Maybe Richard’s right. Could be I have too much time on my hands these days. Like a child on Christmas morning, I awoke early today, my brain awash in feel-good chemicals—in my case induced by yesterday’s purchase of a T-Fal steam iron. Life was good this morning because all was right with the universe and my whole wrinkle-free existence once again stretched out before me.
Following my first three pots of coffee, I got down to it. After all, a change of season is upon us. So too the time to make good impressions, so to speak. I’d listen to music I don’t want people to know about and iron away my day to Nirvana (<–hint). I wouldn’t press all my shirts–maybe just a couple hundred. Images of collars and cuffs and sprays of starch danced in my head as I pulled the ironing board open to that inspiring, universal ironing board screech and I plugged in my shiny new appliance. Be still, my beating heart. “Daddy’s coming,” I joyfully announced to the tall mound of fall wardrobia now on my living room floor. I look back on my life and count steam irons the way most folks count lovers. This is my second T-Fal. I remember the first fondly. As integral as they are to happy existence, I don’t actually name my irons. That would be plain silly. (Besides, like lovers, why name something that will eventually have to be tossed?) T-Fal number one was a work horse—my first no-stick, to boot. Her surface plate was a gleaming chrome that wouldn’t stop even if it hit the stalest wad of chewing gum. Is there a steam iron museum somewhere? There ought to be. The wee print of the user manual seems to recommend inaugurating things by pushing down on the steam button a couple of times while holding the iron mid-air (like any newborn). I did that and T-Fal 2 was soon hissing and purring expectantly, like every good iron should. Let me at ‘em, her increasing steaminess seemed to say. (I do so love purposefulness.) Excited but reticent, I began with a fabulous but well worn long-sleever now really only good for cottage weekends or dark moonless nights—a reasonable sacrificial victim, should my first try turn out badly. My trepidatious strategy proved unwarranted, though, and T-Fal 2 was soon gliding under the control of her divine puppet master and, together, we made playful figure eights and even the odd triple sow-cow across the thankful garment. Oh yes, we made some truly magical impressions on the ratty old shirt. But that was hours ago. Then it happened. The accursed appliance quite suddenly shot like a ouija board palette across the pure silk folds of shirt number two, laid taught and vulnerable across the board just moments before by yours truly. The angry, steaming bitch spat and sputtered uncontrollably like a fifteen year-old boy on his first visit to a cathouse. It soon looked like a murder scene straight out of an Italian film, say one where a hirsute, one-eyed, villainous albino clown maybe wearing crotchless panties and a lone tit clamp slashes a roomful of glycerine-blooded elves with rusty butter knife or letter opener. I immobilized T-Fal 2 and stood her on end far from the shirt where she gurgled and gushed and finally erupted, fast covering the ironing board with invisible gore. (As the ladies know, water thrown at silk is a ghastly thing.) The carnage is long over and I’m at this moment glaring at the box I carted T-Fal 2 home in and its bold ‘sputter-free’ boast alongside what are undoubtedly other T-Fallacies. Could it be that this thing calling itself an iron was somehow mislabeled and is actually a shower massager? I know only that I rue the day she left whatever factory birthed her. Underpaid third-worlders or not, Hell gapes for each and every worker who allowed that to happen. The doctors say I should get out more. Thing is, last time I did I picked up my new iron and look what happened. |
Pressing Ironies (Steaming Mad Series) |