I did that thing this evening; that “oh, fuck, someone needs to iron the school uniforms for tomorrow” thing.
I sat for a bit longer before realising that Someone was actually me.
I sighed, suck up some energy and tell Grumpy to get the ironing board for me. He argues that he is doing the dishes and I point out that he is often telling me he can multitask, and just because the ironing board is down the other end of the house is no excuse.
Besides, I have a couch that needs to have my lying on it.
Then I tell Monkey Boy to get it and he just “doesn’t hear me”.
I wait for an ad break and grab the ironing board that is a decade older than I am. It’s obviously been listening to me bitch about it, because it kicks me in the head with it’s stupid wobbly legs. Worse, it waits still I’ve stood on the fucking LEGO that I’ve asked be fucking moved out of the fucking way several fucking times now.
I had it from both ends and that’s not fair.
So I call it a fucking stupid ironing board and contemplate going on strike, due to unsafe work conditions, before realising just how futile that would be as no one cares.
Monkey Boy and Grumpy Pants agreed to buy me a new one. For Mother’s Day.
I indicated clearly that, if they did, there was an increased chance that one or both of them would be stabbed with a hot iron. Or would, if I could work my way through the Island of Sodor, hidden beyond the great expanse of LEGO to find a frigging socket to plug the iron into.
Two shirts, two pairs of shorts, a mild ironing board-induced-concussion and LEGO brick prints in my feet later I sit down to a vodka.
Or would … if they hadn’t hidden it from me …