Listen to your iPod while you spin away, and crank it up loud enough to drown out Fox News, Murder, She Wrote, or similar torture.
Question: I work out on my lunch hour, and when I’m at the club, I don’t have time for conversation. I’m not there to be social; I’m there to work out. How can I communicate this without being rude?
From what I hear from my friends who work out, this is a huge problem. It basically comes down to whether you are retired or still working. The retirees consider the gym a fabulous place to work out a little, enjoy a smoothie, and catch up with folks they recognize while those folks are working out. It sounds wonderful unless you’re trying to complete a cycle and you can’t even get started for the incessant yammering from your “friend” as he chats while you’re desperately trying to finish your elliptical workout.
Every so often, a situation presents itself in which it’s simply not possible to spare feelings. You must be direct and say: “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to talk. I need to finish this workout on a schedule or I’ll be late getting back to work.”
Big-boy stuff, I know.
If you’re not brave enough for this sort of direct answer (i.e., you are a Southerner), you can just try ignoring them until they get the hint. While they chat, you continue your workout, only very occasionally nodding yes or no to whatever inane question is being asked. This conveys that you really don’t have time to talk, and sooner or later, they’ll wander away to hassle somebody else. Just remember not to be too judgy, because one day, that’ll be you approaching a “sorta friend” at the gym, clutching that fat stack of Kiwanis pancake supper tickets to sell. Circle of life, dude.
Question: I have a locker room dilemma! I understand that some people are more comfortable with their bodies than others, but why would anyone think I wanted to talk to them while they’re just standing in front of me butt naked? Put a towel on!
I remember the first time I worked out at the Y. Being naturally repressed like any good Southern woman, I was horrified to see the old women wandering about with their gray matching carpet and drapes, so to speak, as though they didn’t even know they were naked. While I carefully changed clothes in the shower like some kind of Baptist, they just laughed and conversed with absolute abandon. They weren’t even wearing shower shoes!
Look, there will always be people with varying degrees of modesty. You can’t ask them to put some clothes on, although you should mention under your breath in a high-handed tone that failure to wear shower shoes is just asking for athlete’s foot, which is a lifetime affliction. They may brand you Debbie Downer for such comments, but that’s not your concern. As you get more comfortable speaking out, ask them to “For the love of God, sit on a towel in the sauna,” or ask, “Are you seriously going to get in the pool with that oozing sore?” Some people require a little direction. Focus less on the offensive nudity and more on the hygiene of it all. Better?
Question: Why won’t people put the dumbbells back where they found them? Is that really too much to ask? I’m tired of being everyone’s nagging mother at the gym.
Oh, I suspect you’re everyone’s nagging mother wherever you go. But, yes, it is rude not to return equipment (dutifully wiped of sweat) to its original location. Equipment such as barbells, hand weights, and bands are dangerous lying around, waiting to trip someone, so this is a matter for the paid staff to handle. Tell them as often as necessary. Granted, they are probably talking to their boyfriend on the phone and too busy to deal with you, but keep at it. Mention potential lawsuits. Also how they really should eat more vegetables, go to bed earlier, and stop hanging around that rough crowd.
Question: What can I do about a “lurker”? Sometimes I’m resting between sets; it doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up the machine. Can I just say, “Go away”?
Nobody likes a lurker, but on the other hand, this isn’t your very own personal machine with a little brass plate on it with your name on it, so you might want to check yourself. If you’re “resting” five minutes between sets, you’re hogging the equipment. Mix up the workout and move to another machine or be prepared to hear “You done here?” a whole lot. Followed by, “How ’bout now? You done here?” and, if you continue to sit your resting ass on that machine, “How ’bout now? You done here, bitch?” Hey, I’m on their side.
chapter 6
Baby Steps: Is She Pregnant or Is That a Booze-Inflated Liver? Hint: Don’t Ask!
Oh, baby.
