Okay, the story of the bleeding leg.
Actually I know how it happened and I am embarassed to relay the story but since the cat’s out of the bag…
You see, a few days ago I ironed a white shirt.
On principle, I hate ironing. I hate ironing white shirts especially so. Notice that I use the word hate to describe my feelings towards an inanimate object that has no way whatsoever to defend itself against my hatred. It’s not the white shirt’s fault that I skipped through that learning-to-be-a-valuable anak dara phase. You know how old people used to say, macamana nak kawin, anak dara saya ni masak nasi pun masih mentah (how to get married, my daughter can’t even cook rice properly). Well, here lives the champion of all undercooked rice (by the way having a rice cooker doesn’t mean you get 100% perfectly cooked rice. There’s still the issue of how much water to put into the damn rice cooker at the first place!).
Anyway, the bleeding leg.
So I was ironing a white shirt. The thing about white shirts is, every single bloody crease and crumple is magnified. My dad got it right, he always, ALWAYS, sends his shirts to be pressed by the kedai dobi (laundry service). Ironing should be left to the professionals. So bad enough that I have little to none ironing skills whatsoever, imagine me trying to iron the perfectly crisp white shirt without resulting in some accidents.
So yes, hot iron -> white shirt -> anger rising -> dropped fricking hot iron onto bare leg.
I went ow, ow, ow, ow, ow then screamed obscenity involving unmentionable body parts that had nothing to do with ironing, kicked the ironing board, went into my room, slammed the door and slept.
(noooooow you know why I have been wearing pant suits for the past 2 weeks)
Anyway, I came home from work last night and proceeded, as always, to take off everything that I had on right down to my undies (I know this is way too much information to share but yes when I get home, I strip. There.)
Then, I plonked myself on the sofa and turned on the tv. When I stood up to adjust the pink curtains at my sliding door, I noticed fresh blood stain on the sofa (my sofa is red by the way, but we took off the slipcover for washing so now it’s white; and we never got around to putting the slipcover back on). I looked down and what do you know, the scorched mark where the iron hit my leg is now a raw open, bleeding mess.
There is a moral to this story ladies and gentlemen and that would be housework is LITERALLY hazardous to Ijah’s health.
Bak kata wed, kurang hantaran lima ribu.
As a bonus, here is a 1,230 words article on how to iron a shirt.