I laughed when I read Millie's post today. She's a good woman, better than I. I was just going to write a comment, but, in order to keep this blog real I decided to confess my sins on my own nickel.
I HATE ironing. Have since I was a 7 year old mite, ironing my first pillowcase (remember when we did that?????). I'd set the iron on its end so that I could reposition the case and the *(^^&& iron fell on the back of my hand.
I finished childhood with a huge scar that only now, fifty years later, is no longer present. And since that day, my iron and I try to stay at least 3 states apart. I'd have a restraining order if it were possible.
But stuff has to be ironed, so occasionally (bi-annually????) I break out the iron and ironing board (yep, it still has the same pad as the day I walked down the aisle). I then whine, complain, vetch, sniffle, moan, whimper and drag myself to the chore. It isn't pretty.
My husband learned of my ironing phobia soon after we met. Thankfully, he wasn't at my degree of loathing and happily ironed his own stuff, unless it was something special and took it to the cleaners for a professional finish. The boys weren't so lucky. I always made a point of getting things out of the dryer pronto, as well as always buying things that were permanent press, but the little orphans still managed to show up at school looking like they'd slept in their clothes.
I didn't care. Not one whit.
It was so bad that one morning, before I entered mommyhood, I realized that I had nothing presentable to wear to work. I huffed and puffed and tried to guilt my husband into ironing my blouse for me. It only made sense, didn't I push the buttons on the washer and dryer? He could step up.
Well, he didn't, and went to work leaving me to face my nemesis alone. I slowly stomped my way into the laundry room to set up my torture table. But there it was, all sparkly and clean, just waiting for me. And there, standing at attention, was my iron, waiting, lurking, but smiling in that cheesy way that all evil irons smile. I plugged it in and waited for it to heat up.
This is when I noticed that my husband had left a note permanently stuck on the iron. It was one of those plastic labeling things you punch out data on and stick on mailboxes, etc. And the message was so sweet! "I love you" was his own special message, so I softened my stance against him and men in general and ironed my blouse myself.
Later at work, on a busy morning, I called him to thank him for the note. By then we'd been married a couple of years and some of the shine was developing a patina. When John picked up the phone, I murmured into the receiver "I love you, too, Honey."
"Whaddya mean, 'I love you, too?" was his response. I sniffed and said, "I found your note on the iron."
He burst into laughter and said, "Honey, I put that tape on the iron two years ago."
So, Millie, dear sister, may I attend your ironing class? Can we start simple, and have neosporin and ice packets at the ready? And maybe include Peter and Roger?