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

by Celia Rivenbark

  Well. I think I made my point.

  Question: My girlfriend likes to talk baby talk to me when we’re alone, which is okay, I guess, but she also does it in front of my friends. We’re both in our early twenties, and I’m embarrassed by the way she talks to me in public. How can I get her to stop?

  You can’t. You can only break up with her in a note signed: No longer your “Snookums Pootie Bear.”

  Just as an animal marks its territory, your girlfriend is metaphorically circling and spraying around you, signaling to your friends, whom she probably detests, that you have a bond that can’t be broken. That she is your widdle wuvver-dover and they better back the shit off. She knows it irritates you, but it’s more important that she show your friends that she’s the one in control. Simply put: She has infantilized you, and now you must cut the cord. Put it to her in terms she’ll understand: “We’re overkins.”

  Question: My husband always gives me flowers on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, and our anniversary. This is very nice of him, but I have asked him time and time again to have them sent to my office instead of just bringing them home to me. Everyone knows it doesn’t count unless your coworkers see what a great guy he is and how much he loves you.

  I know that what you have written—in excruciating detail, I might add—is incredibly shallow, but I have to agree. It’s like the old “If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, did it make a sound?” Or, to put it another way, “If your husband brings you flowers at home and nobody saw them, was his money wasted?”

  I don’t know jack shit about the tree/forest thing, but I can say, without hesitation, that flowers brought home for special occasions do not count. Also, there’s a better-than-average chance that he bought them at the grocery store instead of the florist. He’s saving a ton on delivery charges, which, frankly, shows you where you stand. The presentation of flowers at your workplace is a public display of affection that is to be encouraged. Cheaping out on flowers by buying them from someone who also slices sausage by the pound is not.

  Question: My boyfriend and I are in our late twenties, and have been dating for two years. Whenever we go out, if there’s any kind of a wait, he likes to pass the time by making out. I’m embarrassed by the way people look at us, all the pointing, snickering, and the inevitable suggestion that we “get a room.” How can I get him to understand that this is not something I’m comfortable doing?

  Truthfully, I just can’t relate. At this stage in my own courtship with Duh Hubby, he would be overjoyed at the mention of a wait as long as there was a bar with the game (any game) on. We would spend the entire wait watching the game, drinking a couple of “foamers,” and then our names would be called. Your old-enough-to-know-better boyfriend sounds like someone who likes showing off his horn-dog behavior for an audience. It’s a little creepy. Normal guys just don’t act like that. And, yes, I’m sure you’re very alluring, but, really, the bloom should be off the rose by now. I’m presuming that you’ve mentioned that you don’t like this and he just isn’t listening. If you stay with him, you can be sure he won’t listen to anything else that matters to you either. He’s an asshat; dump him.

  Question: My boyfriend and I are one of those couples that find it exciting to make out in public. We’re both on the same page about this, so, really, what’s the big deal?

  Get back to class. The bell’s getting ready to ring.

  Acceptable PDAs …

  • Hand-holding.

  • Arm looped around the shoulder.

  • Quick kiss on lips or cheek to greet SO. (No tongue!)

  Nonacceptable PDAs …

  • Everything not listed above.

  Nonromantic PDAs …

  When we talk about PDAs, we usually connect it to romantic love or just outright gotta-hit-that lust, but there’s another kind of PDA that is just plain weird and offensive. I speak, of course, of the chalk drawings on the rear window of the minivan you’re behind in traffic.

  What more public display of affection than a groovy little height-ordered depiction of all your loved ones? There’s Dad, looking tall and in control, even as a chalk outline. There’s Mom, fuzzy haired and goofy in her mom-skirt. There are the kids and even the family dog, cat, and bird.

  I get that this is meant to tell the world that You Love Your Family. But, if we’re being honest, the subtext in this particular and very public display of affection is that My Family Is Probably Better Than Yours. (P.S. Did you not see our bird?)

  Question: What’s so bad about letting the world know that you love your family? You make it sound as if that’s a bad thing.

