I cannot find the iron. Stop looking at my pants! They're linen. They're supposed to be wrinkly. I have rooted about out in the garage in even the most unobvious of containers and still it has not shown itself. Mostly I own an iron because I sew. I have always felt that half the job when you are sewing is the proper pressing of the seams and hems if you want a decent result. So. I had one in the other house. A nice one with an automatic shutoff feature to ease my OCD tendencies. I'm pretty sure I packed it and it came along on the journey here but at this point who knows. Those last couple of hours of packing and loading were a bit frenzied. In what I hope will be a suitable substitute, I have misted the bedskirt for my bed and have tossed it in the fancy-schmancy dryer. In about five minutes we'll know. Eventually I suppose the iron will show up. Until then, don't drop by hoping I can iron your shirt for you. Hell, even after I find the iron don't drop by expecting me to iron your shirt. I'll mist it and toss it in the dryer, though. It's the least I could do.