Let's be New England Old Money living in 2022

I am the MAGA hat that I hide in the servants' quarters when any of member of the Bush family come for a visit.

Yes, you've lived next to me for twenty years, you disgusting arriviste. You dare to send ME a Christmas card! Don't LOOK at me.

I am the old school Presbyterian Church that I attend every Sunday despite my daddy being an alcoholic, my mother having an affair with the much younger tennis pro, and my husband being a closet homosexual. Yet, we are all at Sunday services and donate enough to the church that our minister looks the other way.

New England old money is gone.

R4 not really

Prep school is still prep school. Where even the black students act white.

I'm the classical music playing with dinner

I'm the stick up your ass.

I'm the sailboat. All the kids learn to sail on me early, because, well, golf and even tennis are so bourgeois.

I'm the beat up old Volvo in the garage. We wouldn't be caught dead in a Tesla.

I'm all the children marrying off to Jews.

I'm Gran's old Chelsea china set. Full set in mint condition, and probably worth a fucking fortune. They pull me out for Sunday roast and limp vegetables - imagine, so infra dig!

I'm the classic, deceptively weather-beaten but actually terribly elegant home on Martha's Vineyard. From my wraparound porch, the family can see the Obamas cavorting on the beach, and mourn the decline.

[quote]New England old money is gone.

Somewhat true. It's been replaced, esp in greater Boston/southern New England, by the wide swaths of newer tech and biotech money that's washed in over the past four decades.

Many of the old Brahmin or industrial baron family descendants have frittered away their trusts of moved out of the area altogether.

I'm dear old Nantucket - my shores are eroding due to climate change, but will they sell out? Not a bit of it. They'll go down with the place, drinks in hand, like those stellar exemplars in the deck chairs on the Titanic.

I'm Honey, the golden retriever, and I am the most important person in the family photograph.

I'm Bermuda shorts, Dockers without socks, an open plaid shirt over an undershirt, being borne determinedly over the dunes by the Master of the 'ouse early Sunday morning.

I'm Buffy. My real name is Elizabeth Alice Evelyn, but Buffy is all I could manage in babyhood, and it stuck.

By the way, all us kids have three rather than two names, like the royals.

Big Brother is Mark Peter Mayhew (Mum's maiden name).

Baby Brother is Stewart Andrew John.

I would have liked the Mayhew, you know, like Caroline Bouvier Kennedy?

But they gave it to the Boy.

I'm the library - no, not the public library, you fool.

British racing green walls, floor to ceiling oak shelves filled with leather bound books, hunting lodge carpet, deep leather armchairs.

I'm Dad's refuge.

The kids have always ignored me.

I'm Grandfather and Grandmother. George and Barbara were dear friends of ours. A shame they left the area.

John and Virginia were friends of ours at the club. A shame John died of heart failure at such a young age. Their son Lincoln was smart to get our when he did.

I'm the lie that bitch told us that it would be an "interfaith" marriage. Now I'm at the "holiday" party eating latkes and watching my circumcised grandsons read Hebrew. There's no Christmas tree and we got sideways glances when they saw we used red and green wrapping paper.

^If only dear old aunt Beatrice was alive to see this!

We are still upset with Edith Wharton and Henry James for exposing our lifestyle.

I'm lacross, the acceptable physical sport for the wealthy male youth. The other acceptable option, for the more "down to Earth" types, is hocky. Both sports weed out the poor and poeple of color given the personal expenses of the sport. If your son can't dominate on the golf course or tennis team, then send hin over to me!

Francine is very well read, but got her daddy's looks.

I'm Rochelle Morgenstern, the first Jew ever to marry into the Mayhew-Dobbs family. I thought I had it made in the shade when I snagged Mark. Boston townhome! Place in Nantucket! Old money! Trust fund! He's really rather sweet, too, and the family was decent enough (I'm blonde and trim, so they weren't too embarrassed).

But then I got up the duff and, Oy vey - thank God the first kid was a girl! It was bad enough arguing about a christening, but can you imagine if it had been a boy, and between his parents wanting it to be christened and my parents hysterical about him not having a bris . . . Madness,

I'm pushing Mark to relocate to New York City where he has a shot at a job on Wall Street.

We can buy a place in Park Slope where there will be plenty of other mixed-race families to socialise with.

