In Friday’s entry, when I said The third, we liked the house but to get to it, we had to drive past a bunch of rusted-out crappy-looking trailers, one reader apparently took offense.
In part, this reader emailed the following: think you are to good for everything don’t you? must be nice to be a stuck-up rich bitch! seems like everything isn’t good enough for u!
Finally, FINALLY, someone truly understands me!
Just the other day, as I was lunching with my pal Muffy Worthington in the cafe at that department store – what’s it called? Oh yes, Wal-Mart. We prefer to lunch there, because they have FABulous hot dogs, and we like to eat and watch the poor people who HAVE to shop at Wal-Mart, it amuses us so. Why, once I saw a woman with THREE children who were barely old enough to walk, and they were so obviously hers. That’s how you know you’re amongst poor folks, you know – they actually RAISE their own children. How uncivilized. How ::shudder:: gauche. I, of course, after giving birth to my own child – what the hell’s her name again? Starts with a D, I think. A D, or an S, one – handed her over to the nanny. I don’t expect to see the child again – what IS her name? I just can’t recall – except at Christmas and on my birthday (she likes to give me presents and sometimes I allow her to kiss me on the cheek if I’m feeling especially magnanimous) until she’s graduated from college.
Oh, I got off the subject. Where was I? Yes, lunching with Muffy. Anyway, I said to Muffy, I turned to her and said, “You know, Muffy – ”
Only I wasn’t able to finish the sentence that first time, because Muffy spilled coffee down the front of her mink coat and said “Oh fiddlesticks!”. When I pointed out that she should just give the coat to a poor person, she calmed down. Sending an assistant to the cleaners with a mink coat is just a pain, and since they’re only $78,000, it’s just easier to get rid of the coat and buy a new one.
“You,” she said, snapping her fingers at a girl who worked at the cafe. “Here, take this!”
The girl – a snippy young thing – glared at Muffy. “We don’t have a coat check, lady,” she snarled.
“Well goodness NO,” Muffy rolled her eyes at me as if to say poor people! I nodded in agreement. “I don’t want to check my coat, silly thing. I want you to have it.”
The girl stared at Muffy, and then at the coat. “What is it?” she asked. “Rabbit?”
Well, of course we couldn’t help but giggle at that, and finally the girl got mad and stomped off. Muffy handed the coat to her assistant and ordered her to be sure the girl took it and put it to good use.
“You know, Muffy,” I began.
But again, Muffy interrupted me. “Thing,” she said to another of her assistants. She calls them all “Thing” because she can’t be bothered to remember their names, and who could blame her? I, personally, call my assistants “Hon”, because it adds that personal feel and makes them believe I care about them.
Poor people are so funny, aren’t they?
Anyway, “Thing,” Muffy said. “Call and see if the workers are through with the foyer yet.” She turned and smiled at me. “Did I mention that the diamonds we floored the foyer with were cutting my feet?”
“Yes,” I said. “You’re redoing the foyer floor with black pearls, didn’t you say?”
“That’s right,” Muffy nodded. “And it’s taking them forEVer to get it done. I mean really, how long does it take to floor a 3,000 square foot foyer with black pearls, for goshsakes?”
I didn’t say anything about it to Muffy, but that’s awfully small for a foyer, don’t you think? Well, to each her own, I guess.
“Muffy,” I began for the third time, “I simply MUST ask you something.”
“What, darling?” she replied.
I leaned across the table toward her. “Muffy, isn’t it just WONderful to be a stuck-up rich bitch?”
She smiled at me and tilted her head. The sun glinted off her tiara and shone in my eyes. She patted my hand with hers, inadvertently cutting her hand on my Hope diamond ring.
“Robyn,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke the simple truth. “It’s not only wonderful. It’s nice. It’s very, very nice to be a stuck-up rich bitch. Not only is it nice to be a stuck-up rich bitch, but it’s also fabulous that nothing is good enough for u.”
With that agreed upon, we had our assistants carry us on their shoulders out the door to our waiting Rolls.
Do you see what happens when you don’t read carefully, people? Someone read “crappy, rusted-out trailers”, didn’t pay attention to the “rusted-out” part, and in their mind 2+2=7.
Robyn must think she’s too GOOD to live in a trailer! Robyn must think she’s too GOOD to look at trailers as she drives by! I better go send that stuck-up rich bitch an email!
I do not, in fact, think I’m too good to live in a trailer. In fact, I spent quite some time at the beginning of our house search trying to convince Fred that we should buy a big piece of land and buy a double-wide to put down on said land, and use the money we’d save so he could retire when he’s 40.
Seeing as we live in Tornado Alley, and tornadoes are attracted to trailers, he didn’t go for it.
These trailers we passed, these "crappy rusted-out trailers" I mentioned? They were crappy. And they were rusted-out. And in the yard were cars up on blocks and garbage all over the place, half-naked children running around, feral dogs snapping at each other, and men picking banjos.
The very worst of backwoods Alabama, in other words.
Am I too "good" to live in a trailer? Of course not. Am I too "good" to live in a trailer surrounded by garbage, scary animals, cars on blocks, and men who would exhort me to squeal like a pig?
Yes. Yes, I am.
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