Laundromat Thieves

My boyfriend is seriously crafty. So much so that it puts me to shame. For Christmas, I bought him a new sewing machine, and while many people would find this an odd present (especially for a dude), he was elated. He's put that Brother to good use, too, first with curtains for three sets of windows, last night for an entirely new endeavor. And have you ever seen him with electrical tools? Whew, ladies watch out.

The best thing about having such a crafty beau is that you can suggest things like, "wouldn't it be nice to have a reversible table cloth to match the placemats for all those dinner parties we never host?" and he's in the car, off to JoAnn's, and back in half an hour with the exact shade and texture of fabric you envisioned. Last night was no different. I was sick of being able to see all the boxes spilling out from under our bed -- we have one closet to share between the two of us, a tiny nook of a closet that wouldn't house my shoe collection alone and which I have completely taken over, and still don't have enough space for my belongings, so I had to opt for under-the-bed Tupperware, as well -- and had purchased a bedskirt from Target. Naturally, I got home to find that much to my chagrin said bedskirt was about eight inches too short. A normal person would have just exchanged the purchase. SVV has never been what one might call normal conventional. He looks at everything as something to be conquered. Two hours later, we'd picked out fabric that matched my bedspread, he'd gone to work, and I was the proud new owner of a pretty dual-toned bedskirt that just grazed the top of the hardwood floor. (A hardwood floor, I must add, that SVV varnished himself, seeing as when he moved into the house last summer, there was this ugly, molded shag carpet permeating every room, so what did he do? Rip the entire thing up and turn it into hardwood. Saints come in many forms.)


I should also mention that on our way to the fabric store, we stopped to pick up our laundry. Now, we have a washer in our garage, but no dryer, and sometimes just line dry our clothes, but more often than not deposit them in an industrial-strength dryer at the laundromat just half a mile from our house. It's never been much of an issue before: Most days when I go, I'm the only one there. This whole laundromat thing is sort of new for me: In college, I always had a washer and dryer, in my dorm the first two years and in my apartment the last two. When I moved to New York, I spent one afternoon doing my laundry with Lemon, which was enough to make me realize that I would spend the rest of my laundry days in Manhattan sending it out. This may sound on the spoiled side -- hey, at least I dropped it off and picked it back up; none of that curbside service for me, primarily because it was a whole dollar more expensive -- but have you been to a laundromat in New York? It's like a competition, blocking people out for the use of the sole dryer, waiting on the sweaty bench for the coach to put you in (AKA your clothes to stop tumbling). And it takes FOR-EVER. And is expensive. When I discovered that basically any laundry service would wash and fold my things for me FOR THE SAME PRICE AS DOING IT MYSELF, my life as a New Yorker was forever changed. For the better.

So yes, the whole laundromat scene is relatively new to me. I should preface all of this by saying we live in a largely ethnic neighborhood and are often the only crackas for miles. Seriously, my whiteness is glaring, like an obese sheep in a coal mine. Why does this matter? Well, it doesn't really, except for the fact that I feel I am often the recipient of cold stares, looks that say, "Hey, white girl, why don't you get out of the 'burbs and back into the city where you belong?" So I can just see the 70-year-old woman who was waiting to pounce on the first open dryer scheming, "Snowflake there probably has a dozen duvet covers from which to choose. She won't notice if I swipe her pretty purple one with embroidery detailing." Au contraire, Granny; that was my first and only duvet cover, so thanks for being the one to rob me of my laundromat virginity.


Because when we got all of our laundry back home, MY DUVET COVER WAS GONE. The very duvet cover that SVV had spent so much care to match with his bedskirt creation. The duvet cover that we built the color scheme in our bedroom around. The duvet cover that I expended blood, sweat and tears to trek out to Elizabeth, New Jersey and back on a horribly crowded Sunday in November 2006 to purchase.

OK, Internet, I'll admit: My duvet cover came from IKEA, the IKEA in Jersey nonetheless; it didn't have any sentimental value, wasn't something that's irreplaceable. But BUT, it was a $59.99 purchase (plus tax!), which for a duvet cover -- and one at IKEA at that! -- is quite pricey, and honestly? I don't really have multiple chunks of $59.99 (plus tax) laying around to spend on frugal purchases like more linens. And really, what are the odds that the same afternoon SVV gets all crafty in our decorating pursuits that my duvet cover is swiped right from under our stuffy, pollen-ridden noses?

This has confirmed my very fears about laundromats, and I'll resume hang drying my skivvies from now on out. Have any of you encountered similar laundromat thieves? I know I'm not the only one with a horror story, so here's your chance to come clean, people.

Editor's Amendment, 2:55pm: To the 70-year-old woman who took my duvet cover and promptly brought it back to the laundromat today upon obviously reading my blog, I won't hold it against you that your eyesight is going and that you clearly had to dig through my entire pile of laundry to find it in the first place. That's just weird, but still, I forgive you and thank you for making sure I got her back unscathed.