20 most worthless pieces of junk: #17 -- The iron

iron
iron

When I was a young and foolish bride-to-be, the main excitement I got out of filling out a registry was to concoct an ideal household; you know, the kind with matching dishes I could never afford on my own, linen tablecloths, and every known kitchen gadget. Also on that list, culled from weeks of researching all the advice available on the Web: an iron.

I had never had an iron of my own before. I'm not even sure my parents owned one. I don't remember ever once seeing my mother iron when I was growing up. I certainly never saw my grandmother with one (she didn't even cook). My father and grandfather? Forget about it. My dad wore a button-down blue shirt nearly every day, but my mom bought the kind of wash-and-wear shirts that magically were neat enough if you hung them up right out of the dryer.

But, yet, I felt compelled to add that item to my fantasy household of the future.