Le maudit Mo D.

the family jewel

I had this revelation yesterday as we were about to meet Ex-Stepdad and his sister Toxic Waste Dump at the chain restaurant who had taken on the lucrative burden of serving thousands of T-giving dinners to encumbered and/or elderly San Diegans. Throughout my childhood (wherein I was a member of the Black Sheepy branch of the family tree) there has always been someone at a family holiday dinner who we did not like. And behind their backs, we discussed how we did not like them. I have a feeling that yesterday, the two factions (us vs. ex-step and twd) were doing double time on a family tradition. Toxic Waste Dump (so called due to the fact that being a chain smoker for 50 years has turned her gray and ravaged, but she, for some reason, isn't dead yet) has never been a fan of my mother, but now that they are separated, she couldn't wait to tell my mother how terrible she felt about that. I'm sure in their car home (filled with the scent of Virginia Slims) TWD had a field day telling Ex-Step what an unworthy piece of crap my mom was, while earlier in the day, I had issued a challenge to Bob and Little Bro over who could come up with the cleverest, meanest, but most apt moniker for TWD. Bob won with "a dented can of roofing tar."

I realized that I was raised to be a shit-talker by my mother. I guess it was a defense. If an entire table of well-heeled Armos is handed permission from The Subcunt to look their nose down at you, then the only power you have is in the car home, mixing metaphors, reminding yourself that things ain't so bad on the other side of the Gucci purse.

At any rate, I am still trying to unlearn these habits. I don't want to be that person, negative nelly the shit talker. Though at times I feel justified, in my hurt and anger, to take up the family defense mechanism. In case you hear me saying nasty things, that's why.