A pot-filled Sunday of motherly confusion.

First a little history...
I don't smoke. I don't smoke grass, hash or any other kind of narcotic.
I don't iron, the paramour irons his own shirts if he needs one ironed.
I don't cook a lot, he cooks, he likes cooking. I like making the occasional meal, but that's it. I prefer my food handed to me and, left to my own devices, I'd eat the same meal daily.
Because of this my mother, the lilac couch, was shaking her head in stunned non-silence. She doesn't do silence.
'I can't believe you wouldn't even iron a shirt for him.'
Quoth she. Yesterday afternoon. Here.

'It's not that I wouldn't iron a shirt for him. I don't refuse, he doesn't ask. Apparently he is perfectly capable.'
'Does he do all the ironing?"

This is a strange one, what 'all the ironing' is she talking about?

'What are you talking about?"

She waves her hand at the window. Does she think we should iron them? The bigger of the cats- who is wet from being outside - jumps on the window ledge glares at my mother and jumps down again. Hee heee, I think to myself. Maybe she means I should iron you.
' What about T-shirts and things, jeans and pants, the duvet covers?'
I laughed and tore a peach apart with my bare hands. It was the most delicious peach I had ever eaten.
'I've never understood people who iron duvet covers- ah!' I put up my hand-'I know you do, and I know you iron underwear. I just never understood it.'
'What about blouses?'
'What about them?'
'Do you iron them?'
'Nope.'
She checks me out. I'm wearing black trousers and a sleeveless v-neck top. There are no visible wrinkles. She is perplexed.
'I hang things very well.' I inform her. And it's true, I fold and hang most excellently.
'Well,' says she.' Some things need ironing.'
'True.'
She waits. But I say nothing. I offer her some of my peach, she refuses with a sharp shake of her head. And finally her shoulders slump and she is even more perplexed. There is no argument. I'm not getting irked with her. I'm not even rolling my eyes.
'I joined Weight Watchers again.' She says most crafty like, easing forward on her stool, her eyes narrowing.
'Good, You did very well with them the last time. Well done.'
I continue to eat my peach. I hum. I smile. I wonder if I'd like a glass of milk, or a hot chocolate, maybe some cheese-
She shifts uncomfortably. 'I suppose you think I'm mad.'
'No, no, I think it's terrific. And why not? If not why not? That's what Gamma used to always say. Wasn't it Foster and Allen she used to listen too?'
'Yes.' And now I've upset her. I can tell, she's baffled, bewildered, flummoxed.'Well, I suppose I'd better be getting on. I'm heading over to Etheline's.'
'Oh.'
We wait. Clearly I"m supposed to say something. But all I can think of are the words 'then came a lusty sailor, who by chance did pass her way', and that won't do.
'Tell her I said hello.'
My mother peers at me. 'Thanks for the tea.'
'Oh your welcome, call in anytime.'
I get up and walk to the front door with her, before she can open her big yap I bend down and give her a kiss on the cheek.
And now she is completely freaked out. She clutches her bag to her chest and holds the car keys between us.
'Right so, right. I'll give you a shout during the week.'
She bolts, a purple haze, a panoply of purple.
'Okay.' I beam and wait in the door, despite the rain, until she makes it to the car. She gives me one more confused searching glance and climbs in.
I wave.
She over revs the engine, before tearing off up the road in the wrong gear.
I continue to wave until I feel thirsty.
I return to the kitchen and am presently joined by the Bigger of the Cats who is wet and grouchy.
I make hot chocolate in the microwave and am drinking it when the paramour returns from football training.
'Hello.' I say.
'Holy Crap!' he says, 'You should see your eyes, they're almost black.'
'Really?'
'Did you eat more of those brownies?"
He opens the fridge and laughs. 'You had two?"
'My mother was coming.'
'Hahhahahaha Cat.' He says.'You're stoned off your mallet.'
I grin and take another swig of my hot chocolate. It's the most delicious hot chocolate I have ever drunk.
French Gay really makes the most excellent brownies, even if he is a bit heavy handed with the chocolate.