Belle Weather

by Celia Rivenbark

  This is a little like Tyra Banks claiming to have the interviewing skills of Ted Koppel.

  In announcing his new gig, Brownie said that he’ll counsel officials on how to learn what’s going on in a disaster so they won’t “appear unaware of how serious a situation is.”

  But of course. It’s all about appearance, right? It’s OK if you’re clueless, say a real Arabian horse’s ass, as long as nobody figures that out.

  Brownie says he’s already got some clients lined up. You can hardly detect their lobotomy scars.

  What’s next? Billy Joel teaching driver’s education classes? Michael Richards and Don Imus team-teaching on race relations? Tara Reid teaching, well, anything?

  Just when I think the far right has bottomed out, though, they come up with something even more bizarre than Brownie becoming a disaster consultant.

  The latest target of the mouth-foaming, self-righteous right? The American Girl dolls.

  Yes, I can scarcely believe it myself, but it’s true. When I first heard that a boycott had been launched against the squeaky-clean American Girl dolls on moral grounds, I assumed that Samantha, Nellie, and Josefina had gotten caught in a three-way, but then I realized that none of them are Carolina Panthers cheerleaders so that couldn’t be it.

  Had Felicity and Elizabeth turned their 1774 tea room into a meth lab, and were they cooking up something decidedly less nutritious than Felicity’s favorite flummery dessert?

  How can conservatives hate the American Girl dolls? It just didn’t make sense.

  But, as I’ve said before, in a world where the same people who can’t be bothered to vote or read newspapers are scared that a cartoon sponge is going to make their kids gay, I suppose anything is possible.

  Around the country, fund-raising American Girl doll fashion shows were canceled because of the boycott.

  What had these plucky pioneers and caring orphans done to outrage the radical right? Well, as it turns out, it was all because the company that makes the dolls donated $50,000 from the sale of “I Can” bracelets to Girls Inc.

  Girls Inc. is a venerable organization that has offered after-school and summer programs to girls, often underprivileged ones, for decades.

  But that’s good, right?

  Wrong, you pointy-headed, free-range-chicken–eating, Prius-driving liberal nut job.

  Don’t you know nothing about hate-mongering?

  You see, a few moms found out by reading the Girls Inc. Web site that, besides offering support and empowerment for girls and young women, Girls Inc. states its supports for girls who might be questioning their sexual identity (whoops, there it is!) and also mentions the organization’s support for Roe v. Wade.

  Score! Double whammy! It’s just a perfectly logical step to deduce that Molly and Kit won’t be worried about the Great Depression or World War II, as their homespun biographies suggest. Oh, no, they’ll be taking Samantha to the abortion clinic. Then, maybe later, they’ll have that three-way.

  So the boycott is on and parents like me, who have a daughter with American Girl dolls she loves and a birthday wish list full of A.G. accessories—must now ask themselves some pretty heavy questions. Or not.

  I had to admit that I was plenty relieved when the Princess switched her allegiance from the vile Bratz dolls to A.G.s. She still liked the big-eyed hos but the simple homespun goodness of American Girl dolls seemed to be winning.

  To this day, the funniest sight is seeing those dolls share shelf space in Soph’s room. Wholesome waif Nellie, in demure gray coat with matching hat and mittens, is flanked by two of the skankiest looking Bratz dolls you’ll ever see.

  At night, I imagine the bad girls having a lot of fun at Nellie’s expense. Sort of a pay-per-view American Girl/Bratz SmackDown. Ratings would be through the roof.

  And nightly conversations might go something like this:

  Bratz 1: “Hey Prairie Face, let me fix your hair. You could use some extensions or at least some spray glitter, for real.”

  Nellie: “Oh, no thank you, my rowdy whore-like friend. I’m going to spend the evening teaching deaf children how to sign so I have no necessity for fancy hair adornments.”

  Bratz 2: “You can’t disrespect my friend that way, Laura Ingalls Weirdo.”

  Nellie: “Felicity!!! Help!!!”

