pressing matters

Last Thursday evening in my mother's hotel room, as she contemplated the outrageous expense of the items atop the mini-bar:

Mom: Would you look at this? You can buy a mini-bottle of spray starch. How odd.

Me: Odd?

Mom: Don’t most businessmen have their shirts starched and boxed before business trips?

Me, cheerfully: I have no idea - I don’t know any businessmen.

Mom, ignoring me: I guess it’s not so strange. I know at least one woman at work who always packs a bottle of starch when she travels.

Me: Well, you can’t walk into a meeting all wrinkled.

Mom: Yes, but that’s why we invented wrinkle-free fabric. Who wants to waste time ironing?

I stare at her for a long, shocked moment.

Me: I distinctly remember being scolded in high school for not knowing my way around an ironing board. And didn’t you send me off to college with a hand-held steamer?

Mom: Oh, sweetie, you never could take a joke. (More)

missouri compromise

My mother called me tonight to tell me that she's decided she wants to move.

This isn't entirely surprising: my mom hates St. Louis. But usually she refuses to admit that she hates St. Louis because she's lived there for 35 years and doesn't like to be wrong.

"Well," I said, "Missouri'll do that to you."

She ignored me. "I want to move," she continued, "But I just don't know if I can leave the house -- "

"You do love that house."

"No, no, I mean - I mean, I do, but I always said that I wouldn't sell the house until after you got married."

I waited for the punchline. As it turned out, she was serious.

And I was silent.

For, like, three minutes.

Eventually, my brain kicked back in. "I, uh, always thought you were joking, Mom."

"Why would I joke about that?"

"I don't know, because you've been saying that since I was 13?"

"We'll have the reception here, out back in the garden -- "

"Mom -- "

"I'll just open up the doors off the living room and maybe I'll move the chairs around so there's more room."

"Mom."

"And I can make those prosciutto things you like so much."

"MOM."

"What?"

"Mom, listen to me: I don't want to get married."

She snorted in disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you want to get married."

"No. I don't. And you know this. I mean, I've been telling you this since ... well, since you started telling me I should get married at the house."

"But Lizzie," she said, sternly, "You have to have babies."

I rolled my eyes so hard she could probably hear it over the phone. "I don't have to get married to do that."

I heard a crash, a muffled curse.

"Are you okay?"

"I knocked a glass over."

"Oh."

"It was just ... it was too close to the edge of the counter, I guess." She made a quiet, defeated noise on the other end of the line. I knew what that meant: I was being a jerk.

So I backpedalled.

"I mean, I don't know," I said, "Maybe ... maybe if I met the right person -- "

"Yes! The right person. You just haven't met the right person yet."

She sounded so excited that I just couldn't help myself: " -- because I guess marrying for money wouldn't be all bad."

"Sweetie!" she sputtered, "You don't mean that, either."

"I don't know," I said, obnoxiously. "Maybe I mean it."

"You want to marry someone you love, though, don't you?"

(It is worth pointing out here that my mother was, pretty much, destroyed by marriage. But it's nice that she can keep such a positive attitude about it.)

Because I'm an asshole, I pressed on. "At least money gets you stuff."

"But you don't care about money. I mean, look at your job -- "

"I know," I snapped, "I'm poor. And I have no one to blame but myself." I took a deep breath, regrouped. "Okay, maybe the money isn't the point. Maybe I'll marry someone with OCD so I never have to worry about cleaning the apartment."

"But you like cleaning your apartment."

"So maybe I'll marry someone with a great jump hook and breed power forwards."

"Oh come on, Lizzie, you know you only like short men."

"Fine! Point guards! And how many times do I have to tell you: that's circumstance, not choice."

"Well, there's a very nice young man at work."

"You mentioned. Several times."

"And he's taller than you."

"So's O.J. Simpson, Mom."

She expelled an explosive sigh in the way that only mothers can. "I just don't understand how you got this way. Why would you marry someone you don't love?"

"If I marry at all," I reminded her.

"Elizabeth Ann!" she screeched. "Now you're just being stubborn."

"No, I'm just being practical. I mean, most people eventually end up married to someone they don't love, right? Why not get a head start?"

My mother sucked in a breath. "This is all your father's fault, you realize." Then, after a moment, "Which means that you might have a point."

"I usually do."

"Well," she said, "you can do whatever you want -- "

"I usually --"

"-- just as long as you know that if we're not going to wait for your wedding, then you're going to have to help me pack."

Checkmate.

"Oh, you're good."

"I try."

"I'll let you know when I have a ring."

"You do that." (More)