I hate visiting the dry cleaners.
It’s hard describing to them what I need while I’m holding my breath, which I do so that the chemicals in the air don’t dissolve my lungs.
All dry cleaners smell the same – like a glue factory, a paint factory, a spray paint factory, a bleach factory, a VIM factory, a battery acid factory and a Vicks VapoRub factory fathered a little corner store and called it dry cleaner.
What a nightmare on Father’s Day for the confused little dry cleaner store.
For some reason my wife’s clothes cost three times as much to clean as mine. Why? When I wear her clothes, they feel like normal clothes to me. The high heels hurt and the stockings chafe. For some reason the blouse buttons are on the wrong side, but otherwise they are run-of-the-mill clothes.
And that gets to my real difficulty. In order to get the “male” price, I wear my wife’s clothes to the dry cleaners and then take them off there, asking for MY clothes to be cleaned.
Of course I get stares. I also save about $2.50 per stare on the price of the cleaning.
One time, as a joke, I took my wetsuit to be dry cleaned. “Hey, don’t get this wet, okay?” I was laughing, but the guy wasn’t. He stapled one of those paper dry cleaning tags to the skin in-between my nostrils. Is there a name for that body part?
Wait, I have a name for it – ARRRGGGRHHFFUKKPAIGRNGHH.
Don’t take your wet suit to the dry cleaners.
Sharing.