I just came back from picking up the mammoth load of shirts I dropped at the dry cleaners two weeks ago. Eighty-seven bucks! Fuck me. You may wonder how it is possible that it can cost that much to launder twenty-nine items. I know I did. Well, according to the heavily lipsticked lady behind the counter, five of the shirts were linen, which apparently gets them an automatic upgrade to dry cleaning. That’s five bucks a pop! Then there was the skirt I threw in with the load so I could ask them to sew on a button. I forgot, and they dry cleaned it instead. Another six bucks! And still no button. Awesome. Clean, unwearable clothing. My favorite.
I think this about wraps up that little experiment. When Mike hears about it — and he will, with all the expediency of an RSS feed — a complete moratorium will not be far behind. And since he’s sworn repeatedly that he wants, instead, to do the pressing himself, I’m afraid that means, honey, that your brief vacation is over. We aren’t financially equipped for the dry cleaners. Your shirts will have to get pressed the old fashioned way.
At least until we get our tax return.