Thursday, August 27, 2009

I get my dry cleaning done at the local precinct. You?

The small Asian lady's eyes grew larger as she counted my coats, one by one. Pretty soon, the counter was no longer visible underneath the heap of coats, jackets and the two dresses I had managed to carry from my car to the dry cleaners, in one trip. I clearly have a problem.

"You don't need any of these here," she muttered.

"I'm moving!" I said quickly, so she would stop looking at me like girl-you-crazy-you-live-in-LA-why-so-many-coats? (Internet, she was looking at me like THAT)

She peered out at me from above her gold-rimmed glasses. "Where?"

"I'm moving to Spain. It snows there." I couldn't believe I was giving the dry cleaning woman an explanation.

"Spaaaaaaaaain?" she said, like someone practicing scales on a xylophone.

She punched away at her calculator, said something about a discount and somehow still charged me a small fortune.

She handed me my ticket and asked if I was coming back to LA.


She nodded and turned around to the rows of clothes, immaculately pressed, veiled in plastic. I don't think she believed me.

(photo via Unicornology)

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