Mangled

My mother hated to dust worse than anything.  (I can't help it; it's hereditary.)  However, she was an ironing fool.  She ironed everything.  My dad was a bit of a dandy who liked a lot of starch in his shirts and always had a well-placed, points-up handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit, and he always wore a suit.  Those weren't the only items Mother ironed.  She ironed his boxer shorts, my bras (when that time came), and dish towels.  She even had a mangle, a big console machine with heat and a padded roller, that was used for sheets, tablecloths, curtains; anything flat.  Nothing escaped her.  She was obsessive to the point that she ironed rags, fergawdssake!  I swear that if she'd figured a way to iron it as she got older, she wouldn't have had a wrinkle in her face.

The ironing gene skipped a generation, for which I am so grateful.  When the Kids were little and their dad was a rookie cop (police officer, that is), I took in washing and ironing from single guys on the force.  The three-crease military press on uniform shirts was a stinker to perfect.  What with his clothes, the Kids' clothes, my clothes, and the iron-for-hire clothes, I'll bet I set up the ironing board every day of the week.  No one was happier than I when drip-dry, wash-and-wear material was invented.  After that, about the only time the iron came out was when I was sewing; of course, I did a lot of sewing back in the day.

Deb, my daughter, got caught with a double whammy, poor girl.  She not only hates to dust, but is compelled to iron everything.  Whenever we'd shop for dresses or material, I'd be looking at labels for easy-care items and she'd inevitably pick out those which would require ironing.  I'll bet she irons Craig's tee-shirts.  She can't help it; blame it on my mother.

I have an iron and an ironing board.  I remember where they are.  I think the iron still works, but it's been so long.  The thing is, if I had to iron something today, I'd have to dust the iron first and it's well known how I feel about that.