Oh dear, please tell me how I am going to tell Armando that I just depreciated the value of our new condo today with one stupid action?
It centers around ironing. I hate ironing actually. I don’t iron. The ironing board that I contributed to our collective household items sits in the closet, practically new. The iron…well, that was Armando’s contribution and I like to use the excuse that his digital iron is too high tech for me and I don’t know how to use an iron with “all those buttons”. Of course I can figure it out, and I have when necessary, but why start ironing if Armando does it?
Actually, I used to be judgmental of Armando’s ironing…or, more like, where he irons. When he irons, he doesn’t use the ironing board, but the bed. I used to question it but gave up because I was just happy that he was ironing his work shirts and not me. There are moments when I think of my best friend and how she always irons her husband’s shirts. Gee…she’s super wife! Could I ever amount to that? That would mean that I would have to iron Armando’s constant flow of business shirts…ummm…guess I’ll just strive to be Almost-Super-Wife-To-Be.
So anyways, I had to iron my pants today…normally I don’t and justify it in my mind that they will get creased anyways when I’m sitting in the car, driving to work. But, it’s a new job and I wanted to put my best foot forward. So, I grab the iron, but following in Armando’s lazy-ironing style, I decide to quickly iron my pants on the bedroom floor. Well, to make a long story short, the iron touched the carpet, which apparently is made out of plastic, because the carpet melted. Melted! Shouldn’t it burn? What the heck kind of carpet do we have anyways? Plastic carpet? It feels like hard plastic now. At least when we sell the condo, people will be able tell right away what they’re getting…plastic carpet. Yep, feels like hard plastic. Stupid ironing. (I know, I know, I should be saying “stupid person ironing on the carpet” but as you know, it’s human nature to place blame elsewhere so…stupid ironing!).
Sorry Armando…can we call it even with your scratches on the hardwood floor? I promise not to iron anymore.