Laundry -- and more food

Day 26: Monday, March 13

Since my Sunday laundry run had been aborted, Monday was going to be all about the wash.

Fortunately, on Friday, I’d loaded up on quarters. Unfortunately, that loading up was done at the Citibank on 32^nd and Park, which (as I noted on Facebook) seems to have a clientele that is unfamiliar with the concept of banking. Seriously, every person ahead of me was either having something explained to them (verbatim quotes: Patron: “What is this called?” Teller (In the patient tone of someone who has explained it five times already): “A checking account.”) or had someone with them who could translate what the teller had just told them—not from English to another language; from English to English by people who were, seemingly, native speakers.

When I lugged my trash bag full of dirty clothes downstairs to the laundromat, I discovered that my idea was not unique. The laundromat is also a dry cleaners that offers laundering services, so the bulk of the washers and dryers had invoices on them, indicating whose laundry was whose. I finally found a couple of free machines, loaded them up, and then stood by, alternately surfing on my phone and reading Mother Night, the novel that my next show is based on. (The director requested we read the book in advance.)

The machines are efficient enough, so the wash was done reasonably quickly. I managed to wrestle a laundry cart away from one of the women who was doing other peoples’ wash, found two dryers that were close enough to each other, and loaded them up. Even though it took longer than I expected to dry stuff, I was done with everything within a couple of hours, even if Pidge did have two odd socks (that is to say, there was an even number of socks, but the last two didn’t match up with anything else).

I hauled everything back upstairs and was planning on ironing some stuff, but even though I was able to find an ironing board, the location of the iron itself is a mystery wrapped in an enigma.

We spent the rest of the afternoon reading the paper (and updating this blog) until it was time to leave for dinner. I’d planned to go to a restaurant that is one of Pidge’s favorites—if not her favorite of all—The Little Owl in Greenwich Village. (They take reservations only 30 days in advance, so I was all over their website in mid-February.) It’s only a mile-and-a-half away, so I suggested we walk, despite the cold. It was a pleasant enough walk, but there’s something about this place. We’ve been there three times, and on at least two of those times, I’ve gotten us lost getting there. It’s not like it’s hidden away; I just screw up the directions.

 I've yet to have a meal here that wasn't superb

We finally arrived, thawed out, and had a wonderful meal—too much of a meal, in fact. There was a major bummer in that I got an email saying that, thanks to the impending storm, our Tuesday show had been cancelled. We had originally been told that the decision wouldn't be made before 12:30 pm Tuesday, but once it was announced that the above-ground subways would be closing, I guess that made the decision for them.
 
Despite that, we had a good time, and afterward walked a ways, stopping in at a drugstore (C. O. Bigelow) that’s been there since the 1838 (and looks it—in the best way—and bought some necessaries, but Pidge was too cold, tired, and full of good food to go much farther, so I called her a cab (fill in your own joke …) and walked the rest of the way by myself.

I mean, I could live in this place

 I got home and we prepared for The Storm of the Century.