The snow is killing me. Please send care packages of whiskey, comic books, and Chick-o-sticks. One would think the recent blizzarding (or is the correct verb “blizzing?”) would give me plenty of time to write, write, write. But in reality, it just gives me extra time to clean my closet and dye my hair. And nitpick at everything I’ve written ever. Ack! Okay, cross your fingers for an early spring (and don’t forget to send the aforementioned care packages).
6.
“The most important thing is to use the correct heat setting. Always check the label for the fabric content.” I gesture towards the dial, pointing out the cotton, silk, and polyester icons.
I am teaching Carrot how to iron. He had a dream about being mocked for wearing a wrinkly shirt. He was forced to wash away the aftertaste of imaginary ignominy with half of a plastic bottle of vodka. My concern for his liver–coupled with my own irritation from dealing with a drunk boyfriend at five pm–has motivated me to give this lesson. He’s so serious, he’s actually taking notes in an illegible scrawl on the back of a used envelope.
“If the garment doesn’t have a tag and you don’t trust yourself to guess, just use the lowest setting. It’s easy to assume that the hottest iron will guarantee the best results, but really you’re just going to burn your clothes.”
Carrot nods his head. “How do you know this stuff?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess my mom showed me somewhere along the line.” And then I remember. “Actually, I was obsessed with ironing for a while; I would beg my mom and my grandma to let me iron the curtains, the tablecloth, my grandpa’s pants…whatever. I found it very relaxing.”
Of course he laughs at this. “You know, that is the first time you’ve ever mentioned your family.”
Oh, he’s drunk. It’s a recurring theme, always fueled by bottom shelf liquor: “Ella you’re so mysterious and I don’t know anything about you.”
