Dry Cleaners: can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.

Mrs. Barch had been breaking my will in her own ever so cute passive aggressive way for years by testing the limits of the local cleaner's free seasonal storage policy with my favorite attire. Three or four shirts would hang on the back of our bedroom door for weeks before I'd muster the humility to ask her to have them cleaned and pressed. That would usually be enough to at least get them out of the house and into the back seat of her car where they'd spend as long as was left 'til her next oil change. Oh no, that wouldn't get the shirts back into the wardrobe lineup, not so fast. The staff at the local cleaner knew her by name and would giggle with delight as she approached knowing that she brought with her the promise of a lengthy excursion to the far back reaches of the assembly line of cleaned, pressed and neatly bagged fine washables. Months later I'd catch a scent that reminded me of an occasion where I once wore a favorite shirt of years gone by and inspire me to ask, "hunny? did they say how long it'd be before those shirts are ready?" and I get them back just in time for them to go out of style.

Preparing myself for the inevitable divorce that surely lies in wait for teh barch, I have made it my mission to tackle this most mundane of girl jobs for myself. It has come to my attention in the past that there is a dry cleaner on my daily route to and from work. And, not just conveniently near my route but, right smack dab on my route. And, better still it's on a relatively quiet street that I use to avoid traffic on the main thoroughfare. Add to that the corner location with entrance and exit ways from both the front and side. This is almost too good to be true. The only aspect that gives me pause is the fact that I have never once in the many years I have traveled this route ever seen a single car in the parking lot or customer inside. There's a reason that conveniently located businesses suffer slow to no patronage... they suck, that's why.

Well, I've been pushed to the brink and I have to start trying out cleaners, so why not roll the dice and give this place a chance to prove my suspicion wrong? Nearly impossible to believe but the very afternoon that I first pulled into the lot with an armful of shirts, there was another gentleman exiting the establishment and saddling up his suv with a recently cleaned load of his own. This is a good sign.

Don't get too excited, there are bad signs to come. First there's no one there when I enter. That turned out to be not such a bad sign as I broke the infrared beam at the doorway and sounded a bell that brought a servant rushing to the counter to cater to my every whim. I handed over half a dozen shirts and accepted a pink slip in return and left the fate of my fashionable wears in this asian man's seemingly capable hands.

Another bad sign was the lack of posted rates and with the anxiety of actually doing this all by myself I forgot to ask. Actually, that's a lie. I was afraid to ask. No, I was petrified. I wanted out as fast as possible and back into the comfort and safety of my auto cocoon. Whatever the charge, it's worth it to not have to risk my life out in the dangerous world of real life for a moment longer. Not that this place was particularly scary or dirty or unsafe. It looked like a typical dry cleaner. At least what I imagine a typical dry cleaner to look like.

Three days later I have another half dozen shirts to be cleaned. I haven't dirtied that many shirts in this short time but I hypothesized that this was the "normal" routine for the cleaner/customer relationship, pick-up/drop-off each visit and maintain a continuous thread of being in their perspective scheme of the universe. At the very least it gave me a prop excuse for being there in the event my previous order was not yet ready. Oh the horror... If I were to be seen walking in empty handed and then leaving equally unaccompanied. I'd be better off mauled by a pack of hungry llama.

So, I stop first at the ATM and withdraw $200 in cash with the anticipation that if the bill for six shirts exceeds my bankroll, I'll create a diversion and make a break for the door and sacrifice my shirts to financial wellbeing. I pull in the lot, this time the more familiar barren unoccupied lot. Scooping up my dirties from the trunk, I make my way inside and find the same asian gentleman smiling and welcoming me. He retrieves my cleans and much to my amazement politely requests eight dollars. I'm taken aback not by the delightfully economic dry cleaning but by the least common denominator that eludes me. Eight dollars? For six shirts? That doesn't work. That's one dollar and thirty three and a third cents each. How can that be? I'm snapped back into the moment by the realization that this about half what I expected to pay and make quick with the ten dollar bill. grab my change and slip for the dirties and head off to check my math on cell phone calculator.

By golly, I was right. And in an unanticipated twist I have prolonged my confusion by leaving the same number of shirts to be laundered again. I may never learn how asian arithmetic translates to US dollars but, for a buck and a third per shirt, I willing to die in ignorance.

If you're keeping score, I'll note that they are the sucks at stain removal and they're stingy with the starch but for price and logistic convenience, I'm perfectly willing to compromise.

Who says teh barch's stories never have happy endings?