Hot, Hot, Hot! Laundromat Probz

As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing sadder than seeing an old person doing their laundry in a laundromat.  Folding their doilies, drying their bloomers, whatever—it's sad, mainly because I think if I'm still carrying all of my dirty clothes down the street in a bag over my shoulder when I'm 60 years old, I know that I've done something wrong in my life.     

Outside of the city, any toothless idiot could have an in-home washer and dryer, but here in Brooklyn, in the land of landlords and pre-war brownstones, it's a status symbol.  If I ever have a washer and dryer actually IN the confines of my apartment, game over, I WIN.

In fact, in terms of life goals, owning a washer and dryer is only second to my first goal of total world domination. Because I think we can all agree that dragging that hobo's sack of clothes down the block and sitting on a depressing wooden bench for two hours wedged between a garbage can and a mountain of broken laundry baskets is a on par with eating a box of thumbtacks or gulping down a bleach and tonic cocktail.

I hate doing laundry so much, I've gotten the process down to a science.  I do laundry every two weeks (or twice a month).  I throw my laundry in, go run an errand, come back, throw it in the dryer, run another errand, and come back to collect my clothes.

I go to Crystal Clean Laundromat on 8th Avenue and 10th St., and I've never had a problem...until this weekend.  [Cue thunder].

My father was visiting, and since I'm an asshole, the fun and exciting activities I had planned for the weekend involved a trip to Target and doing laundry.  And of course, I had to make room for that phenomenon that happens whenever my parents make a guest appearance in my adult life: teenage bitch girl. I'm an otherwise fully-functioning, mature adult, and then they show up and I'm instantly transformed into a bratty 13-year-old, throwing tantrums and demanding cash.  Dad!  Shut up! You're soooo annoying! Don't think you can come up in here and disrupt my life!  I have laundry to do.  Now buy me dinner.  NOW!

So, I had two loads of laundry in at Crystal Clean, I switched them to the dryer, and we headed over to Ladybird for some coffee.  After 45 minutes, my clothes should have been dried. 

Well, they weren't, because the dryer wasn't emitting hot air, just cold.  I ask the old Asian couple who own the laundromat for my money back.

Here's the exchange: 

Me: So, the dryer isn't working.  I need my money back to I can switch to another dryer.

Her: NO MONEY BACK.  NO MONEY BACK.

Me: Why?  It's not working. Feel the clothes.  They're cold.

Her: NO, NOT MY PROBLEM. YOUR PROBLEM.

Me: Really? It's my problem?

Her: YES, YOUR PROBLEM.

Me: How is it my problem?  It's not working.  Give me my money back.

At this point, she opens the top of the dryer, to reveal a horrifying open flame.  Is this how all dryers work?  How do they not catch on fire on a routine basis?

Her: SEE?! SEE?! FIRE! FIRE! HOT, HOT, HOT!

Yeah, okay, Buster Pointdexter.  What, is this a Carnaval Cruise?

Me: Hot, hot, hot?! It's not hot, hot, hot!  Feel my clothes!

Her: NO, THIS DRYER HOT, HOT, HOT!  YOUR PROBLEM.  NO MONEY BACK.

At any moment, I knew my father would step up and rattle off a million offensive Mr. Miaygi references, so I threw up my hands and put in more quarters.  Apparently, "my problem" was that the dryer door hadn't latched, so even though it was running when I had left, it was expelling cold (not, hot, hot, hot) air.  Which is ridiculous, because the machine shouldn't run if it's not closed all the way.   

After a lecture from my father about how if I ever came back to Crystal Clean again I clearly had no principles, I was struck by how funny it was that for only 50 cents extra, my clothes were now, in fact, dry (meaning that Buster Pointdexter would only have had to give me 50 cents in order to make me happy, avoid a screaming match, and potentially lose my business forever).

Not to get all Andy Rooney up in here, but what happened to "the customer is always right?"