couple of hours. There I will be subjected to further heat and humidity, since I've yet to find an air-conditioned laundry, Lite Radio, since they all seem to have single-station sound systems, marginally effective washers and low-temp dryers, since they both contain 0.4 Angstrom quarter-loving black holes which must be fed, and some seriously weird but-not-in-a-fun-way people who will insist upon babbling at me about the radiation...the electric radiation, which is why they killed Kennedy, since a man sitting alone, quietly, with a book, is an affront to God and Nature.

And, of course, I can't leave for any length of time because these same seriously weird but-not-in-a-fun-way people are all too likely to...do stuff...to unattended laundry--rub it all over their naked, sweaty bodies or sacrifice it to Cernunnos or something.

It doesn't help that my preferred place to wash clothes (because it's really close to home) is sandwiched in a strip mall with (get this!) a liquor store, a health food store, a Blockbuster Video, and some on-again, off-again "integral yoga" joint (what is that, anyway?). Yeah, I'm thrilled by this demographic.

Let's not talk about folding clothes on suspiciously-stained countertops where all sorts of unspeakable things could have occurred.

Anyway, the take-home message here is, obviously, I don't know what to do with a day off.