Last name skein

Apropos of nothing, the other day it occurred to me that in my life, there were three women that shared the same last name who had interesting, if hardly crucial, roles in my life.  Well, perhaps not roles, but they each passed through my life sufficiently enough to leave me with anecdotes or memories, mostly bad.

The surname we'll give them to protect their privacy will be Murphy.  It isn't that, but it was Irish, and O'Brien is just harder to type than Murphy.

The first girl was the daughter of the real estate agent who sold us the lot on which our parents built our house when I was twelve-years-old.  Gail -- I'll use their real first names -- was a raven-haired girl who I thought was a beauty a year older than me.  Perhaps she was, perhaps she wasn't.  We were friends first, then we developed an attraction to each other when I was in eighth grade and she was a high school freshman.  Because we weren't in the same school and didn't live near each other, getting together was difficult.  Then I made one of the most boneheaded decisions in my life:  Another guy showed some interest in her, I generously stepped aside to let them date...and at last report, they had six children together.

The next Murphy was named Kerry.  She was nothing more than a friend, and when in our senior year she got dumped by her longtime beau, we agreed to go to prom together.  I'd never been, so it was convenient for me, and it allowed her to save face publicly.  The only problem was that after shelling out whatever I did for a nice dinner, when we arrived at the dance, she and the girl from the other couple with whom we drove to the venue waltzed off to the bathroom, only to be found later dancing together and not with their dates.  The other guy, who was serious about his date, was upset enough that the next day, on whatever they call post-prom's next day, convinced me to play poker with him in the backseat of his parents' Cadillac.  I don't even know how to play poker.  The high point of this excursion was that we had crossed the border into a state that still sold beer to eighteen-year-olds.

The curious thing was that later that year, after we'd all gone off to college and come home for Christmas, we were at my buddy Buck's house for New Year's Eve.  Kerry, not drunk, decided that it was time to make amends for her folly at prom and use mistletoe as her excuse.  I wanted no part of it or her. 

The third woman was named Stacy, and I didn't run into her for over twenty years after the business with Kerry.  Stacy was a woman of incomparable beauty.  Ironically, she couldn't take a photograph to prove it, but trust me -- this woman is drop-dead gorgeous.  The problem is that not only does she know it, she has a patrician background.  It's as if she expects everyone to genuflect when she walks in the room.  She tries to pass herself off as Everywoman, but it's a charade.  The last time I saw her she was on a local news show that highlighted her two sets of triplets.  She and her brood were dressed up seven o'clock in the morning ike they were headed to Nantucket for the day.  Given the fact that her kids were Irish sets of triplets, there is no way she handles all of them by herself and manages to dress like Jackie O.  It was only after the woman interviewing her mentioned at the last moment that she has a nanny that she 'fessed up.  If she hadn't, I'm quite sure Stacy would have let the world think she was Wonder Woman and did this all on her own, every single day.  Appearances, for her, are everything.  Too bad for her she can't get cameras to cooperate.

My girl laughs at me when I notice patterns and coincidences.  I wonder what she'll make of this one. 

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles