It is amazing what can be accomplished when nobody cares about who gets
BOOKS READ THIS YEAR
Angels and Demons
Growing up Grizzly
The Iams-Eukanuba Dog Show
Walked a mile
Note: I'm going to be experimenting with changing the look of this journal each month. The background this month is made, believe it or not, from a photo of a parrot I took in Australia.
GOING TO EXTREMES
1 February 2004
I swear people can make a sport out of anything. This one isn't going to be featured in the Olympics any time soon, but I discovered a new extreme sport today and while it's not for me, it's absolutely perfect for Peggy:
As the web site says, this is a sport that combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt.
It's not only a good sport for Peggy, but also for my friend Tricia, and my mother's a natural for it, enjoying the outdoors as she does, and being the ironing fool that she's always been. (Of course, at 84 years of age, she probably wouldn't want to do it hanging down a cliff over a rushing river. At least not any more!)
I love my mother, but we've never quite meshed over the issue of ironing.
My mother ironed diapers. Sheets. Towels. Handkerchiefs. I'm sure she ironed dust cloths. If it was cloth, chances are that in our house it was ironed. (There are people whose response to this would be "and yer point is...?" but for me ironing anything that doesn't look like it's been in the bottom of a laundry bin for a year and whose creases aren't nearly set in all the wrongs places is a foreign concept).
There was a time when I really wanted to iron. I was much younger then. I was a kid and watched how much my mother loved ironing, so I wanted to learn.
But not only does she love to iron, she's also a perfectionist. So I never got to iron the "interesting" things and quickly tired of the flat pieces I was allowed to iron.
This was a reverse case. Remember the old commercial with the daughter looking exasperated and saying "Mother, Please--I'd rather to do it myself." ? This was the mother saying "Please, daughter, I'd rather do it myself!"
I probably wouldn't have developed a love of ironing anyway, given that I'm basically a lazy, messy person who can't be bothered to take the time that it requires to turn out a perfectly ironed piece of anything, but at least I can laugh about how my mother would rather iron it herself than have me iron it.
My favorite ironing story isn't really an "ironing" story per se. We had, for a time, one of those "mangles," that electronic rotary ironer, like they have in professional laundries where you run your thing to be ironed through a big roller that pressed it against a heated metal plate and pressed it. (I was always terrified of getting my fingers caught in the roller.)
The thing sat in the kitchen and while I see that modern day rotary ironers are kind of free standing, on a post of some sort, presumably for easy movability, this thing sat solidly on metal legs. Hollow metal legs.
My sister, as a child, had a terrible eating problem. Whereas I would eat very fast and get away from the table (and my father's inevitable nighttime temper tantrums), Karen would eat more and more slowly, the more angry he became. She was almost always the last one at the table, being told she couldn't leave until she finished her dinner.
We would all go off about our business, and Karen would still be there, sticking her fork into her food, refusing to eat.
She eventually did clean her plate, but it took her forever.
One day my mother was getting ready to use the ironer and saw something around the top of the legs to the machine. On further inspection, it was a bit of mashed potatoes. When she investigated further, she discovered that Karen had been poking her food down the holes in the ironer legs each night, instead of eating it.
(Now, to MY mind, there is finally a good use for a machine which is designed for a task such as "ironing.")
PHOTO OF THE DAY
Weight Lost to date: 43.8 lbs