Bosched.
Why the fuck is laundry abroad so hard?
Why do I need to hit multiple buttons to make my yoga pants less minging? After a few steep hikes and falls my yoga pants were disgusting and stiff from dried sweat, a bit of blood from tripping, and dirt. Luckily my hotel for the night had free laundry, but I knew how this bargain would go.
When making a deal with the devil it won't go as planned. Like in Poland and Ireland the washer machine would surely eat my clothing, refusing to spit it out for hours or days. I had been down this road before and was properly and reasonably afraid to begin the wash.
I used Google translate to figure out a few of the buttons, but the majority were a mystery. My British ex once complained at Panera that they ask too many questions. Half sandwich or whole? Half salad or whole? Chips, bread, or apple? Would you like a drink with this? Are you a Panera member? All that to get a simple meal. Washing machines in Europe, a thing used only slightly less frequently than eating seemed far more inquisitive than a Panera representative.
A slew of buttons was strew around the machine. More buttons than it takes to launch a rocket. 200, 400, 600, 800, 1000, 1200 presented as options without context, areas to pick temperature, size, clothing type, sexual preferences abounded. Do you want a slut or a programmed slut? A regular slut should do fine I figured. Am I a cowboy toy? I am from the south so I suppose I could be a cowboy toy, I see myself more as a Buzz Lightyear but I don't see that as a choice. A screen the size of an iPad starts to display random numbers and my blood pressure. I wearily press start knowing that once I do the washing machine door will lock with a bank grade vault mechanism and the only way to retrieve my clothes will be through stamina and telepathy willing to door to open as I hit buttons like a baboon learning a new tool. I do what seems to be the quickest wash clocking in at 30 minutes and am shocked to see most options include washing your clothes for 2-4 hours. The crock pot of washing machines.
I watch on bated breath as the washing machine claims it has a minute left and my clothes are still sopping and soapy. It begins to spin and spin while reading 1 minute remaining for about 10 more minutes but alas the door unlocks. I have cracked the code of this washer. I move my clothes to the dryer, thankfully it is a separate unit. Far too many times abroad it was a combined unit and I would watch in futile desperation as the clean dried clothes would get pre-soaked for the second and third time because the door would not open.
But this time, for the first time, I won. I conquered the square beast and went on my trip smelling nice.
-The Slut
Why do I need to hit multiple buttons to make my yoga pants less minging? After a few steep hikes and falls my yoga pants were disgusting and stiff from dried sweat, a bit of blood from tripping, and dirt. Luckily my hotel for the night had free laundry, but I knew how this bargain would go.
When making a deal with the devil it won't go as planned. Like in Poland and Ireland the washer machine would surely eat my clothing, refusing to spit it out for hours or days. I had been down this road before and was properly and reasonably afraid to begin the wash.
I used Google translate to figure out a few of the buttons, but the majority were a mystery. My British ex once complained at Panera that they ask too many questions. Half sandwich or whole? Half salad or whole? Chips, bread, or apple? Would you like a drink with this? Are you a Panera member? All that to get a simple meal. Washing machines in Europe, a thing used only slightly less frequently than eating seemed far more inquisitive than a Panera representative.
A slew of buttons was strew around the machine. More buttons than it takes to launch a rocket. 200, 400, 600, 800, 1000, 1200 presented as options without context, areas to pick temperature, size, clothing type, sexual preferences abounded. Do you want a slut or a programmed slut? A regular slut should do fine I figured. Am I a cowboy toy? I am from the south so I suppose I could be a cowboy toy, I see myself more as a Buzz Lightyear but I don't see that as a choice. A screen the size of an iPad starts to display random numbers and my blood pressure. I wearily press start knowing that once I do the washing machine door will lock with a bank grade vault mechanism and the only way to retrieve my clothes will be through stamina and telepathy willing to door to open as I hit buttons like a baboon learning a new tool. I do what seems to be the quickest wash clocking in at 30 minutes and am shocked to see most options include washing your clothes for 2-4 hours. The crock pot of washing machines.
I watch on bated breath as the washing machine claims it has a minute left and my clothes are still sopping and soapy. It begins to spin and spin while reading 1 minute remaining for about 10 more minutes but alas the door unlocks. I have cracked the code of this washer. I move my clothes to the dryer, thankfully it is a separate unit. Far too many times abroad it was a combined unit and I would watch in futile desperation as the clean dried clothes would get pre-soaked for the second and third time because the door would not open.
But this time, for the first time, I won. I conquered the square beast and went on my trip smelling nice.
-The Slut
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| Slut/Programslut means final, end of the program. |
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| Please everyone start calling blue jeans Cowboytoys |
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