|Take it away, machines!|
There was a time when laundry was not so easy, and Mondays were devoted to it. Hand-scrubbing, hand-wringing, hanging out on the line, where it might get rained on or attacked by birds or be swiped by some colorful hobos -- that was real work. No wonder men had disposable paper collars. (You can still get them, actually, if you have a compatible shirt.)
At one time in my former apartment-dwelling life we did use a laundry service, which is a little embarrassing for a private person like me. It's fine to use a dry cleaner for shirts and suits and such, but no one gets underwear dry cleaned. I was never happy going to the laundry to pick up my clean underwear. I always had that feeling they were thinking things like That's the guy who got Strawberry Nesquik stains on his tighty whities. Wonder how he did that. Heh heh heh.
Prior to that, in my swinging bachelor days, I went to the Laundromat. There were a few in town that I favored -- this one had large machines, this one was quiet, this one was close to home -- but my favorite was right near a sports bar. Drop your clothes in a machine and go next door to watch the game; between drinks run back and make sure no one is stealing your clothes and that things are proceeding properly. The time went fast.
But on the whole I prefer having the machines here in the house, where I can take care of my business while they take care of theirs. Plus, at home, no one tries to shut down the shop while my clothes are still damp. Oooh, I hated when that happened.