Laundry is the most thankless of chores, I think, and hotel laundry is even worse. You have to beg the front desk for quarters, find your detergent and dryer sheets (or grovel for more change, so you can buy some from the ridiculously overpriced dispensers), get the key to the secret room, and take the elevator to the third floor, where the laundry machines are invariably in some state of meta-use by a staff member or fellow guest. The washer never rinses out all the soap and the dryer never dries all your clothes in one cycle, so you wind up making seventeen trips to and from the third floor, which is great for calorie burning and shit but is also a total waste of time. I flew out to ND pretty much determined not to engage in such nonsense.
I got the big win on this, our seventh shoot. It was our longest trip yet by two days, in the winter to boot, and I managed to squeak through the entire thing without having to fuck around doing laundry or having re-wear socks and undies.
So like, it’s no mystery, right, that my great coup was made possible by the close proximity of our local Target, and the kind help of reserve credit on my Bank of America account.
The laws of physics state that when you fly to Fargo with a bag that is already overweight, then spend a bunch of money on new underwear at Target, and, in the process, pick up more cute things like tank tops and sweaterdresses and leggings on clearance, your return luggage will be even MORE overweight and, in fact, may not even zipper shut properly. And so, you will have to mail your dirty clothes back to yourself, at a personal cost of $28.00.
My quest totaled charges in excess of $200.00 (including overweight baggage fees at NWA), and the dirty laundry arrived just today via USPS… with a giant hole in the side of the box and a pair of black XS boyshorts hanging therefrom. There’s gotta be a better way.