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

by Celia Rivenbark

  But this stunt you pulled on that L.A.-to-N.Y. flight where you were rude to a flight attendant simply trying to do her job and then tweeted about it like you were the victim?

  Don’t you think we’d all like to be playing Words with Friends on our magic phone boxes while awaiting takeoff? Do you think you’re somehow exempt from the rules of the airways? And, more to the point, what the hell are you doing flying commercial instead of by private jet? Don’t you know a Travolta or someone who could fly your curiously wide ass across the country whenever you need it? Hmmmm?

  Question: I’m never quite sure which armrest is mine. I don’t want to appear rude and take the wrong armrest. Of course, I’d really like to just take both, but something tells me that’s not good etiquette. Can you help?

  “Whose armrest is it, anyway?” is a great question. The answer is that they are all mine. All right, not really. The truth is, they are all Alec Baldwin’s. No, really. Here’s the rule: If you are on the aisle, you get the aisle armrest; if you are on the window, you get the right; if you are in the middle, you get both. It’s only fair because the middle is a craptastic location and everybody knows it. So, middle seater, sit down, stake your claim on both armrests, and never let go. Not even to eat your fifteen-dollar “salad.”

  Question: I once heard someone say that noisy children should be safely stowed in the overhead compartment. Is that true?

  Yes. Yes, it is. This is a little-known rule that is really pressed into service only after the child in question, usually a scrawny long-haired little turd named Mendelssohn or some such, has been repeatedly kicking your seat and using his outdoor voice while his clueless parents do nothing but affirm his “specialness.” He is not special. He is just another privileged little snot whose parents were way too old when they had him and now he runs the show. Press the Call button and ask the flight attendant to stow his obnoxious ass overhead. Owing to the ski jackets you insisted on storing overhead, you won’t even hear his muffled screams. Winning!

  chapter 4

  The Grand Old (Dinner) Party: Bring Wine and Trivia

  I’m a huge fan of the dinner party, as long as I don’t have to host it, of course. As a matter of fact, Duh Hubby and I have become quite adept at soaking up invites without reciprocating. It’s the height of rudeness, but it does make life so much less complicated, yes?

  So our New Year’s resolution this year was to do better, and by that, I mean to realize that while we consider ourselves to be exemplary dinner party guests (translation: we totally bring on the banter, and more important, we know when to leave), we realize that we’ve been selfish creatures and must return every invitation with a soiree of our own, or at least a few of them.

  Right now, there are several friends who are laughing at this and saying, “Ha! It’ll never happen.”

  It’s true. We tend to round up everyone we “know and owe” and throw a big backyard get-together every so often that, we feel, takes care of the social obligation without the endless menu-planning, napkin-ironing, silver-polishing woes of actually hosting a proper dinner party.

  Do as I say, not as I do, or did. Really, we promise to do better, starting … now.

  Question: Every time we host a dinner party, my friend asks who else is going to be there before she says whether or not she’ll come. This makes me absolutely furious. I usually say: “We’re still asking folks, so I’m not really sure.” If she persists, I make an excuse and hang up. She’s implying that we’re not interesting enough company by ourselves, isn’t she?

  Oh, my, yes. Let’s just stipulate that your friend was raised by wolves. And not the kind of wolves who use fine china and cloth napkins, the real rowdy kind that devours Boy Scouts on a forest camporee. Someone really should’ve told her this is extremely rude. That said, there might be a reason for her crassness. I’m thinking maybe she’s a single lady and she’s terrified that you’re doing another one of your ambush-style fix-ups with one of your dreadfully dull cousins, what with their male pattern baldness and Klan Nazi tattoos. Am I getting warm?

  I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt here. If she’s a married lady, then we’re back to our wolves theory. Look, I don’t like the way she’s acting, but there’s a very simple solution. Before you invite her, have a good working understanding of who has accepted and start the invitation with “We’re having a dinner party on the twenty-sixth! We’d love for you to come. Bill and Marge are coming, and so are Julian and Kate. Can you make it?”