Rochelle here, again. I forgot to mention that when Mark proposed, and I mentioned Tiffany for the engagement ring, Mark gave me an alarmed look and pulled out a battered old leather ring box with his grandmother's Art Deco platinum and diamond engagement ring featuring a three-carat OEC top quality diamond with diamond baguette shoulders.

I’m the 93 year old Black maid that still works as hard as she did 70 years ago. For this same damned family. I’m the only who truly exudes dignity around this hell hole. My name is Alice but they insist on calling me some fucked up cutesie nickname. I have not corrected them in 70 years. I know every single secret in this family.

^ And, by the way, that library mentioned upthread where Mr. Mayhew takes refuge? I have dusted more Mapplethorpe books and Bruce Weber photo books than you can shake a stick at.

R28 - Mr Mayhew-Dobbs here: you know bloody well, you imposter, that we have never anything but solid Irish household staff.

And I have no idea who put those Mapplethorpe books there.

I am the complete shock that OP believes in something called "fellow citizens."

I'm the 3rd generation Harvard Medical School primary care doctor who bought a $4million starter home in Cambridge and rides my bike to work at Mass General espousing progressive ideology; while having the comfort and security of my trust fund.

I'm Huntington Treadwell III

I really know the struggle of being an African American in the south. Father built many golf courses in Alabama and Georgia.

I'm Pallabi Arijit Swapanhamida, the bengaldeshi refugee trans non-binary socialist muslim disabled long-covid suffering BLM activist running against your son in the democratic primary. Your four generations of holding the seat and $5 million campaign war chest will mean nothing after I vaguely insinuate that he committed a microaggression and win 80% of the vote.

I’m Mark’s mom - Roberta, but everyone calls me Wink. You know he went out with Ketanji Brown Jackson when he was at Harvard. To think I could have been the mother-in-law of a Supreme Court Justice and instead I got Rochelle, one of the least sought-after child psychologists in Marblehead. What was her graduate work in again? Complaining about her IBS and getting unconvincing highlights? Anyways, I’ve got some Asters I need to divide.

I am the Datalounger who read The Preppy Handbook in 1983 and creates threads about "Old Money." I also post "Tasteful Friends" homes in former high society neighborhoods high and consider myself to be quality stock since I escaped my working class origins in a flyover state.

I’m the aged sculptor with dementia who hassles service workers with demands -specifically, that they pay his bus fare to Muncie. One way.

I'm Mark Peter Mayhew Dobbs.

Say what you like about Rochelle, at least she appears to be breathing when we fuck.

If you spent five minutes with my sister, Buffy, or her besties (Claire, Sarah, Anne, and the only standout, Davina), you'd know why I eagerly nailed Rochelle.

And if the amnio shows the next one is a boy (although I'm perfectly thrilled with little Charlotte Mary Beatrice), you can bet we're getting the hell out of Boston, as Mother and Father will make Hitler taking over Poland look like an amateur.

I'm the middle male child. I wear a bow tie and am the top tax attorney in Boston. I never married. A former actor/model male friend is my roommate. He is currently searching for work, so he takes care of the animals and the household for me. Sometimes he even brings lunch up to my office. We are happy together.

My bitchy sister Buffy looks at him as if he was hired help. Ridiculous.

My name is Cornelius, my roommates name is Collin.

I'm the Madras plaid. I'm the double pearl necklace. I'm the crystal cocktail glasses that are never empty. I'm the pill addictions, with a speed dial ready for Dr. Feelgood in the city, he'll call in the prescription to our druggist on the island. I'm the tax shelter in the Caymans. I'm the Swiss bank accounts. I'm the monthly checks that get sent to daddy's little mistake with the maid. He better not dare set his foot on our premises.

Well, it wasn’t really living, but while in a coma for 20 years at Columbia Presbyterian, I had flowers delivered weekly and my hair was done once a week. Not many visitors. But, quite relaxing until I decided to just move on from this life. The drugs were magnificent, by the way.

I’m a silver grey Volvo 760 station wagon and I’m kept in good repair.

There’s a prostate massager stowed away in my glove compartment. It gets taken for a ride more often than I do. That little minx.

R3 I am that Presbyterian Church service. Everyone is dressed in suits, a Sunday morning fashion show more than a religious ritual.

R3 R44 I am the alcoholic aunt who attends hungover. Yet I sing Amazing Grace louder than anyone.

I’m the faded Bowdoin pennant in father’s office.

