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

by Celia Rivenbark

This type of blatant asshattery is a huge breach of waiting-in-line etiquette.

  When standing in line, most of us realize that We Are All in This Together, so there’s a general vibe that you don’t screw it up for everybody else if you can help it.

  It is highly recommended and encouraged that, if you encounter this sort of rudeness, you may roll your eyes, sigh very heavily and frequently, mutter things like “Christ on a cracker, wouldja get on with it already!” and, finally, as I did recently, just let it all out there and say in a loud, firm voice: “Move!”

  Yeah, I did.

  It’s funny how people look at you like you’re the crazy one when you do something like that.

  Like asking somebody when you first meet them, “Hey, how much money do you make?” it’s just completely unexpected.

  “Move!” A one-word sentence that conveys the absolute frustration and borderline homicidal rage you’re feeling will yield immediate results.

  So shocked by what I did, the offender did, in fact, move. Sometimes, etiquette demands that you fall on the metaphorical sword for everyone in line behind you. I was fairly hoisted upon everyone’s shoulders like that little kid in the Old El Paso taco shell commercial when I said “Move!”

  I could feel the love of everyone in the line behind me. I had given voice to the voiceless, and hell, maybe I’d get my own stamp along with Dinah Shore, whoever the hell that was.

  Question: I’ve been the victim of line-jumping. What is an appropriate response to this sort of rude behavior?

  Ah, yes. The line-jumper. I’ve seen this in venues as diverse as the line at the K&W Cafeteria (a Southern staple also rather uncharitably known as “Canes & Wheelchairs” because of its elderly clientele) and the line to the T-shirt concession at a Mumford & Sons concert.

  Usually, line-jumpers wave very energetically at someone they know who is waaaaaay up in the line, practically at the congealed lime Jell-O with pears if you’re at K&W. (I’ve always thought the pears look a little trapped in that gelatin, like they’re screaming to get out.…) The fruit salad, as everyone knows, is the real starting point once you get your tray and cutlery from the beefy guy who has GOOD and EVIL tatted on his knuckles and is wearing a hairnet. (As an aside: You no longer look badass when you’re wearing a hairnet; trust moi.)

  At the concert, it was the same. Silly young woman waving semi-hysterically to real or imagined friends at the front of the line. Fortunately, I didn’t have to handle this one on my own. She was told by a guy wearing an I DIRECT MIDGET PORN T-shirt that she needed to get to the back of the line where she belonged.

  Well played, sir.

  So, the answer is you stand up for what’s right and you politely and firmly tell the offender to retreat. Sometimes, if you’re not lucky enough to have a midget porn director in your corner, there will be pouting and pleading. Do not fall for it. If homegirl wanted to get in the front of the line, she should’ve spent less time on her stupid crackle nail polish and headed her scrawny ass down to the concert in a timely fashion.

  And just so we’re clear—crackle nail polish? Ick.

  Question: What do you make of those people who act all surprised when it’s time to pay up and start fumbling for their wallets/checkbooks/debit cards only at the end of the transaction, thus making everyone in line wait even longer?

  Ha! That’s an easy one. Those people need to spend the rest of eternity encased between New Jersey Governor Chris Christie’s ass cheeks. Well. You asked.

  These people hold up the line for the selfsame reason a dog licks his naughties or a Republican votes against preschool programs for poor kids: because it just feels so darned good!

  They know exactly what they’re doing as they blissfully ignore the world around them until the cashier asks for payment. It’s the one time of the day when they can experience a heady sense of power over others. Every movement is excruciating. Reaching into pocket or fumbling for purse. It’s just all going to take such a long time. Never mind that, if this takes place in a grocery store, half the line has given up and retreated to the vile U-Scans, where they think they have a little more control. Of course, everyone knows that these are actually slower because with every scan, there’s the “Wait for attendant!” command.

  Here’s some good news, though: Thanks to the Internet, waiting in line could become a relic of the past, like Heather Locklear. No, really. You can order your groceries online and either pick ’em up, ready to go, or have them delivered. Ahhhh.

