To Press, Or Not To Press

Several weeks ago I shared with you my love of yard work. Today I would like to discuss my fondness for another mundane task... ironing.

Ironing is one of those chores that I try to avoid. If you walked into my laundry room, you would notice a giant laundry basket piled with various articles of clothing that need to be ironed. By piled, I mean in a mountainous sort-of way.

Every few weeks I devote a few hours one evening to the task of ironing. Do I enjoy it? No, but I press on anyways (pun intentional).

Many people have asked me, "Mrs. Ha, why don't you take your clothing to a dry cleaner? They can be found in nearly every strip mall across the country."

While I appreciate their efforts, I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to find a reputable establishment. All of the dry cleaners that I have used, and there are many, manage to burn the collars or melt off half the buttons. Worse yet, they attack the hubby's shirts with their dreaded shrink ray of death, rendering said shirts unwearable.

My local Goodwill has benefited greatly by my dry cleaner's hand. Oh, and yes, I do ask the cleaners to merely press his shirts, not launder them. It does no good. The shirts are always shrunken, burned and missing a few of their buttons.

I have also had numerous suggestions that I make the hubby iron his own shirts. While I have considered this possibility, I know that my hubby would most likely take his shirts to the dry cleaners before he attempted to iron them... the same dry cleaners that I have tried. Do you understand my dilemma?

If anyone lives in the Nashville area and would like to recommend a top notch cleaner, I would greatly appreciate it. Be forewarned dear readers, I have tried establishments in Green Hills, Belle Meade, Brentwood and Franklin, all with no luck.

On a good note, I recently found a new product that has improved the finished look of my home-ironed clothes... Faultless Premium Starch. I picked it up on a whim after reading that it wouldn't flake like traditional starch.

The label didn't lie. For once, my dark colored clothing didn't look as if it had been worn by someone with such severe dandruff that it required a physician's intervention. The hubby, I'm sure, is delighted.

At least there's something to celebrate.