  First of all, you’re not letting the “world” know anything, unless you honestly think the world begins and ends at the exact route that takes you from school to gymnastics to choir practice to ballet to the grocery store. Scary how well I know your pathetic little routine, isn’t it? Why, it’s almost as if it’s my routine, too. Because it is. And that’s my point: There’s nothing special about your family. You love them and that’s as it should be, but pasting scary, emaciated decals of them on the back of your car doesn’t make them better than my family or anybody else’s. Quit boasting about your brood, or I’ll be tempted to show you a bird of my own next time we meet on the way to the PTA meeting. Where worlds collide.

  Question: I’m considering getting a tattoo of my dead (brother, cousin, mother, NASCAR hero, sister, aunt, father, coon dog…) as a way of letting the world know how much they meant to me. Then, when that’s done, I’m going to get a decal on my truck’s rear window that says in really big letters: RIP with their name and birth and death dates. What do you think? Isn’t that a fantastic tribute?

  Oh, sorry. My skin just crawled a little. What were you saying? Oh, heavenly Lord, why must you force your undoubtedly sincere and heartfelt grief on an unsuspecting public?

  I don’t mean to be cruel, here, but if I’m out on the town with my gal pals and we get behind one more giant RIP JUAN … 1984–2011 complete with a semi-artistic rendering of Juan and his little dog, too, I am going to scream, “Buzzkill!” out the window just a little too loudly.

  Grief is something that has no place on the back window of a truck. At times like this, you should ask yourself WWJD? (“What would Juan do?” naturally.)

  Would he really want to bum out 99 percent of the motoring public? I’m guessing not. I didn’t know Juan, but I imagine he would be a tad embarrassed by this whole thing.

  Grieve privately and with those who actually knew Juan and can share in your grief. Anything else just looks like you’re trying to overcompensate. Perhaps you had a hand in Juan’s untimely demise? Hmmmm? Frankly, if this were an episode of Law & Order, I’d “like” you as the “perp.” Think about it. And get that damn thing off the window.

  chapter 8

  Husbands and Wives: He May Not Be Much, But He’s Your Tube Sock Filled with Gravy

  Perhaps it’s because you’ve seen him trim his toenails in bed over an open copy of Sports Illustrated one too many times. Perhaps it’s because he’s seen you spend a full five minutes pulling up your pantyhose until he finally screamed, “My eyes!”

  Husbands and wives don’t always demonstrate good manners to one another. Familiarity breeds contempt, the saying goes, and it’s a damn shame.

  Of all the people we encounter who deserve an extra measure of thoughtfulness, our life partner should be first in line. So how is it, then, that you are once again standing in front of the fridge, holding a milk carton that contains exactly one tablespoon of milk?

  Basic consideration is all that we ask. Treat us as respectfully as you treat your clients, your boss—hell, the waitress at that Cracker Barrel on the interstate that you will never see again.

  Usually, we’re equally guilty. Sometimes the slide begins when the kids come. Gone is all pretense that life will ever be the same. The only time he will open that door for you now is if you are toting the infant carrier and the porta-crib.

  Remember
how you used to make his favorite meal? Chicken cordon bleu with wild rice and sautéed spinach? Who has time for that now? Certainly not you. It’s almost time for The Bachelor, and you’ve already eaten but there’s a can of soup somewhere in the pantry.

  Your marital manners matter, my hons. This doesn’t mean you have to treat each other like you did when you were dating, but it does mean that you don’t completely coast, taking each other for granted.

  Question: Whenever my husband sees his ex-wife, he greets her with a big hug even if I’m standing right there! I think this is rude and disrespectful to me. What’s wrong with a handshake?

  Well, while I agree that a “big hug” seems inappropriate, I don’t care for a handshake either. Handshakes are for new acquaintances or the workplace, not for someone who has seen you nekkid and knows that you prefer Astroglide to K-Y Liquibeads. It would be weird. That said, I think you should tell your husband that a cheerful “Hi, how are you doing?” is quite enough. If she looks puzzled and reaches out to hug him, you would be within your rights to kick her ass.