  You can order stamps online and even get a gizmo that weighs your packages and affixes proper postage. Ahhhhhhhh.

  And you can order concert tickets that will allow you to print out a ticket that, okay, entitles you to stand in the Will Call line, so, uh, maybe that wasn’t such a great example.

  But you get the idea. You could almost say that, by the time you read this, the only reason anyone, anywhere should be standing in a line is in a fast-food situation.

  They really haven’t figured out a way to make your computer printer spit out a gordita on command, so your fat ass will still have to queue up at Taco Bell every so often. So will my fat ass. And, very possibly, Chris Christie’s fat ass. With all those people in it.

  Think about it.

  Of course, some lines are inevitable and it always makes me weep with appreciation when there is recognition that people hate lines and deserve a little extra sumpin’-sumpin’ when they are forced to endure one. Like how when you’re in line for a table at Outback Steakhouse and they send out the chick with a tray of Bloomin Onion bits and ranch sauce just to tide you over. Now that’s respecting the agony that is waiting in line.

  Universal Studios also recognizes line hell, and they have misters that keep you cool and delightfully moist while you wait. How thoughtful!

  Why can’t the post office send out a nice man with free stamps or packing tape samples when this sort of thing occurs? People, I’ve experienced check-in at O’Hare International Airport, so I know just how long a line can be. It is a documented fact that the distance between check-in and security is roughly 46.8 miles at O’Hare. Soooo, why can’t they send out an airline representative who will take over the job of kicking your bag ahead a few feet at a time just so you won’t have to. He could work the whole line, kicking everbody’s triflin’ luggage.

  Imagine how much we’d all enjoy that sort of acknowledgment.

  The High Points and Some Real-Life Tips …

  You all know that long lines provoke rude behavior, so take steps to avoid them in the first place.

  How do you do that? Easy. Just do your business at a time of day when nobody else is going to be around. This may sound painfully obvious, but it works. For instance, sure, you like to handle your package-mailing and the like at lunch hour because that’s the only time you have all day to do it. Why not go at midnight and use the convenient auto-system in the lobby? You can weigh packages, buy stamps, and do just about everything you need to with a single swipe of your credit card. Nobody will be there at that hour except the serial rapist. Take pepper spray. He hates that shit.

  Don’t be a douche. Hold out for the Bloomin Onion even when they bring around the fried mushrooms. It’s a trap. Everybody has fried mushrooms. Save your stomach space for the Holy Grail of Apps. You’re welcome.

  chapter 10

  Office Manners: Loud Talkers, Cake Hawkers, and Britney Sue’s Unfortunate Cyst

  These days, I work from home in a tiny Carolina blue–colored office with room for a wraparound desk, two chairs from Staples, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and not much else. I’m lucky to have three windows in this upstairs room, so the light floods in pretty much all day. My only companion, for hours on end, is the squirrel who moved into our attic this winter and spends his days noisily shelling pecans over my head. I’ve named him Antonio for no particular reason. People who work from home and don’t see or talk to another adult for hours at a time tend to do crazy shit like naming invisible rodents.

  Althou
gh I work from home now, I spent many years in a real office, complete with shared coffeepot, slanderous gossip, a coworker who wore a gagsome amount of Estée Lauder Beautiful, and a boss with a split personality who left me feeling like his adored daughter one moment and something on the bottom of his shoe the next.

  There are times, honestly, when I miss the office banter and even the schitzy boss. Face it; it’s hard to stay motivated when you work from home and there are all those Netflixed episodes of (wait for it) How I Met Your Mother just twenty feet away, calling my name.

  But that’s a “me problem,” and we will now concern ourselves with real office etiquette, which—from what I can tell from interviewing my friends in the working world—is getting worse all the time.…

  Question: My company is downsizing because of the lousy economy, and one of my favorite coworkers just got laid off. I feel terrible for her. What’s the correct etiquette on letting her know how sorry I am?

