Our iron is used for many practical things, none of which involve clothing.

We use it to a) melt beads for craft projects, b) weigh something down c) act as a barrier at the front of a shelf in the laundry room hiding Halloween candy that apparently the kids are very aware of and help themselves to without permission but ironing a shirt hasn’t been one of its duties for years.

We had a system that made sense for us. A sharing of household chores has been divided mommy does everything evenly but ironing was something neither one of us enjoyed and/or did very well so we agreed, to save ourselves from ever having to argue over who would iron the shirts we would instead pay the money to take a stack to the dry cleaners each month and have them professionally cleaned and steamed.

This system has worked for years and prevented arguments along the way until last night.

Greg had dumped three white shirts on the laundry room counter about three months ago and left them for dead. I had asked on numerous occasions what his funeral plans were for the yellowing collars and he told me he would use our various cleaning products to “go at the collars” then have them cleaned and pressed at the dry cleaners so they would once again look crisp and new.

I agreed to the proposed plan and each day as I loaded my pinks into the washing machine, overlooked the three collars, the six sleeves the dozens of buttons I had to fling out of the way to make room for my cleaning ritual–Namaste.

I grew tired of asking him about his timing on the shirts, how he planned to remove the staining and tossed them in with a load of whites and a little bleach. I then hung the shirts, careful not to let them see the iron quivering behind the cupboard door. Its life mission was beading. Weaving in and out of buttons on a shirt could very well cause an anxiety attack…sputtering steam….disaster.

I hung the shirts above the laundry room sink where they dried for going on three weeks. They weren’t really in my way until last night when I needed access to the sink after the baby loaded her socks with one of the ooziest poops on record and I had some serious rinsing and disinfecting to do.

Greg wears a tall, perhaps super-tall or uber-long sized shirt so the sleeves were a distraction to my vinegar/bleach/soap attack on the soiled outfit. How long is this guy’s torso anyway?  I removed the shirts from the laundry room and hung them on a cupboard knob in the kitchen. Surely he would get the hint and either throw them in the dry-cleaning pile or attempt to iron them himself.

I finished up with the baby’s special gift, scraped under my fingernails and returned her clean change-table pad to her bedroom. When I returned, the white shirts were gone. I peeked around the corner and there they were, once again dangling over the laundry room sink as if I had removed a permanent fixture. If you look closely, you can see the outline from where the sun has burned the shadow of three yellow collars on the wall behind.

Me: Greg, what are you doing with these shirts?

Iron-Man: Do you know Hal’s wife irons all of his shirts?

It’s as if he had been waiting to slap me with that one for months but needed the perfect opportunity to present itself.

Me: She sounds delightful.

Iron-Man: Whenever we go away for business trips, he just opens his bag and his shirts have been pressed and folded as if they’re brand new. All he has to do is remove it from the bag without thinking about it.

Me: Did he invite you to his bouncy-castle birthday party or is there a number restriction?

We agree to disagree.