I washed said shirts, and took them out of the dryer while still damp. I held each shirt in front of me, and grasping it at the shoulders, gave it a sharp shake (like Lila told me to do). I immediately hung each shirt on its own wooden hanger (no wire hangers here, people), and put the shirts in the closet.
I ironed the striped shirt, confident that Lila's tips would increase my chances of a wrinkle-free result. Despite my best efforts, the shirt still looked as wrinkled as the face of your average seventy-five year old sun worshipper. I was annoyed anew, the wound in my cold domestic heart reopened. I cursed the shirt's existence and told The Mister that I'd need spray starch to make the shirt presentable for work.
Yesterday, The Mister came home about fifteen minutes late - and was bearing gifts. First he presented me with a two-liter bottle of Coke Zero (in an attempt to soften me for the real gift).
A big ole can of spray starch, so I could iron his $#*%@& shirt.
I made my attempt at midnight. I used a liberal amount of spray starch. The scent of the starch took my mind back to my parents' basement and I recalled the hours I wasted ironing my gym suit/dress with bloomers during junior high and high school.
|Cute, isn't it? See the bloomers? Our gym suits were white|
Here's a picture of a pattern:
|My culottes (made at home) looked most like the denim example|
Anyway, the fashions of the time gave me plenty of practice doing the entire family's ironing while I watched shows like "Scream-In", a popular sci-fi/horror movie program on that newfangled cable television channel 53 in Pittsburgh. It was hosted by a cheesily creepy guy named Tarantula.
Now back to the problem at hand...When I was done ironing, I took a good look at the can of spray starch. I can only assume that product's name was created to eliminate company liability.
The shirt still has some puckery looking wrinkles, despite my diligence. Faultless, indeed.
I have half a mind (does anyone say that anymore?) to give The Mister $14 and use the shirt as a burnt offering to the laundry gods...anything so I don't have to iron the damned thing again.