Did you know In Cleveland, Ohio it is illegal to catch mice without a hunting license?
(I think they’ve taken “gaming” a little too seriously.) Oh—and did you know a sneeze travels out of your mouth at over
100 m.p.h.? That’s intense. No wonder old folk’s dentures pop out of their mouths…
Note to self: NEVER gift grandma gourmet pepper.
I also learned: Ants never sleep. And, there is no word in the English dictionary that rhymes with
"MONTH". (I’m betting my firstborn that you just tried to see if you could rhyme something with ‘month.’)
Good luck—
that’s a brain buster—and speaking of brains, did you know the human brain is
80% water?
(I confess…..I never listened in science class. I was on the front row and SMACK DAB in the middle—right in front of the teacher, where I sat too GROSSLY mesmerized by his sweating belly button. Yes, he always had a ring of sweat around his belly button. I’ve…….never seen that before. He wasn’t doing anything—just standing there lecturing—and sweating from his belly button……..EW!! And I always had a FRONT ROW view. The sad part? He NEVER paced as he lectured. He stood in one place. Right in front of my lucky chair—giving me one horrendous hour of entertainment staring straight at his belly. And--it was EXACTLY at eye level. Beautiful. Ah! Thinking about it makes me shiver!)
Moving on……Oh! And did you know that a goldfish has a memory span of about
3 seconds.
Crap. Forget Alzheimer’s—I’m officially a goldfish.
(Check out the funny facts
HERE.)
But did you ALSO
know there is a pattern when ironing? I didn’t know a system—
or a “technique” if you will --even existed. Well, not until I married my husband.
Sure, I had my own technique, and the
“system” I created was simple.
(And my husband’s eyes had to be glued back into his head the first time he watched me iron.)
MY TECHNIQUE:
First: slap the shirt onto the ironing board. Upside down, inside out…who cares?!
Second: Don’t burn yourself.
*VITALLY IMPORTANT*
It’s one thing for a bodacious bovine to be branded for future lunch meat, but it’s another to be branded by your iron. I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea about me—
I don’t like ironing.
Therefore, I don’t want it scarring my flesh for an eternity. And I wouldn’t want it to look like I had accidentally picked out the wrong tattoo. It would be like choosing a chocolate chip cookie tattoo and getting a pile of manure etched forever on your skin instead.
Not pleasant.
{Especially if the tattoo artist throws in two complimentary flies during the mix-up and tattoos them flying above the new manure pile on your bicep.}
Third: Use water to help iron out wrinkles. Any water will do—sink, faucet, etc. Sprinkle it on with your hands or use a spray bottle if it hasn’t disappeared because your kids used it as an indoor water gun.
And Forth—
and this part is optional--Use starch. I will use it if I absolutely need it;
IF I’m going somewhere nice or fancy and I can’t get those darn wrinkles out any other way—
but only if I’m not feeling too lazy to reach over and apply it to my clothes.
Ironing is a chore I loathe.
It’s my nemesis. So I avoid it...like I avoid family reunions.
(Especially with the watermelon seed-spitting contests and throwing dried-up cow pies across the field in a game of 500. But…….that’s another story……)
After watching my first appalling ironing job, my sweet husband asked,
“Wow, I’ve never seen it done like that before.” With a handsome smile, he offered,
“Would you like me to teach you?” Lol. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
“No, no, I’m good. I don’t need to learn how to iron, my clothes are fine the way they are. I’ve accepted their wrinkles,” I smile sweetly.
Other than sheer laziness, I have some good reasons why ironing is pointless.
#1-- Kids.
#2-- Excess fat rolls. My shirt is going to get sucked in-between my love handles like a black hole folding in on itself. It’s going to get wrinkled beyond repair anyway--
so why bother?
But, I am one lucky lady—I married an
ironing master.
(Or maybe it’s just because he’s a teensy bit OCD.)
I did not know how lucky I was when I married the
REAL Ironman. But comic book heroes wouldn’t be very popular on the big screen holding a
Black & Decker Steam Xpress. The action sequences would be boring if the ironman hero vowed to fumigate the bad guys with his durable, non-stick superior stream spray. I don’t see the bad guys quivering from ironman’s high-end anti-buildup system with three-way shutoff, and the ever impressive
“burst of steam” feature.
Okay—so my man is
OCD with our iron. He insists on having immaculate shirts. It takes him
30 minutes to iron
1 shirt.
Me? 0.000004th of a second.
My husband in fact, irons my shirts for me. I’ll be walking out the door and he’ll say,
“um…are you wearing that?”
“No,” I scoff,
“I planned to strip it off at church as soon as we get seated and throw it to the lucky guy sitting behind me in the congregation. Of course I was planning on wearing it!”
“Yeah….okay. You better hand it over. I’ll iron it.”
“It’s not that bad,” I protest, eyeing my shirt quizzically. There are just a few tiny wrinkles—and I’ve already worn this shirt once. That’s
TWO times without washing it.
*GASP!!* (Don’t tell him that.)
ME:
“I think it’s fine,” I say,
“right?”
HIM:
“If you walk into church you’ll embarrass me.”
ME:
“Huh.”
HIM:
“Here, give it to me and I’ll iron it for you.”
ME:
“Okay,” I shrug.
“Woohoo!! Thanks babe!”
Just like that. He irons
MY clothes. Not only is it awesome that he does it willingly, but he does it
WELL. I have never had such pristine and beautifully ironed shirts in my life. Shirts that scream
“STARCH!” And when you slip them on….
wow. I didn’t know shirts came this way.
I do try to understand it, but come on, the man has been known to iron his underwear from time to time.
WHY? I don’t get it either. It’s going to bunch up in certain places anyhow, so why bother?
“Because it feels so good!” he laughs.
Um, that’s
“wear” I draw the line.
Hahahaha! Those homophones!
*wiping away tears*
I was a good wife, long,
long ago when I surprised him by ironing
25 of his best long-sleeved shirts for work. He was super grateful--
ecstatic--when I had surprised him. He asked which ones were ironed as he stared into his closet.
“All of them,” I said.
“Oh……….”
His plea to me? With a kiss on the forehead,
“I love you tons, you are the bestest wife ever—(here’s the but) but,” he begged,
“please don’t take this wrong. Don’t iron my clothes. I’ll take care of that—and yours too.”
Me:
“AWESOME!!!” The musical words burst from me and I wanted to go jump through some rain puddles in elation.
So, just like that, I’m off the hook and not feeling a bit guilty. In fact, in a family vote, I was banned from ironing. Life couldn’t be sweeter. I can envision it all in my head; I can see my darling kids taking their first ironing lesson,
not from me—but from their dad. Some of my kid’s domestic skills will not come from their mother. They too will learn the OCD behavior that my husband has acquired and they will learn how to iron his way.
And you know what? I kind of like that idea, but if our kids ever want to learn how to
'cut corners'—they know where to find me :)
