Sorry, idiots

I am mistress of the caustic phrase, queen of the acerbic comeback. It makes people wary of me, which suits me just fine.

Compared to my cousin, however, my cutting edge is dull.Her tongue is quicker and more irreverent than mine, yet she is loved universally. At her wedding last month, guest after guest felt moved to speak about how “nice” she is.

“Jeez….I can be nice,” I whined to my husband during the reception, “but nobody ever stands up and says so.”

Desperate for confirmation that the definition of “nice” had changed without my knowing it, I did something I almost never do: I initiated a conversation with a stranger.

“How long have you known my cousin?” I asked a guest named Stephen. “About 11 years,” he replied. “Yet you described her as nice,” I said. “What’s up with that?” He laughed, so I liked him immediately--something else I rarely do.

Stephen explained that my cousin is “thoughtful” and “gives great advice.” Big deal, I thought. I think a lot, and I love telling people what to do.

Despite Stephen’s uninspired analysis of “nice,” I invited him to join me for the wedding dinner. Throughout the meal, he and I fired off inappropriate but hilarious remarks about the other guests. It turns out Stephen isn’t all that nice, either.
I was uncharacteristically excited about having made a new friend, but it was a short-lived high. During dessert, my cousin pulled me aside and whispered, “I just saw Stephen on his way back from the bathroom. He says that next to you, I look like Mary Fucking Poppins.”

I was pissed off. What made me the bigger misanthrope?

I think I have it figured out. If people would simply keep their mouths shut, I believe I could become quite fond of them. But they insist on talking. To me.

Here’s an example. I was at the dog park when a neighbor bragged, “My grandson has only been at college for two days and he told his parents that it already feels like home.” This would be fabulous news if I cared even an iota--or if I hadn’t just told her that my niece was having a really rough time adjusting to collegiate life.

I’d lose my will to live if I believed people actually heard themselves talk.

I have a relative who says things like, "Where did you get those flowers? From FDIC?” Apparently, she can’t distinguish syllables from words, either. During one of her daughter’s temper tantrums, I heard her say, “Samantha, I have two words for you. Be-have.”

I did not tell my gloating neighbor that the ability to make a seamless transition to codid llege life is a trait shared by serial killers. And I have never told my relative she is a moron. Still, I don’t see people chomping at the bit to call me nice.

My friend Wesley and I consider it supremely unjust that we don’t get credit for the times we wanted to make an offensive comment but didn’t. To this day, we mourn every one of those missed opportunities for a laugh at someone else’s expense.

Oh, to have the freedom to respond from the heart, like my then three-year-old did when I asked him to apologize for hurting his daddy’s feelings. He thought about it for a moment and said, “Sorry [VERY long pause], idiot.” I will go to my grave regretting that I had to tell him he must never apologize like that again.

From his first colicky moment, my son was exceedingly in touch with his feelings. His first words were “Fucking shit, mama! Beep beep!” At first I thought this was outrageously funny. But as the first day of pre-school drew near, his cursing began to make me uneasy. I called his pediatrician for advice.

The doctor has a great sense of humor, which is every bit as important to me as his medical acumen. “Well, what’s typically going on when he curses, mom? "Um, I'm not sure, but I might be beeping the horn and and yelling at other drivers," I confessed. “Okay,” the doctor advised, “quit beeping the fucking horn.”

As he matured, my son began to express his feelings the hard way: without profanity. I remember one of the many times he turned down my invitation to sit in the timeout chair. My frustration must have registered on the infinitesimal part of his brain that wasn’t focused on himself. “Don’t you roll your stupid eyes at me,” he warned.

It was one of my proudest parenting moments ever. I knew the situation called for me to be an adult, but I was overcome by the pleasure of seeing the values I had instilled in my boy brought so vividly to life. The best I could do was to put him in his room, shut the door, run downstairs and laugh until I nearly puked.

I don’t know where things went wrong but these days, my son is exceedingly kind, polite and deeply respectful, especially to people who don’t deserve it. This nice streak of his irritates the shit out of me. He has what I consider to be an unnatural ability to shrug off rude people. Worse, he invents excuses for their behavior. I, in stark contrast, get enraged that they are allowed to exist; then I hang on to each incident way past its shelf life.
 
I found a solution. A few years ago, I bought an iPod, and I seldom leave home without it. I consider it nothing short of miraculous how well that tiny little device keeps my blood pressure stable and my internal Feng Shui-ing.

My son shudders when he sees me grabbing my iPod along with my car keys and grocery list. My husband rolls his [stupid] eyes at me. In stores, fellow customers look at me more oddly than they did before.

Sorry, idiots.