What a bizarre yet uneventful weekend. I was sitting at home Saturday night, knitting and watching "Pillow Talk," that Rock Hudson/Doris Day classic. Have you seen it? You know the scene where Rock drags Doris out of bed and carries her across town in a blanket? Why an electric blanket? It served no purpose and the cord dragging behind them the whole way bugged me. But, I digress. So, I'm sitting there knitting and I got up to get a drink of water only to find my kitchen bathed in a bright white light. Alien abduction? Rapture? Nope, police helicopter spotlighting my backyard. And it circled and spot lighted my yard for over 40 minutes. I was kind of scared to go into the kitchen. There's lots of windows in there and Lord knows I don't want to get caught in any cross fire should shit go down. So I remained thirsty until the helicopter was gone, although, truth be told, I was still a little nervous. I mean, what if the person they were looking for was real stealthy and well hidden but then decided I may have seen them and decided to shoot me anyway. It could happen.
On Sunday, I ventured off to my favorite laundromat. The owner is such a sweet man. He gave me a free bottle of Downy because I'm a good customer and put quarters in my dryer to keep it going. Anyway, I'm minding my own business watching my clothes get sudsy when Douchenozzle McHipster shuffles past (wearing flip flops--I hate when people can't walk in flip flops) and yells at his wife, " Where's the blueberries?" I don't know whether they had been to the Farmer's Market earlier or if she forgot to pack them or what, but he proceeded to call her stupid and go on about the stinkin' blueberries all the while doing his Shaggy shuffle in his damn flip flops and eating a salad sans berries.
A little later, I was folding my clothes and Mr. and Mrs. McHipster proceed to start arguing. She was a soft talker, but he, well, he practically had a bullhorn attached to his mouth. I was pretty near the Mrs. and couldn't hear half of what she said, but radio free Europe could hear Douchenozzle. There were accusations of infidelity and mean hateful words. "Why do you always ruin my day? Why don't you just move out already?" It went on for, I swear, 30 minutes or more. All of my clothes were dry before they finally left the building. Honestly, could you think of a more inappropriate place to have what should be a private discussion? It was so uncomfortable. It's not like I could leave or move to another area of the laundromat. It was the only folding table available. And really, why should I have to leave? They should have the decency to discuss private stuff in private.
After they left, another couple came in with the cutest little Manchester Terrier. Five minutes in they started bickering. Note to couples: Don't do laundry together! Apparently, it's a breeding ground for ill feelings. The second couple smooched and made up pretty quickly, but the McHipsters, well, I see a divorce in their future.
On Sunday, I ventured off to my favorite laundromat. The owner is such a sweet man. He gave me a free bottle of Downy because I'm a good customer and put quarters in my dryer to keep it going. Anyway, I'm minding my own business watching my clothes get sudsy when Douchenozzle McHipster shuffles past (wearing flip flops--I hate when people can't walk in flip flops) and yells at his wife, " Where's the blueberries?" I don't know whether they had been to the Farmer's Market earlier or if she forgot to pack them or what, but he proceeded to call her stupid and go on about the stinkin' blueberries all the while doing his Shaggy shuffle in his damn flip flops and eating a salad sans berries.
A little later, I was folding my clothes and Mr. and Mrs. McHipster proceed to start arguing. She was a soft talker, but he, well, he practically had a bullhorn attached to his mouth. I was pretty near the Mrs. and couldn't hear half of what she said, but radio free Europe could hear Douchenozzle. There were accusations of infidelity and mean hateful words. "Why do you always ruin my day? Why don't you just move out already?" It went on for, I swear, 30 minutes or more. All of my clothes were dry before they finally left the building. Honestly, could you think of a more inappropriate place to have what should be a private discussion? It was so uncomfortable. It's not like I could leave or move to another area of the laundromat. It was the only folding table available. And really, why should I have to leave? They should have the decency to discuss private stuff in private.
After they left, another couple came in with the cutest little Manchester Terrier. Five minutes in they started bickering. Note to couples: Don't do laundry together! Apparently, it's a breeding ground for ill feelings. The second couple smooched and made up pretty quickly, but the McHipsters, well, I see a divorce in their future.
3 comments:
Weird. I just got off the phone to Dan where we were discussing washing machines.
Also, my mum lives near a large wooded area where convicts always hide when they escape from the local prison so on many occasions we would have the police helicopters circling our house. One of these escaped convicts was on my friends shed roof one time and her mum was shouting at him because she mistook him for her son. Lolz :)
It's a prerequisite...cause he NEVER FOLDS STUFF RIGHT AND DRYS THINGS THAT ARE NOT DRYER FRIENDLY.
All my clothes get hung up now, my husband will say, "WELL, I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S OK AND WHAT'S NOT!"
At least he tries...even though my cotton shirts get all crusty.
http://www.booshy.wordpress.com
When I first moved to Smellay, there was a ghetto bird lighting my back yard. Turned out to be a triple gang-related execution-style homicide in the house DIRECTLY BEHIND US. Welcome to the big city, eh?!
Douchenozzle McHipster. HAH! I wish I could be half as clever...
Post a Comment