Tuesday, February 3, 2009

True to my word, I stood humbly before FlickFool this weekend, curious, strangely contrite, filled with possibility, and letter by agonizing letter my username appeared, then my password. I hovered briefly over the Enter button and suddenly–click–I was in. I noted how the interface had changed. Guided the cursor across the screen. And then I logged right back out. Hey! I never said I’d actually write any reviews. We’re talking baby steps here.

Back in April, I expounded on my losing battle against wrinkly clothing and how a miraculous steam-powered iron, heretofore alien technology I had only read about in Ironing Enthusiast Monthly, miraculously failed to press my shirts. Certainly the device didn’t move of its own volition, placing some of the blame on yours truly, but it’s far less blame than you’d suspect.

I have a new iron. There were revelations last night, in the course of 90 minutes spent at the board, when it was clear that a bigger iron makes all the difference. Apparently my original one was travel-sized, or possibly crafted by hobbits for hobbits to make presentable their buckwheat tunics or whatever the hell they wore. With a modern variant, the chore became easier. Fun, even. After laboring over a shirt, I reached for another one, two, then one more.

I had gained a new domestic art. It was exhilarating. What prior to yesterday evening were basically disposable button-downs transformed into a bounty of threads. Reusable clothes, you say? There’s a new sheriff in town, 100% cotton. This morning, I donned my handiwork and stood triumphantly before the mirror and– Still wrinkled. It was like I had never even fired up the thing. Shit.