Pre-War Protest
Are you there, readers? It’s me, Mrs. Tittle-Tattle. June is bustin’ out all over—and I mean June Sapperstein, my neighbor who just had a boob job. She doesn’t mind my telling you this, but she is a little upset about her timing, because she had her rack renovated just when all those stories surfaced about the new natural-looking body trend in Tinseltown. But June swears that in this town, it takes a little unnatural help to fill out that Armani gown at The City Ballet benefit, while scouting for a second husband. She is convinced that her new “accessories” will pay off, so I really hope lightning strikes soon.
And speaking of strikes, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief when the doorman strike did not happen. Well, I have to admit I was a little bit disappointed, because I had signed up for mail duty, and I was so looking forward to shuffling through my neighbors’ mail to see what clubs they belong to, what charities they give to, and what parties they were invited to. We’ve all gotten other people’s mail mistakenly delivered to our apartments, and I’ve always found it intriguing. Like when the person I thought was a staunch Democratic turned out to be a closet Republican. And occasionally I get a UJA appeal letter for a neighboring apartment, hold it up to the light, and try to decipher how much they gave. It’s so fun!
The building labor unrest made me wonder what would happen if I went on strike. Now, I realize I have a great life in many ways, and a lot of perks that could be considered “wages and benefits,” but where is the respect? If our Union of Over-Privileged but Under-Rated Wives and Mothers went on strike, perhaps we’d be able to negotiate better terms and conditions for our services, like more thank-you’s, and a few more pieces of jewelry.
When I mentioned this to my family, they thought it was hilarious, especially since I have a nanny and a housekeeper. They totally did not get the fact that household help, while a huge support, cannot substitute for an educated domestic executive like me. One evening, after another “I don’t know what you do all day” line from my husband, I staged my walkout. “That’s it!” I screeched. “I’m going on strike!” I scrawled a sign and taped it to one of the Central Park Conservancy umbrellas in the stand in our elevator hallway: “Local 45TT demands better working conditions and respect from the Fat Cats living in her home. Those big corporate bonuses should not be spent on Mr. Fat Cat’s Porsche collection but instead should be going to Mrs. T-T’s benefits plan, which includes a rotating seasonal wardrobe, spa treatments, therapy, and cosmetic dermatology! It’s getting more expensive to maintain oneself on Park Avenue, so I need more!”
On day one my husband and daughter decided they would show me that they could do my job. My husband went through the family mail and paid the bills. He did it better than me. That’s because he throws everything away, whereas I save everything, because I always think I might attend that Bergdorf’s private sale of Burberry trench coats for dogs, even though I don’t own a dog.
Eventually my husband told my daughter to go through my stack of mail and do things related to schools. So Caroline started RSVP’ing me for school events I had no interest in attending. Then she got to the Annual Fund letter. Instead of checking off the usual “Friend” category, Caroline checked off the “Patron” box, which meant we were in the hole for at least $100,000. I only realized something was amiss when I ran into the headmistress a few days later, and she said they were going to name the new science lab after us. I was too embarrassed to tell her it was a misunderstanding, so I will have to sell my Verdura necklace to remain on the donor A-list. School Trustees have begun asking me out to lunch. Next year I may have to take out a second mortgage on the apartment just to keep this up.
My being on strike was working out pretty well for my family. I was not enjoying my free time because I was too upset watching everyone else think I was expendable. Not only were they getting along great without me, but part of the strike deal was that I was not allowed to yell at anyone, which is 90% of my job. I also stopped my beauty maintenance routine, because I was trying to prove that those appointments were what made me such lovely arm candy for my husband. But as I started to lose my looks, my husband said he was thinking about hiring a non-union wife. I told him there was no way some scab-slut was going to cross my picket line (I spent a few minutes each day parading around my elevator hallway, chanting about my plight). When my daughter insisted she was entitled to mani-pedi’s once a week now that she was doing part of my job, I totally lost it. Yes, I caved. None of my demands were met, although, as my husband ran his fingers through my hair that had not been blown out in a week, he said he did realize that there were a lot of things I did that did not garner the respect they were due. Like waiting around for the air conditioner and FiOS guys to arrive. My kids said that they did miss me, but it was really peaceful while I was “gone.”
Ultimately, my strike was just a vain and pathetic, attention-seeking gesture—basically a big bust. Kind of like June’s.