  If she says, “Anybody else coming?” you are within your rights to simply hang up on her impossibly rude ass.

  Question: My husband and I argue about this all the time. If we take an expensive (really!) wine to a dinner party, is it rude of the host to put it aside for themselves instead of serve it to the guests? I say it is; he says it isn’t.

  If you take an expensive wine and hand it over to your host, he has the right to (really!) (a) smash it against the wall if he likes, (b) gush and open it immediately, or (c) say, “Wow! I love this stuff, but we can never afford it!” and hide it in the washing machine so others can’t find it.

  Simply stated: A gift is a gift. If your host wants to peel off the label and wipe his naughties with it, it’s his decision, disgusting as that might be.

  And while we’re on the subject of party libations, to those guests who drink other people’s pricey microbrews when all they brought to the party was a two-pack of Busch: This isn’t college anymore. Grow up already.

  Question: How do you deal with couples who stay too long at a dinner party? We have two sets of friends that we almost hate to invite because they routinely stay at least two hours after everyone else has left.

  Two hours?!? They must find themselves quite charming indeed. As sure as some blunderbuss is going to break at least one piece of your aunt Tink’s wedding china, there will always be stragglers at a dinner party. You could take this as an enormous compliment (they’re having such a good time, they don’t want the night to end!), but I realize that you just want them to get the hell out so you can finally watch your DVR’d Young & the Restless and unwind after a day of exhausting party preparation. I’m always amazed that people think that a dinner invitation is anything more than that. If you’ve given them two extra hours of witty companionship, that’s about ninety minutes too much.

  Simply stand up, yawn dramatically, and say: “We’re so glad you could come, but we are tired and we’re going to bed now. Good night.”

  I’ve actually used this line on more than one occasion, and it’s extremely effective. Remember: Some people really think that you can’t get enough of them. They need a not-so-gentle reminder that, essentially, nothing could be further from the truth.

  Question: I don’t like icebreaker questions at dinner parties. They always feel like a performance. Can’t I just have my shrimp cocktail in a martini glass without all the yammering?

  Well, no. If the hostess wants to get folks talking, especially when most party guests are meeting one another for the first time, an icebreaker can be a wonderful thing.

  I once went to a lovely dinner party where the hostess asked us, one by one, “If you were hosting a dinner party and you could invite three people, living or dead, whom would you invite?”

  I immediately responded “living” because I’m all about the cheap, easy laugh. But as the topic bounded from guest to guest, I have to admit it was fascinating. To a point.

  The woman across the table from me went first: “I’d invite Jesus Christ, Adolf Hitler, and Gandhi.”

  I wanted to call bullshit on that because you could tell she really wanted to invite the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, but she was afraid that would make her sound as dumb as, well, one of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

  The table cooed appreciatively at such a clever trio of imaginary guests. I knew my turn was coming up, and all I could think of, seriously, was Miley Cyrus.

  The next guest delicately patted the corners of his mouth with
a napkin, although there was nothing there to begin with, and cleared his throat: “I’d like to invite my maternal and paternal grandmothers, both of whom died ten years ago, and I’d like to invite my fiancée so she could see how wonderful they were.”

  Everyone did a big “awwww,” and the fiancée’s eyes glistened with adoration. She did that thing where you put your fingers on your eyes to keep from crying. Ever notice how people do that and then stare at their fingers? What are they expecting to see? Ketchup? Nope, it’s tears.

  The long-dead-grandmother bit is a can’t-miss at a dinner party icebreaker. Now, when it was my turn, I needed to remember that Jesus and the dead grandmother had been taken. Shit.

  A woman with a gorgeous upsweep was next. “Well, Jesus, of course,” she said.

  “Nuh-uh! Somebody already used Jesus!” I said way too loud; plus I think some mashed potatoes sprayed out of my mouth in a most unattractive fashion.

  The hostess handled my faux pas with such grace. “Oh, you can use Jesus as often as you like,” she said, giving me a look that said maybe I should be thinking harder.

