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

by Celia Rivenbark

  And please quit whining about how Fern was so inconsiderate as to die on the weekend when your teenage son’s traveling soccer team was in the play-offs and just who did she think she was anyway?

  I’ll tell you who: Fern was the one who showed up at your mama’s baby shower with a stack of crocheted blankets that she made just for you. Your mama still has them because they were the dearest thing on earth to her. Fern’s arthritic hands crocheted those blankies for you all those years ago, and you can’t even toss together a little flour, sugar, and baking powder in her honor?

  The phrase “trifling heifer” springs to mind.

  Let me be clear. I’m not saying that you have to bake a cake for the family. I’m saying that you do have to do something that honors Fern’s memory properly. This will never include a ghastly spice cake from Food King with a big orange carrot clumsily piped on the top and a list of unpronounceable ingredients as long as the book of Revelation. And it’s not much better to do that cake-mix thing where you try to make it look like you actually creamed butter and sugar and gave much of a shit.

  Whatever you take to the family should be made by your own two hands. Don’t make me mention those hand-crocheted blankets again. Simply stated: Any idiot can bake a ham, and a ham is always a welcome addition since it can be both centerpiece for the luncheon after the service and used in biscuits for the morning after. Here’s how you do it:

  Ham Fit for a Funeral

  1 (6- to 8-pound) fully cooked bone-in ham

  48 whole cloves

  1-pound box light brown sugar

  1 cup spicy brown mustard

  1 cup cola (I’m a Coke girl, but Pepsi will do fine.)

  ¾ cup bourbon (Well, it is a Southern recipe, now, isn’t it?)

  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Remove the skin from the ham and trim the fat to ¼-inch thickness. This will keep the ham moist while it cooks. Make shallow cuts in the fat ¾ inch apart in a diamond pattern. Stick the cloves in the centers of each diamond.

  Put the ham in a lightly greased 13-by-9-inch pan. Stir together the brown sugar, mustard, cola, and bourbon. Spoon this mixture over the ham.

  Bake at 350 degrees on the lowest oven rack for 2 hours and 30 minutes, basting with pan juices every 15 to 20 minutes. Remove the ham from the oven and let stand 20 minutes before slicing. You can baste the ham a bit as it rests to give it a glossy look.

  This is my go-to ham recipe, and it came from Southern Living magazine, which, along with the fabulous Garden & Gun, should be on your coffee table at all times, praise Jesus.

  It should be noted that I’m assuming that Aunt Fern was a Christian woman, which is why I suggested ham. If she was of the Jewish persuasion, as my grandmother would say, may I suggest a lovely platter of latkes or a nice brisket? I don’t have any Jewish recipes because I’m a Methodist, but some of my best friends are Jewish, and I can ask if you need me to. Really, it’s no bother.

  While we’re talking about funeral food, if there’s one thing that pisses off a bereaved family, it’s being saddled with the hellish chore of returning dishes to people who brought food in nondisposable containers.

  These inconsiderate assholes usually trot in, place the food down, and say, “Oh, you can just get that platter back to me whenever it’s convenient.”

  How magnanimous of you. Look, not all families are blessed enough to have a gay son who lives for this kind of thing, making notations of china patterns in a notebook and cross-referencing with the name of the dish and the hands that prepared it.

  No, most of us muddle through in a grief-soaked haze, and three weeks after everybody’s gone and the surviving spouse is resigned to watching Wheel by herself and getting entirely too many calls from her idiot sister-in-law, she realizes that her kitchen counter is full of dishes of unknown origin. The burden is so great that she might, just for one horrible second, contemplate blowing her brains out right there on the kitchen Congoleum so she won’t have to deal with them.

  Yes, I know your deviled eggs look so much prettier in your heirloom egg platter with the little porcelain chicks on the handles, but do you think the bereaved should worry about babying your precious porcelain and making sure you get it back in a timely fashion?