  Question: My wife still has the wedding album from her first marriage. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Would it be bad manners of me to ask her to throw it away?

  Presuming that she doesn’t have it displayed on your coffee table with lighted candles flanking either side, I don’t think you should ask her to destroy it. There are many reasons that women (and some men) keep their wedding albums, and it is no reflection on your current relationship. I, for instance, have the album from my first marriage, which was a tidy little six-year, no-kids matter that ended semi-amicably. I keep the album in my attic for one reason: That wedding cost my parents a shitload of money. No, that’s not entirely true. I keep it because it contains possibly the best picture of me that has ever been taken under any circumstances. My wedding portrait from that ill-fated “starter” marriage made me look like Charlize Theron, only much younger and prettier. And, yes, bitches, it was retouched from now till Tuesday, but so what? In every picture, I am glowing and Charlizing all over the place.

  Trust me: Keeping the old wedding album doesn’t diminish for a second what you have now with your wife. She, like many of us, just likes to remember what it felt like to be a silken-skinned goddess, if only for a day.

  Question: My husband went to Duke, and I went to Carolina. Needless to say, game nights are very intense and unpleasant around our house. When Duke gets behind, he yells, assumes a ferretlike countenance, and slaps the floor with both hands just like the Duke players. His rudeness is making it impossible to savor the game. If Duke loses, he pouts for days. Like a little girl. Do you think we should just stop watching games together?

  No, I don’t. I happen to think that watching sports together can be one of the most mutually satisfying elements of a happy marriage.

  You can certainly have a successful “mixed” marriage; many couples do. But, before you marry, make sure you have a similar level of commitment to the concept of rivalry. I remember my precious Duh Hubby being dismayed at a friend’s comment to her husband following a tournament game.

  “Did you hear her?” he asked me, incredulous. “She said that if Carolina lost, she’d still pull for Duke because the important thing is that an ACC team advances.”

  This sort of Ned Flanders piffle is simply unacceptable. True Duke fans don’t pull for UNC and vice versa. I don’t care if your granny’s been on a vent at Duke for six years and you bring the nurses Chick-fil-A every second Thursday, you don’t pull for Duke if you like UNC. Ever. What I’m saying is that things aren’t as bad as you think. Better to be married to a committed fan than a wishy-washy one because he will probably feel just as passionately about sticking with you. Sure, it’s nice when you root for the same team, but you knew your husband’s Serious Flaw when you married him, so stop whining.

  Question: Why can’t my husband be more sensitive? We started a diet together on New Year’s Day, and he’s lost fifteen pounds to my four. I know he’s worked harder, but he rudely insists on telling everyone about our little contest and how much better he’s doing. How can I get him to stop?

  I’d tell you how to lose 205 pounds overnight, but that involves getting a divorce, which, I’ll agree, is a bit extreme. Duh and I are often on one diet or the other. And, yes, he has done much better than I, owing to his inclusion of “exercise” and “strength conditioning” and “flexibility workouts.” This is in direct opposition to my plan, which includes “sitting on my ass” “eight to twelve hours a day” “okay, more like sixteen.”

  What can I tell you? Some words just don’t go together in my world. Words like “exercise” and “happiness” or “library” and “Kardashian.”

  We have even had weekly weigh-ins—a terrible idea, by the way. Duh weighs with all his clothes on. I, on the other hand, will go so far as to floss before stepping on the scales. The last time, he chuckled and said flossing wouldn’t affect the weight unless “you’re planning to pull a tractor tire outta there!” Right. So where do I get one of those again?

  But I digress. This is extremely rude behavior on your husband’s part and an excellent example of what I was talking about earlier: showing your life partner an even greater measure of thoughtfulness. Your husband should be your greatest champion, not tearing you down for laughs in front of your friends. Tell him so, tubby.

  Question: I can’t believe you just said that to her.

