I haven't the slightest problem admitting to being a bonafide, Type A, full-court-press anal retentive. I keep my flatware neatly arranged in a Rubbermaid silverware organizer, and if any of the neat stacks of forks or spoons tip over, I am quick to restore proper alignment. I segregate my felt tip pens from my ballpoint pens. Although my recorded music collection is ripped and meticulously catalogued on my computer's hard drive, I have taken care (and gone to some expense) to insure that all of my CDs are just as carefully arranged. I keep the dress shirts in the mid-left portion of my closet; sports jackets go in the middle; dress slacks to the right. The juice glasses go here. The drinking glasses go there. The omelet pan hangs from that hook. My favorite wok-with-handle hangs there. Toothpaste on the bottom shelf. Anti-perspirant above and to the right.
That isn't to say that I'm a neatnik. There's a difference between anal retention and psychotic tidiness. I let clutter build up. I know where everything is amidst all the clutter, but there will be clutter. Well, it seems like clutter to me. I think a lot of folks would describe it as subtle disarray. To me it looks like volcanic chaos. It's all dusted. I keep my computer screens and eyeglasses squeaky clean. As any student of mine knows only too well, I'm just a teeny bit paranoid about the condition of my whiteboards. That is, they must be utterly unsullied, sparkling white and shiny, or I'll start going all twitchy and weird. Therefore I always keep a fluffy terrycloth towel in each of my classrooms. If you aren't up on whiteboard survival tips, by the way, a terrycloth towel along the lines of your basic white bar rag—about $10 for two dozen at Target—is the ideal tool for cleaning a whiteboard. You don't need denatured alcohol cleaner, the spray-bottle stuff that, too energetically applied, has everybody seeing pink bunnies dancing a Conga line around the walls. Just the bar cloth will do it. If you suffer from a musclebound colleague who bears down into the whiteboard à la Attila the Hun you might need a few sprays of Windex to relax the nuclear fusion that has occurred between the dry-erase ink and whiteboard porcelain. Other than that, it's a straightforward operation. Done regularly it doesn't take very long, and the whiteboard looks jim-dandy. And I don't go all twitchy and weird.
I always bring my own dry-erase markers, by the way. For one thing, the ones left on the whiteboard tray are inevitably nearly out of juice or completely desiccated, or else Professor Attila the Hun has smushed the chisel tip down to a powder puff. (There are people out there who seem to think that dry-erase markers work better if you press really hard with them. No, they don't.) For another thing, my institution suffers from excruciating political correctness regarding real dry-erase markers—those petroleum-ripe jobbers that can get you thoroughly buzzed but leave rich, clear lines that vanish with a crisp flick of the eraser. No: my school insists on those stupid idiotic PC "low odor" markers that produce a decent-quality line for only about 5 minutes, dry out if you leave the cap off for more than 10.23 seconds, and leave a line that is as stubborn as it is scratchy. So I buy several boxes of proper high-octane dry-erase markers and cleave them close to my pedagogic bosom. Nobody is allowed to borrow any of my dry-erase markers, not ever. They're mine, all mine. Mine.
That's me: fussbudgety anal retention in spades. But it all evaporates in the light of the laundry. If anal retention is my port side, the laundry dwells to my starboard. I will see the entire human race in hell before I spend so much as five seconds in front of a washing machine. I will not fold. I will not sort. I will not bleach or spot-remove or fabric soften. It takes a mighty effort of will for me just to grab the laundry baskets and walk them the one block to my charming neighborhood laundromat and its dedicated owners who are doing a land-office business with their wash & fold operation. Man, they're good. I honor them.
I have a backstory with Steve and his missus June. I was their very first customer. The previous owners of the corner laundromat had given the place up after a fire caused extensive damage. After nearly a year (a purgatorial period for me, its memory best kept firmly suppressed) Steve and June bought the property and apparently devoted their life savings to turning it into an absolute pip of a modern laundromat, new equipment, everything shiny and sparkling. I saw them preparing for their grand opening, popped my head in, and inquired if wash & fold was in their plans. They said yes — so I was there with three overflowing laundry baskets almost the minute they swung the door open for business.
Steve gave my laundry the best treatment ever. The whites came out looking new. He sorted and folded everything gorgeously, put it in plastic bags, just in general turned my ignored and grungy laundry into radiant stacks of like-new duds. I was enchanted. Here were my saviors indeed, just one block from my house. I formed the intention to turn over a new leaf, to start taking in the laundry every week or so.
That didn't last long. Old habits die hard, so instead of getting a $10.00 batch of laundry on a weekly basis, Steve & June get about $75 – $100 worth of wash & fold every two months or so. My practice is to keep taking clean stuff out of my dresser drawers until I'm down to the last few undies, T-shirt, and pairs of socks. Then I fire up my intention, grab the laundry baskets and plastic bags, and haul the massive load down the street in anywhere from one to three trips.
Steve manages a 24-hour turnaround anyway, even when I'm dumping enough laundry on him to clothe the crew of a battleship. Maybe he's being a bit of an unwitting enabler—i.e., encouraging me to continue in my sloppy ways by being such an utter pip about my long-period laundry habits. Yet I don't think so, not really. He just has me figured out, and like the jewel of a laundryman that he is, he's willing to put himself out a bit to accommodate a steady and reliable customer. At least that's how I like to think of it.
I might even be getting just a tad more responsible. This time I took two baskets and one plastic bag, but I still have a good half-dozen undies, plenty of clean shirts, and even a goodly supply of socks yet remaining. I'm not down to the last bathroom towel. I have fresh sheets on the bed and several more clean sets sitting in the bedroom closet. I've got enough kitchen towels to soldier on for a few more weeks.
By my standards, that's within a hair's breadth of turning into Martha Stewart. Hmmm….maybe I should rethink this "getting better" strategy. After all, Martha Stewart is the high priestess of housewifely perfection, and look where that landed her. Jail, that's where. Let that be a lesson to all those who seek enlightenment via domestic valor.
17th St. Launderland, at the corner of Sanchez and 17th Streets in the Castro neighborhood of San Francisco. Best damn laundry in San Francisco.