Too Much of a Good Thing?

On occasion, I've been known to take my clothes to this lovely little laundromat around the corner from my house for the "fluff-n-fold" service (for all you dirty minds out there, it's not that kind of fluffing). I do this even though I have a perfectly functional washer and dryer in my home -- machines I spent good money for when I purchased the home 4 years ago. Usually my excuse for paying 90 cents a pound for someone else to do my laundry, when I could obviously do it for myself, is that I don't have the time to do it myself (and because sometimes happy hour is more important than saving a few bucks for clean jeans) and this is sometimes true and sometimes my own rationalization for spending money somewhat frivolously when people around me are losing their jobs. On a few occasions I have a real reason -- i.e. the item needing washing won't fit in my washer and so I need the use of an industrial sized machine. Then the whole "I don't have the time" story really becomes true -- I mean seriously, who has the time to sit in a laundromat to wash ONE item? OK - maybe I could make the time, but considering the ridiculous hours I work sometimes, I would so much rather be doing something else. So, call me spoiled, but whatever.

So anyway, this morning I stopped in this lovely little laundromat to drop off my (fake) down comforter (no bird was harmed in the making of this item) which, having been in storage since last winter (yeah that's right, its winter bitches -- or at least it was last night), needs some freshening. Now granted, I haven't been there in a while, but this morning I realize I might use the place too much because the girl who weighs your clothes and gives you your receipt said to me "Good morning 'stina." (ok, she didn't say 'stina, since only d-bud actually calls me that, but she did know my actual name). Of course, she also said my king-size comforter would be ready by 6PM even though based on the number of laundry bags in line I probably should have had to wait until tomorrow. Which means I won't have to pile on extra blankets when the temperature drops below freezing tonight and instead I'll be able to snuggle up in my freshly laundered comfy-as-hell comforter. And sorry, but that's worth 90 cents a pound. Fuck, that's worth a hell of lot more than that. And if that makes me spoiled, well, then call me fucking princess. I figure fuck it, I'm already a latte-drinking-east-coast-liberal-elitist, might as well add spoiled to the moniker. ;)