SearsucKAH!
Yesterday was our one-month wedding anniversary. I can't believe it's been a month already! It seems like only four weeks ago ...
Today, I'm wearing my brand-new searsucker pantsuit, purchased in Jacksonville. It's the new "Colonel Sanders" look. It's finger-lickin' hot, to paraphrase Paris Hilton.
Yes, searsucker. It's part of a recent trend of me reluctantly embracing my Inner WASP. I've long been a self-hating WASP, having grown up among painfully preppy suburbanites, but lately I've decided that I should just give up and learn to love the docksiders (without socks, of course). And the headband (bright pink, with little green whales on it). I draw the line, however, at the braided belt. Sigh.
The problem with WASPs is that we are not a funny race. When we are funny, it's more in the accidental sense, i.e., "those plaid golf pants look kind of funny with that lime green Izod shirt."
To wit, the list of WASP comedians is about as long as the list of "Dexy's Midnight Runners" top-40 hits. Even the ones who seem WASPy usually turn out to be Catholic or Jewish or Branch Davidians. Why? Because being a WASP is a serious business. When you've got the (inexplicably) dominant weltanshaung of a culture, it has to be protected at all costs. It becomes a "way of life," as in the Am'erkin Way of Life, and that must be exhalted and shielded from humor or terrorism. It's not that WASPs never laugh; we enjoy a good episode of Full House as much as anybody else. However, our collective sense of irony is just not terribly nuanced.
When I was 15, I met my first (and only) Catskills comedian, and decided that I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I didn't realize that working the Catskills was an unlikely career ambition if you happen to be any of the following: a WASP, Southern, female, or born after 1945. I was solidly all of the above. Not only had I never been to the Catskills, I didn’t even know what a Catskill was. Still don’t.
“Is that, like, a Siamese who knows how to flush a toilet?” I asked the comedian, rolling around laughing at my joke, which, in the true tradition of My People, was not funny at all.
I'd like to continue, but must get back to writing grants. Why? Because that is what I do for a living. Sigh. Will pick back up tomorrow ...
Today, I'm wearing my brand-new searsucker pantsuit, purchased in Jacksonville. It's the new "Colonel Sanders" look. It's finger-lickin' hot, to paraphrase Paris Hilton.
Yes, searsucker. It's part of a recent trend of me reluctantly embracing my Inner WASP. I've long been a self-hating WASP, having grown up among painfully preppy suburbanites, but lately I've decided that I should just give up and learn to love the docksiders (without socks, of course). And the headband (bright pink, with little green whales on it). I draw the line, however, at the braided belt. Sigh.
The problem with WASPs is that we are not a funny race. When we are funny, it's more in the accidental sense, i.e., "those plaid golf pants look kind of funny with that lime green Izod shirt."
To wit, the list of WASP comedians is about as long as the list of "Dexy's Midnight Runners" top-40 hits. Even the ones who seem WASPy usually turn out to be Catholic or Jewish or Branch Davidians. Why? Because being a WASP is a serious business. When you've got the (inexplicably) dominant weltanshaung of a culture, it has to be protected at all costs. It becomes a "way of life," as in the Am'erkin Way of Life, and that must be exhalted and shielded from humor or terrorism. It's not that WASPs never laugh; we enjoy a good episode of Full House as much as anybody else. However, our collective sense of irony is just not terribly nuanced.
When I was 15, I met my first (and only) Catskills comedian, and decided that I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I didn't realize that working the Catskills was an unlikely career ambition if you happen to be any of the following: a WASP, Southern, female, or born after 1945. I was solidly all of the above. Not only had I never been to the Catskills, I didn’t even know what a Catskill was. Still don’t.
“Is that, like, a Siamese who knows how to flush a toilet?” I asked the comedian, rolling around laughing at my joke, which, in the true tradition of My People, was not funny at all.
I'd like to continue, but must get back to writing grants. Why? Because that is what I do for a living. Sigh. Will pick back up tomorrow ...
posted by Marguerite at 11:26 AM
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