Pretty Woman

When it comes to pointing fingers, like any normal child who's seen the inside of a therapist's office, I blame my parents.  After all, the nut doesn't fall far from the tree.  (I've heard the "apple" doesn't fall far from the tree, but in my family, it's all nuts).

Example: this morning I was described as bawdy, aka: someone who is humorously indecent.  Aside from the fact that I can't disagree with this character assessment at all, in my defense it would serve my audience to know a thing or two about my mother. 

I'd love to be able to say she's a cheap, no good, down-and-dirty, tawdry hussy; and that's how I turned out to be the fast and loose kind of drunk that pens a bawdy blog… but I can't.  The fact is, that couldn't be further from the truth.  But she has made a few missteps along the way, for which I will pin everything on.  

Point in case: this is the woman who lost me when I was two years-old… at a race track.  Never mind my grandfather's horse was racing at Santa Anita that day and there's a perfectly good explanation for why I wandered off, SHE lost me.  I mean, who brings their toddler to a straight up gambling establishment in the first place, am I right!?  When they found me 45 minutes later, I was sitting on a bench in a wine shed next to a bum, which should have been a pretty good indicator of what I would later become.

This is also the same woman who, for my 5th grade birthday party, took me and my friends to see Pretty Woman: the Cinderella story of a prostitute who finds true love with her John.  Seriously, the official tagline for this film is: Who knew it was so much fun to be a hooker?

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

And they lived happily ever after...

These were formative years, people.  I spent many an hour in various wine sheds and bars looking for my "John,"  but all I found were a bunch of Barney's.  Thanks, mom.  Thanks for nothing.