demeanor on my shows, or who the
Usually people think of me as a surprisingly nice person as fashion people go, but occasionally someone will corner me on the street and say: “You’re so mean!”
Often this is because people mistake me for Clinton Kelly from
Then they’ll interrupt and say, “I’ve been watching that show for years!”
And I will say, “Then you really should know I’m not Clinton Kelly.”
During the
I didn’t want to disappoint her and I didn’t think it mattered, so I just took the high road. I smiled at her and said hello and thanked her for watching the show. But the third morning, she got closer and said, somewhat concernedly, “What happened to your nice tan?” Finally, I told her I was the other guy on the show. She seemed so confused that I almost regretted not having done my best Michael Kors impression and told her, “Good call! I gotta get back to the beach.”
WHEN I WAS LITTLE, I had a great uncle who was verbally abusive. I’ve never forgotten a particular dinner he ruined with his bile. I still remember the tone of his voice at that holiday get-together, even though this was easily fifty years ago. I remember the room, what people were wearing, the candles, and then the excuse people kept offering one another: that he was ill. It didn’t make a difference to me. If he was going to be that nasty, why didn’t he stay in bed?
I also have vivid memories of people behaving kindly.
My godparents, Earle and Suzanne Harbison, who are thankfully still alive and well and live in St. Louis, have always been so good to me. When I think of them, it warms my heart.
When I was first in New York, they always used to come to town and take me out for big, delicious dinners. I was so grateful, because I was struggling on my teacher’s salary. Well, usually they would have me over to their hotel for a drink beforehand, but one time I said, “You’ve never seen my apartment. Why don’t we have a drink there this time?”
This was early in December. They came over and were lovely and talked about how nice it was at my tiny little place. They were incredibly gracious about every ratty piece of furniture and beat-up pot and pan. I lived paycheck to paycheck and wasn’t able to save anything, much less to furnish my apartment properly. But it was cozy, and I loved it.
Well, I received a Christmas card three weeks later from my godparents, and in it was a check for $10,000. That money at that point in my life changed everything for me. I was able to get some decent housewares, and I had a financial cushion for the first time in my life. It was a godsend.
Though I think that was part of it, mainly I think they just wanted me to feel secure. They are wonderful people who really looked out for me, and they wanted to do what they could to make my life easier and happier.
In my own godfathering I’ve done my best to imitate their concern and generosity.
It hasn’t always worked. My mother took the family to Disney World twice. The first time we went, my niece, Wallace, said in a pseudo-whisper to her mother, my sister Bub (her real name is Kim, but I have called her Bub or Bubby since she was born and I couldn’t say “baby” correctly), “Don’t worry about me, Mom. You have your hands full with Mac [her brother] and Uncle Nag.”
“What did she call me?” I asked, horrified. “Uncle
Noting my annoyance, Wallace turned to her mother, nodded in my direction, and said: “See?” She was seven or eight.
It was a good reminder that I needed to be more fun with the kids. I’ve tried to be good to them and to put whatever skills I have at their disposal. I always used to make my niece’s Halloween costumes. My favorite was the year I transformed her into a Life Saver.
My mother is a huge pessimist and often says, “If everything is fine, then I’m pleasantly surprised.” Years ago, my mother seemed to take great relish in predicting a doomed marriage for my sister: “It will most certainly end in divorce—soon!”
My sister has been married to her husband for more than thirty years. She’s never complained about him once. They are totally committed to each other. My mother thrives on the negative, so her daughter’s happy marriage is a big missed opportunity for complaint. That’s no way to live.
After all, why would you choose to be the angry great uncle in the corner rather than the beloved godparent with the long and happy life?
Don’t Abuse Your Power—
or Surrender It
ONE DAY WHEN I was working in academia, I had to get some things postmarked by five, and before they went out they needed to be signed by a senior administrator. At three, I knock on her door, but she’s in there with a young woman. I’m told to come back. Finally, it’s four and we’re about to miss a deadline, so I open the door and peek in.
The administrator is standing behind a girl, lifting her arms up and then pushing them down, and yelling, “Serve from the left! Take away from the right! Now you do it! Serve from the left! Take away from the right! More vigor! Serve from the left! Take away from the right!”
The girl was practically in tears.
I gathered she was preparing for a fancy dinner and the girl was going to be serving. It was a little terrifying. I gathered my signed papers and scurried off to the post office, rather traumatized after witnessing this borderline abusive enforcement of dining etiquette.
This was a rather horrible example of the Bad Boss, a type with which I am far too familiar. To wit: Once
