Early in my relationship with G, I was invited to join Mrs. M and her son at a fancy brunch in downtown San Diego, at The Westgate.
|Image via The Westgate Hotel|
I'm not accustomed to walking around with plates, mixing my food together, or eating mass quantities of it. But Mrs. M sure was. What a bargain! All you can eat.
No taller than 5', she could make the fella at the carving station quake as she made sure she got the choicest end cut of beef, and more than one waiter almost lost a digit by prematurely removing one of her plates with the tiniest morsel left on it.
And Mrs. M was very petite. And active in the San Diego museum scene. And opera. And many other respectable things.
So G and I, still reckless 30-year-olds at the time, got all gussied up and joined her for brunch.
We were seated at a table for eight: G, Mrs. M, me and five of her museum cronies. Clinging to G's arm, I was seated, then as G went to take his seat next to me, Mrs. M plopped down between us. And that's where the story begins.
She was a colorful woman and a free spirit. She was also dysfunctional and narcissistic.
And she passed away less than two months ago. But Mrs. M and Mr. M were "collectors;" and I aim to document how their actions are affecting their only son after their passing.
She is sitting between us now more than ever.