Day Twenty-One - Iron-y

My mother keeps an exceptionally and perhaps a bit obsessively clean and tidy house. She always has. She would have made a wonderful housewife, except that she also worked [outside the home] full-time [and then some]. My dad was also quite neat and tidy - for the most part. So I don't know what happened with me because I can be a little bit of a Miss Piggy...perhaps this is further proof that I'm adopted. More likely, I am just spoiled.

I have fond memories of spending time with my mum watching made-for-tv movies or some news magazine show while she ironed and I...probably did nothing aside from watching TV. Very comforting [other memories include drinking coffee, sitting on the kitchen counter, yapping and watching my mum do the dishes every night - I'm so awesome]. So tonight, trying to recreate that scene I finally opened up the ironing board from its packaging and I ironed. The ironing board has been around for...well...over a year in its store packaging. I do [on rare occasions] iron - but usually just on the counter or on a towel on the floor. My mum ironed weekly and she ironed *everything*. Towels, faceclothes, underpants - everything! She always wanted me in ironed clothes because she thought people would think less of me [and of her] if I was a bit wrinkly.

I've been shamefully wrinkly for a long time, for the most part. I ironed a faux silk miniskirt and two of Joseph's dress shirts and it was...quite awful. I think maybe I was supposed to learn these skills in some horrific home economics class, but instead I was asked to leave that course and took welding instead. Ironing made me feel very 1950s housewife and not in a good, fun way [like when I cook]. A definite test of my patience.

Now where is my valium?