  Actually, in any situation—not just ones involving the stopping of a human heart—it’s advisable to take food in containers that are obviously not meant to be returned. It’s why God made GladWare. And we’re mighty glad he did. Oh, and don’t you dare put one of those little address labels St. Jude sent you on GladWare. Nobody’s going to return a plastic container. That sort of behavior lets me know you probably took those labels and never even sent any money to St. Jude.

  Question: Is it ever okay to email condolences? I just learned that my cousin died, and while we weren’t very close, I’d like to do something.

  Oh, why not just text your condolences? You could say something like

  Sorry 4 ur loss.):

  I mean, why be so formal as a telephone call or a card or letter or flowers? It’s just a death, after all. It’s not like you forgot to DVR the season finale of The Voice.

  No. It is not okay to email condolences. Ever.

  Question: I am going to a visitation at the funeral home for a guy I used to work with and I’m a little anxious about it. Can you help?

  I imagine you’re anxious because you’re afraid there might be an open casket and looking at dead people wearing too much foundation is creepier than tonguing your cousin. Yeah, I said it. Point is, I totally understand how off-putting it is to be in a room with the freshly dead. But in some families, this is tradition, and you have to respect that. I find it useful to picture everyone in the room naked. No, sorry. That’s what I do when making speeches. What I meant to say was that it’s useful to engage in conversation with the non-dead people in the room. Don’t linger. There isn’t a Chinese buffet in the corner. Just get in, tell the family you’re sorry, shake some hands, share a warm memory of the deceased, and get out. This should take no longer than fifteen minutes. Set your watch if you must.

  Question: I can’t attend the funeral of a church friend, but my husband plans to go. Is it okay for him to write both our names in the guest book? If he does, it’s possible that the family will think I attended. I don’t mean to be disingenuous, but what’s the real harm?

  I’m sure you’re expecting me to pronounce this tacky, but that would be extremely hypocritical, since I’ve done the same thing myself. Look, I baked the damn ham. I don’t owe this person my entire life. Still, tongues will wag if they know I skipped the funeral to go to the outlets with my best friend from high school who is in town for only one day. Okay, three, but still …

  I guess what I’m trying to say is that—and it kills me to say this—I can’t pass judgment on you, because I’ve done the same thing. In a case like this, let your conscience be your guide. I asked my conscience, and it agreed that the dearly departed would not want me to miss the 65 percent off sale today only at the Kate Spade outlet. If your conscience is a bit more, uh, active than mine, then, well, you should be turning in your hymnal to page 353 right about now.

  Question: Should I attend the funeral of my ex-husband’s father? I always loved the man and I think he loved me, too. I don’t want to make waves, but I’d like to pay my respects.

  Unless there is a compelling reason not to go (his widow hates your guts and loves to tell everybody you broke her son’s heart, for instance), I don’t see why not. Don’t try to sit with the family, though. Even if you had kids with your ex, take a discreet seat in the back, listen attentively, cry gently, and remember the good times you shared with this dear man.

  Question: So, bottom line—black only at a funeral, or can we finally relax the rules a bit?

  I know why you’re asking. You’re just itchin’ to wear that age-inappropriate yellow chiffon maxi dress you bought at Forever 21 the other day at the mall, aren’t you? You really shouldn’t. Not because it’s yellow but because it�
�s backless. Ick.

  Actually, you don’t have to wear black to funerals if you don’t want to. Most mainstream religions are fine with dark colors. The trick is to look respectfully somber. Avoid floral prints and similar silliness. As always, it’s much easier for men: Wear a suit.

  In some cases, the obituary provides guidance. A trend of late is to invite attendees to “dress comfortably.” Again, do not take this as a license to wear booty shorts and your favorite Kenny F*&!#ing Powers T-shirt.

  Question: What’s with obituaries lately? The other day I, swear to God, saw one in which two adult children were scolded from the grave as “perpetually ungrateful and inattentive.” It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen something like that. Is this a trend?

