I dropped stuff off at the dry cleaners today. I typically don't buy clothes that have to be dry cleaned, simply because I am lucky to make it downstairs and wash the regular stuff, let alone put it in my car, drive it to the cleaners, drop it off and pick it up. I barely have time to drop off the kids at the pool. And for those of you who are not laughing, that's a poo reference. It's okay to laugh now.
So I go to the cleaners because I had this shirt that I had worn a few times, and these pants that I had worn once. I just randomly picked a cleaners, because it was on the way. Part of me felt guilty, like I was telling my clothes they weren't that important to me. That I wouldn't go through the process of finding a cleaner, checking the references, interviewing them, asking for their credentials. It happens. No wonder they stain and fray so fast.
Mr. Cleaner looks at the cream colored pants- I know-what the hell am I thinking running around in cream colored pants with 3 kids. It's like a stain magnet, BEGGING to be ruined. Besides I always have to have a pair of nude choni's handy, and well....re-read the part where I can't make it down the steps to do the laundry. Can't is the wrong word, how about...not a priority. Which is 3 words, for those of you who are all about proper wordage.
He tells me he doesn't know if he can get the spot out. It's a small dime size spot. He will try. Which is all I ask of him and the trash man, try to do your job. That's all. I arrive in the late afternoon to pick up my pants, for fear they will give them away, even though I have 30 days according to the sign. I just don't like to take those kinds of risks. You never know when they might be having one of those days, where the whole "30 days" rules doesn't apply and they change it to 6 hours. Could happen.
He finds my order and points out the spot and tells me he couldn't get it out. This the conversation that follows. He is also speaking in a heavy Asian accent.
"I couldn't get out that spot" (points to spot)
"well, what was it? Spot was so hard." (Uh, all I can think of is a dog named Spot and well... yuck)
"It was chocolate."
"Oh no, it's not chocolate."
"No really, it's chocolate. My daughter's ate a messy chocolate dessert this past weekend, and it was on them, and I picked them." (Why I felt the need to plead my chocolate case is beyond me.)
"Noooooo, no chocolate. That stain's not a chocolate stain."
(For the love of dry cleaners everywhere, does it matter? If I told you it was elephant poo that I rubbed all over a bus driver in Queens to help him drive faster, would it help you sleep at night.?Gooooood Golly!)
"It's Godiva. The stain. It's a Godiva stain."
"Oh..... I see. Yes, Godiva. OK. Tough Godiva stain. Not easy to get out."
I left with my horrifically NOT chocolate tiny stain pants. The same stain that I easily got out of my daughter's WHITE eyelet dress. No more dry cleaners for me. I can't handle the explanation hour.