I’d like to give away my ironing board to someone who… I don’t know… Irons? Right now we iron our clothes every other presidential administration. When we do iron, we do it on the bed, or the carpet, or the back of a misbehaving child.
This is your standard ironing board with a flower print cover. It squeaks when you open it up and, to collapse it, you have to pull this metal rod doohickey. Sometimes you really have to mess with the metal rod doohickey a lot. Still, it works well enough.
(And, yes, “metal rod doohickey” is the real term for it. I wrote a Wikipedia page just to make it official.)
The only problem with the ironing board is that my children have grown attached to it. I can’t tell you why, it just sits in the corner of the garage, but they get upset every time I try to get rid of it.
“Don’t get rid of the pretty table!” they cry.
(It’s not all that pretty, unless you really like two-color prints of flowers.)
So we may have to transfer the ironing board to your possession through dead drops, assumed identities, and under the cover of a moonless night. When it’s over, I’ll tell my children you took the pretty table to a “bad place” because it wouldn’t eat its vegetables and kept screaming in the house.
You may have to agree to let my children call you in the middle of the night to “talk to the pretty table” and “make sure it’s okay.”