  Could be. Just this week, I saw an obituary for a Charlotte, North Carolina, woman that read much like the one you just described. One child was singled out as “the good one” (also, I’m quite sure, the one who placed the obituary in the newspaper), and another was termed “a tremendous source of heartbreak over the years.” I can’t state strongly enough that this—while compelling reading that makes you call your best friend as soon as you’re sure she’s awake and ask, “Did you read this shit?”—is an abomination.

  There’s no way to be sure if this was the wish of the deceased or if it was planted by the Chosen One to tweak his siblings. I hope it was the latter because, frankly, I can’t picture Saint Peter swinging the gates wide for such a mean-spirited old cow, you feel me?

  chapter 3

  Sky Mauled: How to Survive Airline Travel Without Compromising Your Good Manners

  There is perhaps no place on this big blue marble where manners are tromped upon with more frequency and variety than the world of airline travel. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp.

  And while I appreciate the importance of homeland security, I do not appreciate having my middle-age body scanned in public with less privacy than is afforded at the gynecologist’s office.

  The first affront is the public removal of shoes. Ghastly. But do it we must, and I try to put on my “big-girl panties” and quietly submit. (By the by, I’ve flown quite a bit this year, and all my panties are big-girl panties because every time I’m in an airport, the Cinnabon staff chases me down, flings me to the ground, and force-feeds a series of buns and crumb cakes into my gullet. Really, they’re quite aggressive. Somebody should do something.)

  I’ve finally caught on that slip-on shoes or sandals are far preferable so you don’t end up spending ten minutes on a cold metal folding chair lacing and buckling and so forth. I hate flats and I hate wearing flip-flops anywhere but the beach, but (deep breaths) it’s really the best way.

  It’s times like this when I remember my very first flight. It was a family vacation to California in the early ’70s. This was when people still dressed up for airplane travel (think shantung suits for the ladies, pocket squares for the gentlemen) and there was a better-than-average chance that you’d be served a decent hollandaise at some point on the flight. Compare and contrast with the way most people dress for a flight these days: a sweatshirt that simply says COLLEGE for the men and, for ladies, anything that has the word PINK scrawled on the backside.

  Who can blame these fliers? Why dress up when you know you’re going to be wanded, frisked, and essentially felt up in public just to board the plane? My last TSA screening was so intrusive via wand, X-ray, and full-body scan that I called to cancel this year’s mammogram.

  During this “violation” segment of preboarding, the old advice to “think of England” comes to mind. But even that doesn’t work, because that would require a transatlantic flight.…

  So there you are, barefoot, walking on some disgusting rubber mat behind the sketchy dude with the fungal toes, your body scanned to a fare-thee-well, and now there is still the final indignity: actually boarding the airplane and flying.

  Once on board, it’s important to follow a few basic etiquette rules to make things better for your fellow fliers.

  • Move briskly to your seat. Do not stand there, clutching your ticket in your sweaty little hand, looking up at the numbers and letters identifying the row and seats as though you honestly don’t know what they mean. You’re a forensic accountant, for God’s sake. Don’t act like you inhaled stupid dust and suddenly can’t decipher these mysterious hieroglyphics overhead. Your seat is 15A. Find it and sit the fuck down so the rest of us can do the same.

  • Once you have located your seat, do not spend more than a scant few seconds placing your paraphernalia in the overhead compartment. Do not place your puffy ski jacket or similar clothing into this compartment, because this just confirms what a dick you are. The overhead space is limited (duh) and clothing can easily be smushed under the seat in front of you. Also, always use the compartment near your seat. Do not stow your carry-on in the fourth row when you’re seated in the twenty-sixth row. This will lead to embarrassing intercom announcements from the flight attendant asking for the “douche sitting in the back row who placed his crap in the front of the plane” to please retrieve it. Happens all the time.

  • Once you sit down, do not try to talk to me. I don’t want to chat. I just want to sit here, reading my magazine and feeling the magic of a well-timed Xanax purr through my frazzled brain. I don’t fly to socialize with strangers. Besides, you forget that I’ve seen your toes.

