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highlyeccentricEvery summer, since I was about seven, our household has been the battlefield for the Great Ironing War. All throughout my schooling, the annual battle was to ensure that we progeny took responsibility for our own clothing, by ironing a minimum of two items of clothing per day, with six handkerchiefs being equal to one item of clothing. We fought long and hard against this yoke, with the household laundry pile becoming a battleground.
After my first year of university, I returned home armed with a new weapon: I no longer desired pressed clothing. If I didn't want it ironed, I reasoned, I wouldn't have to iron it. So T-shirts, jeans, and sundry other items of clothing, ought to have been consigned to the ready-to-wear pile.
Except that my mother disagrees with me about what constitutes creases. What to me is a little crumpling which will soon hang out is to her a Sign that the entire garment needs devoted ironing. Preferably by the owner of said garment.
Said summer degenerated into a long-drawn out series of skirmishes over the laundry pile, with my poor father, the Sorter of Washing, bombarded with conflicting orders from either side. I made desperate raids in the dark of the night to rescue old jeans from the ironing pile, while my mother continued steadily on designating items creased or uncreased according to her exacting standards. Dad got his own back by terminally confusing our underwear, leaving us exchanging hostages at odd hours and making forays into each other's drawers.
The summer ended as a stalemate. Desultory engagements have occurred over the last two years whenever I have been home.
This year, my mother has a new plan of attack: RELENTLESS IRONING.
Says I: you ironed my jersey?
Says she: yes, I had to examine the stain anyway.
Says I: you know I don't iron anything, you're under no obligation to iron my clothes.
Says she: but i'm going to anyway. you're not going out from this house looking like you just got out of bed!
Says I: half an hour on and no one can tell!
Says she: your mother can always tell.
What can I do against an attack of relentless ironing?
Should I do anything at all? After all, if I don't care either way I've no reason to iron anything, and meanwhile my clothes are vigorously ironed for me. (This is, after all, the state of affairs I was seeking during my school years. Unfortunately, the relaxed ways of university life have revealed to me that it is silly for anyone to iron old jeans, and thus it does not feel like a victory if someone else only ends up ironing them.)
N.B: this story may be somewhat exaggerated for purposes of comic relief. I love you mum :D
After my first year of university, I returned home armed with a new weapon: I no longer desired pressed clothing. If I didn't want it ironed, I reasoned, I wouldn't have to iron it. So T-shirts, jeans, and sundry other items of clothing, ought to have been consigned to the ready-to-wear pile.
Except that my mother disagrees with me about what constitutes creases. What to me is a little crumpling which will soon hang out is to her a Sign that the entire garment needs devoted ironing. Preferably by the owner of said garment.
Said summer degenerated into a long-drawn out series of skirmishes over the laundry pile, with my poor father, the Sorter of Washing, bombarded with conflicting orders from either side. I made desperate raids in the dark of the night to rescue old jeans from the ironing pile, while my mother continued steadily on designating items creased or uncreased according to her exacting standards. Dad got his own back by terminally confusing our underwear, leaving us exchanging hostages at odd hours and making forays into each other's drawers.
The summer ended as a stalemate. Desultory engagements have occurred over the last two years whenever I have been home.
This year, my mother has a new plan of attack: RELENTLESS IRONING.
Says I: you ironed my jersey?
Says she: yes, I had to examine the stain anyway.
Says I: you know I don't iron anything, you're under no obligation to iron my clothes.
Says she: but i'm going to anyway. you're not going out from this house looking like you just got out of bed!
Says I: half an hour on and no one can tell!
Says she: your mother can always tell.
What can I do against an attack of relentless ironing?
Should I do anything at all? After all, if I don't care either way I've no reason to iron anything, and meanwhile my clothes are vigorously ironed for me. (This is, after all, the state of affairs I was seeking during my school years. Unfortunately, the relaxed ways of university life have revealed to me that it is silly for anyone to iron old jeans, and thus it does not feel like a victory if someone else only ends up ironing them.)
N.B: this story may be somewhat exaggerated for purposes of comic relief. I love you mum :D
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Date: 2007-11-19 08:13 am (UTC)Email is goblinpaladin/gmail, with the @s and .coms in the usual spots. We can conduct negotiations via email!