I am fall. The monied prefer a time of year when the swarm of hoi polloi decamp their rental “vacation”housing for the long returns to their various urban morasses, leaving Those Who Belong Here to roast chestnuts over their open fires in peace. C’est moi!

I'm the old Nanny, with my own quarters at the top of the house.

You bet your arse they're taking care of this retainer in her old age.

I know enough to force Harvard to return the family's contribution to the endowment.

I'm Gran's pearls, and whether Buffy likes it or not she WILL wear me at her wedding.

Any New Englanders remember S.S. Pierce?

I'm the food at Buffy's wedding.

Gran's pearls are utterly subversive by comparison.

It is Grandmother, not Gran.

I'm Marblehead, MA. Poster above is full of shit. Kids here don't have mental health issues.

By the by, did you know they filmed The Witches of Eastwick here? I mean, who'd have watched it if they filmed it where the novel set it, R.I.?!

And, speaking of Gran . . .

I'm the ingrained pretence that I'm blueblood aristocracy when I'm actually descended from European peasants.

I'm the old money white Yale boy on the Vineyard meeting the "black aristocracy" black Princeton boy at Farm Neck Golf Club. Then pounding each others' asses for the rest of the summer.

Their families are delighted with this affair. Well the white boy's family more than the black boy's but they're officially OK with it, too.

R50 Coolidge Corner has never been the same since S.S. Pierce went under. Likewise Jack and Marion's across the street.

Of course, all the WASPs have left Brookline, too.

I guess Our Millennial Fuckstick is right. Some of you really do obsess over this WASP shit.

[quote] Any New Englanders remember S.S. Pierce

Yes, I do. The woman owner of the neighborhood grocery store refused to stock any canned or dry goods that wasn’t S.S. Pierce. She considered them greatly inferior in quality. As a child, I remember her as one of the most crotchety old woman I’d ever met.

R53, Marblehead was only one of many locations used for shooting WOE. Ipswich (the Crane Estate), Scituate, and Milton, MA, and even Boston’s Wang Center were used as well, in addition to Warner studio lots and even a few locations in CA.

I'm Rich, the preppy boy from Brown who is addicted to BBC. Not Ivy League BBC, but blue collar illiterate BBC.

R57, now a Jewish ghetto of the recently rich?

Significantly Asian, R61

I'm Beacon Hill, Nantucket, and Hyannis Port. We're still holding the line, although God knows for how long.

I'm the DNA report Mother Mayhew Dobbs secretly ordered recently from 23andme.

She takes me out once in awhile and looks proudly at the "100% European" at the top of the Ancestry Report, and the nearly monochrome look of the pie chart showing nothing but shades of the British Isles, Germany, and Norway (Gran used to speak mistily of Nemor and Bifar and their cosy house in Beverly with handmade quilts on the beds).

I do show one pesky little sliver of Ireland, but it's so narrow you can barely see it.

She plans to casually mention that she had me done just for fun at her bridge club next week, knowing full well that the other members will clamour to see me.

I'm Hilda, the 16 year old daschund who gets a new Christmas sweater every year from St. Nick.

R65 And I'm Honey, the golden retriever in the center of the front row of last year's family photograph.

And if you think you and your fucking sweaters will ever appear front and centre in those photographs, think again.

We all knew about Gloria’s little Anderson way back then- that boy got around.

I'm the classic Hollywood-era stars B&W headshots wallpaper in the den whose repeating Bette Davis "Dead Ringer" image's eyes actually follow you around the room--as do I, too, from the other side of the wall!

I'm the Sunday roast.

Nothing short of WWIII will prevent my appearance on Sunday afternoons.

Rochelle has to down a few stiff drinks before dinner but, hey, price of privilege.

^I'm the hot dogs (non-kosher, naturally), sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob on the private beach when 4 July falls on a Sunday.

R69, that’s just old New England rather than New England Old Money. My family was not wealthy, but a Sunday Afternoon Dinner with a pot roast was a regular thing.

I'm Fathers Saturday night- enjoying a 25 year old scotch, a rare edition of Tolstoy, and Tchaikovsky elegantly playing on the stereo while I sit in my leatherback chair by the fireplace in my study. Honey is napping by me next to the fire, too.

I'm the Good Old Days of eminence and dominance.

And they were damned good!

I’m Cook.

R64?

Germany? Those Huns? Ugly, violent and envious?

Norway? Those nouveau riche, dumber than dumb, fishermen and peasants?

I'm the Presbyterian church service