The case of the missing laundry

There are times when the laundry machines in my building are in high demand. So, I have to plan my laundry times precisely. Of course the best time to do laundry is during the day when everyone, including myself, is at work. So, the easiest time to do laundry is late-ish in the evening. This would be excellent except I work at 5am and so I'm in bed by the time the laundry machines are free. Thursday night, I decided to do laundry. I popped in my first load, and then my second, and then my last one. By this time, it's going for 10. I had started my day at 4:30am and so I was sleepy.I did what any sleepy person would do: I just left my last load in the dryer to get in the morning. 

Friday morning, I bounce down to the laundry room to grab my load, and discover that it's gone. *Poof* Vanished. Somehow in the night it has disappeared.  I stop dead. Dread is clutching my heart.

It's my one of my nightmares come true.

My laundry is gone. Someone took my clothes. Where are my clothes?!

I bounce right back up the stairs to tell my roommate, K, what has happened. She is just as befuddled as I am. My rational roommate, the logical one in my life, has nothing to say other than, "Well, that's interesting. You better talk to George."

George is our landlord. An immigrant from Greece, he's a character and he loves us. Luckily he is in the building. I find him and ask him if he maybe took a load of clothes out of the dryer this morning. He looks at me strangely. No, he replies seriously. The dread has returned and is clutching my heart again. My last hope laid with George. What am I to do?

I decide to leave a note on the front door of the building and the laundry room as well.

To the person who took my laundry- Please return it to the basket in the laundry room or apartment 4 ASAP. You have my work clothes and I need them back. 
Thanks, Ashley

 K and I head out for breakfast. As we are starving and one of the things we excel at is brunching/breakfasting. By the time we return, someone else has set up shop in the laundry room. I am beside myself. My laundry hasn't been returned yet. WHY HASN'T MY LAUNDRY BEEN RETURNED?

I spend the day anxiously checking the laundry room several times for my clothes. I take my dog for a walk. I drop my work keys off to a colleague. I come home, convinced that I am going to have to go to the mall and replace my work wardrobe. K, manages to convince me to wait until everyone has a chance to see my note/ gets home from work.

I spend some time online, alternating between raging over the theft of my clothes and looking at cute dog videos. Time well spent taking my mind of the tragedy that has befallen me.

Suddenly, I hear voices in the lobby and like any Islander worth their weight I tip toe to the door and listen to them. Hark! These folk are talking about my laundry and.... SOMEONE MENTIONS THAT THEY SAW CLOTHES ON THE TABLE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM!

I wait impatiently for these folk to move on. I am not leaving my apartment until they are gone. What is taking them so long? How long does it take to say hi and talk about the weather, and MY MISSING CLOTHES?!

They leave. I boot 'er down and there are my clothes. But wait, there is a note on the door replying to mine.

Dear Fellow Tenant, 

Here are your clothes back. You did such a great job of sneaking them into my laundry that I didn't even realize they were in there. The next time you need to dry your clothes, just knock on someone's door & ask to borrow $2. Its alot less creepy.

I stop. I read it again. And again. My blood starts to boil. The injustice burns me.

"The next time you need to dry your clothes just knock on someone's door  & ask to borrow $2. Its alot less creepy." ALOT LESS CREEPY?!

Besides the terrible spelling in the letter, the fact that this person was not able to see that there was a full load of laundry in the dryer before they put their own load in there, made me insane with rage. I briefly envisioned how I was going to rain my fiery ire down on that individual.  I composed 362 responses to that note, all starting with "Dear Passive-Aggressive Bag of Dicks". I run back up the stairs and burst into the apartment. Rage making me feel like I can fly. I celebrate the return of my clothes with a dance in my bedroom. Remi, watches with a face that says that I am crazy.

It isn't too much longer after my dance that I remind myself that I can never actually respond to the note. I cringe. I wish I was the type of person to stick up for myself. It's so much easier when it's someone else. Alas...

20 minutes later, finds me still trembling with rage. I clearly am not going to get over this easily. So I do what every angry girl does: I text friends. Their responses cheer me considerably. Thank goodness for these people who believe that I am justified in dubbing the thief Passive Aggressive Douch Bag.