  The table continued merrily along with a few more Jesuses, some more dead relatives, and not a sign of Miley Cyrus or, my second thought, Dina Lohan.

  It was my turn. It was my come-to-you-know-who moment. Would I be true to myself, or would I fake it and try to impress everyone by claiming genuine interest in chatting up Mahatma Gandhi, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Thomas Jefferson? Talk about your garden-variety snorefest.

  “Well,” I finally said. “That guy’s grandmothers sounded pretty cool … oh, and Dina Lohan.”

  Please learn from my horrible mistake. Bone up on current events and always have a top-three answer ready.

  Question: How can I politely extricate myself from a dinner party guest who wants to monopolize my time for the entire evening? I don’t mind a five-minute chat, but I want to talk to other people. What do I do about this human Velcro?

  That’s easy. After a few minutes of banter, gently guide Velcro over to another party guest, introduce them with a quick “Biff, here, also likes to discuss the relative merits of different brands of raised white-letter radial tires.…” Biff will hate your ass for a very long time, but that’s not your problem. No hurt feelings and you can finally grab some of that fabulous bruschetta! If you can’t get away (he’s seated beside you at a formal dinner, for example), make the best of it by talking to the person across from you or to the other side as well as to Velcro Man. Short of grabbing the gravy boat and pouring its contents into your lap, you’re trapped.

  Question: What on earth is gluten, and why do all of my dinner party guests whine about how they’re allergic to it? How could they suddenly be allergic to something they’ve eaten all their lives?

  Gluten, to answer your question, is a substance present in cereal grains, especially wheat, which is responsible for the elastic texture of dough. One symptom of gluten intolerance is an annoying whining sound heard when talking to a dinner party guest. Gluten, it turns out, is in damn near every processed food. Who knew?

  People have gone a little anti-gluten nutso, if you ask me. You can’t throw a rock without hitting someone who whines about their newly discovered allergy to gluten. Go ahead; try it. You see them in the grocery store, dutifully poring over the ingredients list or taking the frozen-foods manager to task for not stocking more gluten-free tostadas. As far as I can tell, the biggest side effect of a gluten sensitivity is that you actually become the number one symptom: a huge pain in the ass.

  The truth is, 1 in 133 people actually has celiac disease (a genuinely serious and unpleasant intestinal ailment hugely aggravated by gluten), so if you host a dinner party, you should just invite 132 people. Problem solved.

  Seriously, the issue of special diets can strangle a decent dinner party. You can’t be expected to accommodate Blanche’s vegan diet, Raoul’s imaginary gluten allergy, David’s kosher requirements, and so on. Just tell ’em what you’re having, and if they’re freaked out, tell ’em to bring something they can eat. Oh, and a really expensive bottle of wine for you to hide in the washing machine because they are stressing the shit out of you.

  chapter 5

  Gym Etiquette: Or, “Pardon Me, But Is This Your Ass Sweat?”

  Is there anything more dispiriting than realizing that you just sat down in a pool of someone else’s ass sweat?

  The gymnasium, to use prissy parlance, is ground zero for myriad etiquette violations, most involving the unwanted sharing of bodily fluids and odors.

  While I’ve maintained numerous gym memberships in the past, I must confess that I found them to all be extremely cost prohibitive, on account of I never actually went to the gym.

  That’s not true. I went twice and then realized that it was a lot more fun to use that hour to grab a chocolate croissant and chai tea instead. Mornings can be so stressful.

  Loyal readers will recall that I did attempt a weekly yoga class but was put off by the incessant and unrepentant pooting of those around me. I still love the yoga clothes, though, and have become one of those poseurs who runs errands in full workout regalia even though I haven’t technically worked out since the Clinton administration.

  As a pear-shaped woman, I should be concentrating on squats for my glutes and the rest of it. A recent study found that pear-shaped women are more likely to have memory problems as we age than the so-called apple-shaped women who carry their fat in their tummies, not their hips.

