Tuesday, August 30, 2011

While The Iron's Hot

Morning Readers,
     In America, women have the right to vote, progress carved out with the sweat and tears of our corset-wearing predecessors.  Teenie, tiny waists everywhere banded together, made giant signs and demanded that women be given the same right as men. And to them I say...

What the hell were you thinking?

     Thanks to you, I have the right to walk in and punch a chad, but that doesn't stop Husband from asking me to iron his pants. He doesn't know how. And you want to know why he doesn't know how? Because you didn't make it so.I will now jump in my DeLorean, gun it to 88, and deliver my proposal.

A Letter To The Women of Suffrage

August 30, 1890ish
Re: The Iron-y of it all

Dear Elaborate-Hat-Wearing Women Of Suffrage,
  
     How are you? That was a stupid question, since I know you can't vote, or wear pants while riding a bicycle. That would make me mad too. If I didn't have my workout shorts with "moisture-wicking fabric" when I accidentally did a physical activity, I'd just die. "Swamp butt" and all that. But..I digress.

     I'm writing today to warn you of a great danger. Greater even than swimming in bathing suits as big as circus tents. Don't get me wrong, punching holes in paper is as fun as it sounds, but I'd like you to channel some of the aggression, burning like a bright kerosine lamp, inside you, and pass something really special. Write congress. Run, don't walk, to quill, ink and weird wax-sealant stuff. When you compose said letter, do so with the knowledge that, although women of the future can vote, we're still subjected to conversations such as:

     "Honey?..Oh, good, I thought I'd find you hiding in the basement."

     "Why are you trying to hand me your dress shirt? If I want to borrow a shirt, I'll steal the soft one that says Fender, so I can look like I'm in a band."

     "Umm..I need you to iron this for me. It's wrinkled.. Why are your hands over your eyes?""

     "Are you still there?"

     "Yes."

     "Go away."

     "But you do the collar right and all those creases and stuff. I can't do it."

     "Have you ever made a grilled cheese?"

     "Uh huh.."

     "Same principal, except you pretend you're spreading the cheese evenly over a shirt."

     "Is that a yes?

     I beg of you, Ladies of Suffrage, send the letter now. Demand that husbands be required to iron their own clothes. What good is voting if one is trapped under a stack of slacks and can't make it to one's registered voting station?

Sincerely,

Paige Kellerman

Until Next Time, Readers!