Tag Archives: laundromat

More Friends…

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So, I was at the laundromat doing practically every article of clothing our family of five owns. It needed to be done, yes; however, I was also planning on using it as an unassailable blind to have some mommy time and watch that new movie that came to Netflix that my husband would never ever watch with me in a hundred years. (Dramas maybe, romantic comedies maybe, romantic dramas… never!)

I had the first three loads up on the counter, my iPad was open, and my earbuds were in when I get the unequivocal feeling that I am supposed to be fully present in my environment. I try to reason, then argue down the feeling. But I end up taking my earbuds out and closing the screen.

The instant this is done I hear a young voice and turn to see the four-year-old daughter of my new Muslim friend from the park. And she’s with her father. She recognizes me and we share a few smiles. I’m instantly glad I put off my movie. I haven’t seen my friend in a week or so. I tried to take strawberries over, but the buzzer wasn’t working or she wasn’t in or something.

I have a brief internal debate with myself. What must a man from a culture that requires headdresses think of a woman in shorts being forward enough to introduce herself? But I decide that since he lives here in SF that he would have practiced grace enough in this area to have some for me and my boldness.

So, I go up and introduce myself and chat with his daughter briefly and we shake hands and it’s all well and good and when they leave later he and his daughter call to me and wave goodbye.

And then today, coming back from the laundromat again, me and my enthusiastic Americanism saw a hijabi woman outside my friend’s building and ran across the street to say hi. It is only when I was too close to turn away that I realized it wasn’t her. So, I made another new friend in a different apartment of the same building, directly across from mine.

I am very excited to know these women, these families. And I’m thankful, grumble grumble, for the laundry that takes me down to the street to be present in my neighborhood.  (Is it wrong that I will still buy a washer-dryer as soon as I have space and money for one?)

Ritual Tuesday…

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I am super thrilled to be featured today over on my friend Cara’s blog at www.carameredith.com as a part of her Tuesday series on ritual!

My friend Cara and I bonded over the sea-green cloth-covered folding table positioned at a diagonal in classroom one, also known as … Mom’s group.

Mom’s group is a petri dish for accelerated friendships. Grab a new Momma a cup of coffee with sugar and half-and-half and they may cry. Hold their baby for two seconds and they feel like a new woman. I mean, if you need a friend, ask a new Momma the very basic question, “How are you?”

It’s guaranteed.

Cara is a super-blogger, super-tweeter, and super-speaker extraordinaire. And she just moved away from me in body to the nearby burg of Oakland even while nestling a little closer to my heart.

So go visit www.carameredith.com, read a bit of me, and meet my friend!

Biker Gangs and Meth Addiction…

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I used to do nerve conduction velocity tests for a physical medicine clinic. You calculate a nerve conduction velocity by running electricity along the nerve and measuring the distance. So, yeah, I electrocuted people for a living. I had a lab coat, a tape measure, and a lovely two-pronged zapper. I was very official.

You’d be with a patient for half-an-hour and, often, you’d end up getting the same patients back months or years later. In this way, I made a few friends.

One was a fellow who had been in prison and gone through a Christian recovery program. He was a round jolly man, with a pasty face, and the most horrible teeth. He was kind and funny and he told me some incredible stories.

He used to be part of a biker gang, evidently, a real one, not the kind of biker gang I used to imagine when someone said “biker gang”. He was writing his biography, brought it to me to proofread once. It was twenty-or-so loose leaf pages with atrocious penmanship and nonexistent grammar telling the story of a drug pickup that turned into a pedophile ass-kicking. Oh, that kind of biker gang! Yes, the real kind.

He often lauded his ability to ass-kick a pedophile, even in prison. There was some shit you just didn’t stand for. I can’t say I disagreed with him.

I don’t remember why he had gone to prison, but I do remember that his body was messed up from getting into a meth cooking accident. The meth being cooked had gotten into his suit. It was all over him, trapped against his body like that.

