In 2002, we were in Washington, DC for my sister's wedding. While we were getting ready for the rehearsal dinner, which was being held in the groom's parents' suite, I was a little frantic* about the effects of suitcase rumpling on the blouse I had planned to wear. I called out to Son-One (then almost 14), "Please bring me the wrinkle releaser!"
He brought it to me and said, "What do you need this for? You don't have any wrinkles."
Flash forward to this week, a mere 10 years later. Daughter-Only is a cashier at the local grocery store. The wife of a co-worker went through her line and Daughter-Only said, "Aren't you Rich's wife?"
The wife said, "Yes, aren't you Masked Mom's granddaughter?"
*Not frantic enough to actually use, or even seriously consider using, the iron that was readily available in the bathroom of our suite. Iron is a four-letter word, have you noticed? And four is exactly the number of times I've used an iron in my entire married life. (Three for each of the boys' gowns for high school graduation and once a shirt Hubby needed for a job interview.) When Daughter-Only was seven, she saw an iron on the counter when we were visiting a friend of mine and she asked me what it was. Needless to say, this friend (who has a serious clothes fetish) was deeply amused.
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