Chuckle #390 | January 13, 2010
Too Many Irons in the Fire
Some time, some where, some ONE (most likely a man) decided that wrinkles were bad. Not the wrinkles on our faces (which ARE bad) but the ones in our clothes (which in my mind are inconsequential.) A torturous new chore for women was thus invented, and from the anger of women and the ashes of scorched men’s shirts everywhere, the dry cleaning delivery industry was born.
I iron only three times a year. This is because over the years I have denied myself ANYTHING that requires a hot iron, including hairstyles. If I can’t wear it directly from the dryer, it doesn’t get bought. This lightens the ironing load considerably. That and splurging on an awesome door to door dry cleaning service that picks up my husbands work shirts each week.
Since Mr. Minuteman entered my life, so many years ago, I’ve never once had to defend exactly how and why my activities prevented me from the important task of picking up the dry cleaning. God Bless Mr. Minuteman (his dog treats) and his bi-weekly visits. There is something to be said for liberation from the iron. And that something is pure marital bliss.
On the other hand, I have friends who enjoy ironing EVERYTHING, including their sheets. Some women (or men) like to iron because it’s therapeutic and induces a strangely peaceful (psychotic?) trance-like state. That’s ok. Ironing as therapy is better than taking tranquilizers, drinking an entire bottle of white wine by yourself (it’s happened), or fighting with your husband (or wife) about missing shirts.
There are only three things that I find worthy of ironing. My grandmother’s Irish linen napkins (it’s my way of honoring a special lady); cheap valances (my mother taught me that cheap valances should at the very least be wrinkle free); and “iron on” patches (a misnomer, but the application of which prevents my daughter from giving her classmates a peep show via the extraordinarily large holes in her jeans.)
I also used to iron on about 100 Brownie and Girl Scout patches each year but those days have mercifully come to an end. No disrespect to that great organization, the Girl Scouts, but I think “patches” should be a little harder to earn. Some of us don’t want to spend 50 hours sewing on patches that were awarded for such Brobdingnagian achievements as “learning about hygiene”, or “how to make snow cones.” I hereby BEG the Girl Scouts to do away with patch “inflation,” or at least teach our girls how to sew on their own patches at the very first Brownie meeting. (Feel free to give them a patch for that.) I ask not for me, because I am so done with that, but for the sanity of all future Brownie moms.
We all know that iron “on” is an overstatement. If you’ve ever ironed “on” a patch, you know that it will surely fall “off” the next day. If someone created a stronger bonding agent for iron on patches they could make a FORTUNE from lazy mothers like me. I don’t think the technology behind those things has changed in at least 40 years. Surely NASA has developed a new super strength, gravity resistant, non-carcinogenic adhesive that could improve the patch? If I were a chemist I would seriously look into that.
In the meantime, I am forced to both iron AND sew on the “iron on” patches. Ironing is not a permanent solution. It merely keeps the patch in the right place until I have the time and energy to find a needle and thread. But to be honest, sewing and ironing make me feel very “womanly,” in an old fashioned kind of way. Yes, there are the severe burns, finger pricks, and the accompanying outbursts of inappropriate language; but there is also a Martha Stewart-like feeling of gratification. There is nothing better than laying my grandmother’s perfectly smooth napkins neatly in the buffet for the next holiday dinner, and knowing that my daughter’s butt is completely hidden from view.
Got a womanly chore that you’ve warmed up to lately? Making potpourri, canning zucchini, or milking the cow perhaps?
