Okay I just have to tell you that y'all crack me up.
I have shared some very personal information with you. Some ultra freaky embarrassing stuff. I have told you that I eat my chips from smallest to largest. That I won't share dairy products with anyone, even my own children. That I can't go to sleep unless I have checked my microwave for crusted up gunk. That it drives me flipping LOONEY if Boo is drinking out of a cup with a non-matching lid. That I took my 8 year old son to Hooters for his birthday. That I am currently reading a series of books about sparkly non-teleporting vampires . . . and loving them. That I am counting down the days until the new Bond movie opens (52, thank you very much) and that I would run away with Daniel Craig if he came knocking at my door....
And with each of those things, you, my bloggy and real life friends, my faithful readers, assured me that I was not a freak. That I was indeed "normal."
Until my shocking and jaw dropping revelation from my previous post.... I iron! For the whole family! Dun dun duuuunnnnnn!!
Yes, my friends. I iron. My kids, my husband, myself. We do not leave the house unless we are freshly pressed. Creases in the sleeves. Not a wrinkle in sight. So there. Take that Pioneer Woman. You think you're so cool with your pretty pictures and your yummy recipes. I may not know how to run a cattle ranch, but I can iron the prettiest shirt you have ever seen.
And if that makes me a freak, so be it. At least I am a freak with creases in her sleeves.
Love y'all. Even if you are a wrinkled mess. Hope you are having a great week!
Editor's note: And just to let you know, I iron out of necessity. I hate folding clothes. I loathe it. Detest it. Abhor it with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Therefore, I let clothes sit in a pile in the laundry basket, becoming what I affectionately refer to as The Laundry Mountain. The clothes sit, the wrinkles set. Thus, I spend Sunday evenings in front of the TV catching up on TiVo and ironing and folding my little heart away. So no offense to the Pioneer Woman. I am sure she irons, too. I've never seen a picture of her Cowboy in wrinkled wranglers.