  Felicity: “Oh, prithee we all just settle this with a nice cup of tea! Grandfather says that there is no argument that can’t be disrupted for a fine pot of chamomile.”

  Bratz 1: “Never mind that, but I’ll take some Red Bull and Hennessy if you got it.”

  Nellie: “Red Bull? Hennessy? I fear I do not know of these refreshments.”

  Felicity (whispering): “I believe they call it crunk juice. Grandfather says it will make you behave quite strangely and that we should most certainly give it a wide berth.”

  Bratz 2: “Who’re you calling wide, apronhead?”

  Bratz 1: “Don’t ya’ll ever sneak out of the house? I mean look at you two. Your dresses are all down around your knees; your stockings ain’t even torn.”

  Nellie: “I think we need a mediator here. Prithee, is our friend Barbie in the house?”

  Barbie: “Hi everyone! Excuse the limp. I lost a leg during an altercation with Yasmin Bratz the other night. She’s one tough cookie!”

  Felicity: “Prithee, where was Blaine, or even Ken? Couldn’t they protect you?”

  Barbie: “No, they were busy that night. They rented that movie Brokeback Mountain. Ken said the cinematography was fabulous!”

  Bratz 2: “Are y’all just ignerant or what? Those fools are playing you!”

  Felicity: “Prithee…”

  Bratz 1: “Stop sayin’ that word, you triflin’ heifer.”

  Nellie: “Oh! Look! It’s almost daybreak. Let’s not fight anymore. I hate conflict as much as I hate the wrenching poverty brought on by the Great Depression, don’t you?”

  Bratz 1 & 2:…

  Felicity and Nellie: “OK, then, tonight. I’ll bring the gingersnaps and you two can bring the cider!

  Bratz 1: “How about we just bring our pimp? I think he’d like to meet you two.”

  Felicity and Nellie (nervously): “Fiddlesticks!”

  28

  Kissin’ Up to the Insurance Company

  My husband’s car was totaled recently by a dumbass drunk driver. The silver lining, besides the fact that hubby didn’t get seriously hurt, was that we never knew how many friends we had until this accident happened.

  While very few of our actual friends inquired about hubby’s health in the days after the accident, I am happy to report that a caring cadre of lawyers and chiropractors stepped in to fill the void and filled our mailbox with mushy letters of concern and compassion.

  The bushel basketful of letters sat in our foyer overflowing with offers of help and advice (with absolutely no obligation). It was far too heavy to lift so we just kept tossing the new letters on top. When they reached the ceiling, we planned to just rent a backhoe and a Dumpster (y’all know I’ve missed having one) and start all over again.

  Who says the milk of human kindness has curdled? Not so! Personally, I haven’t been this popular since I took cupcakes with gummy worms baked inside to my kid’s kindergarten class.

  Some of the more considerate lawyers included little refrigerator magnets as gifts so we would think of them every time we opened the fridge door. (“Hmmm, honey, we’re almost out of Go-Gurt, but boy, oh, boy, something is really making me feel litigious today!”)

  The lawyer letters were fun to read. One boasted of a huge staff ready to serve us with toll-free phone numbers, private cell numbers, and rental cars delivered at the speed of sound. All we had to do is ask. Plus hablamos español, whatever the hell that means.

  A no-frills lawyer claimed to have no staff at all and was therefore always ready to work on our case and our case only. This dedication would take place from the front seat of his 1993 Ford Focus and could I please bring my own laptop. Or we could “mee
t at Kinko’s conference room where sometimes there’s free coffee.” Not a big confidence-instiller, dude.

  The chiropractic letters were, unfortunately, not as imaginative. Since they all said the same thing, I think the docs should have offered something more: perhaps the “So You’ve Been Hit by an Asshole Free Pizza” coupon or a bottle opener shaped like a skeleton where the skull snaps off the bottle cap, red eyes light up, and it screams “Drunk drivers suck!” Y’all would so have our business.

  Most chiropractors included a questionnaire asking if hubby had any “feelings of anxiety” after the wreck. Of course not. There’s nothing about losing your finally-paid-for car, and wondering how you’re going to buy another one for the roughly $53.18 the insurance company is willing to kick in, that would promote feelings of anxiety now is there?

  Kidding! We were sure the insurance company would take care of us and do the right and moral thing and that we would be fairly and speedily compensated for the vehicle loss as well as any unexplained pain radiating from the shoulders to the fingertips accompanied by tingling of all extremities heretofore or unmentioned in perpetuity so help us God.

  So we met with our insurance guy and that’s when we found out that the drunk asshole was insured by the same company as us.

  “But isn’t that like some kind of conflict of interest?” I asked the insurance adjuster assigned to our claim.

  “Oh, now, someone has been talking to a lawyer, hasn’t someone? Let’s do this without lawyers, OK? I am prepared to offer you this number (scribbles number on paper and shoves it across the desk to us just like they do in the movies).

  We chuckled.

  “I believe you left off some digits, dude,” I said. “You expect him to get to work via pogo stick?”

  “Pogo stick! Ha! That’s funny. I thought you might say that. So (with a flourish of pen and paper), how about this?”

  We went through this a few more times and we finally realized that there was no way we’d ever get enough money to replace the car that had been demolished.

  It didn’t seem remotely fair, so we decided to get a lawyer to at least scare the monkeyshit out of the insurance company a little bit. In the end, we got double the amount on the first little piece of paper (yes, enough for two pogo sticks!) but the whole thing left a bad taste.

  Plus, we had to go car-shopping. This is always an agonizing experience because I like cute and blue and hubby likes big and engine that works. Bor-ing. We went to a few car dealerships before we finally found the right deal (and a cute-as-pie salesman who never once asked, “Now what’s it gonna take to get you in a car today?”)

  Along the way, though, we dealt with a few car salesmen that seemed to have taken the touchy-feely thing too far.

  One salesman, who had a very thick French-sounding accent, shook hubby’s hand, then leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.

  “Whoa, dude,” I said. “That may be how they do it in Europe, but you’re in Amurica now, boy.”

  He grinned and then kissed my hand, which was also creep-some.

  Have you noticed how people are kissing more and shaking hands less? No less than The New York Times says that the kiss is replacing the handshake in some business circles.

  I hate this trend because everybody gets the kiss thing wrong. They go for the wrong cheek and collide at the lips (horrors!) or one person goes for the double-cheek Euro kiss while the weary recipient just stands there waiting for it to please stop.

  According to The Times, the Swiss routinely kiss a minimum of three times on each cheek, leaving very little time to actually make chocolate or obnoxious clocks, it seems to me.

  The phenomenon is being discussed and debated with etiquette experts telling us how to properly kiss and be kissed in a business setting. And while I have been accused of kissing the boss’ ass in the workplace, I can assure you it was purely metaphorical and, by the way, sir, may I say that your new haircut makes you look at least ten years younger?

  Car salesmen kissing my hand? Wrong location, dude.

  But you can’t blame him for trying.

  Even the insurance adjuster seemed flustered by whether he should shake hands or offer me a quick peck on the cheek when it came time to pick up the check.

  A handshake, etiquette experts say, is just considered too stodgy these days. Oh yeah? Why stop at just a kiss? Why not just get a room?

  I live in the South, y’all, where men have the whole handshake, polite nod, and manly hug with backslap combo thing down. They don’t need to learn anything new because they’ve just gotten comfy with the high-five-turned-into-bear-hug-with-arms-between-stomachs maneuver.

  I don’t want to belabor the point, but it’s scary when real etiquette experts say that kisses can be useful if you work in sales.

  Note to Best Buy salesman: Kissing isn’t going to make me buy that extended warranty so back the hell off.

  Today it’s kissing, tomorrow it’s lap dances with the controller. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Because hubby had been hit by two dumbass drunk drivers in the past, he was determined to get a really big car and, although I could hear Sheryl Crowe silently sobbing in the background, I was totally down with it.

  Sadly, because it was so big, and pricey, we had a car payment again, or to be precise, seventy-two of ’em.

  Meanwhile, drunk asshole was probably on the road again. He had been too drunk to actually get injured, though his car had also been demolished. As he crawled out of the wreckage, hubby said his first words were vintage redneck: “Dude, help me get these beer bottles outta here before the cops come.”

  “Yeah,” said hubby, while he counted his extremities. “I’ll get right on that.”

  I’m hopeful for fewer wrecks in the future though. Toyota is rolling out a new car that detects if you’ve had too much to drink. This “smart car” works by analyzing the amount of booze in your palm sweat so if your drunk ass tries to drive, the car will simply refuse to start. And while Mel Gibson and half the cast of Lost are saying, “About damn time,” there might be some kinks.

  Like, how does it work if you’re wearing gloves? No problem, engineers say. The system also kicks in if it detects abnormal steering. There’s even a camera that can determine if your eyes are glazed over, as if intoxicated or as if watching any episode of According to Jim.

  If the smart car decides you’re too drunk to drive, it will slowly come to a stop, refuse to start again, and (I’d like to see this little feature added) systematically call everyone you know on your cell phone and inform them what a big wasted loser you are, including your mama and your boss.

  Cars are getting way smarter than people; that’s not news. But the car becoming the authority figure is taking it to the next level. I’m counting on the Japanese automakers to develop a backseat outfitted with sensors that can tell whether or not your kid is lying when he says he’s finished his homework.

  Let’s say Little Bubba wants to play soccer, so you’re on the way to the field to meet his buddies when you casually ask him, “Billy Bob, are you sure you finished all your homework?”

  If he says, “Yes,” millions of tiny sweat sensors inside the seat will activate and the car will automatically steer itself to the nearest public library for an impromptu study session.

  Of course, the car could be programmed to save us from things besides drunk driving and lying young’uns.

  Say you’re craving a foot-long hot dog and some tater tots from your favorite fast-food joint. You slow down on approach, flip the turn signal and, whoa, what’s this? The car inexplicably refuses to turn and delivers you, instead, to (horrors!) the nearest YMCA, seat sensors having detected that your ass appears to be roughly the size of Poland.

  I’m depending on car manufacturers to save us from ourselves, y’all. And I don’t mind kissing up to them, a little bit anyway.

  29

  Now That’s Just Rude, Y’all

  It’s time now to update the latest examples of what I l
ike to call Customer Dis-Service. What’s that you say? Define Customer Dis-Service; give three examples? Fine, no problem.

  Example No. 1

  I recently ordered an item from one of those “as seen on TV” places. I won’t tell you the name because I don’t want to be sued or have a shadowy figure in a hot pink velour sweat suit hold me down and staple my skull with a million tiny little decorative rhinestones and beads “guaranteed to add excitement to any outfit!”

  I realized that ordering this ’80s gizmo was pure nostalgia. Perhaps I longed for simpler times, when Olivia Newton-John just wanted to know if I’d ever been mellow, had I ever trrrrriiiiieeed…. I was seized with an irrational desire to, uh, dazzle up, “an array of sweaters, hats, dresses, slacks, even school book covers!” with these little multicolored beads, brads, and jewels.

  This would be fun for the whole family! I knew it would because the nice lady on TV said so. And how could you not trust a woman with her name stud-set in artificial gemstones across her bosom? I imagined what I could put across my own bosom. Perhaps, “Yeah, they’re real” on my 34As. I love irony in fake topaz, don’t y’all?

  So I called the toll-free number for Customer Dis-Service to order the very reasonably priced ($19.95) dazzling jewelry clothing enhancer.

  Things were going OK, except for the fact that one of us was a recording, but at least she sounded pleasant, like the kind of woman who would happily and mindlessly spend an afternoon affixing tiny bits of fake shinies to her jeans pockets, her kids’ jackets, her cat’s ears, all while watching Michael Ontkean strangle his wife for the bazillionth time on the Oxygen channel.

  After a couple of minutes, though, the pleasant-voiced woman started getting whiny and demanding.

  She would place my order, perhaps even during my lifetime, but first she wanted to share some information about “fabulous offers that are just too good to pass up!”