Wow… my last blog was very cathartic. And several of you told me you’d had similar experiences there, so I feel TOTALLY validated (thank you very much!)
So with that in mind, my ‘outing’ of area businesses shall continue. I have to find a new dry cleaner. Or more precisely, Phil has to find a new dry cleaner. I have so few ‘dry clean only’ clothes (Thank God!), and I’m pretty sure most of my stay-at-home mommy wardrobe (shorts and t-shirts from Old Navy) is wash and wear.
However, because I do stay home, the dry cleaning is typically my ‘domain’… the dropping off…. the picking up. I’ve never had a problem with it, but lately the cleaners has really gone downhill in their um… shall I say… ambience?
The last couple of trips in, I’ve detected an odor that can only be described with the following word… “Funkified”. The clothes don’t stink or anything (at least not that I’ve noticed), but the store lately has just not seemed that clean. I don’t know if they are under new management, if the recession has forced them to stop buying air freshener, or if they have just decided to abandon all pretenses of a well-run establishment. (I mean, seriously, that has to be a lot of pressure. Whaaaat? Mop the floors?!)
But it was my trip in last week that was the last straw. When I went in to pick up Phil’s slacks (I’m always having to pick up Phil’s slack… just kidding, honey!), the clerk ‘greeted’ me (and when I say ‘greeted’, it is in very loose terms. Is grunting actually considered a greeting?!) I didn’t look at him very closely, initially, and just put my ticket on the counter. He picked it up and turned to go to the back to get the order. It was at this point that I got a look at about the top 3 inches of his butt crack. Oh yes. It was positively delightful…all that chubby flesh hanging out of the top of his Fruit of the Looms. It’s a wonder I didn’t decide right then to leave my husband, and run off with Mr. Grunty.
But it was when he returned with the clothes, that I saw the bloody piece of tissue half-stuffed up his left nostril. (Yes, I know… I just threw up in my mouth a little, too.) And it was only the thought of my husband going to work in only his boxer shorts, that kept me from just leaving the clothes there, and running out, screaming.
Now, I know you’re dying to know where this is, either because you want to completely avoid it, or perhaps you’re worried that it is your dry cleaners and that the nose-picking Mr. Grunty is handling your clothing, as well. In the interest of being fair and using a ‘rhyming’ pseudonym for all businesses I decide to bash, all I can tell you is that I won’t be going back to “Ick’s”… way too ick…sick.
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