  Oh, settle down. It’s just to make a point. Sometimes we women can be a bit hypersensitive. I once heard Duh tell a friend his gut looked like a tube sock filled with gravy, and the guy just laughed. Maybe we should lighten up a bit.

  Question: My husband never dresses up anymore. Even to go out to dinner with friends, he’ll just put on his jeans and a T-shirt that says I’M WHAT WILLIS WAS TALKIN’ ’BOUT or something equally stupid. Isn’t this disrespectful to me?

  Not really. I know you don’t want him to wear it to a wedding, but “disrespectful” is a tad harsh. It’s not like he took a poo on your head. A T-shirt that evokes warm memories of a better-than-average ’70s/’80s sitcom isn’t the worst thing in the world. Look, most men will just wear whatever is closest to them. If you want him to dress up a bit, just drop the clothes you’d like him to wear on the floor beside the bed or, if he’s showering, on the bathroom floor. He’ll put them on because they’re there. Problem solved.

  Question: My husband leaves razor stubble in the sink. This is the grossest, rudest thing I can imagine. I’ve asked him to stop leaving his tiny hairs all over the sink, but he always forgets.

  While I’m no fan of the stubble in the sink, I think he’s probably just as grossed out by those random long hairs that cling to the shower curtain, the shower stall walls, and, of course, the tub drain. Did you ever think about that, Rapunzel?

  Also, if those tiny bits of beard are the “grossest, rudest thing” you can imagine, you have clearly never watched The Human Centipede. Check it out and get back to me. As for a practical solution that takes about ten seconds, two words: Clorox Wipes. Tell him to swipe one into the sink after shaving and vow to do the same after you shampoo. Now, has anybody got a real problem for me?

  Question: I’ve told my husband that it’s bad manners to walk around the house wearing only his underwear. What do you think?

  Really. Anyone at all. A Real problem?

  Question: We also fight about money a lot. Sometimes in front of the kids. Oh, and we never have sex anymore. Oh, and …

  Ding-ding-ding! You have my attention. Don’t fight in front of your cherubs; that’s the height of rudeness. Plus you’ll screw ’em up and they’ll end up like poor Chaz Bono, going on talk shows and telling everybody how he’s going to buy himself a tallywacker for Christmas. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  chapter 9

  Waiting Game: How to Deal with Line-Jumpers and Other Creeps of Nature

  One of my favorite recurring skits on Saturday Night Live features the “Two A-Holes.�
� They’re married to each other, or at least in some sort of relationship. She is brilliantly played by a blond-wigged Kristen Wiig wearing stilettos, a short, tight skirt, and a perpetually bored expression. He is just as brilliantly played by a be-sweatered, entirely vacant Jason Sudeikis. Both are sadly familiar.

  Two A-Holes are shown in a variety of settings acting rude, demanding, and infuriatingly clueless. They’re hilarious until you meet them in person, as I did, at that great equalizer of all humanity, the line at the U.S. Post Office and Lunch Hour Detention Center.

  With about a dozen people in line behind them, these Two A-Holes remained oblivious of everyone around them while “She” pondered the available stamp selections, asking which “He” preferred.

  “I dunno, babe,” he responded. “What do you think?” (OMGod! The SNL couple says the same thing! Were there hidden cameras somewhere?)

  She kept smacking her gum and flipping back her long blond hair like it was her job while we all waited and seethed in silence.

  “Baaaaabe,” she talk-whined loud enough for all to hear. “Who’s Dinah Shore? Huh? Dinah Shore?”

  HE:

  Huh? Who? I dunno, babe. What about these breast cancer stamps? What about them? Huh, babe?

  SHE:

  (still smacking and hair-flipping) They cost, like, more than the other stamps, babe. (And to the harried postal clerk who is working alone because, as we all know, the U.S. Postal Service is Very Serious about eating a nutritious lunch at the noon hour every day—) Why do they gotta cost more?

  This stamp-selection bit went on for longer than it took for me to buy my last car. The best part? When a second postal clerk finally appeared, she sashayed over to his window and asked to buy a money order, thus blocking both lines.