“Your mom. Class A Bitch, but when she’s had a few? Very funny lady, if she’s not trying to make you feel like shit.”
Trina hung her lavender scarf over the peg by the front door. No arguing that evenings with mother were trying, but it was the only mom she had.
“I don’t say stuff like that about your parents, Todd.”
“They’re not like your mom.”
“No, they’re bizarre in their own way.”
“My parents are not bizarre. They come as close to Norman Rockwell as humanly possible.”
“Yeah, but ON PURPOSE. I mean, seriously. They were BORN in the 70s, not the 20s.”
“Gen X, you know, latchkey kids. All they ever wanted was a real home with mom, dad, the whole nine yards.”
“Your parents HAD mom and dad and the whole nine yards. I’ve MET your grandparents.”
“What can I say? Maybe THEY were Norman Rockwell.”
“I don’t think so. More Woodstock.”
“Maybe that’s it. Maybe they didn’t want Woodstock parents, but wanted Norman Rockwell parents. I don’t know.”
“At least my mom is herself. She’s definitely not playing for effect.”
“No. That’s for sure. No Norman Rockwell there.”
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