Ironing Woes

I do not know whose brilliant idea it was, but some yahoo in motel world decided it was a good idea to bungee cord the iron to the ironing board at the hotel we stayed at last weekend. (Apparently, there must be a high propensity for people absconding with cheap irons from hotel rooms or something). So, there I was doing my best to iron my daughter's little dress on this board with an incredibly slippery silver ironing pad , which the dress kept slipping off of, stretching this too short plastic cord that closely resembled the old twisty phone cords we all once had back when we were tied to walls when talking on the phone. The board was also rather flimsy and poorly balanced causing it to have a tendency to tip, usually when Isabelle decided to streak by every two milliseconds or so to go use the potty with the "loud flush." The iron also was a sad model with a narrow base which also liked to fall over. Somehow I managed to get Isabelle's dress and one blouse of mine ironed, walking away with minimal swearing and one rather bad looking burn on my right forearm. Naively, I thought that would be the end of it. (One would think I would know better after the Christmas tree episode, but read on).

In an attempt to ward off any potential flare ups I did warn Clay of the rather inept design of the ironing situation, but in the span of five minutes it became clear I was to be powerless to control the moment. Because Clay does prefer steam when ironing he took a cup from the bathroom and filled the iron with water and plugged it in. All was peaceful while the iron heated up, but it was not too last. He placed his white dress shirt on the board and, of course, it immediately slipped off, and no matter how he positioned it he quickly discovered that it would not remain in place without keeping one hand on it at all times. Then when trying to maneuver the iron down towards the end of the board, Clay likewise, discovered how short the bungee cord was that was attached to the iron. After attempting to "make it work" for a (I will be generous and say a few minutes) he then moved on to trying to remove the iron from the cord. This mostly involved a lot of brute strength, swearing and bashing of any and all persons involved in the design of the tethered iron. Of course, that did not work. When that failed Clay moved on to stretching out the bungee cord by trying to pull on it and straighten the spirals out of it and hence give him more length to work with. There I was watching my college educated husband hang a heated iron, dangling down between his feet, pulling on the cord with his hands straightening the bungee. I kept envisioning severe burns on feet and runs to emergency rooms. (In case you are wondering, at this time my dear parents had taken my daughter down for the continental breakfast in the hotel lobby. Bless them!) When the swearing began in earnest and the metal base that sat on the ironing board which held the iron when not in use began to get bent from Clay pulling so hard, I decided I would retreat to the bathroom and dry and style my hair. Keep in mind by this time the water Clay had put in the iron was mostly spilled out now in various places all over the hotel room from him flinging the thing about in various ways trying to straighten the cord, and please continue to envision the whole time that this cord is, in fact, attached at the other end to the damn ironing board and you begin to get the picture.

When I finally came out of the bathroom it was with a fair amount of trepidation, so I was somewhat surprised to find the iron still intact and not in little pieces and to hear Clay quite civilly request an iron from the front desk over the phone. He then sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. You can imagine how my dear husband's mood "improved" when more and more time passed and the new iron (which hopefully would be delivered minus the tether) was not delivered. All too soon I ran out of things to do in the bathroom, so I finally suggested that he perhaps should take a shower (tentatively and carefully, like a police officer talking to a person threatening to jump off a roof top) and I would go down to the front desk and ask. I did so and, soon returned with an untethered (hallelujah) iron and a much nicer model, I might add. Leaving Clay with the new iron I went down to breakfast sure now that all would be well.

It was only later that I was informed that even that iron suffered some indignities also. Although the new iron was not tethered to the board, Clay was still not happy with the choices of where we had to plug it in within the hotel room, so he decided to find a new outlet that better suited his needs for, shall we say, greater maneuverability while ironing. He found one, plugged it in and ................... the iron would not heat up. After struggling with the evil tethered iron for the better part of an hour this was, I guess, the proverbial "last straw" and Clay launched the untethered iron across the hotel room, where it landed rather roughly in the general vicinity of the air conditioning unit. However, as I said I only learned of the iron's unauthorized "flight" later on, for when I returned from breakfast Clay was sedately finishing up his suit pants with the untethered iron. (Yes, it seems the iron worked fine, and, in fact, the outlet, Clay had plugged it into just happened to not be working). More impressive is, perhaps, the fact that the iron still worked after being so abused my husband.

It seems we were not the only ones with ironing woes, however, as my mother reports a tale of my parents' iron spewing water out at them when it was plugged in. It seems the last guest of the room had left water in the iron and poor unsuspecting Mom and Dad plugged it in only to start getting spat at. This would not be so bad except, once again, for the DAMN tether, for in order to pour the water out my father ended up dragging the iron and the board into the bathroom to dump the excess water down the drain. (Had to be quite the sight.)

Regardless, the running joke the rest of the weekend revolved around the tethered irons, and we all rotated the untethered iron Clay and I had gotten from the front desk between our room, my parents, and my brother and his wife's. Never did so tedious a chore garner so much attention. And although frustrating for poor Clay and perhaps scarring for my right arm, it provided some laughter during what was mostly a hard, and over wrought weekend, proving that laughter can always be found, and there are always moments to be enjoyed. (Although Clay might not think so!)

