Big-mouthed Babettes and their Effect on the Universal Constant – or, Shut Up, for once!

Big-mouthed Babettes and their Effect on the Universal Constant – or, Shut Up, for once!

A professor of Political Science one asked the question of his first-year poly-sci class, “Why is that people with the least-interesting things to say always talk the loudest?”

Here is an answer: Babette needs attention.

Nothing spoils a morning commute or a nice dinner with your beloved than a big-mouthed Babette who believes that her words are so interesting they must be shared with the whole of the world.

What is the proper etiquette for dealing with a Babette or two who are talking so loudly that you can hear them over your iPod ear-buds, or whose insipid gossip drowns out the sweet nothings that should be in your ear?

A tiny, well built paper airplane, a drone carrying the missive “please keep your voices down – we are trying to think” aimed right between her eyes… yes, I sailed one right at a chattering Babette who carried on and on about her visit to Prada Valhalla (the outlet near Milano).

The airborne missive read: “For God’s sake I don’t care how much you paid for those boots, or how many people mistook you for someone famous! Please! Shut up! It’s only 7:30AM!”

The tiny paper drone glanced off the seat next her, fell to the floor and was picked up by a Tibetan monk who was enjoying the train ride in a serenity more precious than any pair of Prada boots could ever muster.

Feeling overly pugilistic, I tried to follow the example of the Monk and ignore the chatter. I did not have to try for too long: The Babette chatter was outdone by a far worse affliction - a barrage of F-bombs.

Overhead on Metro North:

Two females about 25 and reeking of cigarettes pile into the empty seats in front of me. I can smell them – the odor of tobacco now holding us all in its nauseating embrace. And then they start IT – the morning round of insipid gossip that never leads to anything good.

Female 1: Who does she think she is, that fuckin’ bitch. That fuckin’ bitch.

Female 2: She thinks she’s all that. All that. Baby, she thinks she more than that.

Female 1: She’s not all that. She’s a fuckin’ bitch.

Female 2: Well fuck her, that fuckin’ bitch. That man of hers is all-wifed-up anyways.

(Brief pause while I try to determine the meaning of “all-wifed-up” and if anyone has ever addressed the origin of this colorful little colloquialism.)

Female 1: That fuckin’ bitch, and did you know that she had the nerve – THE NERVE – to call …. Blah blah blah, on and on and F-this and F-that….

It was a bombardment almost blitz-like in its scope, leaving the babbling Babette to wonder how, over the din of the offensive, she would be able to prattle on about her purchasing power.



That was the morning – a lovely start to the day – and then, like the endless ring cycle that is life, Babette returned later that night while I sat with my beloved trying to enjoy a little wine and cheese.

This Babette was with a man, one whom she clearly intended to bag, providing he passed the Babette Background Check. All her corporate logos were amply displayed – the Fendi Bag, the Tiffany locket, the Gucci sunglasses still on her head, the Channel sweater and scarf. He was Paul Smith from head to toe. And he was playing the game to win. His tie said it all.

Overheard in Midtown:

Babette and her Potential are sitting at a table sipping at the latest drink. He checks his Blackberry.

“They keep you busy,” she says as she gives him the predatory female glance.

He catches the glance and flashes her a smile as he replies to the message.

“Sorry,” he says. The Japanese markets are crazy.”

“I love the Tokyo Hilton,” Babette says in a too-loud-for-the-space voice.

He sums her up.

“The Four Seasons Chinzan is better,” he says as he puts away his Blackberry, “unless it’s the shopping you’re into.”

(Upscale brinkmanship is awesome to watch, especially when its only purpose is a possible horizontal liaison.)

“I like nice things,” she says unabashedly. “I guess I’m a little spoiled that way.”

(They are close to some kind of negotiation…)

“So how do you know Sam?” he asks.

“We met at a Duckie Brown show,” she says as she sips at her drink. “It was special invitation only.”

(Dodge, parry, lunge?)

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not really Sam’s type,” he says.

(She fondles her Tiffany’s locket, which he is eying…)

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Just that he likes little girls.”

(Babette lets the locket fall against her pearly skin, the kind that has seen many milk baths and a variety of admirers.)

“Girls?”

“Girls. Not women,” he replies. “It’s a weakness. Believe me, it’s not Buddhism that makes Thailand so appealing to him. I went once. It was surreal. Personally, I’ll stick with the Riviera and leave the exotica to him.”

(Babette continues reading her dinner date, a new a shrewd smile coming to her lips.)

“Sam and I are just friends.”

“We’re friends, too. I just wouldn’t let him baby-sit, that’s all. But he is a kick-ass financial advisor, so I can overlook his little issue.”

“How do you know him?” she asks, again fondling her Tiffany’s prize.

“We used to work together at (censored) Bank. I’m surprised you met at a fashion show; not really his style. Anyway, how do you like your drink?”

“It’s nice,” she says, leaning on her elbows so that he can get a peek of things to come. “I’m glad that he asked if I could meet you tonight. He says you’re very good at what you do.”

One can only imagine what our Samantha-esque huntress meant by that remark. I don’t want to know. It was a creepy conversation that cheapened the true thrill of finding a mate, of bonding over wine and food and sharing in some of the common humanity around us. No, she was playing it like a streetwalker at a busy stoplight.

Tags:   babette, glam, glitter, nyc gossip

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Posted on 6/13/2006 ( Permanent Link )
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