Are You My Mother?

I've just been thinking again today about my poor mother. At the ripe ol' age of 82, she's been put in the position of finding a new place to live – being summarily tossed out on her ear by her soon-to-be-ex-husband, whom I shall refer to here as "Mander," because, frankly, using his real name would make me nauseated.

In any case, way back in 2006, Mander relentlessly wooed my mother, a strong independent woman who'd been living on her own since her divorce from her second husband in 1987 (and now, let us never speak of this again). She was aging, mostly gracefully, in her suburban New Jersey home, and living the life that most of us aspire to in our retirement years – except for the multiple church services, that is – close to her children and her Delaware vacation home.

Enter Mander, who had lost his own wife to a distinct lack of interest on her part, misdiagnosed by doctors as cancer. His late wife and my mother had been cohabitants during their college years, more than half a century ago, and had maintained a friendship in the ensuing decades, so who knows for how long Mander had been coveting my mother, but now his chance to win her heart was upon him.

He coaxed and cajoled, nagged and nudged, for more than a year, attempting to convince my mother that they could share a happy future together. In December 2006, my mother married him at her church, in front of a good dozen or so witnesses. She then set about relieving herself of the lion's share of her furniture, books and other belongings, sold her home and moved to Outer Sticksville, Virginia, to Mander's home in the country, where the television plays nothing but FOX News and reruns of Law and Order. The things we do for love…

No one would accuse my mother of being an easy woman – or, at least, no one who has known her for more than, say, eight minutes. Still, it came as a shock to her when, 2-1/2 years later, Mander intoned that he thought it might be a good idea for them to set about getting a divorce. That was the summer of 2009. I know what you're saying: it's now 2011 – were they waiting on government paperwork? Perhaps the slow pace of this divorce can be attributed to old age – after all, Mander is only five months younger than my mother. Maybe he just got drowsy and forgot what he was talking about.

Last month, however, he remembered and served my mother with a "separation agreement" – that sounds so cordial, don't you think? Hi honey! Here's your separation agreement! Now get your stuff and blow outta here, huh? This left my mother in the awkward position of having to find a new place to keep that stuff, not to mention herself. He did offer a nominal sum to help her with the move – and when I say "nominal," I mean "cheap." Perhaps she could hock the wedding ring.

I just find it… interesting that he who would have moved heaven and earth to help her relocate to Bumf*** now can hardly be bothered to help her move out. Just shows you that men, no matter their age, never quite outgrow the douchebag thing. You'd think we'd evolve, but perhaps Darwin was wrong.

I know that it's petty of me to wish any evil on Mander, but I really hope that he'll be quite lonely and miserable in his (very brief) future. Justice of the poetic variety, I would say.