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

by Celia Rivenbark

  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.

  A professional videographer knows to let the drunks rant and then skillfully edits away the unpleasant language—at least in the PG version he presents the parents and in-laws.

  When your daughter gets married the next time, hire a pro. What? This is going to be her only marriage? Oh, that is just precio
us and darling.

  Question: My wife and I recently received a wedding invitation that had this note at the bottom: “Please, no boxed gifts.” I believe I speak for many others when I respectfully ask, “What the hell?”

  This is one of the most egregious violations of wedding etiquette out there. Why not just say what you really mean? “Please don’t give us a motherhumpin’ toaster oven. We don’t have the brains God gave plankton, so we’d never figure out how to use it. Yes, we are that stupid. All we want is some serious chedda so we can take that vacay to Cancún.”

  This odious tendency to sneakily ask for cash as a wedding gift is multiplying faster than germs in a chocolate fountain. Here in the South, we are highly resistant to this sort of thing because it cheapens the occasion. We already have to worry about the bridal couple dancing an elaborately choreographed version of “Back That Azz Up” and the best man making a complete fool of himself on video, and now … this.

  If you do relent, and give cash as requested, make sure that you eat the precise value of the cash given at the reception. In other words: prawns, yes; hard rolls, no. Or you can go renegade-badass and give them the biggest chicken rotisserie you can find at Costco. Wrap it up in tacky wedding-bell paper and make a big show of asking, “Where’s the gift table?” when you get to the reception.

  They’ll take it back, of course, but that’s their problem. And isn’t it fun to think of them fuming about your thoughtlessness and huffing about as they try to fit that bird-turner into their Kia Sportage? Thought so.

  Question: It has been nine months since the wedding, and I’m still waiting on a thank-you note. Apparently, a Mixmaster with detachable meat grinder isn’t the big deal it used to be! Seriously, why do some couples take so long to say thank you?

  Wow! I can assure you that if I got that present, I’d drive to your house with a coolerful of freshly ground homemade sausage to show my undying appreciation. Unfortunately, somewhere along the line, the word got out that it was acceptable for a couple to take up to one year to mail their thank-you notes after the wedding.

  This is oft repeated like those scary e-mails you get from idiot friends. Things like how if you soak a human tooth in Pepsi, it will dissolve overnight. It’s bunk, hokum, and completely untrue. Sadly, there is no Snopes for this sort of thing, so we must resort to using our common sense and common decency.

  The truth? Thank-you notes should always be sent within three months of receiving the gift. Anything more than that indicates that you have found the whole thank-you thing such a terrible chore that you just can’t quite believe you have to do it. Poor you. If you wait more than three months to write your notes and mail them, people will talk bad about you. And they’ll do so for way longer than a year.

  Question: What’s with that guy on TV who has four wives?

  Okay, I actually made up that question because I am currently obsessed with TLC’s Sister Wives, and I’m dying to talk about it. The only thing more challenging than one wedding is four, with four different brides.

  Oh, how I love to follow the lives of the smiling puppy-faced Kody Brown, who rotates through his four wives’ bedrooms like a Roomba on testosterone. With his moppish blond hair and surprisingly ripped bod, Kody looks and acts like the one guy in the frat house who you always suspected was actually forty-five years old. He giggles behind his hands when he’s busted for whatever ticks off four women at a time.

  I was expecting the four brides to be dour, hard-faced women obsessed with martyrdom, homeschooling, and those scary-tight polygamy-gal cornrows, but these chicks are downright mouthy. You should’ve heard them carp about how they didn’t get to help bride number four pick out her wedding gown. The nerve!

  I get what Kody gets out of the arrangement (he’s a man with four sex partners who know about one another, and yet none of them wants to strangle him with piano wire while he’s sleeping), but I’m not sure what’s in it for the women except they like each other a lot, and I get the feeling they’d be fine without Kody in a Golden Girls kind of way. They get along great, which is nice since you-know-who is always hovering outside the bedroom door with his motor running, so to speak.

  Kody is like a golden retriever, if a golden retriever had Lumineers and could actually bark out, “It’s!” “All!” “Good!” for every situation, from facing felony charges for polygamy to having to pay for four different rental houses. He’s not the perfect groom; in truth, he comes off as kind of a dunderhead, but he does seem happy, perhaps because he gets laid a bazillion times a week and never actually does any child care. Cool.

  Question: Weddings have become some sort of spectator sport. Look at the proliferation of TV shows like Say Yes to the Dress and Four Weddings. Whatever happened to the sanctity of marriage?