You thought you were just happy about being a mommy, and now here I come, ready to tell you that pregnancy, childbirth, and the first few years of life are just one big-ass etiquette minefield.
Read on …
Question: Ever since I started showing, total strangers have come up to me in the supermarket or post office and asked if they could touch my belly! I can’t imagine such rude behavior, can you?
Well, yes, I can. Listen, when I got pregnant at age forty, I was so thrilled that I actually asked strangers if they would like to touch my stomach. If they hesitated for even a second, I’d just grab their hands and move ’em across my huge stomach like it was a damn Ouija board. Sometimes they screamed (or tried to spell out HELP ME), but I let them go eventually.
I get that you think it’s rude for strangers to touch your tummy, but here’s why you’re wrong: The very second that baby bolts out of your “down there” and into the world, you are—trust me—No Longer Special. Now the baby will get all the attention, and you? You’re yesterday’s news, condemned to sit around lactating nonstop, throwing Munchkins at A Baby Story every time it comes on, and wondering why you were so hateful to all those well-meaning strangers in the grocery store. You were a rock star, and now? Not so much. Yes, it’s invasive and a bit ham-handed, but people feel oddly connected to something greater than themselves when they touch a pregnant woman’s tummy.
Get over yourself and enjoy the attention. This is the only time in your life when other women will not only let you cut the line in the ladies’ room, but they’ll even smile while they’re doing it. Good with the bad, honey; good with the bad.
Question: My baby is only a few days old, and I can’t figure out a polite way to ask people to please wash their hands or use hand sanitizer before they touch her. Am I being overly protective?
Not at all. I was so germ conscious when the Princess was born that I didn’t take her out of the house for four weeks. Friends would joke that they had to visit her like she was royalty: They would drive up, and I would hold her up in the living room window for them to admire, and then I would make her fat little arm wave “bye-bye!”
My friend Pam was an exception because, even as she visited us in the hospital, she immediately walked over to the sink and washed her hands like she was going into surgery. I loved her for that and I still do.
These days, hand sanitizer is ubiquitous, which is Latin for “every damn where.” Just smile as nicely as you can and ask that they use it or wash their hands. Here’s the deal: You’re now in charge of a defenseless infant’s health and welfare. Do you really give much of a shit about hurting someone’s feelings when your kid’s health could be at stake? I sincerely hope not.
Please take this opportunity to ask visitors to leave their toddlers at home or at least keep them away from your newborn. Toddlers are germ factories, and they love nothing more than licking babies on the face. It’s weird as hell, but they can’t seem to help themselves. Keep them away. If the toddler in question happens to be a sibling, you might want to consider establishing a separate residence for that first year. Kidding! Eight months is long enough for the baby’s antibodies to kick in.
Question: My friends want to have a baby shower for my third child. I appreciate their generosity, but I’m afraid it will make me look greedy. I’ve already had two babies and two showers.
Your instincts are right. You don’t want to be that person whom people remember as “you know, the one who had, like, a zillion baby showers. I went broke buying crap for her kids
.”
The first shower—with its goofy games, bow hats, and the rest—is a wonderful tradition. The second one, if you’re sure the baby’s sex is going to be different, is fine, too. You can’t very well expect your baby daughter to wear those Thomas the Tank Engine overalls with the sweet potato stains on them, can you? Or vice versa, the Cinderella Onesies on your new baby boy.
But a third shower? Uhhhh, no. Thank these wannabe hostesses effusively but explain that you’re all set. If they persist, or act as if they will physically keel over and die if they don’t get to buy something presh for the baby, ask them to buy it and donate it to a baby charity in honor of your newborn. Simple, classy, done.
Question: People keep telling me that they know I’m having a girl (or a boy) because I’m carrying high, look the same from the back as I always did, et cetera, et cetera. I’m weary of all this folk “wisdom.” How can I get them to stop?
