The Beast Invades

H E L P M E.

It’s happened. It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with a cruel twist. You better sit down.

Sunday morning, my daughter TG donned a cute top that was nevertheless wrinkly. I remarked as much, and she said, in the harried and desperate way that only young mothers of three rambunctious rugrats can, “I know." When I gave her my WTF-you're-wearing-it-anyway? look, she added, "Did you want to iron it for me?”

Iron? Aaaaaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha! I speet on thees archaic beast called the iron. It does not contain push buttons which engage any “do it FOR me” tasks. There is no “GO” button. It does not give me immediate access to friends and family. It does not make my life easier, quicker, better. It does not make me feel in touch with my inner spiritual giant, it does not make me want to dance, and it doesn’t provide even a smidgeon of instant gratification. No, this beast is the equivalent of manual labor. I know. I can't even believe those two words came out of my mouth. I am not about manual anything--not unless it comes with batteries and three speeds.

And yet . . . as my eyes glazed over with sucralose shades of my Mommy Life Past, this foreign word oozed out of my mouth like putrid slime: “Ye-e-e-e-s-s-s-s.”

TG had that shirt over her head and in my face in .000523 seconds flat. “Thanks, Mom.”

And there I was all retro-maternal, wrinkled shirt in hand, heading dazedly downstairs to find the beast and its wobbly metal counterpart on stilts. I’m surprised that in my stupor I didn’t trip and fall, head over heels in a viral spin-out, and sprain my wrist so as to have a convenient excuse for not making good on my offer. Alas, I was THAT overcome and confused with myself. Plus, I couldn’t even remember where I last saw the beast. Didn’t we throw the last one out with the eight-tracks?

Here’s the part that will just make you want to curl into the fetal position, people. After I dutifully ironed my daughter’s quite lovely blouse (notice how it was transformed from an ordinary top), I—I can hardly say it—I got excited at how easily domesticity took shape inside me and then the aliens took over my body completely. It was as if I'd turned into Martha Fucking Stewart! And then . . . and then? I hurried to my closet and pulled out five blouses that I have been wearing with that right-out-of-the-dryer look. And then? I ironed them!!

OMFG! I have been beast-slapped. And all because of Martha, Martha, Martha! Bitch! People, this matter is pressing! What should I do?

Oh, ew. I feel like I've been body-spritzed with starch. Plus, I can't wear those blouses now because . . . they'll get wrinkled!
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