The Answers to Important Questions
I go to pick up my laundry. It's a grungy little hole in the wall, matriarched by a dental-plan-challenged, 60-ish, chunky woman who, along with a couple of her cronies, I've seen sass customers unrelievedly, taking particular delight in confounding polite new gentries.
Crony: picking up?
Me: yes, please.
Crony: which bag's yours?
Me: the white one, there.
Crony: naw, that one's mine.
Me: ummm, yes, the white one, there.
Crony: naw. s'mine.
Oh! I get it! I give her a faux hard look, push out my chin, squint one eye, and say:
Now, I don't know why you would, but I am SURE you don't want my underwear!
She laughs and says, naw, I'm getting too old for that style!
She hands over my laundry, and now I know two things. One: they like me. Two: oh, yeah, your laundry people? They are so checking out your panties.
posted by ttractor @ 6:05 PM
6 Comments:
Awesome.
well, awed wasn't quite my reaction...
Oh, I meant: awesome that you faced her down. And faux-awesome that she checked out your underwear. (But of course!)
it's a wierd dance one does in a neighborhood where long-term hood-style comes up against new affluence. I have lived in this breech (or just a little beyond) most of my adult life, so it's not new to me. But I realize over time that as I have a nicer coat, better jewelry, I get somehow, well, whiter. And it is fun to roll with it, garner respect and find comity with my neighbors.
This is why I always do my own laundry.
I had too many other things to do on Saturday and did not feel like the big-time smack down possibilities of the local laundromat. I think everyone there is extra surly coz no matter how hard they are frontin with their $399/month rented BMWs, at the laundromat everyone KNOWS you are not living the American dream. You got no washer, no where to put it, you are living in Grandmommy's house and have to do the wash for everybody. Sheeeit.
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