Free balling?

So I woke up today, drove my girlfriend to work, came home, went for a run, washed the dishes, made mac n' cheese for lunch and ran out of ideas to take up my time before I had to deal with the dirty laundry project.

There the bag was. Just taunting me with its wet clothes and mildew smell.

It was evident I had to take care of this problem. I'm leaving for The Masters tomorrow and I'm down to my JV pair of boxer shorts. After the JV runs out, I have two pairs of boxer briefs I usually use for running races and after those are gone, it's Commando time.

Kosmo Kramer: "Oh, I'm out there, Jerry, and I'm loving it!"

So the word on the street was this place, "Loving Hand" or something like that does good service. So I packed up the car with the bags of dirty (and wet) laundry, some soap and a book and I started down the street.

I passed a shanty laundromat that I noticed during my running loops. For some unexpected reason (it's in the ghetto), my pace usually picks up when I run past so I continued to drive.

Finally, I came across the "Loving Hand." I was told to ask for Ester. I asked, she wasn't there. Before I knew it, my clothes were taken away from me and put into a line comprised of other people's filth. I was handed a receipt and given a smile.

"Tomorrow, in the morning," she said.

That works. I planned on washing the clothes myself (I even stopped to make coin change for a five) but the laundromat worker, not named Ester, took care of business for me. I hope.

If she doesn't do a good job, I'll end up at Augusta looking like Happy Gilmore's caddy, who washed his dirty undies in the ball-cleaning thingy.

And I just checked online, Tiger is tied for third and two shots back.

My next blog post will be from inside the continental United States of America. That is, if I don't make any shoe bomb jokes on the plane and remember to drive on the right side of the road.