People in every region have bad Mondays, but only Southerners can have a can of spray starch start their week in the hole. Monday morning found me ironing a cotton shirt, and like any good Southerner, I grabbed my trusty can of starch. Gotta have starch to keep cotton crisp in this humidity, right?
I should have known things were going downhill when a big drop of rusty water fell off the can and onto my shirt. It’s been pretty much monsoon season here in my part of the South. Therefore, I wasn’t surprised when I looked at the rim of the can and saw that liquid starch had built up around the rim and never evaporated because of all the high humidity. You got it: liquid + metal = rust. Did I mention my shirt was white?
I should have stopped there and done what always worked for my wife’s grandmother: she just took to the bed when things got tough. I figure that would have been a fine response to having my Southern manhood betrayed by spray starch. But, like any Southern guy, I needed to fix the problem. Would you really think the spray starch would have one more trick up its sleeve?
A few minutes later, I’m working hard with a paper towel, pushing it around the rim of the bottle to get every speck of rusty liquid out. It’s kinda hard to see; so, of course I’m getting my face closer and closer to the top of the can. And, of course, I’m having to rotate the bottle to get all the liquid. (Are you seeing this coming?)
The timing was perfect. I pressed just the right place just when the nozzle was pointed the right way. I starched my face. Instead of a crisp, white shirt, I have a crisp, white face. And my shirt is rusty. Only in Dixie…