It’s So My Mom.

Image by egg on stilts via Flickr

My mother usually found something to dish disparagingly about most people—except, of course, for her perfect, God-fearing [read: holier-than-thou] friends. MY friends, however, always had foibles.

Take, for instance, a middle school friend that we’ll call Beronique. My mother was actually friends with hers and did a little work for her family, during which time I’d commiserate with Bero. I didn’t see her much after high school; we attended different institutions.

I had thought my mother’s association with hers would have been enough to cull a relatively benign impression. But that still didn’t stop my mother from referring to Bero as “that little slut” years later.

“Mom!” I said, not even knowing, firsthand, if this friend was a bed hopper—but sure that I never mentioned the subject to my mom. (Come to think of it, she was kind of kinky. Rumor had it she “practiced” fellatio on a male friend. Not sure if that counts. Maybe mom did know best.)

Yes, my mother was great at snap judgments and villainizations. I thought I always saw the best in people. Until now.

Strange things leave a lasting impression on my nerves these days: The omnipresent condo maintenance man that always offers a friendly “hello” (I know what he’s doing. He interrupted my workout once to say “hi”! The sex-crazed beast!). The “harmless” old lady beer columnist whose articles sometimes supplant my food reviews in the Indy alt-weekly (How can she not be allergic to alcohol at her age? And what does she need money for, anyway?). Random, really obese people that get in my way.

This is scary. Someone get the Prozac.