The man, who I think owned the home, gave us the tour of the apartment. We walked into a pretty good size entry way for any apartment building to a common area where we could hang coats and leave shoes, if we wished. The other owner, a woman, lives in front part of the building and we if we lived here, we would be a the back part. The man walks us from the entry way, pass the staircase leading to the woman’s apartment to a door located just on the other side of these stairs. He opens it and says, “This is the washing machine but you need to make an appointment with the lady upstairs when you want to use it.”
Gin was standing next to me when “this statement of fact” about the washing machine was spoken and she witnessed my reaction. She immediately left my side and started back towards the front door to where Reinhardt, our relocation guy, was still standing. She said that she went back to stand with him so that she would not burst out laughing. Once we were outside after the viewing and Gin had stopped laughing, Reinhard said, “What is so funny?”
I didn’t mean to ignore Reinhard or his question; I was just concerned that I might have been rude to this man and his home. I asked Gin “Did he see my reaction? Please tell me that I was polite!” Gin said, that I did very well, under the circumstances, at hiding my reaction. She said it was only a slight glimmer of shock on my face and no one would have my seen the reaction if they didn’t already know me. She then turned to Reinhard and said, “Look, we haven’t even seen anything in this apartment yet and this man says to my mother that she ‘needs to make an appointment to use the washing machine.’ Because of this statement, this apartment isn’t even an option for us; let’s go and see the next place, please.” As we walked off, Gin filled Reinhard in on my confession, he teased me reliantly at every place after that.
The confession: I cannot and will not ever share a washing machine.
Period. Full-Stop. Insert anything you want here. I will not let my family touch the dirty laundry without proper clearance. It’s only because I have had way too many things ruined in the wash. It drives me absolutely nuts. So here’s my rational: if I make the mistake, I can’t yell at anyone. It’s my fault and that’s the end of it. No one is to blame.
And what does Olive think about this? She thinks I am absolutely nuts! Last year I travelled to see her and where I got to meet the lovely ladies from “Twisted Knitters” that she knits with every week. She couldn’t stop laughing when I told her that I had to show my family how to sort the laundry and to use the washing machine. When she comes here, she doesn’t mind me doing her laundry because she knows how, as she calls it, “obsessed” I become about the washing. And, oh, don’t even get her started on my dryer!
The Martini Knitter