Ironing Out Our Differences
“For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, even though she won’t iron or repair lost buttons, as long as you both shall live.” Exactly. And he bought it. In the grand scheme of things, I’d probably say that I’m a fairly good housewife. I do an okay job keeping the place clear of dustball tumbleweeds and for the most part you can see out the windows. (Just ignore the cheese that a certain tiny person smeared along the bottom of each one.) I excel in the kitchen, if the expanding size of our waists is any indication and even use fancy ingredients like darkened sesame oil and capers. Laundry, however, is another story. In fact, clothing in general is my greatest household weakness. I like to blame it on my childhood, because my grandmother ironed everything she could get her hands on, even the underwear. My mother, therefore, followed in her footsteps, and I spent many hours as a child pressing off the one thing I couldn’t really screw up: hankies. I probably ironed more