Chicago Stories #9

-In which our hero irons his calvins-

Laundry is a battlefield. Lost socks. Stubborn stains. To dry clean, or not to dry clean. Hot water, cold water, how warm is warm water? These are the trials we, the clothed, must face. Although I was trained in the laundering arts at a very young age, together, we have had a checkered past. I’ve turned my fair share of whites into pinks, created baby sweaters, and bleached my black shirts to a lovely sewage-esqe shade of brown. My biggest issue with laundry however, is that time between pushing the button and going back to switch out the load. That’s where I get into trouble. Something about how my brain is wired, once I push that button, my mind is wiped clean. The laundry is as forgotten as a third place American Idol. Once, during the summer, it took me a week and a half’s worth of explaining why I was wearing sweaters to figure out where all my shirts went. “What about the buzzer?” You ask. I think I hear it, but my mind is so bewildered by the sound, it just presumes someone is driving a forklift around the corner, and I need to stay alert. “Set an alarm, tie a string around your finger. Attach a post-it to your nose!” Your suggestions, though naïve, I'm sure are made with the best of intentions. I have, however, found a way to function despite this problem. Re-runs. Nothing sends me racing out of the room to check on laundry like “According to Jim”. I have gotten along fine for years using this formula. It has never failed me, until now. Here in Chicago, my dryer seems to not know how I operate. Sure, the washer gets the program. Half an hour – my garments are clean. But, as evidenced by my consistently soggy underoos, the dryer may take a bit more convincing to warm up to, let alone love Raymond.

I was faced with this very dilemma late one night, my quick mind saved me, however. Giving me two clear options. Buy the box set of The Sopranos, or do them Uncle Buck style. As I was googling microwave times for jeans, a gleam caught my eye. It was the stainless steel of my Rowenta Powerglide II, with IONIX vertical steam, and airglide-equipped iron. Listening to the ticking as it warmed, I felt foolish for even considering the microwave. How would I nuke stuff with metallic buttons? I was certain that this iron was absolutely the best, most efficient and logical use of my time. I would iron each and every article of clothing I own. I wouldn’t even need to use steam. The benefits are endless. Freshly pressed pants and shirts, and socks. And pants. And underpants. Knit hats. Pants. Washcloths. Everything I owned, really. And I would only have to do it every week or so.

For the curious, Freshly pressed socks are quite a bit more trouble than they’re worth.