Rosie the Riveter vs. The bathroom mirror and the laundry room

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7685970144969470151.post-44572745274782457552008-03-24T17:07:00.018-06:002008-05-06T13:32:46.494-06:00Rosie the Riveter vs. The bathroom mirror and the laundry room<a href="http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/wit/rosie1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/wit/rosie1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><div></div><div></div><div>I typically do laundry on Friday nights, since Michael doesn't get off work until 8:45 and usually doesn't get home till 9ish. Also, pretty much NO ONE uses washers at 7:00 on a Friday night. Anyway. I was really excited to clean our apartment while the laundry took care of itself, since we were having my sisters and future brother-in-law over for Easter dinner on Sunday. I decided to wash an extra load of towels, kitchen rugs, etc. to really add the final shiny-clean touch. I was relieved that of the four washers down there, only one was taken, so I filled up the rest and went back to cleaning. I changed into my Rosie the Riveter outfit (grubbies), and super-cleaned the kitchen and tub and even played handy-girl by fixing a light above our bathroom sink. By then the laundry was ready to put in the dryers. As I walked down the stairs to the laundry room I noticed that it smelled a little...wierdish. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw that the floor was flooded. Up to my ankles. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g2xCiSh6I/AAAAAAAAAFs/i8DSb7iMyNM/s1600-h/030.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181451587411937186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g2xCiSh6I/AAAAAAAAAFs/i8DSb7iMyNM/s320/030.JPG" border="0" /></a>As you can see, the washers and dryers are on raised platforms. On the platform by the dryers crouched my beautiful Asian neighbor with her hand over her mouth and a very horrified/pensive look on her face as though to say "how will I ever get my clothes out of the dryer without going into the sicknasty lint water?" I asked her if hers were the clothes in the far washer. At the sound of my voice, she suddenly jerked, and her hand came away from her mouth: "My neighbor already call manager. MANAGER NOT HOME! MANAGER NO ANSWER HOME PHONE! MANAGER NO ANSWER CELL PHONE!" <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6TiiSh_I/AAAAAAAAAGU/9jgBhDT3bDg/s1600-h/046.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181455478652307442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6TiiSh_I/AAAAAAAAAGU/9jgBhDT3bDg/s320/046.JPG" border="0" /></a>I calmed her down, kicked off my shoes, and crossed the linty water of death four times as I moved all the clothes to the dryers. I assured her that things would be okay, picked up my shoes and slogged back to my apartment. I decided to just go back to cleaning. As I was washing our bathroom mirror, my finger caught on the metal border at the top and sliced for a good six inches of mirror as I wiped across it. Obviously, intense agony and a lot of blood ensued. Four bandaids and a kitchen towel later, the bleeding stopped and Michael arrived. I explained everything to him and asked him for help getting the clothes out of the dryers. Not even questioning, Michael grabbed his flip-flops, rolled up his suit pants, and picked up the laundry basket. Armed with the camera and more bandaids, I trooped after him to document the experience. I won't lie, I had the giggles pretty intensely: <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6RSiSh7I/AAAAAAAAAF0/g9JYPJMSjHI/s1600-h/041.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181455439997601714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 179px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 238px" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6RSiSh7I/AAAAAAAAAF0/g9JYPJMSjHI/s320/041.JPG" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6RyiSh8I/AAAAAAAAAF8/0QFQQ-NnHWs/s1600-h/044.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181455448587536322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 177px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 236px" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6RyiSh8I/AAAAAAAAAF8/0QFQQ-NnHWs/s320/044.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6SCiSh9I/AAAAAAAAAGE/l8SfRJHPaaI/s1600-h/047.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181455452882503634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 146px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 188px" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6SCiSh9I/AAAAAAAAAGE/l8SfRJHPaaI/s320/047.JPG" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6SyiSh-I/AAAAAAAAAGM/drPoOjBIRIw/s1600-h/048.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181455465767405538" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 244px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 180px" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ycvpW1QUPeM/R-g6SyiSh-I/AAAAAAAAAGM/drPoOjBIRIw/s320/048.JPG" border="0" /></a> Although the water had gone down quite a bit, it was still pretty gross and really hilarious. After losing a heroic battle with the bathroom mirror, my finger and I felt much better because of Michael's life-saving sense of humor. Well, that and a freshly-baked batch of cookies. Thank goodness for funny husbands, boxes of bandaids, adorable Asian neighbors, gooey-delicious cookies, and live-through-able adventures.</div></div>emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16515011004145946708noreply@blogger.com