My Mother's Royal We

One recent morning I chatted, via IM, with my BFF, EB. I noticed a quirk in our conversation: when I describe some difficulty, especially related to poorly behaved gentlemen, she tends to respond in the third person, for example:

We don't have time for that bullshit. Let's drug his drink, leave him in Nebraska, and see how he fares.

In EB, this is totally charming. I feel like I have someone on my side, observing my escapades and cheering on from the sidelines.

When my mother adopts the same technique, my reaction is decidedly different. She uses the royal "we" with everyone, as a way to recruit popular support for her opinions, which, as a 50-something nurse and Days of Our Lives fan living in the same suburban Connecticut manse in which she was raised, tend not to align with my own views.

"We" have represented an airplane thirsty for more efficient beverage service, chastised bakers who didn't add enough sugar to blueberry pies, and complained about long lines anywhere and everywhere humanity suffers them to exist. "We" don't eat raw fish. "We" once misplaced the daily deposits from my uncle's liquor store; perhaps "we" left the bank bag at the dry cleaners?

Sometimes I am patient with "we." And sometimes when I find "our" views particularly offensive, my sister has to hold me back, Maury style; I'm all like "Who she think she be talkin' to? WHO SHE THINK SHE BE TALKIN' TO?"

In the end, patience is a virtue, and, like prudence and wholesomeness, one that could see more action in my workaday dealings. Tenacity, truthfulness and humor I think I have covered.