I'm pretty sure I own an iron. You might not realise it from the state of my clothes, but it's around here somewhere. There's a cardboard box in the laundry I haven't searched in a while, maybe it's in there.
The ironing board though, well that's a tricky one. The last time I saw it I was using it to prop up the steam mop (also M.I.A.). That was about six months ago, so god only knows what's happened to it since then.
But really, it's not surprising I don't know where they are. I don't iron. My tea towels get folded in whatever state they come off the line, my sheets go on the bed rough dried, and my clothes are purchased for both their comfort and their declarations of not requiring ironing.
I know, it's utter blasphemy for someone who loves cleaning porn as much as I do, but I just can't help it. Ironing is one of those chores which, despite my best efforts, I can't seem to make fun. And believe me, I've tried! But there's only so many After Dinner Mints you can bribe yourself with before you're sick to your stomach with half a basket of ironing still left.
I guess you could say I have a love/hate relationship with ironing. When I was a wee little thing, that's how I earned most of my pocket money. A cent for hankies, two for tea towels and pillow cases, five for clothing and ten for sheets. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that qualifies as child slavery.
I should look up the statute of limitations on something like that.
I suppose I could just cut the crap, be a grown up, and iron the damned shirt, but I like to think that I'm taking a stand
against misrepresentation in the clothing industry. They told me I
wouldn't have to iron those shirts. I didn't iron those shirts.
Sure, I may look like a really big shar pei, but a gal's got to put
her foot down somewhere.