Ironing In The Kinks

For those of you who thought me, Gunnar, a sled full of firewood, and an icy downward path was dicey, try this on for size:

I nearly injured myself permanently trying to get the ironing board and iron out of my little hotel room armoire. The firewood retrieval operation was much less risky--and much less painful--than me falling out of the armoire with an iron and board on top of me. Then, to make sure I don't forget who does my ironing (Mr. H), I pinched a middle finger between the underside of the ironing board and the stupid folding legs on it. Now, how am I going to drive tomorrow if that middle finger doesn't work? I'd better find a cab company.

A bruised, tangled heap of polar bear print pj's, gnome slippers
and one very smart hotel iron. Sure hope the bathtub's not this tricky.