He used to do drugs he told me. But he was done with that now. He had gone through recovery. I was proud of him. We prayed together. I prayed for him.

I watched him leave one day and one of the providers appeared at my shoulder.

“You know what those sores are all over his face don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said, “They’re the sores from when the meth got in his suit.”

“No,” he said, “You get those from doing meth. You have to be currently using.”

“Oh,” I said.

All this to say, I recognized the sores today on a woman’s face in the laundromat. She was there with a paranoid old woman and an angry man. They were a frightful trio whose presence totally absorbed the corner where they were sitting.

She walked with her head down.

And I know nothing about this woman except that she’s addicted to meth.

What would it be like if I walked around wearing my weakness for everyone to see? What if every loss of temper or self-control flared out in red spots on my face? Would I be less likely to give into the temptation if I knew everyone would be able to read it there? What a horrible consequence. I deserve every single sore she had, but, oh!, how glad I was they weren’t mine to wear! How fortunate I counted myself this afternoon to carry the consequences of my sin invisible in my breast.

For, I am the leper, the sore marked meth addict, the walking unclean.

Pity used to be considered a Christian virtue. It’s sort of gotten a bad rap. “Don’t pity me!” “How dare you pity me!” I don’t know. I think there’s still a place for pity as a virtue. I pitied the ex-biker patient. I pitied the woman. And I only feel grateful that God pities me.

Dirty Rags…

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So, laundry is a thing that takes up more of my mental energy since moving to the city.

The washer downstairs is ridiculously old and holds half of a normal load. And the dryer can’t dry a load completely. But it’s the most convenient.

Then, last week, it broke again. For the whole week, the washer sat filled with greasy grey water. The sight of that water every day for a week made me vow off the convenience of the washer downstairs.

So, today I bundled all of the laundry I could fit into my two laundry body bags and had my husband drop me off at the laundromat.

Now, I probably don’t do as much as I could for the environment, but one thing I do is to use cloths for everything. We have cloth napkins, kitchen cloths, and lots and lots of rags. I don’t buy paper towels or paper napkins.

All this to say, my laundry can be pretty gross. The dirty cleaning rags sit in a bucket under the sink. And my kids know where the clean ones are in the bathroom so they often trundle through after, say, they miss the potty, or spill some milk, and toss them in the bucket.

By the time the bucket gets filled it usually smells and has a few weeks worth of bathroom rags in there.

My kitchen rags can be worse because they’re usually wetter. They sit in a separate receptacle with the dirty napkins and can be demoted to cleaning rags at any time. I run a very strict caste system. My kitchen rags live in fear.

The kids laundry, also, is nothing to sniff too closely. I witnessed enough poop smears on the underwear today to initiate a little family meeting to discuss wiping strategies. And I know I have mentioned before that if I manage to get to the bottom of the kids’ hamper I usually discover a gross something at the bottom. Today it was an entire outfit that had hot chocolate spilled all over it.

So, I felt rather disgusting and rather disgusted after loading all of it into the washers. And I sat and waited to put it all in the dryers.

The front loading washers at the laundromat are a joy to watch. They do such a better job than the washer in our building. It’s so comforting to watch the sudsing and the rigorous tumbling.

To be sure, getting clothes clean has always been a rather violent task, the pounding on the rocks, the crushing them through the wringer. And this is a violence I approve of.

Shouldn’t I approve, therefore, of such violent methods in my own life, the tumble and toss of getting clean. And all our sins are as dirty rags, certainly an analogy that the women would have understood. Lord knows I need to be slapped against the rock to remember who I am.

Lord save me from the apathy of the ancient top-loader in my garage!

There is joy in coming clean.

I take the clothes out of the dryer and they smell so fresh and feel so light. And with pleasant surprise I realize they don’t fit as well in my bags. They take up more space. They are more.

As it sometimes happens, you don’t see how dirty things were, how weighed down. It’s like after confession when you are light and clean again and realize, “Oh, I was heavy with it!”