Now, if only you could spray it straight into your mouth...

I don't iron my clothes very often. In fact, I make it a point to buy clothes that don't have to be ironed very often, if ever, because ironing is so low on my totem pole of priorities. And if I ever say to myself, "Oh, I'll just iron that in the morning," what I'm really saying is, "Eh, I can look a little wrinkled tomorrow."

However, when I do decide to do my ironing, as I finally did last night, I do a good job of it. Everything comes out perfectly smooth, and there's no wrinkle I can't get out. This is because I abuse the spray starch mercilessly. I think spray starch is the cleverest thing to come out of a can since whipped cream. It makes things crunchy and it smells good—it's like a miracle, all for the bargain price of 99¢. I starch everything. Multiple times. I make little white starch puddles on tough creases. Sometimes I starch the ironing board, just for the hell of it. I starched the T-shirt I'm wearing today, and the ruffle of the skirt I have on is both shiny and stiff from the excess of starch I used. I may starch my pillowcases tonight.

I make things as stiff as possible, but it's not quite stiff enough. I wish I could get things to stand up on their own. If I could do that, I'd iron everything I own, and then set them up in amusing tableaus in the living room. And I'd never go to work wrinkled again.