Yah, that's right. I'm "that woman." And now I have to switch grocery stores

When I wheeled my mother f***ing squeaky snow covered cart up to the produce section of the Mulletville Stop & Shop this morning, I got an unexpected and unpleasant surprise.

Very unpleasant.

The ex’s parents were standing there buying apples. I haven’t seen them since the late 90s but I’d recognize them anywhere, mainly because they have stagnant attire, much like cartoon characters.

Their son, Greg, and I dated for two years in college. His hometown is very close to Mulletville (I actually mocked him for growing up in “the sticks”—see? It never pays to mock people) and because his parents have not changed since the day they married and settled and started collecting Disney figurines, they are still in the same place.

The father mistook my awkward grin for enthusiastic recognition. The mother, not recognizing me, grabbed his arm and said, “Am I supposed to know who that woman is?”

That woman?

Holy crap, lady. Being referred to as that woman is as insulting as bitch, whore, skank, etc., etc. Willy Clinton called Monica Lewinsky that woman. But I’m not surprised. Greg's mother never liked me. I think she knew all along that I would dump her son not once, but twice.

I had to! Greg was nice but:

1. He had dandruff in his eyebrows

2. He had his wacky schtick, and he was very proud of his schtick (God, it was so annoying)

3. He was lousy in the sack.

For those reasons alone I knew I would never marry him. Sadly, he believed otherwise, even after I dumped him. My guilt brought us back together for a short stint, during which time he started wearing excessively large metallic sunglasses. The writing was on the wall.

His father understood that these things happen. His mother just couldn’t accept the fact that her son could be dumped—twice!

So there you have it. Boy meets girl. Girl dumps boy. Girl takes boy back. Girl dumps boy again. Girl encounters friendly father and maladjusted mother by Harvest Bounty signage.

I waved hello then proceeded to make an ass of myself nodding way too enthusiastically whenever they looked my way. I was just about to wheel away when she walked over to me.

“How are you? Greg has two little girls. He’s a nurse. His wife’s a nurse. They’re both nurses. They’ve been married seven years. We see them every weekend. They met at a ballroom dancing class. She’s the sweetest thing. We just love her. And the girls are precious. Just precious. They have a dog. The dog loves the girls. We love the dog. The dog is just precious.”

Oh.My.God. The more she talked, the faster I nodded. I'm surprised my head didn't fly off my neck. I kept thinking, What if I had married Greg? What if we had had unearth-shattering, lameass sex and, instead of my sweet Junior, I had produced a baby with flaky eyebrows? What if the baby had to wear Disney clothing while Greg’s parents snapped photo after photo? What if we all had to take ballroom dancing classes together and every weekend felt like Groundhog Day?

Oh hellish nightmare!

When I got home I almost called Chuck’s mom and dad to tell them how much I appreciate the fact that they rarely visit and that Chuck’s dad takes such flattering shots of my cleavage. I mean, it’s enough to make any daughter-in-law’s heart burst with gratitude.

(I said almost. Haven't I been through enough today?)