Rude Bitches Make Me Tired: Slightly Profane and Entirely Logical Answers to Modern Etiquette Dilemmas (18 page)

I have an acquaintance who does this routinely, and it’s a sight to behold. After skewering a colleague from her workplace for a good hour, she lavished air kisses on the same colleague that very night at a formal event and went on and on about how pretty she looked.

My advice? Give people like this a very wide berth. They are unrepentant low-road assholes. And that’s not gossip; that’s fact. Hypocrisy is always bad manners.

Question: My daughter goes to a dance studio where the kids are extremely competitive. Some of the dance moms like to drop little snide remarks that aren’t even true to make their kid seem better. For instance, they gossip about the oldest girl having sex or how one of the girls is a lesbian. I’d confront them about all the malicious gossip, but I think they’d eat me.

Ah, yes, the dance mom. Having been one for twelve years now, I know of what you speak. While I’ve never observed the kind of horror you see on Lifetime’s
Dance Moms
reality show, I don’t doubt that it exists in the real world. Today, the Princess attends a kinder, gentler studio where the students genuinely support one another, and the moms stay in their cars in the parking lot, where they belong. No one’s going to bring home a five-foot-tall trophy (and where the hell would you put it, anyway?), but she’s learning a lot. My advice is to pick your studio carefully. Get away from that toxic dump of a dance school and find a better match.

Question: Do you ever miss those really juicy, down-and-dirty, not-a-smidgen-of-truth-to-any-of-it gossip sessions with your friends? Isn’t life on the high road a little dull?

Yes and yes. But I swear to you, as corny as it sounds, I sleep better at night and I like myself more in the morning, now that I’m not gossiping about real people. As much.

There were times when the gossip was so vile that I felt like I needed a
Silkwood
shower (ask your parents) when I got home from a night out, but I don’t feel that way anymore. Well, not usually. Naturally, I backslide occasionally, but the slips are coming less often, I promise.

As Southerners, we are taught to embrace that famous line from
Steel Magnolias
: “If you can’t say anything nice about anybody, come sit by me.”

It’s hilarious every time to me, still. And what of the tenderly held belief, taught from the cradle, that it’s okay to say any awful thing about someone as long as you preface it with a “bless her heart” or “bless his heart”?

Have I turned my back on my Southerness? Of course not. I’ve just been doing a little fine-tuning, is all. Bless my heart.

chapter 23

Space, the Final Frontier: How to Get Some, How to Give Some

The well-dressed woman at the neighborhood Christmas party approached with a warm smile. Despite her friendly demeanor, I instinctively tensed up. She’s someone I know in only the most casual way. Our daughters are roughly the same age and we have a few mutual friends. She’s friendly; oh, precious Lord, is she friendly. She is, in
Seinfeld
-speak, a “low-talker.” She seems to know this about herself, and perhaps this is why she is also a “close-talker.” She can’t seem to help herself.

She approached to say hello, and before I knew it, our faces were exactly three inches apart. When she laughed, I could see a tiny residue of Goldfish cracker bobbing up and down on her uvula.

Now, it should be stated that this close-talker has marvelous breath, so that’s not an issue. No odor, just the sensation of a wind gust as she forces the words out in a disconcertingly sexy half whisper.

I have no idea what “CT” is saying because by now, I am, quite literally, against the wall, head back at a ninety-degree angle, while she maintains the three-inch distance. It’s face rape.

She continues chatting and laughing while I just nod my head up and down, excruciatingly aware that if I open my mouth, she will realize that I have spent way too much time with the garlic dip.

Finally, Duh Hubby realizes that I have been face-pinned by this repeat offender and walks over to rescue me. She immediately shifts her gaze and close-talks him while I smile, skip away, and head back to my own kind at the dip table.

Close-talkers and people unaware of the rules of Personal Space aren’t doing this to aggravate us. They simply don’t know any better. Perhaps it’s a genetic problem. For all I know, this otherwise lovely and impeccably mannered woman comes from a long line of close-talkers and hoverers. I picture her sturdy pioneer ancestors hoeing a field, all working within about four inches of one another. They probably made shitty farmers.

