You Know How The Little Things Kinda Get You Down?

Sometimes I worry that I will give my new apartment a serious inferiority complex if I don't stop wandering around muttering about its inadequacies.

"My old house had a washer and dryer. I don't see you making much of an effort, hmmmmm? You better shape up, new apartment. And have these walls painted robin's egg blue by the time I get home or I will move furniture across the hardwood floors again tonight!"

With no washer and dryer in the unit, should I be inspired to run a load of laundry, I have to don my grisgris, say an intricate series of prayers to varying household demi-gods and semi-devils while I perform a very weird little raindance, go on a scavenger hunt for precisely the right coins (our building's machines take only quarters from the states of Minnesota, Oklahoma, and West Virginia or from the year 1963, when the machines were manufactured), then show up in the laundry room between 10:43 and 10:57 p.m. and give the secret password of the day.

It's a challenge.

Luckily, I have plenty of clothes. A LOT. But I only have about 2 weeks' worth of underoos. So instead of doing laundry, I decided to walk over today and buy a week's worth of underoos during lunch.

BRILLIANT!

But when I got to the purveyor of underoos, all they had in stock were Barbie underwears. For adult women. Size XXXL.

THWARTED!

My heart just pines for my old washer and dryer.