Thursday, July 26, 2007

Iron Traumatised

So I am back in the flatlands. And as always, the holiday was too short. It is always too short. *SIGH*

I am also jetlagged, and tired. My body clock is still ticking away in the Asian time zone. Furthermore, I have to (unwillingly) pick up the Dutch life routine once again, work, face the dreaded sobbing Dutch weather –truth is, there was never summer in the Netherlands, like today we had torrential rain crashing down that almost blinded me on the steering wheel, and the only nice thing that welcomed me so far was less traffic in the highways.

No, this is not fun at all. This is not my post-holiday dream. Nor I am in the mood to talk about my holiday adventures right now. Well, perhaps this weekend when I am fully adjusted back to this very depressing Dutch environment.

But, I have something else to tell.


Well, today I was. Quite silly I guess. And, for the second time!

I was driving in A2 towards the direction of Amsterdam for work, when I thought about the morning activities I did before leaving home - took some tomatoes from the fridge for my lunch... ironed the blouse I am wearing... I did iron it... oh wait... the (flat) iron. Did I unplug the thing after ironing?

Many conflicting and worrying thoughts were playing in my mind –- Did I? Did I not? I could not remember unplugging the iron from the electrical socket? My recollection is blank! (This memory loss has been my problem lately, signs of relapse to old age, lol)

I know road traffic laws prohibit using the mobile phone while driving, but I just have no choice. I have to. I must. I called the Dutchman.

“Did you check the other room and saw if the iron was unplugged?”

“I left before you, how would I know?”


“Are you going back?”


I did go back. Grim images of smoke coming out of the bedroom window haunted me, and throughout the seemingly looong ride (just 10 minutes actually) back home, my feet felt like I have huge ripe wriggling ants crawling under them. I must get to Utrecht ASAP!!!

And I am glad its holiday season or I would have cursed under my breath, swore sharply and deathly at other drivers, and pulled my hairs apart as traffic in A2 (from both directions) is the worst in the country. I was so damn worried the skies in Utrecht would be burning red because of the darn iron.

I got home, my fidgety hands gripping the house keys on the lock -three locks, hastily opened the door, and in a speed of light dashed straight to the bedroom that serves as our walk-in closet where the suspect is located.


*huge sigh of relief*

-- but felt so stupid for wasting time, effort, petrol, and all those horrifying thoughts crowding in my mind! This is the second time this stupid (flat) iron did this to me! AARGGHH

I read somewhere that many people actually suffer from this ironing trauma. Some of the more serious individual cases were said to have gone visiting shrinks regularly.

Conclusion: Ironing is a dangerous domestic chore. No wonder I hated it so bad.

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