What Would Julia Sugarbaker Do?
[First things first: THANK YOU so much for commenting to wish Sadie a happy birthday. It’s meant a lot to me to share her first year with you guys, and it’s helped me immeasurably to be able to turn to you and this blog for record-keeping/whining/advice/sappy reflection. Thanks also for commenting to tell my sick ass to feel better. I’m feeling a little less like complete and total ASS today, and just scarfed down a huge egg and cheese bagel, so…let’s hope that was a good idea.]
Internet, I wrote once before (a looong time ago) about how I’m not the world’s most assertive soul, despite being exposed to the likes of Claire Huxtable and Julia Sugarbaker during my childhood. Well, in the wake of Dixie Carter’s passing, I thought I’d offer a send up to everyone’s favorite fictional sharp-shoulder-pad-wearing interior designer from Atlanta.
You see, there are a couple people who have landed on the wrong side of my temperament today, and – after crying at work in a manner reminiscent of my first trimester of pregnancy – I am ready to WEAR IT OUT ON A BITCH.
But on the Internet. Not in real life. That’s what we call being a lady. Or being a wimp. Whichever.
BITCH ON WHOM I WANT TO WEAR IT OUT #1: So, I had to fill out this form at work, and seeing as how I’m not a box of fucking rocks, I KNOW HOW TO FILL OUT FORMS. This form, especially, was one I’d had extensive experience filling out over the SIX FUCKING YEARS at my job. This time around, however, I realized I didn’t have nearly enough information to fully complete the form. I called the assistant of the person to whom I’d be submitting the form and told her about my dilemma, and she said “Don’t worry – just fill out what you can and we’ll take care of the rest.” Awesome, said I! So I filled out what I could, and sent the form. A few days pass, and I get a call from the person whose assistant I’d spoken to, and she IMMEDIATELY lays into me about how the form I’d submitted was “woefully incomplete” (her words, seriously), and when I tried to explain to her that I had been assured by her assistant that the missing information wasn’t a problem, she interrupted me by barking, “Well, I’ll TELL you how to fill out the form, so that you’ll LEARN how to do it right.”
This was the point at which goosebumps sprung to attention all over my body and my stomach clenched – a sure sign that I am RIGHT PISSED and liable to a) cry, or b) tell you to go fuck yourself (I have a distinct lack of more productive options). Bitch started in with the first incomplete section of the form: editing options. I was supposed to check a box for either standard editing or no editing, and this whore ACTUALLY SAID, “You should have checked a box here,” to which I replied that yes, I WAS AWARE that a box needed checked, but you see, I DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW which editing option was appropriate. “Well, if you LISTEN, I’ll TELL you,” she snapped.
I seriously considered telling her not to speak to me that way, but I caved. I should have, though, right?
She proceeded to tell me which boxes needed checked. Actually, let me rephrase that: while holding the ACTUAL FORM in her hand — a hand that could easily check boxes on, say, A FORM — she told me which boxes I should check when I printed out an entirely NEW form, which I’d then need to place in an envelope and send via motherfucking FedEx to her office, 250 miles away. Seems efficient, right?
I am ashamed to tell you that her pathetic little dressing-down really got to me, and I wept like a statue of Mary in my cubicle for probably 20 minutes. Fuck that lady, Internet. Seriously.
Epilogue: I totally told my boss about the phone call, and she jumped to my defense, telling me that it wasn’t the first time Our Lady of Woefully Incomplete Forms has been totally out of line, and she (Boss Lady) plans to take it up with her (BitchWhoreFormGirl). This makes me feel better.
But still, I should have said something in the moment. Right, Julia?
BITCH ON WHOM I WANT TO WEAR IT OUT #2: It’s wedding season, Internet! And I have to tell you that I LOVE going to weddings. Big or small, formal or informal, I think they’re fun. I like buying a wrapping a gift, I like seeing all the hope and anticipation and sheer happiness that is (hopefully) telegraphed all over the faces of the parties involved, I like dancing the fucking Electric Slide, for Christ’s sake. I’m the perfect wedding guest! YOU WANT ME AT YOUR WEDDING.
(And no, I don’t know what the fuck I was doing here, except that I think I’m attempting to pole dance with a part of my dress…?)
I’m also fully supportive of making your wedding YOUR wedding: want nothing but banjo music at the reception? Fine. Want free elephant rides in the parking lot? GREAT. Want me to bring my own bag lunch? Awesome! I need to use this lunchmeat before it goes bad anyway.
Then…I got an invitation in the mail last weekend from a cousin of Brad’s. A cousin who is marrying a woman who put this on her RSVP card:
Internet, I UNDERSTAND not wanting little kids at a formal reception. I GET IT. But I also understand that the most appropriate and rankle-free way to state this on your (non-postage-paid) RSVP card is “Adults only” or some such. Not this blaring ALL CAPS PLUS ITALICS passive-aggressive “encouraged” horseshit.
Also? I looked into the reception location. It’s at a community center. In a room that hosts aerobics on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I suppose The Plaza was booked?
I’m sorry to come across like a complete sniping bitch here, but…actually, no, I’m not. I think this shit is tactless and blatantly rude. I mean, what the fuck? Are children over five years old going to be completely silent and impeccably behaved, quietly reading the book of Psalms at the ceremony and sipping Shirley Temples out of snifters during the reception? Look, I sent the bitch a gift, but I have yet to send my (STAMPLESS) RSVP. She supplied her email address as an alternative means to reply, so I’m taking that route, because at least THEN I won’t have to PAY FOR MY OWN POSTAGE when telling her I’d rather go on a couples cruise with Sarah Palin that attend her joyless wedding.
And Internet, I KNOW I should take the high road and just send a simple “We’re sorry but we won’t be able to attend your wedding. Best wishes for your special day!” email, and I KNOW I’m probably just using her invitation as an outlet for all of my daycare-sees-my-baby-more-than-I-do frustrations (“How DARE she suggest I give up a precious weekend day with my baby!1!!”), but…I still want to say something. Something polite, but pointed. Something like “I’m sorry we won’t be able to attend, but we’d much rather spend a Saturday afternoon with our lovely 1-year-old daughter than watch you try to pull off the white dress charade, brazen whore.”
“A true lady would hold her tongue when it comes to the RSVP, then verbally bash the slut every chance she gets.”
Entry filed under: Taste my Backhand.