Saturday, February 1, 2014

Iron Lady

Turns out I’m completely screwed.  I am now officially an ironing 101 flunky.  Yep, I am pretty sure I am not cut out to be an ironer in this lifetime.  I may have to change the title of my book now too because I seriously suck at ironing and “iron” appears in the title of my New York Times Best Seller I am am writing.  I spent over two hours yesterday trying to emanate Jeff’s Grandma’s (Aka Grandma Lulu) system for ironing which is both mystical and magical to observe I might add.  I took detailed notes, asked lots of relevant questions, followed her directions and still felt like an octopus with 9 or 10 arms (or I guess technically tentacles) trying to man handle Irma... that's what I named my iron, Irma.  I thought if we were on a first name basis, maybe it would help my attempt to master the art of ironing.  I was wrong.  Irma apparently does not want me to become a good ironer.  Maybe she is insecure and feels threatened by me. That is common between women.  Or maybe she is mad that I haven't developed a relationship with her sooner since she joined our family when we were married 10 years ago and I have only used her once or twice.  I don't know, but she was definitely not trying to help me succeed. 

Irma, the Iron, trying to sabotage my lesson!  She looks so innocent, but don't be fooled. She is cunning and will stop at nothing to ruin my chances at being an ironing champion!

I watched Lulu's flawless motion with Irma in complete awe continually for at least a half an hour.  And then I attempted to copy her motions, but it was useless.  No I was useless.  Lulu whips shirts around like a seasoned cowboy roping cattle (gently I might add).  She knew exactly what to do with all the parts of the iron (which I do not) and ironing board (which I do not).   She even managed to have each shirt wrinkle-free in less than three minutes time (Yes I got my stopwatch out because I was curious and then once I timed her I was just impressed)  Conservatively, I think it takes me, “forever” or “until hell freezes over” to produce a wrinkle-free shirt.  Meanwhile, I am convinced that Grandma Lulu may have a future in the Ironing Olympics or the Iron Super Bowl because she is just that good!  All the while, I am no closer to producing a wrinkle-free garment now, than I was two days ago!  And I feel like a complete and utter failure because of this.  As with most things in life, I blame my mother for my ironing deficiencies.  Clearly, she did a lousy job teaching me the ways of the 1940s housewife. How could she have been so blind to my future needs and desires?  I want nothing more than to have my husband happy and wearing smooth shirts for the rest of our days together and now I am faced with the realization that this may not be possible.  I am truly crushed.

Getting back to the blaming my mom deal for this ironing dilemma, I often find myself wondering how badly I am messing up my own kids.  Don’t you?  Have I already done too much damage? Or is there hope that they will grow up somewhat normal and not blame me for all of their issues as adults? I don’t know, but I highly doubt it. But I do know that when we were kids our mom yelled a lot and I swore I never would if I was a mom and now I totally do.  I am such a hypocrite. I yell a lot more than I should and it bothers me too. But I honestly don’t know how to stop it because truthfully the kids don’t listen unless I yell. If they would just do what I tell them to do the first time, yelling would be obsolete.  We would all be whispering or talking in indoor voices.  Instead it a vicious cycle of yelling that I find myself amidst and I do fear that it is probably screwing my kids up because all of my mom’s yelling totally screwed me up! That’s why I find myself perpetually trying to prove my sanity is intact!  Am I making any sense here? or just sounding more crazy than ever?  Either way, I am moving right along...

Back at the ironing ranch...I guess to be an excellent ironer you may have to start at an early age, you know, like elite athletes, or famous artists.  Maybe I just missed my window.  Remember, as children, for safety purposes because my mom was all about safety, we only observed ironing on extremely rare occasions from extremely far-off distances.  Maybe if my mom had introduced me to that hot piece of metal sooner, I would be an ironing expert today. I guess we will never know!  Instead I find I can’t figure ironing out to save my life (or my marriage) and my husband is shunned at work because his shirts are so imperfectly ironed that everyone teases him and calls him “messy man” and "wrinkle hoser".  I am probably ruining his life too not just the kids.  And all because of the bloomin’ iron and my mom's failure to properly train me in the manner of ironing at an early enough age. SIGH

 I may look okay with an iron in hand, but once I start using it the boom totally falls out!

 Watch out!  I've got an iron and I am not afraid to use it! Oh...actually I am scared.

I am going to schedule another lesson next week and try to talk to Irma to see what her problems is and see if we can work things out.  There must be some kind of solution to be had here or something I can do to make amends.  I will persist in my attempt to become an ironing whiz and repair my relationship with Irma, even if I look a fool doing so.

Disclaimer no moms were hurt or killed during the writing of this blog and any comments made about my mom were done so in good humor and are meant to be light-hearted criticisms about my mother. They were embelished for entertainment purposes and she mostly is not responsible for my being so strange!
Vern Out



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