My Mom's Boyfriend

I may have mentioned before that my mom spends so much time ironing that we call the iron her boyfriend. When we went to Las Vegas I opened the closet in the hotel room and shouted "Mom, your boyfriend is hiding in the closet!" Apparently mom inherited her ironing from her mother, who used to even iron my grandpa's underwear!

I did not inherit the need to iron. I'm terrible at it. I have a long history of burning myself with the iron. When I was little I pressed my palm onto the hot iron plate--burning myself. I don't know why. It's like that urge to put your hand in the garbage disposal. I was young, and just couldn't resist the temptation.

In order to avoid burns and embarrassingly wrinkled shirts we send Ross's shirts to the cleaners. It's really worth it. In the last year I have bought Ross a bunch of linen shirts. He likes them, and wears them a lot. It's hot now so he wears them more, and it seems silly to wait until I go to the cleaners to get the shirts cleaned. So I have been washing them--and I've even taken to ironing them. I'm getting a little bit better at it, but he'll never be my boyfriend.