I know it was not intentional. A simple social faux pas.
Nothing more. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a bit sensitive this week, after going
through one of life’s greatest stressors last week. It didn’t help Monday when
the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank not only pointedly ignored Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, but
even seemed a bit put out that she dared to reclaim her seat at the table. I’m
sure the alleged slight was imagined on my part. But something didn’t seem
right. Our chemistry was out of whack.
Don’t think for an instant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was a
moper. Nope. She pulled up her chair four legs at a time like everybody else,
and attempted to join in as permitted. One member of the Think Tank was written
up in the local paper, for becoming a big fish in the big pond of technology.
The reporter had listed the ages of the students in the accompanying photo, and
had then listed Big Fish’s age after his name as well. So they were ribbing
him. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom commented that she had seen the article, and the age,
but had thought nothing of it, because magazines do that with famous people in
the news all the time. Crickets. Like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had announced that
last night she shot a unicorn in her pajamas. It seemed as if they were trying
to block me out. Then the hubbub resumed, concerning the new reporter who must
not know have known any better.
Tuesday, a Think Tank irregular graced us with his presence,
and let it slip that he had a cleaning lady. Well! So did the Big Fish. They
then commenced to expounding that the cleaning lady made their wives actually
pick up the clutter in order for the house to be cleaned. And that if a
cleaning lady could clean the whole house in two-and-a-half hours, surely the
wife could find that much time throughout a two-week period to do the same.
From there, talk went to the stuff filling up the house.
Like PLANTS FROM THE WIFE’S MOTHER’S FUNERAL! How she refused to get rid of
them. How the plants made the house look like a jungle. Those plants served no
purpose. It had been YEARS, and the plants needed to go. Never mind that they
were thriving. So another Think Tanker jumped in to reveal that she still had
plants from her father’s funeral, and it had been 16 years. Yet another Tanker
chastised the original Tanker, because how dare he think those plants were
worthless. She drives by her last-fall-deceased father’s truck on the way to
work every morning, and it brings tears to her eyes. To which Original Tanker
replied, “Well, I can understand that. It’s still so fresh to you.”
And there I sat, my slaw-loving mom gone less than a week,
listening to them discuss the departed. Like I didn’t exist. How could they not
notice this elephant in the room? It’s not like nobody knew about my loss. Five
of the seven Think Tankers had been to the funeral home and offered their
condolences. And they later got onto a discussion of how they have morals and
know what’s right and would act as avengers if anyone was being harmed. Like
stopping those twenty football players in the news who beat and raped a coed
and put it on Facebook. Okay. So Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not in the company of
twenty football players, and did not need that kind of rescuing. But somebody
could have suggested a new topic for discussion.
I’m shocked they didn’t just burst into a round of John
Brown’s Body Lies A-Moulderin’ in the Grave. Or a rousing chorus of “The worms
crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout.”
No, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not need to be rolled in cotton batting, encased in bubble wrap, and placed on a bed of downy duck feathers.
But there are standards of common decency, are there not? It’s not as if they
didn’t know, and coincidentally asked how my mom was doing. They knew. And saw
nothing wrong with it. I’m a nobody. Don’t mind me.
On the other hand, a special student stopped in the hall to
offer her condolences, because she heard that my mom passed away.
Some people could learn a lesson from that special student.
That is a callous group. Perhaps you could use one of those vibrating razors on them--the ones that people use on their rough, scaly feet...
ReplyDeleteOr, offer to treat them to a little lunch, and serve up what Kramer fed that horse, and then steer clear as the explosive results inevitably happen...
Sioux,
ReplyDeleteIt's almost as if they were a bunch of Ponys, not caring one whit about people!
I think I should ask them to lick the thank-you envelopes I'm sending out from the funeral. I'm sure they can be as potent as wedding invitation envelopes...
Insensitive. I know what you mean. Bet that conversation visits them when they least expect it will and they cringe in humiliation. It will wake them in the wee hours and they will hate themselves to their very core and wonder how to "fix" it, but a solution will forever evade them.
ReplyDeleteHope this helps. They most likely did not know what to say to you and once the conversation started, it snow-balled and no one knew how to stop it. They will no doubt choose to say nothing, thinking that an apology would be awkward and only draw more attention to the faux pas.