When you're poor, it's unavoidable: the much begrudged trip to the Laundromat.

It's not so much that I dislike doing my own laundry, it's that I'm not very strong. It gets to be a pain lugging a 25 pound bag of smell-me-nots down four floors, only to drag them back up a few hours later.

The glamorous process of laundering is also complicated by the fact that I tend to wait until I've constructed a scale model of Mt. Saint Helen's with my dirty shirts and skivvies.

It's not that I'm lazy, it's that I've got better things to do.

So there I sit in Sudsy City, watching the scrubbing bubbles go 'round and 'round while studying the natural ecology of this late night habitat.

Out of pure boredom, you begin playing games to entertain yourself. Like putting the females into order based on their appearance, and categorizing the citizens into the appropriate Gilligan's Island characters.

This place has a preponderance of Mary Anns and quite a number of Gilligans.

One of the Mary Anns starts folding her laundry at my table, moving my soap products out of the way.

"Armageddon" plays on the big screen television, and I become engrossed in the absurdity of Michael Bay. I marvel at the rhythm of predictable catastrophe followed by moronic solution...

BOOM, fix, BOOM, fix...

Marry Ann finishes folding her laundry, stuffs it into her little cart and sneaks out of the front door before I even notice that she stole my brand new jug of detergent.

That little white girl stole my soap, and I suddenly feel cheated that Ben Afleck isn't going to die.