I am fortunate to have a wonderful group of women as friends. They form several overlapping and intermingling groups. My “birthday group” – six women who meet for dinner on the six birthdays. (Well really five, one gets slighted every year since her birthday is on 12/29; somehow we are all so relieved to have survived the holiday season and all of its joyful work, that we can never quite coordinate to meet on her day. She’s awfully sweet about it and teams up with our January birthday.) My book group, together since early 2000 with many additions and departures but with a core that has stayed from the beginning. I have a group from when our kids were all at the same parent-cooperative preschool. Our families meet for dinners, holidays, camping and gather to each others arms in times (too many lately) of loss. My bunko group. Bunko? Really? Well, we haven’t actually played for years. We evolved instead, to host nice dinners monthly for each other. Then when that began to seem like an unnecessary amount of work added to our already too-busy lives, we started “Bunko-lite” meant to be just drinks and dessert. Last night, we had even better – just went out to a local pub! Perfect.
So, I do have two or three dear, close male friends. One recently asked me what all these women talk about when we get together. Men? Kids? Jobs? Sex (he said hopefully)? Hmmm… what do we talk about?
So, last night…. We did talk about men some. Sex was mentioned. Our kids too of course. And our parents, jobs, puppies and in-laws. But what captivated our attention? Ironing.
One wonderful woman, a skilled R.N. by training and super-mom by love, was telling us about how she had been inspired by my recent blog post How the Grinch Got it Right to let some things go. Like ironing the sheets. Ironing the sheets?! We giggled over that and decided that must be a nurse-thing since my mother does the same at times (and they both miter their corners nicely also). Then we all joined in the laughter as another friend told us about her son showing her an iron he had found in the closet once and asking what it was. A few of us remembered a comment one friend’s grandmother made: “I’d rather whore than iron” – a comment that has stuck firmly in my mind; it has such earthy wisdom about it. One gal then volunteered with a twinkle in her eye, that sometimes as she flat irons her hair, she touches up her shirt as well! We all liked that time-saving, practical, modern-mom tip. Another remembered that her family had an ironing lady when she was a child. When I asked the friend next to me if she was an ironer she responded simply “no”. Ah, why would she… her husband irons. And cleans. (now that is a man to talk about).
I have ironed. I was able to say proudly, that in fact I ironed last month. And, almost exactly four years before that. I ironed while watching Obama’s inauguration and this year, while watching the election returns. Generally though, I subscribe to Erma Bombeck’s theory:
My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
Erma Bombeck was also wise about the value of friendships. As she suggested, I have friends who would tell me to eat dessert, never defend a husband who gets me an electric skillet for my birthday and who will definitely tell me that
they saw my old boyfriend and he is a priest.
I have friends who have brought me countless dinners when needed, cared for my children and held me while I cried. But, darn them, I just can’t get them to come over and iron!