I like ironing. There. I said it. I love it. I want to marry ironing. I'd want to have its babies, but that's a little much. And a little scary. Ow.
See my Rowenta? It was an anniversary gift years ago, since my Hunny knows how much ironing means to me. And because I'd cracked the steam well on all my other irons. As a sometimes heirloom seamstress, the iron is my lifeline to beauty and perfection.
A little starch, a smocked dress in a nice cotton batiste, cotton setting and full steam - I'm ready to go. There is just nothing like finishing a little pink batiste dress, with shell buttons and tatted trim, then starching and pressing it till it's almost transparent. Mm.
I was ironing this afternoon - a great big stack, just the way I like it - thinking I probably needed to starch Hunny's cotton dress shirts. But it's one thing to starch little cotton dresses and another thing entirely to starch a dress shirt. When there's a huge stack of shirts. Starch does ugly things to my iron. It makes ugly black smudges on the plate. It leaves flakes on the rest of the shirts. I'm sure I'm doing something wrong, but I just don't care for starch when ironing the family laundry. So I left the starch in the closet.
So now you know something weird about me. Care to share something weird about yourself? You know you're weird. I know you're weird.
Until I write again ...