  That’s easy. Kim Kardashian happened to it. For every royal wedding in which we sniffle happy tears to see that William has chosen a lovely, elegant bride who would’ve been adored by Our Beloved Lady Diana May She Rest in Peace, we are subjected to many more of the common and foul-mouthed, the anal-bleached and the Botoxed.

  Kim’s marriage to “some basketball player” was made into a two-hour TV special that generated millions in ad revenue. She filed for divorce seventy-two days later, citing “irreconcilable differences.” Uh-huh. I suppose this was the day the last check cleared. Call me a sentimental fool, but I would hope that a marriage would last longer than the mustard in my fridge.

  If you want to see what’s really wrong with weddings today, watch an episode of Say Yes to the Dress. No, not the one episode with a conscience, where they’re fitting a gown on the paralyzed chick, but the rest of them. My least favorite brides casually drop eighty thousand dollars on a couture wedding gown because they “always wanted to be a princess.” Let me be frank: You’re a little old for that, Your Hagship. Why not use that money to help out somebody less fortunate because, trust me, a year from now, nobody’s going to remember your gown didn’t come from the five-hundred-dollar rack at David’s Bridal. Nobody.

  Question: Why do so many celebrity marriages end so badly?

  You mean like Ashton and Demi? As my friend Amy pointed out, that marriage broke down when Demi finally figured out she was married to Kelso. If ever there was a case of arrested development, it was Ashton, who seemed happiest in his role as the shaggy stoner in That ’70s Show.

  There are some who think that the age difference between Ashton and Demi—she’s 135 years older than he—was the real reason for the breakup, but I don’t think so. I happen to be married to a younger man myself. What’s it like, you ask? Well, Duh Hubby finds it extraordinarily amusing to tug on my sleeve every so often and ask, “What was Vietnam really like?”

  This sort of “humor” can be the foundation of a solid and satisfying marriage. Or it can be the catalyst for someone to be “hit upside the head,” as we say in the South, depending on whether or not I’ve had my prunes that morning.

  I knew the marriage was on the rocks when Ashton gave Demi an eco-friendly Lexus for her birthday. Nothing says, “You’re still as sexy as the day I laid eyes on you” like a hybrid sedan that would be more at home in the cafeteria parking lot than cruising the PCH with the wind wildly whipping your extensions.

  My humble opinion? Celebrity marriages tend to be short-lived because they don’t understand that there has to be compromise and (gasp!) sacrifice in a marriage. The successful ones (Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick, or Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, for instance) get that you may have to take turns being famous for the marriage to thrive. Home fires burning and all that.

  Nuts and Mints

  • If anyone ever calls their fiancé “my soul mate,” the marriage will last no longer than eighteen months. Every time.

  • Don’t fill your wedding party with kids. Lady Louise, seven, and Viscount Severn, three, were attendants in the wedding of Prince William to Kate Middleton. Poor little boy. I’m already picturing the numerous swirlies at Royal Pain Academy and invitations by bur
lier classmates to “Viscount this!” As to Lady Louise, why should anyone who is barely old enough to recite her “timeses” participate in the most important event of your life? I mean, until the next most important one.

  • It’s not cute to let your dog be the ring bearer. Sure, you’ll get a chorus of “awwwwws,” but at the heart of it, you’ve just given over one of the most profound moments of the day to a furry fellow who just wants to spend the day licking his own genitalia. Sure, that describes the best man, too, but somehow it’s different.

  • Brides: Never marry a man who makes significantly less money than you do. Your mother isn’t wrong about this, and neither am I.

  • Grooms: Never marry a woman who makes significantly less money than you do. Your father isn’t wrong about this, and neither am I.

  • Be nice to all your guests, even the ones you don’t know but had to invite because your mother convinced you that there would be hurt feelings and “You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube once that happens.” That’s the kind of shit mothers say. Smile, put on a good party face, and think of how pleasant Kate Middleton looked even as she was surely dying to ask Helena Bonham Carter if she ever plans to release the squirrel monkey that is obviously hiding in her hair.

  chapter 25

  Phoning It In: Does Anybody Know Why That Black Thing on the Wall Is Ringing?

  Oh my God, the weirdest thing just happened. The house phone rang, and it wasn’t my mother. I saw the caller ID, and it looked like some sort of local number but there was no name attached. The whole thing left me a little shaky, I gotta tell you, so I let it ring until voice mail could pick it up. I mean, really, who actually talks on the phone anymore?