  Admit it. You’re sorry she got the ax, but you’re relieved as hell that it wasn’t you. Understandable. In this economy, it’s not unusual to arrive at work and be told you’re no longer needed by the time you unpack your lunch. It happened to my sister, who was laid off recently after twenty-seven years at the same job. She was fired by a dreadful troll of a man who had been on the job for eight months and who immediately installed a much younger woman with virtually no experience in my sister’s job and gave himself a twelve-thousand-dollar pay raise.

  I believe “asswipe” covers it nicely.

  Wait. We were talking about you, weren’t we? It’s just that when you witness such acute douchery up close and personal, it shakes you to the core. But, to answer your question, the only tactful thing to do is say, “I’m so sorry.” Don’t say, “This place sucks and I can’t wait to get outta here myself.” That’s condescending and doesn’t make her feel any better. You should follow up by arranging a get-together (think frothy rum drinks at Applebee’s) with like-minded coworkers. This will cheer her a bit, and you can bash the boss for a few hours in relative peace and quiet because, let’s face it, nobody goes to Applebee’s.

  Question: A coworker routinely places his lunch leftovers in the office fridge and leaves them there for days, even weeks. It’s not my job to clean up after this slob, but if I don’t do it, the break room simply reeks. What should I do?

  I’m assuming that, like Randy Quaid’s daughter in National Lampoon’s Vacation, you were, sadly, born without a tongue. I assume this because I can’t imagine a grown-up-type person not simply calling out this boor. Most of the time, in my experience, the offender has simply forgotten about the leftovers. You shouldn’t clean up behind him; you should stand there, arms folded, tapping your foot and pursing your lips while you watch him toss the smelly reekage from the fridge. It can become your Friday routine, along with weekend nails and waiting for your married boyfriend to call.

  Question: How did you know that I have a married boyfriend?!

  I’m crazy smart that way. Also, Antonio told me. He reads minds, you know. Shit, I might need to get out of here more often.…

  Question: A woman in our office keeps a calendar with all our birthdays marked on it. She then takes up money and buys a cake so we can celebrate. We hate her and want her to stop because nobody needs that much cake, it’s a creepy forced kind of friendliness, and we think she pockets at least an extra ten bucks every time, because she usually buys marked-down cakes from the grocery store freezer.

  Oh, the cake monster. There’s one in every office. She’s usually middle-aged, smells vaguely of litter box, and has hair just like the mom in That ’70s Show.

  Of course, she’s working a cake scam. It’s one of the oldest cons in the workplace, along with the “Susan’s aunt/grandma/mother-in-law died, and we’re taking up money for flowers.…” I’ll bet she bought new drapes from Pier 1 with the extras from her cake-extortion fund. And, oh, how Fluffy does love to climb them!

  The solution is easy. Tell Cake Monster that you’ve taken a poll and people are concerned about expanding waistlines and midafternoon consumption of empty calories. In other words, the party’s over.

  It’s okay, by the way, to solicit money for ailing coworkers who are legitimately in the hospital or recuperating at home. My Duh Hubby warmly remembers working at the Thomas Built school bus factory while in college and being asked to give a dollar to Britney Sue’s flower fund.

  When he innocently asked what had happened to Britney Sue, he was told by the gruff foreman shaking the cash-filled pickle jar in front of him: “Britney Sue had a cyst on her pussy.”

  “Put me down for two,” said Duh.

  Eat your hearts out, ladies.

  Question: A colleague who works six cubicles over has such a loud phone voice! I can hear every word he’s saying all day long. Sometimes it’s business; sometimes it’s not. How can I politely ask him to lower his voice? All of us are bothered by this.

  I’m assuming that “all of us” doesn’t include your boss or the folks in Human Resources. They don’t know a thing about it because you are all acting like a bunch of lady parts that are prone to cysts. Just sayin’.

  This fella probably doesn’t even know that he’s a loud talker, so he’s not doing it to be rude. So tell him. Use your words. Say: “You have a very booming voice, and I don’t think you realize that we can all hear every word you’re saying. Could you please lower your voice?”

