Chonies

            I try to drop off my bag of dirty laundry at the lavanderia I've been going to for the last three weeks, but the young woman at the counter tells me, "No ropa interior."

            "Que?" I ask, and she tells me they will not wash my underwear.

            It is moments like these that force one to truly evaluate the condition of one's undergarments. I try to envision the crotch of each pair of dark-colored Jockey bikini briefs I have handed over. I'm mostly certain that my chonies were free of skid marks or other bodily evidence. What's the problem, then? What's wrong with my underwear? Why won't they take my underwear? Is it because they know I'm a lesbian and I have lesbian underwear? Is this all because I'm from Arizona?

            I move to take my whole bag of laundry elsewhere, but the lavanderia girl stops me and says they will wash my underwear this time. Of course they don't want to lose the sale altogether--my hardball bluff has worked and I'm going to get my underwear washed one last time, by God.

            At comida I tell Silvia what happened at the lavanderia. "Is this normal?" I ask. Silvia gets the look on her face that she gets when she honks at some laggard driver in traffic. She's more pissed off than I am. "Yes," she says, "if they have a sign posted. You should tell them if they don't want to wash underwear they need to post the sign."

            I really want Silvia to tell them this for me. I'd love to walk into the lavanderia behind Silvia when she is all pissed off and speaking rapid Spanish.

            Instead I end up washing the next batch by hand. I hang seven pairs of underwear to dry in my bathroom. With the Oaxaca humidity, this takes nearly three days.