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My Profile
Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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10:47 a.m. - 2003-05-18
I am a hopeless irredeemable snob. Snob. Snob. Snob. My egalitarian political views clash jarringly with my personal standards. Mike has taken me to task for my snobbery too. I have tried to rectify this hypocrisy. But I cannot cure it. After much soul searching and anguish I’ve come to the conclusion that while I can love my neighbor, it doesn’t mean I have to love their redneck ways and their stupidity. Is it really so wrong to have standards? To enjoy things made with precision and care and craftsmanship? Is it too awful to prefer discussions about art and books and politics and ideas over whoopin’ and hollerin’ and long rambling tales about family feuds and health crises all filled with DRAMA of the most ignorant sort? C’mon. Is it? I don’t think so, and whenever I get stuck with one of those overly confessional drama lovin’ rednecks I just want to run away screaming. What makes it all the more painful is that most of these folks are truly nice. They want to be best buddies and mean it when they say to “Come on by anytime!” They welcome you into their homes. Fuss at you until you’ve accepted a drink, a piece of cake, and have one of their drooling dogs and/or kids ensconced on your lap. Then the monologs begin and I feel like a total shit because on the outside I’m nodding and making the properly outraged and sympathetic noises, and on the inside I’m screaming, “Get me the hell out of here! I don’t care about your step-sister’s convict boyfriend and how he’s two-timin’ her with some bimbo named Roxy who comes to see him at the jailhouse!” And oh how they LOVE medical problems. I get shown scars and try not to gag. I am subjected to torturous sagas of multiple surgeries, mystery illnesses, and brushes with the Grim Reaper and quake with the effort from trying to hold in a furious, “For Christ’s sake! You have a sprained knee, not Hodgkin’s Disease! No, I don’t want to see where they took out a tumor as big as your head! What kind of ignoramus are you that you couldn’t recognize your kid’s chicken pox and had to turn it into some kind of soap opera complete with midnight races to the emergency room, huffing about medical malpractice suits, and the ever popular ‘She almost DIED!’ announcement?” God! The stuff! The horrible collections! The terrible tacky tsotchkes. The breathless revelations about how “valuable” they are. The smug belief that those Beanie Babies, Precious Moments, die-cast NASCAR miniatures, Studio 56 villages, Thomas Kinkade plates, Hess trucks, Swarovski crystal, Franklin Mint Dogs of the World statuettes, and the other mass marketed claptrap will ensure their status amongst the millionaires. Not they would ever sell them! Why Cleatus just put a new lean-to on the double wide to showcase them better! But wasn’t it nice that humble folk like them had the taste and sense enough to buy such wonderful art? I stretch a polite smile, but inside I’m rolling my eyes and thinking, “Yup, any day now I’m certain the MOMA is going to open their new wing devoted to the Danbury Mint Flower and Birthstone figurine collector’s series and you two will just be in the clover.” I got saddled with just such a one yesterday. Mike had a quickie job to finish up and Wolf and I tagged along. I figured Wolf and I could hang out in the Bronco playing finger games and singing for the 20 or minutes Mike would be working. WRONG! The second we pulled up we were greeted by miniature Bumpus dogs. Mike opened the door and in they bounded, shedding and drooling. Then the mistress of the house came reeling out. It was quite obvious that she was half in the bag and she boozily insisted that we come in. Finding myself almost drown in pug dog slobber I agreed to come in for a minute, if only to get a towel to wipe myself off. 20 minutes turned into 3 HOURS. There was no escaping their relentless hospitality. And for those 3 miserable hours I did nothing but fend off dogs, nod, nibble at the food forced upon me, and listen. I got to hear about my hostess’ infertility troubles. Her feud with her step-mother. Her recent fourth surgery to repair her herniated disc (complete with bared skin and pointing). The story of her courtship. A run through of her wedding album with a story of woe or disease about every single person limned therein. Enough betrayals and intrigues to keep “The Young and the Restless” in story fodder for the next decade. The inevitable tour of the collections. Plus there were many drunken arm clutches and declarations about what a smart guy Mike was, how beautiful Wolf was, how nice I was all delivered with smothering clouds of vodka breath in my face. Drunks are bad, rednecks are worse, and a drunken redneck is intolerable. Finally we were allowed to leave. With a big fake grin I thanked my hostess for her hospitality and agreed with her insistence that we’d be back for another visit real soon. Another visit to Hillbilly Haven? Yeah, right. Not in this lifetime. I’m a hypocrite and a snob. Sue me. ~LA
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