To The Italian Undergrads Who Share My Washer/Dryer

Gentlemen:

On this evening of acceptance speeches, I’d like to thank you for putting the joy back in Sunday-night laundry. Had I dirty socks enough, and stained shirts, I’d gladly while the hours at our Whirlpool, listening to your exotic banter. I don’t understand your language, but I admire your choice in wool blankets. I’m sorry I initially mistook you for Japanese. I only caught a glimpse of your dark hair through the kitchen window, and I thought I smelled sesame oil. I promise I’m not usually so ethnocentric. I also swear I only use that Veggie Tales t-shirt with the sweat stain for dusting. All my sexy v-neck tops are at the dry cleaner’s. If you ever care to borrow my Bounce sheets, you’re more than welcome. Is there an Italian version of “mi casa es su casa?” My detergents are yours. Prego.

J.