There is simply no polite way to deal with a close-talker. You can’t very well tell them what you’re thinking:
“Back off! You’re freaking me out!”
No, the only true solution is Vigilant Avoidance. As soon as she or he approaches, gives the “I’m coming for you” wave, and heads in your direction, just knock over a couple of chairs and make your escape, just like in the movies. Apologize to the host for the broken furniture in a lovely note the next day.

I’m kidding, of course. No need for a note, because you’ll never be invited back after making that nasty little scene. Vigilant Avoidance just means you very discreetly slip away after returning a friendly wave.

Close-talkers are the most serious violators of personal space, but there are plenty of others. You know who you are.

Question: I’m not a hugger. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not gonna go all Temple Grandin on you if you try it. It’s just that I think that casual hugging is unnecessary and awkward. Last night was the final straw. My husband introduced me to his boss’s wife, and she flung her arms wide and I realized I was expected to respond. I don’t even
know
this woman. Isn’t this kind of forced intimacy inappropriate? Will she expect me to do the “hug and air kiss” combo next time? I could hardly rebuff her because, as I mentioned, she is my husband’s boss’s wife. But I was extremely put off by the whole thing.

You sure do belabor a point. Right now, I’d rather slug you than hug you. Do you ever shut up? Didn’t think so.

Your yammering aside, the problem of unsolicited hugging is a huge one. I mean it’s not up there with famine in Darfur, but it’s big. This is, I suppose, what some might snarkily place under the heading of “rich people problems.” (Ooooh, she doesn’t like to be hugged. How terrible for her. How she must suffer day after day just because some well-meaning human puppy wants to communicate friendliness. Beats the real-puppy way, which involves sniffing your ass, so be grateful for that, at least.)

But, really, unsolicited hugging is a problem, and I am sympathetic. So here’s what you do. Before you can be tackled by a virtual stranger, stick your hand out for a friendly, firm handshake with a duration of two to three seconds, no more. When combined with a toothy smile and a “So nice to meet you, Biff!” it won’t appear hostile.

Now, you should know there’s a chance this will be taken as an invitation to pull you forward using your “just for shaking” hand and, yes, you’ll be hugged. If this happens, try not to visibly recoil. Lookit: Some people are huggers and others aren’t. If it truly makes you uncomfortable, maybe you shouldn’t accept social invitations at all and you should, instead, sit around in your Forever Lazy swaddling clothes, watching
Law & Order: SVU
marathons. Or as I like to call it: Monday–Friday.

Question: Why do people stand so far apart in fast-food lines? It’s not the ATM, for Pete’s sake.

This question (on a subject about which I’ve been a bit fanatical over the years) illustrates how it’s also possible to violate personal space by being too far apart. Let me put this simply: The guy ahead of you in line at McDonald’s isn’t trying to ask the order-taker for a blow job. I mean, I hope. He’s also not sharing his social security number, Iran’s nuclear secrets, his HIV status, or anything else private and personal. Rather, he is ordering “the number five and two apple turnovers.” So cozy up a bit so the rest of us don’t have to queue up in the parking lot, where the seagulls can shit on our heads and the guy with the cardboard
GOD BLESS
sign won’t make us feel so dreadfully guilty for not contributing to his malt likker fund at eleven in the morning.

Question: I’ve heard that in Europe people often share tables in a communal fashion. The other day, two total strangers sat at the empty two seats at my lunch table in a crowded diner. They didn’t ask or anything. Were they European?

Hmmm. I don’t know. Were they smoking? Did they have their dogs with them? Did they smell a bit, uh, ripe? How many other offensive stereotypes can I summon to answer your pea-headed question?