  You should be prepared for an immediate apology and even a little embarrassment on his part. You should also be prepared for a very quiet afternoon followed, the next day, by the same loud voice you despise. He has already forgotten. This will necessitate a second visit and perhaps a third and fourth. Retraining loud talkers isn’t easy, but it is possible with daily, consistent reminders. Eventually he’ll get the hang of it, and harmony will reign. Either that, or it’s back to Applebee’s for drinks again because his loud ass needs firing.

  Question: One of my coworkers believes that the best way to get a promotion is to kiss the boss’s ass all day long. What do you think of that strategy?

  Sorry. My mouth was full. What did you just ask? I think it’s a great strategy, and I’m always surprised that more people don’t do it. Don’t whine about missed promotions if you’re not willing to get in there and really kiss that ass but good! Nobody will respect you, but what do you care? You and the boss are hitting the links this weekend. And you’re gonna let him win despite the fact that you had a full ride at Dartmouth on a golf scholarship. He really has a fantastic swing, doesn’t he? What part of “floundering economy” do you not get? You can enjoy your lousy principles all the way to the unemployment line. Pucker up!

  Question: You know that expression “prairie dogging”? I hate it when people pop their heads up over my cubicle instead of just walking around. It’s so, I don’t know, invasive.

  You know that expression “Grow a pair”? I mean what are you doing in your cubicle that’s so damn private anyway? Oh, right. Porn. Cubicles are an unfortunate reality of corporate office design, and short of going all Old Spice guy and hoisting a duffel bag over your shoulders and wandering into the mist to look for work on the docks, you’re outta luck.

  Question: My office mates often borrow my desk supplies, even taking my stapler and Post-it notes from my desk drawers. It would be okay if they’d ever return them without me nagging. What to do?

  Use locks, if you must, because I’ll agree that this is extremely rude. No one should be rooting around in anyone else’s drawers.

  Question: I hate staff meetings, and my company is obsessed with them. We could accomplish so much more by sending concise e-mails to update/explain company business. The worst are the ones where the employee reads every word of a PowerPoint to us while we stare at the screen.

  I feel your pain. PowerPoints, poorly done, are toxic to a productive work environment. There is nothing more snooze-inducing than hearing a dronelike recitation of a script that’s right in front of you.
Okay, I meant except for Nicolas Cage movies. Those are totally worse. I also sympathize with your take on too many meetings. What’s the point of having office e-mail if you are going to be dragged into a room filled with bad coffee and vile pastries and detained there for upwards of an hour to rehash something that could’ve been tackled in less than thirty seconds electronically?

  You know what? The more I think about this whole workplace thing, the more I’m realizing that it’s pretty sweet to be here with Antonio day after day after day. I don’t call any meetings and force myself to attend. I don’t have to deal with cake monsters or office supply theft or a public discussion of an eruption on my vagina à la the unfortunate Britney Sue.

  Yes, working from home has definite advantages. If something reeks around here, it’s me—and I simply send myself a sternly worded e-mail to not let it happen again.

  If I continue to mess up, I’ll give myself three warnings and then, finally, fire myself. Afterwards, I will take myself to (where else?) Applebee’s, where I will spend the afternoon sipping sugary daiquiris surrounded by the car salesmen from the dealership across the street who haven’t sold anything since 2009, bless their hearts.

  I just wish Antonio could come, but I’m pretty sure they have a no-rodent policy. Pretty sure.

  chapter 11

  Mom to Mom: It’s Complicated

  Face it: It’s easier to find Honey Boo Boo’s kin on the Mensa membership roll than to find a mom-friend who sees things exactly the way you do. Sure, we know plenty of playground moms we can share grapes and Goldfish crackers with, but true friends are harder to come by.

  Rather, we are thrown together, yoga-pantsed soldiers on a brightly colored battlefield who bond only on one thing: Our children are the very best kids on earth. Hell, we feel sorry for all the rest. Tra-la-la!

  Actually, I was just thinking about my kid when I said that. Yours are just okay. I mean, the whole endless snot thing that you refuse to acknowledge is a bit of a deal-breaker for lifelong bonds being forged. Criminy, get some antibiotics, would you?