Ways My Mom is Cooler Than Me: Elvis Chat Edition

This is the story of the time my mom could have totally married Elvis Presley and BLEW IT. Come, let's take a journey. My mother Gail grew up in a small town in Arkansas just west of Memphis, TN in the 1960s.  My mom, her sister, and their good friend were total babes in that way that so many Southern teens from the 60s were so naturally, they thought they had a decent chance of banging Elvis based on proximity to his home and his penchant for underaged tang. So their friend Frances was the babeliest babe of them all and had the tits (I refuse to use balls as an indicator of courage) to approach the security guard at Graceland and ask for the phone number to the house.  I've never seen a picture of Frances but I imagine her kinda like this:


So duh, she got the digits.

As the three gathered around what I always imagine was a comically large puke green rotary phone (60s, Arkansas, ya know) and dialed, Frances suddenly lost her tits and handed the phone to my then twelve year old mom.  A sultry, unmistakeable voice answered.



My mother attempted to hang up but the older girls pulled the phone away.   She timidly introduced herself as Debbie (She started going by her middle name of Gail later in life so as not to be confused with that bitch that shills cupcakes in the bonnet).  My mother describes the rest of the conversation in less detail but from what I've gathered, it went something like this.

"Hi Debbie. How did you get this number?"

"I...don't know."

"How old are you, Debbie?"

"Almost 13."


"That's a great age, Debbie." ( Okay, he didn't say that, but you know, he was a perv so he probably thought it)


"So how did you get this number, Debbie?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well if you tell me who gave you this number, I can give you tickets to a screening at the Orpheum."

Apparently, Elvis used to rent out the Orpheum Theater for private screenings with all his BFFs.  An inner circle that my mom could  have TOTALLY been a part of if she had just gotten it together on this call.

"Oh, I...I really can't."


"Okay, Debbie, well you have a good night."



So look, I realize that he was probably trying to figure out who gave out his number so he could fire the guy that gave it out willy nilly like that.  But...BUT just maybe he really wanted to invite my mom and her friends to a screening at the Orpheum and then totally bone and/or marry them! I would gladly sacrifice ever having come into existence if my mom had had the chance to be Mrs. Elvis Presley, cause she's a great lady and deserves.... the lifetime of self-doubt and relentless feelings of regret and shame that Priscilla Presley got from being married to that egomaniacal, mommy-issue ridden man...wait, nevermind. But it could have been different for her!

Ugh, the closest I've ever been to my celebrity musician crush was when I met Billy Corgan in a time when he was way past his prime, performing solo at one of the jankiest venues in San Diego.  He was his usual cranky ass self, signed a poster and wouldn't flash even a little bit of his snaggle tooth for our pictures.  Moms, they have all the luck.