Guessing the sex of the baby has always been a hot topic, particularly among coworkers. I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty. The baby you have will be a boy. Or a girl. Oh, let them prattle on about it; it doesn’t hurt. When I was pregnant, someone dangled a wedding ring on a string over my belly and pronounced I was having a boy. Dumb-ass.
Question: The other day, I asked a woman when she was due, and she bristled and informed me that she wasn’t pregnant. I immediately apologized, but I’m just so mortified that I can’t stop thinking about my rude mistake.
I know exactly how you feel. Sometimes a good old-fashioned cirrhotic liver can precisely duplicate the look of pregnancy. I suggest that you start off slow if you must discuss these things with a stranger. Try: “I’m sorry, but are you pregnant or is that a cirrhotic liver I see before me?”
Kidding! Never, ever ask a woman if she’s pregnant. As you found out the hard way, there’s just no telling sometimes whether you’re looking at a precious bundle of joy or a booze-soaked swollen organ. It’s a crapshoot, so just keep your trap shut.
Question: Everybody calls my little boy a girl! I can’t tell you how many times this happens when we’re out running errands. How can I set them straight?
There are few of us who haven’t confused a baby boy with a baby girl at some point in our cooing over a cute infant. Frankly, it’s your fault for not dressing your child in obvious gender-specific clothing. Perhaps you subscribe to the notion that gender shouldn’t be important. I read recently about a couple who refused to tell anyone—even the grandparents!—whether their toddler was a boy or a girl. I like to call these parents morons.
Now seems like a good time to point out this trend of not cutting a little boy’s hair even as it falls below his shoulders is frankly tiresome. Oh, if I saw one more picture of Kate Hudson toting that boy-child of hers with his tangled hair streaming down his tiny back … The kids always look unkempt and kind of like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family. If that’s the look you’re going for, well, Godspeed. It’s different for girls, of course, because there are so many darling ways to decorate that long hair (bows, braids, barrettes, bandeaus) and keep it out of eyes and face. Not so with boys, who all just look like Mowgli.
Question: At a family reunion recently, a distant cousin asked me if I was breastfeeding my newborn! Is that really any of her business?
Oh, she’s just making conversation, and once she got past the obligatory, “Wow! I can’t believe how good Gran looks!” or “This is the best pimento cheese I’ve ever eaten!” your breasts are pretty much third in line. I’ll admit that the question is intrusive and you would be within your rights to say, “Why do you ask?” which will make her sputter a bit. She has no idea why she asked, except you’ve always made her nervous and insecure because your family had an in-ground pool and hers had to be content with one of those ghastly aboveground metal ones where the sides bolt together. I’m just guessing, of course. It’s not like that sort of thing ever happened in my life.
Laugh gently and say, “What a question!” Frankly, I’m wondering where she’s headed with this. Is there a follow-up question brewing? (“’Cause I was just thinking, if you’re not gonna pump for a while, could my kids stand under those things for shade? It’s mighty hot out here.”)
Question: My baby shower wasn’t much fun, because everyone insisted on giving me their own horror stories of long labors, missed opportunities for epidurals, emergency C-sections, and the like. Why can’t people understand that I don’t want or need to hear all that negative stuff? I’m nervous enough as it is!
I know, but we can’t help ourselves. You’re probably recognizing a trend in my responses. While all these issues could be construed as nosy and rude, I tend to keep it real in matters maternal. Don’t you think that cavewomen did the same thing? One sympathetically patting the other’s hairy hand and grunting about her fifty-six-hour labor with only a cool leaf to chew on? Childbirth is exceedingly personal, but it bonds us together like nothing else.
Of course, if you have a friend who insists on only concentrating on the icky stuff (“You know, inverted-nipple syndrome is more common than you’d think!”), you are welcome to feign tiredness and ask her to give you some nap time.
Let these women into your life, though. Because there’s a very good chance that, along with the horror stories, they’re carrying a casserole and a nice salad for dinner.