  If I had a personal trainer, I’d ask him or her just what sense that makes. Geographically speaking, the brain is a lot closer to the waist than it is to the butt. Soooo, ipso facto, presto change-o, if fat is clogging up your brain and causing memory loss, why wouldn’t it be a bigger problem churning its way to the brain from the much-closer, uh, waistal area? Well, science community? I’m waiting, here.

  Is it actually possible that, just as some ill-mannered readers have suggested to me over the years, all my brains are in my ass?

  It doesn’t seem fair that the location of my fat is going to make me forget stuff as I get older. Actually, I’m pretty sure that it’s already started. I was going to tell you a story to illustrate this, but I forget.

  So big butt equals bad memory. Maybe one day Jennifer Lopez and I can hang out with our big butts and forget stuff together. She might want to start with Maid in Manhattan—just saying.

  Bottom line (ha!): I will be going back to the gym really, really someday, having now realized that those extra pounds aren’t going to come off by themselves. Neither are they going to come off as long as I consider chicken-fried steak with a side of the theater-size box of Junior Mints to be a balanced dinner.

  A trainer and gym regimen will get me back on track, and before you know it, I’ll be as full of memories as my apple-shaped friends. It’s on, bitches!

  Question: I’m an older woman who attends a lunchtime aerobics class at the local Y. A very fit young woman in the class dresses very inappropriately, preferring those ghastly “butt floss” leotards to the traditional leggings and oversized T-shirts worn by the rest of us. Is there a delicate way to approach her?

  Well, you could just pull her aside and say something on the order of, “I’m so sorry to say this, dear, but your ass cheeks are quite distracting and we really wish that you would just put them away.” She will likely be offended by this, but you should just maintain a concerned maternal tone throughout. She will probably say something like, “You’re just jealous!” and, of course, she’s right. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that she won’t always look like that. It’s really all that any of us can cling to at times like this.

  Question: I saw a man spit into the water fountain after his workout the other day. Should I report him?

  Yes, and quickly. Spitting into the water fountain is one of the vilest etiquette offenses at the gym. (That, and refilling your oversized water bottle at the fountain when there’s a line.) Spitting, along with excessive grunting by men lifting we
ights and wearing wide-legged shorts that broadcast their bidness, seems to result from some wrongheaded belief that they are real cavemen. For one hour a day, they and all the sweaty, grunting men don’t have to think about how they have to pick up Lunchables and pantyliners at the store when they leave the gym. For this tiny window of time, they aren’t worried about any of that. They are men, doing manly things. If it weren’t so gross, it would almost be cute.

  Question: A couple of women in my Pilates class talk on their cell phones during class, and it is beyond irritating to those of us who don’t want to listen to their prattle. Shouldn’t there be a “no cell phone” rule in class?

  Absolutely. And not just in class but especially in the locker room, where pervs with phones can take pictures of folks milling about in their all-togethers, as I like to call the naked human body on the unfortunate occasions I am forced to think about its existence. Cell phones are discussed in another chapter, so I will only say that to talk on one during a workout class is rude to classmates and to the instructor, who shouldn’t have to stand there at the door, taking up phones like the drama teacher did in High School Musical. Grow up, assholes.

  Question: Every time I lift weights, there’s a guy who tells me I’m doing it all wrong. I know that I’m doing it right and that he’s the wrong one. What should I do?

  Stop working out with your husband. Next.

  Question: I love the spinning room at our local fitness club, but what I don’t love is listening to the TV overhead. Actually, this also bothers me in the lounge at the car dealership and even the hospital waiting room. Doesn’t anybody read anymore?

  Oh, if there’s a God in heaven … but back to your point. I sympathize with this because just this week I was forced to endure a cartoon called Happy Tree Friends on the overhead TV at the tire store. The TV is set way up high to prevent people from changing channels or the volume. So there we sit, held prisoner like that scene in A Clockwork Orange where the guy has his eyes clipped open. And, yes, I could walk away just as you could pursue another gym activity, but why should I (you) have to?