The Post-Gazette's bumper crop of summer interns have launched a blog -- "SummerBurgh" -- that chronicles life in the Pittsburgh region this very summer. Selections of their work will appear in Portfolio from time to time.

Misfortune struck, the dog howled and the world wept: My dryer broke.

Like most Americans, I thought the world had ended. What was this concept called "hanging clothes to dry"? Machines help keep the world turning on its axis, not gravity or this mumbo-jumbo physics stuff.

The washer in my Squirrel Hill home was well-adjusted, like any obedient pet. Roll over, dryer! Play dead! Fetch! But that dryer, oh, that bad little dryer. It's like one of those simple, misbehaving puppies that go on the linoleum floor and stare idly into space when you command them to sit or complete any menial task.

Having just moved here, I did not have the comforts of life: a laundry bag, for instance. So I tossed my wet clothes into two garbage bags (colors and whites!) and left them in the basement. I planned to take care of my comforter, ragged gym shorts, boxers and socks that night.

And I went to work.

That was Friday, June 5. I watched a few movies. I read a couple of chapters. Oh look, the Penguins won! It was on Monday morning when I remembered that my laundry was still down there.

I trudged into the basement only to smell wafts of-- something.

I opened the bags, and then the wafts became oppressive winds of disgust. Mildew spots littered my comforter and socks.

I brought my bags with me on my morning commute, the faint, then-familiar smell following me as I drove Downtown. I propped my bags next to my desk and let the fumes nauseate me as I spoke with a few Pittsburghers over the phone. I searched for self-serve laundromats Downtown. There has to be one, right?

Apparently not. The only site I discovered was across the street from PPG Plaza, just a few minutes from the office. So I went in and asked if they could clean my diseased apparel. I offered to pay whatever they want.

But the two shopkeepers, with their mildly Southern, mildly chiding accents, told me I should find a self-serve laundromat and clean the clothes myself.

After a near hour of failed Google and Yahoo searches for a self-serve in my neighborhood of Squirrel Hill (all of them were dry cleaners! Dry cleaners!), I asked a colleague. She told me of a place near the corner of Forbes and Shady avenues.

I was panting as I arrived at the laundromat that day after work. The three loads of laundry were quite heavy, and I almost keeled over from the weight.

And there I saw it: Bleach! There were packets of bleach in the vending machine! Oh boy, oh boy! I hurried, quarters in hand, to purchase the powder. I piled the clothes into the washer, poured the bleach and detergent into the receptacle and shut the door. The clothes soaked in the disinfectant for three hours, and I watched as they circled round and round.

It was the moment of truth. The dryers; those powerful, masterful dryers. I grasped the wet clothes and carried them to the back of the room. I shoveled them in and quickly deposited coins into the three dryers.

I shut the doors and waited. And waited. Oh I couldn't stand there much longer: I needed to run around, do something.

Then the dryer stopped. I opened the doors, those pretty glass doors, grabbed my white towel and held it close to my cheeks. It smelled clean! I felt eager. I felt accomplished. I felt ready for my next task.