  • I know this may sound silly, but you should try to feign attention when the flight attendant is going through his or her spiel. Of course you know how to fasten a seat belt. But when we’re all bobbing in the waves and you’re wondering how I knew about the whole seat cushion as flotation device thing, I ain’t sharing. You will not be like Leo DiCaprio clinging to the side of my plywood. I will flick you off like a wolf spider. Buh-bye.

  • If you have to get up at any time during the flight, use the armrests to hoist your fat ass up and about. Do not grab the headrest of the seat in front of you. That is my hair you’re pulling out by the roots. Don’t make me ask the pilot to pull this plane over.

  Damn! It’s Crowded up in Here

  Now more than ever, airlines are hell-bent to fill every single seat. Gone is the day when you could view your decidedly sucky middle-seat, rear-of-plane assignment as temporary because, once airborne, you could cheerfully upgrade to a better seat, one with a window and without such noxious proximity to the shitter.

  You know how you always spend forever waiting at the gate even though it seems that everyone has boarded? The delay is often explained by the dulcet tones of the pilot, who may mention that “we” are waiting for runway clearance or for a gate to open up at the destination or the ever-popular “weather, yeah, just weather,” but I believe it’s because someone has sent the flight attendants into the terminal to snatch random bodies to fill any empty seats.

  I swear on a recent flight to Charlotte they drafted two Quiznos workers and the weird lady in the restroom who expects a dollar for handing you a Kleenex to make sure there wasn’t a single open seat. Done. Flight attendants, please take your seats.

  This full-flight-or-bust attitude has created all sorts of discomfort for those of us doomed to sit behind the Recline Monster.

  Entitled Recline Monster has paid for his seat and he gets to recline if he wants to. I mean, there’s a recline button right there. If reclining were so rude, wouldn’t they remove that button the same way they sealed up those tiny ashtrays that used to be in the armrest?

  Technically, yes. Recline Monster has every right to recline. It’s just incredibly ill-mannered. It’s the same with taking smelly food aboard. The TSA can’t stop you from taking that garlic-and-onion calzone on board even though it smells like an incendiary device. But just because you can do something legally, it doesn’t mean you should.

  Recline Monster abruptly reclines all the way for his maximum comfort, sending your laptop into your muffin top and your Sprite every damn where. He careth not a whit. It is all about his needs, which at least momentarily are fulfilled. It is nappy ti
me for Recline Monster. What to do?

  First, please don’t do what the pissed-off passenger on a flight from Washington, D.C., to Ghana did recently. Perhaps he had spent months silently seething at various Recline Monsters and he finally snapped. The passenger just hit Recline Monster on the top of his empty head as hard as he could.

  Unfortunately, the TSA gets super cranky when one passenger assaults another, so the whole flight had to be canceled and I’m guessing the guy who did the hitting was given major stink eye from the disgruntled passengers having to deplane.

  I don’t advise slapping Recline Monster, because violence is never the answer. I do, however, advise a slow, deliberate, and steady kicking of his seatback for the duration of the flight. It’ll drive him nuts, and if he complains, just explain that Dr. Oz said on TV that if you don’t move your legs on a flight, you could develop a deadly blood clot. You can up the ante by mentioning that Dr. Oz was speaking personally, just to you, through the TV, when he said that and you can make your eyes look all googly like a certified crazy person.

  I’m guessing, because I am not a “1 percenter,” to use the political parlance, that reclining seats aren’t an issue in first class, where the air smells rather like fat leather wallets and warmed butter cookies. Bitter, party of me. And speaking of the rich folk …

  Question: Why did everybody get so pissy at me when I wouldn’t shut off my cell phone? I was in the middle of a very important game of Words with Friends, and what’s more, I am a Very Important Actor. Just ask my brothers, if you can remember any of their names. Hahahahaha!—Alec Baldwin

  Oh, Alec. May I call you Mr. Baldwin? I used to be such a huge fan of your work. The scenes in 30 Rock with your ghastly TV mama, Elaine Stritch, kept me in, well, “stritches”!