Ironing Boards and Irony

A word here about the superior ironing board liberated from Amanda’s childhood home — I’ve named it “The Evelyn” because it’s a tough old broad. My mom has quite a few homestyle Bob-Ruth original compliments in her personal life-dictionary. Being a “tough old broad” is one of the highest titles one can bestow upon a woman. For Mom, it implies a woman’s survival of WWII, The Great Depression, and childbirth. Politics and religion also figure into the the TOB equation, which is, in all actuality, a very difficult mathematical concept. All that aside, The Evelyn is quite miraculous. I suspect that, were I to repair refrigerators, a 1958 Frigidaire could be laid on its side on this ironing board to enable me to work on it at waist-height. The legs would not buckle nor bend.

This morning, as I waited for the Tramadol and other assorted goodies to kick in and stop the throbbing of my arthritic jaw*, I glanced over at her majesty the ironing board and watched as she proudly reigned over my studio. She is the flagship of my creative process. Her steady sense of purpose and her sturdy steel frame ensure years of peaceful co-existence with the drafting table and Brother XR 7700.

Who knew such genius could spring forth from the loins of Rennert?

*How fitting is that? Me, the loquacious consummate conversationalist, having a bad jaw bone? Many of my detractors and admirers will enjoy the irony of that statement.

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