Take Good Care of Her God

Somewhere along the way hugging her began to feel like embracing a piece of origami in your palm.... wrap your fingers too tightly around it and all the delicate parts that create the whole will crumble into nothing. I remember holding her hand this past Easter, tracing my fingers back and forth over the satin-like skin stretched over the bones and trying not to admit to myself that time was short. I look at my hands now typing on the keyboard. They are my Grandmother's hands, only the younger version with the same long-tapered fingers and nail beds. I think Isabelle has them too, although at only three years old I suppose it may be wishful thinking.


Now I mourn the loss of the only person who called me "darling." I know that sounds silly, but in a way she was the final symbol of my childhood, as if the last remnant of that era of my life has left with her. I have vivid memories of her basement at Christmas with long tables lined with chairs, trying to cram all the family in. Her little house would be ninety degrees because of all the cousins and aunts and uncles and family smashed together within, all of us dressed up in our holiday finery because Grandma loved that. And of course, there are all of the countless things I associate with her..... the chip dip recipe, perfect African violets on a kitchen windowsill, tiny shoes, parakeets, the diamond -shaped clock in her living room, the old fridge in the basement, her willingness to laugh at herself, Saunders hot fudge, the Christmas village set up on her window seat, the famous candy jar, Hallmark cards, her frustrating stubbornness, immaculately kept houses, her unique way with words, and anything and everything involving family. For me she seemed the quintessential grandmother with more grandchildren, step-grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and step great-grandchildren then you could begin to comprehend. Yet, despite the huge numbers if she had her favorites I will be damned if I had any idea who they were; she made us all feel like her "darlings."


She wasn't perfect. In fact, she could be so down right bull-headed it could make you crazy, and I certainly did not agree with her views on everything. No, her passing has not made me see her with rose-colored glasses. But, God I loved her, and her funeral this past weekend was heart-wrenching. I am trying hard to grasp onto the positive aspects (and there are so many). I am so thankful for being her granddaughter, for getting to have thirty-two years with her, for having all of those amazing memories of perfect holidays at her house on Sunnybrook, for all of those dinners at our house in Oxford, for all of those card games of Skipbo and shared bowls of chip dip, for the endless hugs, kisses, and glowing praise that only grandmothers bestow. I am so thankful that she was blessed with such a long, beautiful, full, loving, and rich life and one in which she could leave with both peace and dignity. Mostly I cherish the memories of watching her gaze at her great granddaughter, Isabelle Elaine (her namesake) and with tears in her eyes utter "bless her heart."


The day of my grandmother's funeral I went to her grave site, and I placed a pink rose on her casket as it was lowered into the ground. At that moment the pain of her loss felt very great, almost overwhelming. Then I looked at the marker next to hers. It was her first Love's. My grandfather, a man I never was lucky enough to know. It occurred to me then that there are many kinds of loss, and who is to say which is the greater? Is it more painful to have known and loved my grandma so well and then lose her or to never of had the chance or opportunity to know my grandfather at all? I know what I believe. Yes, there will be many more tears, but I will do so mostly while smiling at the same time. I look forward to the day when I will see her again for it will be a joyful reunion, and perhaps my grandmother will introduce me to the man at her side for that is a meeting that is long overdue.

This is My Brain. This is My Brain on Drugs.

It is an amazing thing to have your life back when you did not even completely realize you had been missing it. Yet, here I am this week thinking just that. It is all because of a little pill called Topomax. This unimpressive, tiny white pill that looks about the size of a baby aspirin is seemingly (at least thus far) capable of doing what nothing has been capable of doing. It makes my head NOT hurt. YES. Can you believe it? Well, two tiny white pills, that is, but ya get my point.

My doctor and I just recently weaned me off of a drug that I pretty much hated for a variety of reasons, namely that it did absolutely zilch to quell the pounding in my skull, and I started the Topomax only about two weeks ago, so I know it is early to be "singing its praises" but when you have not had six consecutive days ( hell, who am I kidding? two consecutive days) without a headache in over four months, then you can begin to understand why I am just a little bit excited. Of course, it is too early to know if this will be the miracle drug that will handle the especially bad migraines that tend to surface around my menstrual cycle, but I am on a relatively low dose right now so I do have some wiggle room too.

And while I know it sounds overly dramatic to say I have my life back that is truly how it feels. I am filled with so much happiness this week that I am practically giddy. I find myself glancing at the clock in the afternoon with something akin to shock, realizing that I am not crippled on the couch cradling my head, but in fact, reading a book, doing laundry, or weeding a flower bed while Isabelle catches her nap. I am not mentally pushing myself through preparing dinner because my head is throbbing, or subconsciously planning my day in order to have all errands and appointments done in the morning since I know more than likely I won't be able to by the afternoon. Most importantly though, I am mentally present for my daughter, happy and able to play and read and do whatever we want to do together.

The funny thing is though was that I knew my headaches were bad. I mean I went to the doctor because it was so bad, and yet, now that I am actually experiencing a few days of, I guess, normalcy I am suddenly realizing how BAD it has been. I guess it goes to show what a person just adjusts to and learns to live/cope with. Now, of course, I am slightly terrified that this is just some weird hiccup and I will suddenly say awaken from my blissful, pain-free dream and find myself back in the vice-like grip that has been my head, but it is a good start. There are side effects as always (some big ones... while the pills look like nothing they are powerful little buggers) but I am willing to take on some fairly large trade offs if it means my head is no longer the tiny stress ball in some giant's hand. As with most things in life, time will tell if this is the answer I seek, but for now I plan to enjoy my "new head" to the utmost.