Friday afternoon Jon and I dropped his tan jacket off at the dry cleaners for a quick turn around - he had to wear it the next afternoon at a wedding. I brought along my most favorite peacoat that I have had for at least 2 years for the ride because it was the first time in my life that I have even been to a dry cleaner which means that this particular peacoat has never been cleaned - dry or otherwise.
I heard a joke once from Mitch Hedberg that went like this:
"This shirt is dry clean only....which means....It's DIRTY."
Oh how I related with this sentiment.
So on Friday when I took my peacoat into the dry cleaners and laid it down on the counter the woman behind the desk looked at it for a long second - like I was a homeless man that had just dropped my coat slash butt wiper right on her feet.
I mean, ok, I should have had it cleaned by now, but its not like it had stink smoke rising up from it - it may have had some dog/cat/Schumanator hair embedded into it like an indigenous rug, but like I said - it was sanitary. Sanitary enough to wear to work that day.
The dry cleaners said that they could have Jon's tan coat turned around by the next day, but my coat? My coat would not be ready for 3 days. Whether this time line directly correlated with the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of my coat, I'm not sure. But when she went to pick it up off of the counter she paused and then held out her thumb and forefinger - so as to make as little contact with the coat as she could. I stared at her - utterly bewildered by her elitism.
I mean, you would think that I brought her an open petri dish of the ebola virus and asked her to dry clean it with her tongue.
"Oh great" I said, "Now that I know where you guys are, I have TONS of stuff that needs to be dry cleaned - Is there a limit as to how much stuff I can bring in here?"
Without answering, the Marie Antoinette of dry cleaning glared at me while Jon and I took our dirty selves out of the shop, back to our dirty car and moved on with our dirty lives.
