Domestic Bliss
I spent hours yesterday ironing.
Literally hours.
Sixteen, that's sixteen of MrB's shirts...
I hate ironing.
Of all domestic tasks, (toilet-training not included) Ironing has got to be the one I hate the mostest. Sure I can listen to 2 CDs of the Gorgeous Ms Ella singing her little (well not so little when you think about it) heart out. Sure I can do a little bit a sashaying and booty-shaking, while remaining tethered to the ironing board. Sure I can watch the Typhoid Twins flirt with danger as the run under and around said ironing board. But when all's said and done, I'm standing in one spot staring at a constant stream of collars, sleeves and fiddly bits. For hours.
My mad friend Cathy used to dress up in vintage 50s dresses, put on her funkiest stilettos and make herself martinis to do her ironing. I think that's a damn good idea. Not entirely practical in the B household however.
But they're done. The shirts. The shirts that I had left because MrB had said 'Don't you do my shirts, leave them and I'll do them' So I left them. And he didn't. *sigh* why do I do this to myself?
So, of household chores, which are the worst? And how does one make the best of a bad situation? If one hasn't any funky vintage dresses and doesn't want to get baby snot on them even if one did.
posted by actonb at 11:57 am
18 Comments:
I would have just left them and if he can't be arsed he can wear wrinkly ones.
I hate doing dishes. And vacuuming. And tidying, unless it involves much reorganising and I'm in the mood. And taking the rubbish out. And dusting. MrL has been away fro a day and the flat is a sty. it will stay a sty until he comes back sunday night.
I do do all the cooking.
I read a UK glossy called Eve.
At the back there's a section called 'Domestic Slattern'
That'd be you Ms Chesty.
I hereby rename you Chesty LaSlattern.
I can't let him leave the house in crinkly shirts. It's a pride thing. I may bring it up with my therapist...
It's not like you were ironing breasts... the way those African women were talking in the Herald last week, getting the wrinkles out of those is a real bitch.
Oh. I have an ironing-body-parts story.
When heavily pregnant with D#1, I attempted to iron a massive preggie linen shirt. Kinda forgot how big my tummy was - ended up with a massive burn across the bump. It sizzled!
It's his pride, though, not yours. How he leaves the hosue is not a reflection on you. He's not your child.
Hey - the cooking is a big job. I also make all shopping lists and run the grocery shop, and generally kepp track of what's low. And I do other stuff sometimes. It's just that when nobodies watching I slob right out.
B - why were you ironing it while you were wearing it?
I wasn't wearing it. I HAD been wearing it, realised it was all creased (as linen in wont to be), so took it off to give it a quick press. And then managed to iron myself in the process.
Quick poll: check with other pregnant friends - see how many of them have done it... It'll surprise you!
Oh, I'll just call around all my preggers friends shall I?
Done.
Did it scar?
OK, I concede you have very few preggie friends. However - remember this for when one of your friends IS preggie and rings you and goes 'OMG! Guess what I just did'...
Yes it scarred... Until the scar was covered with stretch marks and rendered invisible.
Yet another case of the over-share I think.
Thanks luv, 'preciate it.
W ashing
I roning
F ucking
E tc...
You knew the job specifics when you applied.
You can be replaced with a cleaning lady, ironing service, home-delivered hookers and Foxtel.
You're lucky to know us.
Perhaps you need to spend less time blogging and more time on domestic chores...
i am currently wearing a very crinkly shirt. i cant be bothered to call for an iron and have therefore decided that the crushed look is 'in'.
And my mother-in-law.
Oh AB don't do it! Say no to ironing as there are so many better things to do with your time. Make him wear stretchy lycra clothes!
Well I would if the conservative baptist school at which he teaches allowed it.
Strangely I don't think they'll be changing their dress requirements any time soon...!
But... heh!
A whole staffroom of middle-aged men in unitards and tight, high pants...
AB, make him demand it as his right! If women can wear tight t-shirts with trousers why can't he!
Georgia the unitard is genius. I must get one and wear it to the gym with a head sweat band. Actually, why just the gym I think my local Coles deserves it as well
You've lost me now Georgia...
Never was a Bon Jovi fan. In fact I poured contempt on all those perversion.
Me too, Georgia.
Every time I hear Living on a Prayer I have an urge to get up on a table and make a right fool of myself with my air microphone/guitar combo.
They're the guiltiest secret on my ipod.
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