Oh My Word

I feel really bad. Dear Sir has to ask me to iron. I would gladly scrub a whole row of really rank dirty toilets than iron. It faithfully piles up every day and the poor guy (I call him my clothes horse) goes through the stuff. It makes me sweat. I have since made my peace with sweating since I run quite a bit, but ironing is different. I think it is because I have to stand there and have patience. I like to do things quickly. Like when I put dishes away. I don't think there is a time when Dear Sir does not say, "Oh My Word! Can you slow down?! Do you want to break something?!"

The thing is, I don't break things. I don't break dishes. I would be more likely to burn a shirt though, just leaving the iron on it to get a really stubborn wrinkle out. I have caught myself getting distracted and doodling with something else while there is the iron on the shirt steaming away. "Oh crud!" I think. I have this image in my mind of this 80's movie with John Ritter (I don't know what movie it is for the life of me) accidentially leaving an iron on a shirt and so the shirt completely burned. He was like, "Oh crud!" Yeah, that sounds like me.

You have to see that Dear Sir learned how to iron properly in the U.S. Air Force. He probably would have had to get down and do fifty if a superior saw his cami's had a wrinkle. I would much rather do fifty. A hundred. At least I would get something out of it. But the good thing about ironing is this: just like a girl who has no idea how to shoot a rifle or how to whack a golf ball would need her dear one to come along side her and teach her these things, I have my very own Dear to show me how to iron properly. And he does, believe me. It has taken him five years of bearing with a chronic wrinkle that I always leave on each and every shirt to even mention it to me. Finally one day as I was ironing in his presence he said, "Here, let me show you how to do that part." He is so very kind, you know.

And there are so many things I just never know about this Long-Suffering man. I just found out late last year that he actually dips his torilla chips in salsa. Since he is so picky I jumped at that and now it is a regular staple in our diet. I never really knew that a Whatchamakalit (whatchahoweveryouspellit) was his favorite candy bar until someone "tagged" him. I have always been told that he will eat scrambled eggs, but I have never seen him eat them. I have found that the most important thing with a man like this is to not TELL him what is in something. I have trouble with this. I know I should not tell him, but then I feel really dishonest. I feel like I am lying to him, so I always spill the beans (by the way, he would never eat beans). Real women shut their mouths. I have to season myself for a few more years. I feel it coming.

Hey, I just got word from my youngest son that the oldest (the snapper) has been "snapping all day and it is driving (him) nuts!" I can hear the echo of the snaps from where I sit. When will it end? I hear it from morning till night. I swear I wake to it. He snaps until he falls asleep, practically.

No comments: