Last week while ordering my super-cute, chocolate-brown “Obama ’08” football tee that I’m planning to wear to every Stepford soccer game from now until election day, I instant messaged a friend of mine who has not yet realized she is a Democrat. I offered to purchase her a tee shirt, to which I received an overly polite “No, thank you.” I was feeling particularly mischievous that day, so I continued offering everything on the Obama ’08 Web site until she “hung up” on our chat session.
Well, today I paid the price for that little bit of fun. If you read my “Oh No You Didn’t” Stepford Story, you know I’m constantly forced to interact with Republicans who could care less they are offending me. Well, this morning the attack came from my friend, who knew exactly what she was doing. I’m not sure what got her Stepford thong in a knot, but she took it out on me. What follows in this article is my actual instant message conversation, only edited for spelling, punctuation, and the removal of her name for her own protection.
Her: “Okay, I know you’re not a Sarah Palin fan, but there was a spread on the whole McCain/Palin thing in People a couple of weeks ago and Sarah had on these ROCKIN’ shoes. Unfortunately I threw away the magazine and can’t find the picture on the People Web site. Any suggestions?”
(“McCain/Palin thing”? It’s a “thing?? Yeah, I have some suggestions.)
Me, taking a deep breath: “I have absolutely no problem with her shoes. I actually really like the way she dresses ... those shoes were on the front page of the Wall Street Journal—red patent leather peep toe pumps. Don’t remember where they came from, but I am SURE with all the media coverage on her Japanese glasses that if you Googled ‘Sarah Palin’s shoes,’ they would pop up.”
(Two short minutes later.)
Her: “I LOVE Google!!!!!”
Me, with an eye roll: “Me too.”
Her: “BUMMER!!!! Zappos is not offering my size.”
Me, exasperated that so many women have apparently ordered these shoes they are in short supply: “And why do you think that is? There is a two-month wait on her glasses.”
(Three blessed minutes of silence ...)
Her: “I’m on the phone with the boutique in Alaska where she bought them and am putting in my ‘hold’ for their next shipment. The brand of shoes is ‘The Naughty Monkey.’ I told her she needed to open another boutique in Stepford.”
(Father in Heaven, I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this, but I assure you I am very, very, VERY, sorry ...)
Me: “I may not be able to talk to you until November 3rd.”
Her: “You HAVE to look up this shoe line. It’s incredible.”
Me: “I’m about to unfriend you.”
Her: “I seriously need ALL of these shoes ...”
Me: “You seriously need someone to throw some cold water on you.”
Her: “Did you SEE the Web site?”
Me: “Noooooo. Out of principle I’m unable to click the link.”
Her: “You’re seriously missing out.”
(Umkay ... I’m done … I can’t take it anymore.)
Me: “How could I possibly wear the exact pair of shoes that she wears without that making me a hypocrite? I’ve only dissed her and her sanctimonious pumps under my real name on a national Web site.”
Her: “You dissed her shoes?!”
(OMG! It’s seriously okay if I dis the VP candidate on the Republican ticket for which she is voting, but NOT her shoes?)
Me: “Well, I’ve referred to her pumps on several occasions and how if her updo gets any taller, it will be an actual bee hive.”
Her: “Okay, I agree the hair needs some attention, but HOW could you dis her SHOES?!”
(Umkay ... it really is the dissing of the shoes that is offending her. I’m so sorry, but I have to say this.)
Me: “BECAUSE SHE IS F’ING WEARING THEM!”
Her: “It’s not the shoes’ fault that you don’t like her.”
(How, how in the Hell can I make this stop?)
Me: “True, but it doesn’t mean I want to wear the ‘signature’ shoes of someone I so publicly and fundamentally disagree with and could possibly—God help us all—be President.”
Her: “I’ll let you swoon over mine when I get them.”
(WHERE is that letter opener?! If I don’t find something to poke my own eyes out with soon, I’m going to scream.)
Me: “And I’ll allow you to silently enjoy the improvement in the well-being of our Nation when we ship her and her Naughty Monkeys back to BFA.”
Her: “Or I’ll buy you a pair when she moves into the VP house in Washington.”
(Is it even worth mentioning the Vice President lives at Number One Observatory Circle and they don’t call it the “VP house”?)
Me: “Make sure you buy me your own size, ’cause I won’t be wearing them.”
Her: “You’re going to be jealous!”
Me: “Very doubtful.”
(Okay, enough! It’s time for a threat.)
Me: “I’m about to cut and paste our conversation for my next Stepford Story.”
Her: “You can use my real name.”
Me: “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”
Her: “As long as you’re not dissing ME ...”
(OH LORD ... by definition, if you get a Stepford Story written about you—you’re being dissed.)
Me: “Publishing this conversation would be read as dissing you. So, because I love you, in spite of your misguided shoe fetish, I won’t.”
Her: “Now, see, you’re assuming that people wouldn’t see MY side?”
(AAHHH … I’m going to hyperventilate at any moment.)
Me: “Okie dokie, that’s fair enough. I’m going to publish it, not using your name just in case I’m right and you’re not and we’ll see how it comes out, deal?”
Her: “Deal.”
And there you go—just another day in the lovely, “unsuperficial,” high-minded city of Stepford.
No comments:
Post a Comment