My mother irons her underwear

I am watching my mother do her weekly ironing. The basket isn’t overfilled, as mine would be, if I ever ironed. My mother doesn’t jog in the morning (“sweat is so unfeminine”). She is cautious when she makes spaghetti sauce (“why wear your food?”) and she never splashes through puddles when it rains (“watch where you walk!”)

But she does like to wear wrinkle-free clothing.

“Mum. Did you just iron your undies?” I ask, peering at the object of her intense focus.

She looks up from the ironing board, surprised.

“Of course.”

My mother, a woman who last had sex during the Reagan administration, wears full coverage cotton wonder-pants that are large enough to use as grocery bags, provided you knot the leg-holes. I admit, such couture can wrinkle in the wash. But when you are post-sixty and not prone to wearing your underwear as the outer layer of your outfit (superman style), who is going to know?

“Why?”

“Because I like to.”

How can I argue with that? But, even so, as I am trying to look forward to my new, carefree single life, I hope the underwear-ironing gene hasn’t transferred.

What an exciting time

“You know, this is really an exciting time”


I look at my father in disbelief.

My separation, and impending divorce? That is what he views as exciting?

Ummm. Are we looking at the same life?

Here are the five most exciting things I have been doing this week:

1. Meeting with lawyers, and placing a dollar value on the last six years of my life. Unlike Mastercard, I am not priceless.

2. Trying not to cry with frustration as I try to open bank accounts, shift money from old accounts, and understand the various financial “products” that a twenty-two year old name Tiffany cheerfully offers me while simultaneously texting on her phone.

3. Emailing old work colleagues, letting them know I am unemployed, broke, and in need of work, while trying to sound professional, upbeat, and not at all desperate.

4. Listening to my father, who stepped into the gap vacated by my husband, and started to offer unsolicited and unwelcome advice on how I should live my life.

5. And last but not least, I am realizing that I am thirty-five and living in a retirement village, with my mother.

Yep. What an exciting time.

Knit and Natter

Today is the first day of my separation from my husband of almost six years, and I find myself enveloped in my mother’s knitting club, Knit and Natter.


The club, which meets every Monday morning at ten in the retirement home of Ye Olde Seaside Village in which my mother lives, consists of eight women ranging in age from sixty five to near death. I’d like to think I am bringing down the average age nicely, except that since I announced my separation, it has been suggested to me not once, but three times, that I might want to go to a sperm bank and inseminate myself ASAP. Apparently my youth and fertility left me with my husband.

By ten-thirty, Cindy, a quiet lady who was sitting to my right and industriously crocheting a blanket, looks up in concern.

“Aren’t you going to work on a project?”

“Oh. No. I’m not a knitter. I’m here to … natter.” I say lamely, as I had not yet said a word.

She nods, not wanting to challenge my lie.

In my defense, I had good reason for keeping quiet. Inevitably, when I chat with new acquaintances, my three least favorite questions arise.

1. What do you do? Cry a lot. Argue with my husband about the settlement. Wonder how I will restart my career. What about you?

2. Where do you live? With my mother. Enough said.

3. Are you married? Not any more. And while we are on the topic, no kids yet, but I have an appointment at the sperm bank next Tuesday.