Monday, August 18, 2014

good girls

My mom told me the most beautiful story of revenge yesterday.  Before I start, let me just praise my mother for being the best bitch I've ever known.  She is a force, she is a beast, she takes NO shit and I love her.

My mom grew up in the 50's and 60's, which, as we've all seen in black and white TV shows, was a time of complete Utopian disillusion, (at least until the late 60's when everything got either serious and sad or psychedelic and trippy).  For the most part, everything appeared to be very wholesome and pristine.  Ron Howard was Andy Griffith's son.  Barbara Eden was Larry Hagman's genie of which he dreamed.  June Cleaver was a perfectly coiffed wife and mother who did needlepoint and stayed at home in case her two sons or husband got home and needed to be fed.  STARCHED, IRONED PERFECTION.  So when my mom's parents divorced when she was 13 it was naturally a big neighborhood scandal.  My mom chose to live with her dad while her sister lived with her mom, even more scandal.

Three years following the divorce my mom was still judged for a decision her parents made.  When she was 16 she had a high school sweetheart named Clay Murray.  He was a frequent visitor of my mom's house, spending a lot of time with her and even her dad and grandma.  One day she asked Clay why they never spent time over at his house.  He told her, "my mom said she'd rather not have you over because she said good girls don't come from broken homes."



Well...that relationship didn't work out.  Not just because of this guy's fuckbag mother, but because apparently good guys don't necessarily come from "intact" homes.

Fast forward several years.  My mom is in the parking lot of the local A&P supermarket where her then-boyfriend worked.  That boyfriend would eventually become her husband and my father, but I digress.  

The two of them are standing in the parking lot and my mom happens to see two people in a nearby car, really going at it.  Like, some lover's lane heavy petting type shit.  

"Whoa, who is that?" she asks my dad.

"Oh, that's Mrs. Murray with one of the bag boys, she's a regular here, you may know her, I think you probably went to school with one of her kids," my dad says, unaware of the back story.

"...huh, I think I did, she has a son named Clay, doesn't she?" my mom says, no doubt grinning a wry thin-lipped smile as she puts the pieces together.

"Yeah, that's one of them," my eventual dad nods.

At this point the two figures in the car have stopped, possibly hearing my mom and eventual dad talking about them.  They make eye contact with my mom and so she waves and walks up to the car window.

"Hi there, Mrs. Murray?  How are you?  I don't know if you remember me, my name is Janet Ould, I dated your son, Clay, a few years ago.  We didn't work out, though.  Apparently he said you didn't think I was a good enough girl to date him.  Isn't that the darndest thing?" and with that, she walks away from the car and back over to my dad who bursts out laughing.

I guess the moral of this story is good girls don't come from any particular kind of home.  And they also don't come from a parking lot of the local A&P.