Boycott Ironing

Four reasons I don't iron often:

1. I may be a tad bit lazy in the wrinkle-free department.

2. My husband wears cotton 99% of the time. I don't iron cotton. And Real Gil doesn't like his cotton ironed. Come to think of it, perhaps this is because he knows how I feel about ironing cotton. Not sure which came first, but the details don't matter. We don't iron cotton in this house. Which is yet another reason why I will never be the recipient of a Morbid Monday post. Some men might appreciate a wife with an apron. Real Gil could care less, and after twelve years of marriage, neither do I. That's why we leave and cleave, baby.

3. The great thing about procrastinating on mundane chores is that when Easter Sunday rolls around and you finally throw your back into ironing, it's like a mini-Christmas morning at our house. Kids are falling headlong into the ironing basket and pulling out "new clothes." They beg for ironing and I happily oblige. If you ever want to be thanked for ironing, pull out cute clothes that have needed rediscovering and hum a little working song while you press. I think we could have entirely skipped the Easter baskets full of candy.

4. Perhaps the most important reason I do not iron at my house is this: every time I go thrift store shopping, I see perfectly pressed clothes shoved into the racks, gathering the smells of mothballs and cigarettes from the garments harassing them on either side. As much as I like a deal, I despise wasting time, and I almost feel guilty buying someone else's ironed hand-me-downs. It's like I've seen their underwear drawer or something. To think that they ironed! For me?! And they didn't even know it! Just yesterday, I ironed clothes and got rid of two items pre-ironing. If you want to buy my castoffs, they are pretty doggone cute. But be forewarned: they are wrinkled.

So, it's official. I've boycotted ironing...until next Easter.

But on a totally random endnote, I am now the proud owner of one $13.99 WalMart-special iron-of-sorts that you just might need to try.


It's called the triple barrel. Doesn't that sound dramatic? You may call it a crimper if you like, but in my book, this is the only ironing I still do in this house. Real Gil and I did indeed go on a date tonight and this sucker is anything but boycotted. I figure the wrinkled clothes will go well with the wrinkled hair. Now, I did take a picture for you all. But it was not exactly a James Glover shot. I was so vain so tired that I didn't download the red-eyed, pajama-clad picture for you.

Anyways, one iron is out and another is in. Works for me!

Resting,
Karen