STRANGER THAN FICTION: LAUNDRY LEAVES WRITER ALL WASHED UP

Well, another night, another five loads of laundry.

Yes I'm part of the Cape Girardeau Laundromat Subculture, the people you see hauling tons of filthy clothing around, exposing their ripped-up drawers for all the world to see.

I'd give anything for my own washer and dryer. The apartments I lived in before at least had hook-ups, so I could dream about having a washer and dryer if I ever got the money.

It didn't happen. I remained a newspaper reporter.

My current apartment doesn't even have the hook-ups. My building has one washer and one dryer for eight apartments. Is anyone else seeing a problem with this plan? If the machines actually were open once in awhile, I could drop my gym membership. Running the mile from my apartment to the laundry room for every load would be the best fat-burner ever.

So once a week it's the same thing. Go to the bank, get a roll of quarters, lug two bushels of laundry to Bud-n-Suds (or whatever) and wash 'til I drop. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

Last week I saw a friend from high school there. She was so sick of going to the laundromat, she actually BOUGHT A WASHER AND DRYER in the time between the rinse and spin cycles. She told her husband his clothes could get up and walk by themselves, but she wasn't doing another stitch of his laundry outside their apartment again.

Take note, girls. Tough love works.

My laundromat's slogan is "Just Like Home." Yes, it's just like home. The Other Half and I own 50 washers and 50 dryers and enjoy the people of every race, tribe, people and nation who roam up and down the hallways of our apartment.

At least the laundromat is a good place to watch people. I know they're looking at me thinking, "That girl must be 7 feet tall!"

That's OK, because I'm looking at them thinking, "Burn that shirt! Burn it before it embarrasses again!"

There was a real cultural exchange going on Thursday night. Some T.L.C. was on the jukebox, and the white people tapped their feet out of rhythm while the black people practiced the art of lip-sync.

But the real treat was a couple speaking some sort of foreign language and playing what had to be their first game of pool. The woman was busy folding laundry, but the man let her stop once in awhile to take her shot.

They always started the cue ball at the same end of the table and aimed at any ball near a hole, regardless of whether it was striped or solid. Although they didn't speak much English, they knew our curse words and used them generously. Pool will do that to anyone.

I'm glad I didn't know anyone in the laundromat on Thursday, because it's kind of embarrassing to fold your unmentionables in front of acquaintances. I ran into my friend Ben there last week. He was folding his underwear, and it was in all sorts of interesting colors, shapes and sizes.

Let's just say it was a little more than I needed to know about Ben.

Of course, he probably didn't want to know that I own bras older than Chelsea Clinton, but what was I going to do? You can hide only so much under those bright fluorescent lights.

So far The Other Half has resisted doing laundry on his own by using the old I'm-not-sure-how-to-sort-and-I-might-ruin-something excuse. The same man who wrote, designed and marketed his own newspaper at one point can't tell a red sock from a white shirt.

I believe that. Really.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.