February 14, 2007 at 4:23 pm (favs)

This is not a politically correct post, but it is an honest one.

We all, everyday, try our best not to judge anyone else. We remind ourselves that their choices in significant other, clothing, occupation, are their own and don’t affect us. We repeat cliches about glass houses and our own fallibility. We attempt to make our mind as open as possible. We smile, nod, and keep our thoughts to ourselves. But then a friend admits that out of desperation, on a plane, she read Country Living, and we realize it’s all a lie.

Hello, my name is Busty Satan and I judge others. On the stupidest things.

A married colleague has a hyphenated last name = Professional, independent, someone I can respect.

A middle-aged man drives a red convertible = Compensating with a capital C (apologies to Rotorglow whose Miata, we hear, is just a Miata).

A stranger utters the word “Frisco” = Tourist. And an ignorant one at that.

A girl gets in my lane wearing a string bikini = Can’t swim for shit and doesn’t even want to bother to learn.

At Mustard’s on Sunday for a quick lunch, my parents and I overheard a table of six speaking in a language we couldn’t place. It was vaguely familiar, close to something we’d heard often, but we couldn’t understand a word (think Dutch, but romance language). Once they left, I explained that they looked to be from New Jersey*. My mother (who grew up in North Bergen) and my father (who grew up in Newark and Livingston) asked me to explain.

“Well, the men are well-dressed, but they still don’t look sharp. It’s more that they’re copying something they’ve seen in a magazine. And the women are wearing trendy things – skinny jeans, over-sized bags – but the whole outfit taken together is just barely the wrong side of tacky. It’s as if they have New York next door and know what they should be wearing, but have no personal style and just can’t pull it off.”

My mother, not surprisingly, was offended and professed not to understand. When we still couldn’t place the language, we decided to ask our waiter who had served them.

Mom: “Excuse me, did you happen to overhear where those three couples were from?”
Waiter: “I asked, actually. They’re visiting from Brazil.”
BS: “Brazil, New Jersey, same thing.”
Mom: “Now THAT I get.”
BS: !!!

Yes, I am an evil person. But isn’t admitting you have a problem the first step?

*Northern New Jersey, TK. The part of the state that people actually DO refer to as “Jersey.”



  1. fabulous girl said,

    And this is exactly why we heart you over here in the boudoir.

  2. rotorglow said,

    I agree with you almost entirely. But again I say, if a man (say, me) were to try, for some reason, to Compensate by driving a certain car, he would have to be a fool to choose a car favored by retired/divorced/female librarians in their “goddess years” (say, the Miata).

    I reckon I’ll never have the chance to actually prove “it,” so maybe logic will suffice.

    Keep up the good work!

    Counting the minutes till “Summer Tire Day,”

  3. BS said,

    We believe you Rotorglow; proof will not be necessary.

    I hereby pledge to stop referring to red convertibles as “little dick cars”…the term is really more appropriate for Hummers anyway.

    FG, you are, as always, just fabulous.

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