Once I get anything germ or cleanliness related into my head you can forget about trying to change my mind. That laundry is coming out of the washing machine smelling like mildew; if you disagree your nose isn’t working properly, clearly.

And so it was that I came to the conclusion one day that the steamer I had sitting around LS HQ had grown mold. Or, it wasn’t working as I thought it ought to be and I could have sworn I spotted the dreaded white fluff otherwise known as mold lurking in its canister, the bottom line being: it got the boot.

It’s not like I just threw caution to the crease! I do own an iron, after all. Only, you know, I do wish I happened to own an ironing board as well.

The discovery of wrinkled tops have lately resulted in moments something along the lines of: “Hmmm.” Something’s missing from this equation. If only I could put my finger on it.

Rest assured I will domesticate-up and swing for the board, but in the meantime I’m happily distracted by the thought that when it does enter my life it will do so in this form:

A fold-out ironing board located right there in the closet. Because most people (not you because you are wondrous at keeping house and such things) don’t preemptively press all their laundry, but only later, when they wish to don a garment, do they realize how awfully it’s begging for an iron.