The Laundry Man You got to know when to fold him, know when to hold him BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

Men have many strong points. And although I’d love to spend the next five hours wracking my brain to try to think of what they are, I’d rather dwell on a possible shortcoming. Before I get an epistolary blizzard full of accusations crying sexism, I ask that the dogs be called off while I offer this one word: laundry.

Last weekend, Cowboy and I made an early-a.m. Saturday date to do our laundry together. For some reason he thought this was sexy. I just thought it was convenient because I could make him carry all the bags and he could be in charge of the quarters, the most annoying part of laundromatting. On Friday night, we said goodnight over our cells, while he was on his way out with some boys to drink beer, and I tucked in to the new issue of People, which explained everything about Brad and Jen but why. A crucial element to a working relationship is space, and this is exactly what I have when Cowboy isn’t taking up any room lying spread-eagled on my bed like he’s trying to make snow angels under the sheets, pushing me further and further to the edge until I start wondering, Whose damn bed is this anyway?

Before I knew it, it was 9 a.m. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I rang Cowboy to tell him it was time to rise and shine. Evidently, after a few car bombs on top of many pitchers of beer, he no longer felt like rising or shining, and, for that matter, the idea of doing laundry seemed like a distant concept — kind of like the tsunami is for most Americans. But, despite the fact that he probably wanted to lie around all morning in bed, he knew that laundry day is a significant milestone in the beginning of any new relationship and that rise he must, even if he could not shine. He put on a brave face and asked me to pick him up.

Posthaste, Cowboy and I made our way over to the "hippie place" in the West End to wash our duds. Although it all began well (despite the embarrassing fact that we took up a full seven machines together), the sun streaming in through the windows where we read the paper and drank tea, it soon became clear that I was going to have to leave before anything was dry to go rehearse a group of women whom I’m directing in the Vagina Monologues. Cowboy said no sweat, he’d handle the clothes, although he got a little worried about what my definition of folded was.

Just as rehearsal was beginning, I saw a call on my cell blinking with his name. I shut the phone off, feeling that whatever disaster this was, he would have to figure it out alone instead of me coaching him in front of a room full of women reading about cunts and pussies. I had faith. Sort of.

Two hours later, there was a knock on my door. To a sirens’ chorus of "come in" the door handle turned and there stood Cowboy holding a basket full of folded laundry, on top of that a bag of laundry, and in his right hand a bag of various detergents. His face was red and flustered like he suddenly had gotten some kind of terrible rash. There was part of me that wondered if this was my Jerry Maguire moment, where a man would stand there and say to me in front of a room full of women "you complete me" — although I’d be lying if I said that this had not been a fantasy at some point in my life, the idea of it happening now horrified me.

Instead, my cowboy asked, "Um. Does this look like the laundry you took to the laundromat?" We all stared. What? I mean, how the hell would I know? It was all uber-neatly folded in a basket and in a bag and he was standing about 10 feet away from me looking like he was afraid to come in the door. One woman looked up from an "own the cunt word" monologue she had just been reading and suggested that he at least come in and set the laundry down.

Somehow, it was revealed, he had lost my laundry. But he thought he might have found it.

Later, after he had gone to work and I was done with the ladies, I opened up the bag and found huge pairs of sateen underwear (for a size 14 at least), and many pairs of various kinds of sweat pants I had never seen before. I took the bag over to the bar where he works and pulled him aside. "Does this look like underwear I would wear?" I whispered, pulling out a pair of shiny peach-colored granny pants that would reach as far as my chin. I was incredulous that he might not know anything about my style, or worse, my size. All hope vanished that he might possess at least a few of the sensibilities of a gay man.

He took it like a champ, telling me he knew I wasn’t going to have any sympathy for the sexist iniquities in proper laundry training for young boys, but that he was sure my clothes weren’t totally lost. Luckily, he was right. I found the rest of my laundry in a basket waiting for me at the laundromat.

At least I now know Cowboy can fold.

Caitlin Shetterly can be reached at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com