That said, I realize that it can be unsettling for those of us with personal-space issues to suddenly be joined by strangers from foreign countries while we’re trying to eat our falafel and baba ghanoush, for God’s sake. To some people, the communal table provides a wonderful opportunity to meet someone new and, perhaps, strike up a conversation or even a potential friendship. These are the same people who happily sign up to host foreign exchange students in their homes. Commendable but completely weird. Whenever my sweet friend Dana asks if I would consider hosting one of her Vietnamese exchange students, I always remind her that I can’t do this because I refuse to spend an entire school year unable to fart out loud in my own home. I can’t believe she forgets this every year.

While I admire these openhearted friendly folks like Dana, I am a True American. Which means that I have zero interest in learning about another culture unless it is in the safe confines of Epcot or the International House of Pancakes.

What to do? I find it useful to block off potential table-sharers by placing my huge movie-popcorn purse in front of me. You can also add scattered papers, leaflets, your noose collection, anything large and unwieldy to form a visual barricade. If someone approaches and asks if they may use the empty chairs at another table, say yes immediately. Crisis averted.

Question: What about the subway? Is there a way to maintain acceptable personal space in such tight quarters?

I read somewhere recently that some Amish sects bathe only once a week. You could go that route, but please don’t. I have ridden subways to ballgames at Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Yankee Stadium. This is the most crowded subway experience anyone could possibly endure, and I am fairly certain that the Chicago train resulted in at least one of my orifices being violated by a foam finger. To say that we were packed in like sardines is a disservice to sardines everywhere. The only solution: Never ride the subway during peak times and with peak destinations using so-called express trains. You might not make any stops along the way, but you will feel another’s heartbeat for the first time since you were pregnant. It doesn’t help that, this time around, the heartbeat belongs to that same guy with the
GOD BLESS
sign.

Question: My husband gave me a gift certificate for a massage at a really nice spa. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t like the idea of strangers touching me, even therapeutically.

Okay, you’re what they call an outlier. That means you’re out there lying about this whole thing. You know you want a nice massage because it will make you feel all warm and gooshy inside. It’s like slamming back a few single malt Scotches but without the hangover. If it’s a reputable spa, they know to place sheets and towels to cover your naughties, so no worries there. I would, however, steer away from a growing cadre of “freelance” massage therapists like the one I just saw driving a shitty-looking gray van with
LET ME COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND MASSAGE U!
painted all over the side panels. I pulled up beside this fellow at the stoplight, and he looked a lot like Jeff Bridges’s character in
True Grit.
Gray, straggly beard; rheumy eyes; and a chaw in his jaw. Yeah, stay away from that guy.

God bless.

chapter 24

Wedding Etiquette: Do’s, Don’ts, and “No, She Did-un’ts”

Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? A lot has happened to the traditional wedding ceremony in the past couple of years. How many YouTube uploads must we see to confirm that much more time is spent choreographing a dance routine starring the entire wedding party than is spent on premarital counseling?

Yes, we get that you always wanted to star in your very own music video, but there’s no longer the element of surprise in these “flash mob”–style reception dances. In fact, we barely look up from our soy-ginger chicken wings to watch anymore. If we can wipe off our fingers and summon the energy to record it with our iPhone, we will. Wait. It’s “Thriller” again. Never mind.

At the risk of sounding like everyone’s Aunt Minerva, I wish couples would put half as much energy and passion into making sure that they’re right for one another as they do into these much-rehearsed dance performances. In their minds, I guess marriage begins at the moment of reception.

There, I said it.

Question: We just received the long-awaited video of our daughter’s wedding. Upon viewing the DVD, which was made by the best man, my husband and I were absolutely floored by the amount of profanity and hideously vulgar language used by the groomsmen during the part where guests were “interviewed” at the reception. This should be a lovely and lasting memento of a beautiful day, not an obscene party video. What must we do?

Oh, dear. I see one thing that hasn’t changed over the years is the role of the best man as the Drunkest Bastard in the Room. Look. He has just lost his bestie, and he’s acting out. I’m not saying it excuses his Cecil B. DeCreep video efforts, but you should realize that he’s hurting. He’s jealous that his best friend has “moved on,” “grown up,” and left behind the
queso
-encrusted foosball table they shared to spend his weekends wandering the aisles of Ikea with “that bitch”—er, your daughter.