Dirty Laundry

Despite her strict Catholic upbringing and therefore jaundiced view of the loose morals of today’s generation, my mother has always been in favour of couples co-habiting before getting married. When news arrived that my cardiovascular surgeon cousin and her Goldman Sachs banker husband had filed for divorce, Mother told her sister Wai-ling that if Ethel and Mark had only lived together first, they probably would never have been married, and thus divorced, in the first place. Remarkably, they both blamed their sister, Ethel’s mother for the mishap.

            “Ching-ling wouldn’t even let Mark sleep over while he and Ethel were dating!” Wai-ling sniffed. 

            “And look what happened!” Mother said in the same smug tone of satisfaction she used when she found out Facebook had been busy giving away the personal data of 87 million users. “I told her: if you don’t live together, you won’t know what terrible habits the other person has.”

“What were Mark’s bad habits?” Auntie Wai-ling asked.

“He wears his underwear two days in a row! On the third day, he just turns it inside out and wears that for another two days!”

“Alamak! Really, ah?” Auntie Wai-ling shook her head. “Lucky Ching-ling locked up Ethel’s assets in Cayman Island shell companies!”

            “The only good thing to come out of that marriage!” said Mother, her mouth drawn into a thin disapproving line.

            Amanda later said she was amazed at how progressive my parents are.

            “I know, right?” Saffy exhaled, her ample bosom deflating. “Meanwhile, my parents think I’m still a virgin!”

            Amanda looked at her. “How is that even humanly possible?”

            Saffy shrugged. “People only see what they want to see.”

            Which reminded me of the time I had lunch with Donna at the new restaurant for which she was doing publicity. After we’d done the obligatory chit-chat about our jobs, the conversation turned personal.

            “I’m married,” she said, her thick eyelashes batting rapidly. “But my husband is based in Dubai, so I only see him twice a year!”

            “That must be lonely,” I observed.

            “No, it’s ok. I have the whole bed to myself. Nobody ka-chow me!”

            “I know what you mean. I love rolling around a big bed.”

            Donna blinked. “I don’t roll. I stick to one side of the bed so that I don’t dirty the sheets.”

            I paused and gave the image some thought. Eventually, I said: “Uhm…what?”

            She giggled. “I’m very lazy. I don’t like housework. So, I sleep on my side of the bed for three months, and then, the next three months I sleep on my husband’s side. Then, I wash the sheets just in time for my husband’s return!”

            When I repeated the story at home, everyone shrieked.

            “She doesn’t wash her sheets for six months?!” Amanda yelled. 

            “Aiyoh!” Sharyn moaned. “My tree hour wash cycle oh-so cannot clean, ah!”

            Saffy sucked in her breath. “Wait, what?”

            Sharyn paused. “What?”

            “Three hours?” Saffy repeated. Her bosom inflated like a soufflé. “You wash your clothes on the three hour cycle?”

            “Abuden? Why? You wash how long?”

            “Thirty minutes!”
            Sharyn’s eyes bugged. “Hah? How can? Your clothes so dirty!”
            Saffy turned pink. “I don’t see how! I sit at a desk all day. It’s not like I’m shoveling dirt in Mongolia!”

            Sharyn turned to us. “You, leh? You wash how long?

            Amanda hesitated. “Umm…I use the express cycle.”

            “Which is how long?” Sharyn pressed.

            “Umm…fifteen minutes?”

            Sharyn sat back and sighed. “Wah lau, eh! You all so dirty one, ah?”

            Amanda looked offended. “I wash and exfoliate twice a day and I don’t sweat! My clothes are clean!”

            “More to the point,” Saffy said, “it’s no wonder you’re always complaining your clothes don’t last!”
            “Aiyah, my clothes all make in China, of course don’t last one, lah!”
            Saffy pursed her lips. “Stop blaming the poor children of China! Your clothes are falling to pieces because you’re torturing them with the three hour wash cycle!”

            Sharyn peered at Saffy through her thick spectacles. “You know, ah? Maybe dat’s why you still single. Men can tell you oh-nee wash for thir-tee minute. And you,” she turned to Amanda, “lagi worse! Fit-teen minute. Wah lau!”

            “First of all,” Amanda said, ice in her voice. “Hurtful. Second, this Donna chick washes every six months and she’smarried!”

            “In name, oh-nee!” Sharyn said stiffly. “Dat’s why, hor, the husband work in Dubai, and dohn come back!”
            “She has a point,” Saffy told Amanda, who shrugged. 

            “Wah,” Sharyn mused. “I tink, hor, next time before I hug someone, I must ask first how long is their wash cycle!”