The Successful Social Guide: Helpful Tips from Mrs. Betty Bone

Welcome, Gentle Readers, welcome –

This column is the feeble result of much prodding and loving encouragement by kind-hearted friends and family over the years.  A Special Dedication to my dear Beloved. This writing is begun on the eve of his 60th birthday. Cheers and salute, my dear One.

Over the years, truly, I have lost count of the number of entreaties made to me by would-be ghost writers, agents and publishers eager to turn my gilded expertise into newsletter columns, newspaper and magazine articles, books, and even a film!

What follows below are but just a few bits of wisdom stemming from a life devoted to the kind art of thoughtful social guidance.  Truly, it’s so much just about common courtesy and common sense.

Such as:

  • Always make reply to an invitation as expediently as possible. To do otherwise is to risk losing desired-guest status.
  • Thank-You notes are not a requirement; they are a kindness. In consideration of same, ask yourself: “What kind of person do I wish to be?”
  • “No-show? No, no!”  Memorize it. Live it.  Truly, it is not unheard-of that negligence in this regard should lead to social death by blacklist. To risk bluntness, the determination may indeed be that you are just not worth the trouble.

But let us not focus on such dark topics! Happy Birthday to my dear, dear One!

Cheers, dear readers, cheers to you!

And cheers to Love and Grace, Sisters Most Divine! Oon the occasion of my Beloved’s birthday, cheers to you.

And cheers again!

And a cheery new Gratitude for an important social guide lessson just newly learned just tonight:

  • No matter how decorative or lovely the dispenser, never set bleach wipes on the back of the toilet. Doing so may lead to disastrous and embarrassingly noisy episodes for particularly intemperate guests.

This is just but one are but just a few important rules for being a successful social guide. Lo! Here is another one!

  • Never, never comment on a woman’s pregnancy unless and until she makes comment first. Even if you are standing in a puddle of her amniotic fluid, hands raised to catch her birthing child, never presume to ask “And when are you due?” Always assume she is, tragically, unrepentently obese and go forth from there.

Now, some do call me the “über-hostess of the modern age.” But truly I do decry – reject – this designation, and the much-hated “hostess” label with its accompanying starched-apron saccharine image as just one more steaming fingerbowl of misogynistic horse piss set out on the patriarcal table.

O, Yes! I am a wee bit tipsy at this writing. Tee hee hee! Here is another nugget for you.

  • Never spend the best part of a day assembling the grossly complicated, disproportionately celebrated chocolate sheet cake (it is sheet cake, for god’s sake) recipe of your husband’s dead and curiously still overbearing mother.
  • Especially when said husband becomes notoriously Errol Flynn-like whenever inebriated and may well, at the conclusion of the Happy Birthday song, set the expression of his horselike face with bizarrely large capped teeth into a defiant glaring grimace as he extinguishes the sixty candles that you fashioned yourself out of organic beeswax with the cheap domestic beer that you keep on-hand only to distract the help and serve to visiting clergy, thus drowning the cake and rendering it inedible.

While some people (such as the the dead, overbearing mother type with her yellow-stained fingers and dragon’d breath) would insist that a lifetime of gracious true-heartednessss is no substitute for being born into the “correct” sphere of the social hierarchy, one’s true life experiences quite often prove this philosophy not only erroneous but cruelly fragrant along the lines of a potpurri made of pine bark, bad pork, and fetid underpants.

Excuse moi whilst I rend the top of this lovely gift bottle of sherry wine cleverly called “Jim Beam.”

Voila! and another jewel rolls off the tipped and graceful fingers of this lady we call Life

O, Life! O, to a Life well-lived! To you! To you!

O, Clever Jim – you rascal sir!

  • Endeavor not to leave aforementioned muddy underpants on the bathroom floors of your Beloved’s ratinfested ancestral home for the afermentioned help to develop attitude and quit over rather than to don two layers of rubble gloves in order to retrieve, breath held in attempt to not be sick at stench of you and left childless bride family wondering how someone who pills in so much trust find cash all his life long can be so willing to be wearing own filth and where is the baby I was pomised for me?!!

Hear, hear!

We so broke.

Jim, !

  • Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim. I signed up not for this! JIM!WHEWR RAEYOUJ
  • Buy you your own YOou middle-aged gas bag farting yourself filthy imnot paying nothinI hope you die bfore  money goe altogeter
  •  Am Elivzbeth flipping bennett  – la belle dam sans Darcy!

HA HAHAHAA Clever tis!

Chee! Cheee to you JIm!

SEND! SEND!

And away it goe

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About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
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