“Miss Mannahs Driven To Distraction In Teaneck NJ”

Ruminant With A View

by Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

TEANECK, NJ—(Weekly Hubris)—8/16/10—“Nation,” I say, conflating Colbert and Stewart, “I give up!”

Were we all born in a barn? The same barn? Is it only this transplanted, superannuated Southern Belle who is left to lament the demise of anything resembling manners, Yea, common decency, in this country . . . but, especially, in this state?

“New Jersey, Oy, Ach, Yo!”

From Aaron in Teaneck: “I was walking down Cedar Lane yesterday, bellowing into my Bluetooth-wannabe and, simultaneously, mowing down two ladies-of-a-certain-age walking towards me in the opposite direction. One of them screeched at me as she passed. Where did I go wrong?”

Lady-of-a-Certain-Age-One: “Well Aaron—what are you, 5’4”? 5’5”? Really, the Bluetooth-clone suffices to make you look like a dork. Bellowing into it, in Hebrew already, while mowing down ladies of any age on a town sidewalk is, of course, an added fillip. But, truly, who brought you up, and in which barn? I’m neither anti-Semitic nor a Luddite (I live in TEANECK, NJ, for heaven’s sake), but expect, Sir, next time, to be smitten with a parasol as opposed to simply screeched at as you mow down ladies on the sidewalk. You’ve heard of Low T, I suppose? Well, High T is also a problem. Tone. It. Down. He can hear you. We can hear you. Hell, the TV repair guy in Tenafly can hear you. And the other lady with me spoke Hebrew. Did your MOTHER teach you those bad words? Repeat several times, softly: a Bluetooth is NOT a 1920’s megaphone.”

From Rachel Maddow: “One of my thoughtful viewers sent me her late father’s first-edition Trader-Joe’s bar book, as she knows I am a dedicated mixologist. A bit busy since I received the gift (Afghanistan, dissing O’Reilly, doing ‘Meet the Press,’ did I mention Afghanistan?), I haven’t sent her a thank you note. Am I remiss?”

From Trader-Joe-less In Teaneck: “You bet your Sweet Bippie, Miss, you are remiss. Don’t you have an elderly peon over there at ‘The Rachel Maddow Show’ assigned to writing thank you notes to fans-who-won’t-long-be-fans if they fail to receive thank you notes? You know, I wrote a little book for Obama back in 2008 and sent it to him and Michele while they were living at the Hay-Adams, and THEY even found time to send me-whom-they-don’t-know-from-Adam-and-not-even-a-major-donor a thank you note. Just saying, Oh Queen of Evening Talk. But, if it’s any comfort, you’re not alone. NO ONE sends thank you notes any more. And soon, NO ONE will be sending gifts, either. That’ll be a relief, won’t it?”

From Bella-Propelling-Triplets-in-Stroller-in-Votee-Park: “I sprint my babies around Votee Park two or three times every morning, literally jettisoning everyone I meet into the ample foliage on either side of the macadamed path. Am I setting a poor example for my progeny? Oh, PS: I ALSO shriek into my Bluetooth whilst driving forth my mega-pram.”

From-the-Foliage-Bordering-Votee-Park: “Bella, Bella, Bella! May I tell you how utterly BORED I am with fecundity, and yours in particular? In my tortuous daily circuits of Votee Park (I’m recovering from spinal fusion surgery, thank you for noticing), I believe I’ve heard from you—at volume—everything there is to be known about fertility treatments, natural childbirth, difficult nursers and impossible home help, and I am, I can tell you, tired, tired, tired of it all. SO tired, in fact, that I positively LEAP into the foliage whenever I see/hear you and your ilk bearing down upon me. I no longer even WAIT to be swept aside by all those wheels, diaper bags, juice bottles and flailing elbows. Do you realize you resemble a 19^th-century caravan careering along the Silk Road, dangling chattels left and right? Get OVER yourself and your progeny: we silent walkers have HAD it!” (Oh, and see “Aaron” above re shrieking, in any locale, into a Bluetooth.)

From A Member of Your Local Teaneck Police Force: “I find I’ve just gone berserk recently handing out tickets for sheerly spurious reasons. I lurk here and there in my very own hamlet, ambushing innocent motorists and writing them up monstrous fines for the most trivial of offenses whilst, just across town, drug-crazed burglars are breaking into burghers’—well, former burghers’, now paupers’—homes with impunity. Where have I gone wrong? Is this a case of O.C.D? Should I seek help?”

From Fined-Enough-Already-in-Teaneck: “Officer, you need to get a grip. You’ve become the equivalent of a sheepdog who’s eating the sheep while the wolves lark about with lamb chops in their jaws. You’re also overweight, bad-tempered, and wasting your considerable talents on very slow-moving prey who’ve already, thank you, given all they can in the form of municipal taxes. Officer, we’ve given to the trash collectors, we’ve given at Town Hall, we’ve given at the parking meter, we’ve given to the IRS: there’s really nothing left and, if we have to waste yet another day at traffic court negotiating down our $200. ticket for making an illegal U-Turn in the PO parking lot—where a police car, yours, was taking up the last parking space—we may very well be out of a job. So, yes, seek help. Psychiatric. They’ll show you photos: Good Guy; Bad Guy. Chase Bad Guy; don’t ticket Good Guy just because he/she is low-hanging fruit. You hearin’ this?”

And, finally . . .

From Single-Woman-in-Car-Honking-Her-Horn-with-Hip-Hop-Blaring-on-Queen-Anne-Road: “I’m distraught, really. Every evening when I return from work in the city, there are all these other motorists on the road in front of me. Somehow, they have managed to beat me home, by a hair, and they just will turn into their own, $%#@ driveways in front of me. Oh yes, they switch on their turn signals to let me know they’re going to turn but, then, do you know what they do? They slow down. And turn! They actually turn into their driveways. Slowly. So as not to run over their peonies and children. Or perhaps a spouse watering the lawn. So, I HAVE to honk at them, don’t I? Repeatedly? Just to let them know THEY’VE IMPEDED MY OWN HELLBENT PROGRESS TOWARDS MY OWN ^%#* DRIVEWAY? Gee, I feel so much better already.”

From Mown-Down-on-Queen-Anne-Road-One-Time-Too-Many: “Single Honking Woman, I simply have no words to describe your behavior. Well, yes, in fact, I find I do. Let’s see: selfish, mean, counterproductive, moronic, purblind, infuriating and rude. For starters. This kind of civic bad manners is what’s making those of us who miss the good old days of civility—on the sidewalk, on the street, in the aisles of Stop & Shop—want to pack up and move to just about anywhere else but in a sleeper-suburb of NYC. I’m actually so exhausted by my silent and daily discourse on rotten manners in the Tri-State area that I’d welcome . . . moving to the barn where you were obviously born. Perhaps next year. Till then, cease with the honking. Leave that to the four million Canada geese pooping Votee Park into oblivion just across the street. Their noise and offal shall suffice, believe me.”

Very cordially yours,

Miss Mannahs, of The Virginia Mannahs