I’m teaching my granddaughters to iron shirts—collar, sleeves, right front, back, left front. I almost say, “You’ll impress some guy in college knowing this.”
Whoa!
Maybe that’s why my marriage (to that guy I impressed) ended after I read Friedan. Now women say, “Press your own damn shirt,” and men do. No wonder my granddaughters aren’t impressed with counting hangers of starched perfection.
End of lesson: “Always turn the iron off and unplug it to make sure,” I say.
“It turns itself off, Grandma.”
“But you can’t be too careful,” I say, and shit, I sound old.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and flash fiction have appeared in Kentucky Review, Misfit Magazine, Psaltery and Lyre, Rusty Truck, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee.
Of course we sound old, Sarah. We have (many years of) experience.
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Indeed! Thanks for stopping by, Robina.
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Reblogged this on Sarah Russell Poetry and commented:
My Drabble is up at The Drabble. Thank you’s go to Tom Haynes, editor!
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Congrats Sarah, very nicely written
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Thank you! This one, fortunately or unfortunately, was straight out of life!
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My mother and grandmother were both blown away when they learned my brother would be cooking thanksgiving dinner for his wife and daughters. When they come from, women cook and men enjoy. That’s just how it’s supposed to be.
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Yup, the roles were very rigid back then. I think I like it better now!
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I tend to agree
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Wow! A great read, Sarah. Love it.
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Thanks, Ryan.
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i like the shift.
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I caught myself just in time, Beth.
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