2. No thank you.
3. Yes, I know that my mother is a master and could win the World Ironing Championships in the categories of Competence and Thoroughness. Yes, I know she is a legend in her own time. Yes, she has been known to iron underwear. And, finally, yes, she has tried to enlighten me on many occasions but maybe it’s true what they say about certain traits/skills/talents skipping a generation.
4. How do you use this thing?
5. Why is rusty water seeping out of the holes?
6. Okay, vaguely I understand how to address the torso, the collar and even the back of this shirt even with those two little pleats. What’s stumping me here, despite my degrees of higher learning, my advancing age, and all the wisdom I regularly display in other areas of my life are…the sleeves. Maybe I need one of those super-slim ironing boards specifically for sleeves, like these. Or maybe that’s just another space-sucker I won’t really ever use…
7. Call me a disheveled wreck, but in my opinion, a wrinkly shirt or skirt trumps a burned down house. Because the chances of me remembering to unplug that extra-hot fire hazard before I run out the door in my even wrinkly-er and now rust-stained outfit, already 15 minutes later than I intended to leave, are, well…very low. Note that I am ALWAYS in a hurry and trying to run out to something I can’t be late to when I attempt to iron (a wedding, a Christening, an interview): this could be one reason why I tend to iron in more wrinkles, during most attempts. We’re talking deeper, more noticeable and lasting wrinkles.
8. If you stay alert on laundry day, there is no reason to Actually Iron when you can Pretend Iron. You see how I bounded over the couch as if it were a hurdle, knocked over six plants then accidentally face-butted the corner of the laundry room wall as soon as the clothes dryer stopped? That’s because it’s imperative to take the clothes out of the dryer, IMMEDIATELY, while they’re still hot so that I can quickly and frantically smooth them out with my hands on the bed. Of course, this doesn’t make the clothes “nicely” or, what you would call “crisply” pressed, it makes them only barely fit to wear in public. And this outlay of panicked effort, which regularly causes my blood pressure to spike, means I don’t have to pull out that iron and ironing board. (You may be wondering, smugly, does this methodology work when it comes to linen? Hell no!)
9. See that photo of the ironing board, above? It was taken without the corresponding iron because I can’t find it. That’s how long its been since I have ironed.
10. The ONLY redeeming feature of an iron is that brilliant retractable cord. I could stretch that thing out, push that button then watch the iron swiftly suck that cord back in all day. Maybe I’ll send out the iron search party one more time. Oh! Here it is, right on the laundry room shelf, where we always keep it. Oops, I must have just blocked it out or something the first time I tried to
not find it. Maybe I do have a case of Selective Seeing.
What about you? Are you an ironing master or an admitted nincompoop?