The Flat Side Goes Down

My mother was never stay-at-home but it was forbidden for anyone (even my father) to go into the utility room, much less touch/use the washing machine.  I’m not really sure why.  I think it had to do with an outdated desire to be a homemaker and to establish dominance over something that was squarely hers.  She certainly never taught my brother and me to do laundry, and I’m relatively sure my sister learned on her own during her wild teenage years in the 70s.  I learned while I was in college, and ruined I don’t know how many clothes (including pairs of undershorts) in the process.  But I have to be truthful – I was usually drunk or hung over on Laundry Day, which may be the reason why.  This is why Tom and I make sure we teach our boys to do theirs – it’s always nice surprise for Mom back home when Son comes home after a year of living in America with two gay guys and says, proudly, “I can do it myself.”  (Even if he is drunk or hung over on Laundry Day.)

I have another theory, a dim one, as to why the laundry room was her domain.  I mean, clothes are easy enough, as they actually tell you what you need to do.  Even an idiot can figure it out (unless he’s drunk or hung over – see above).  It’s the other stuff that always defies description – bleach, spot remover, dryer sheets, etc.  And then there’s that thing … you know, the heavy, wedge-shaped thing with the handle and the flat side that goes down.

What?  Oh, right.  Iron.  (Not the element or the vitamin.  The appliance.)

My mother ironed everything, and I mean everything.  Socks.  Handkerchiefs.  My briefs and jock.  EVERYTHING.  It was something I never had reason to think about, and certainly never would have considered.  It was her obsession, and no one was going to take that from her, because she was the only one in the family who knew how the flat thing worked.  And I never understood why she wasted time ironing my socks, my undershorts, my Speedos or my jock (!), since they were just gonna get wrinkled again anyway and stay that way.

She actually still does iron everything.  Even when she stays with Tom and I, she just jumps in around the house, and would probably be more than willing to iron our joint unmentionables if we actually owned one.  I think Tom knows how to iron clothing even though I’ve never seen him do it, but my brother and I – no.  We have never reliably learned to use the flat thing.  My father?  Definitely not.  (As for my sister, I’m certain she knows how, just as I’m relatively sure my brother-in-law does … but only because she would have forced him to learn.  She’s a modern woman: if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for him.  She would never allow gender to dictate domestic roles, unlike my mother.)

I consider it enough to simply be experienced with laundry and to be able to pass those skills on to teenage boys (from father to son, so to speak).  I know my way around a kitchen, and I have mastered making a fire.  I have manageable skills when it comes to the garage, the vacuum cleaner, various tools, and the like, and I know, like most men, that when it comes to the iron, the flat side goes down and it takes wrinkles out of clothing.  If it’s an absolute necessity (which it really isn’t – thank you, wash and wear), I could probably get by.  But I don’t have to. 

After all, for guys, the ultimate and ideal final destination for a pair of briefs is to end up in a wadded ball on the floor while you’re getting laid.  And when I was still pursuing such pleasures as a single guy, I can assure you the last thing my paramour was concerned with was the pleats in you’re my dress shirt or chinos, much less my undershorts.  Still doesn’t happen – monogam-ish relationship or no.

So don’t stress out about the wedge thing – the iron.  Yes, the flat side goes down.  Yes, it’s hot, and yes, it can destroy your clothes.  Yes, it has a function that’s important to women, but not necessarily to men.  Therefore, a message to any ladies out there either reading this for yourselves or if you’re the sister/significant other of a straight guy/advocate for gay guys/just a really open-minded woman about the subjects on this blog: guys don’t care unless it’s a blood-or-fire emergency.  Period.

If we’re gonna be in the position to stay at home and/or do our own laundry, we’ll just be thankful that everything comes out the right color.  Wrinkles?  With any luck, they’re moot after the bar closes.