Question: I was strolling my toddler the other day, and a stranger told me that she hoped I had applied sunscreen and then she said it was really the wrong time of day to be out for a stroll, considering the sun’s strength, and so on. Why do people think they can talk to me like this?
It’s vexing, I know. You expect to hear that kind of nagging from your family members but not from complete strangers. I’ll just have to assume that your kid’s cheeks look like a baboon’s hindparts and the stranger is genuinely concerned.
Be prepared to absorb all sorts of unsolicited advice when you are raising a child. Usually it’s completely well intentioned and can actually prove useful; the best brand of diaper rash ointment, the store with the best prices on your favorite diapers, the best all-night pharmacy in your town … that’s helpful information, but it can sound rather high-handed if you let it. Don’t. This is just the way it works. And one day, it might be you cautioning a young mother that her toddler is playing with a stick that will most assuredly put his eye out.
Admit it: You also never thought you’d be that person sitting in a restaurant at Disney World who suddenly smells something icky, grabs her baby, and presses her nose to his bottom, inhaling like it’s blow. But there you are. Mercifully, butt-sniffing in public is given a pass when it’s a baby. Etiquette understands that sometimes instinct takes over. If, however, your instinct also tells you to change the baby at the table, ignore it. That’s just gross.
chapter 7
PDAs: His Hand, Her Crack … Must Be Love
My dear friend David High shares my distaste for public displays of affection to the extent that he alerts me, via e-mail from his home near Nashville, whenever he sees a particularly heinous offense.
So I wasn’t surprised when I heard from him recently with this cryptic pronouncement:
At the mall. Two 16-year-olds. She already has a muffin top, he has a wisp of a mustache, and they’re walking along, each with a hand tucked down deep inside the other’s waistband.
Oh, my.
David calls this “walking tacky,” and as you know, “tacky” is the worst thing anybody can ever say about anybody else in the Southland. (He also considers it “riding tacky” when you see the couple jammed together in the front seat of a car, and, as always, I agree.)
Public displays of affection are a serious breach of etiquette. Affection should be private and “displayed” only between seriously committed romantic couples during the magic window just after The Daily Show is over and just before you realize it’s too late for anything but that recurring dream about Matthew McConaughey winning an Academy Award for best actor and thanking you for being the
re for him every step of the way, “darlin’.” Kidding! He could never win an Oscar.
PDAs, including the type David had the misfortune to witness (and, really, are they going to eat orange chicken in the food court with those hands?), seem to be on the rise.
The other day, I arrived a few minutes early to pick up the Princess from a club meeting at her high school. I assumed the early pickup position, reading her dog-eared Seventeen magazine while half-listening to public radio discuss Syrian warlords (I am nothing if not well rounded), when what to my wondering eyes should appear …
A couple, both about sixteen, sitting across the quad, locked in a public amorous display, that’s what. She was straddling him and giving him a tongue-ectomy. He had his hands under her T-shirt. I quickly lost all interest in both “how to rock the perfect smoky eye!” and Syria. Copulating, or mighty close to it, on a concrete bench on the front lawn of a public high school on a main highway? That’s so Raven. No, what I meant to say was “Ick!”
I resisted the urge to spring from my car and douse them both with the remains of my Vitamin Water. But this isn’t like breaking up a spat on the elementary school playground. This is a playground of an entirely different sort.
Mercifully, the Princess arrived just as I was pondering my next move.
“Did you see that?” I said, jerking my head in the direction of the couple, which was now reenacting the cover of The Notebook as a light drizzle failed to preempt their passion.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “They always do that.”
This is what we parents like to call a Teachable-Ass Moment.
“You wouldn’t act like that in public, would you?” I asked.
Eye roll, followed by immediate installation of earbuds. Conversation over.
Rude Bitches Make Me Tired: Slightly Profane and Entirely Logical Answers to Modern Etiquette Dilemmas Page 4