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

by Celia Rivenbark

  Question: A friend of the family passed away, and her obituary asked that mourners please, in lieu of flowers, make a contribution to the Republican party in her memory. I am having a hard time with this, as I am a Socialist. Can I just send flowers anyway?

  I never cease to be horrified by these extraordinarily presumptuous requests nestled in the latter paragraphs of some obituaries. I’ve grown fairly much accustomed to the dreadful request for “donations to defray funeral costs” (shudder!) and to requests such as the one you have just mentioned. I always feel just a tad grief-stricken for all the florists out there who used to make a veritable killing off funeral flowers and now are reduced to making ends meet on prom corsages, Valentine’s bouquets, and Administrative Professionals’ Day, whatever the hell that is.

  So, yes, by all means ignore the wishes of the family because they are, frankly, so unspeakably tacky, and send flowers or, better still, a nice peace lily that will live on until Uncle Snooky uses it to tamp out his cigarettes and it finally withers and dies.

  Politics is personal. Don’t hijack your loved one’s funeral in this manner, even if she okayed it from her dotty old deathbed.

  chapter 14

  Always Leave Them Wanting More: The Art of the Visit

  Visiting hours are over.

  It’s not just a phrase you hear around 9 P.M. if you’re in a hospital. It’s true of life in general. Growing up in the South, I was accustomed to the Sunday-afternoon drop-in. Everybody did it, usually visiting relatives that hadn’t been seen since last Sunday and were most likely to have some homemade blueberry pie lying around somewhere.

  No one would’ve thought of calling. It simply wasn’t necessary.

  Oh, how quaint it all sounds now. Also intrusive. But this was the way lives were updated, friendships were nurtured, and family ties were strengthened.

  No more. Visiting hours are over. They have been replaced with “Text me and maybe we can get together.” If I sound a little peckish about the whole thing, it’s because I am. I really miss that blueberry pie. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the system had its flaws. The true “drop in” always does. From the nosy in-laws dropping by on a Sunday afternoon just as you and your husband are, well, getting to know each other better, to the drop-in cousin who simply won’t leave, because she has nothing else to do that afternoon. Who among us hasn’t manufactured a “We were just on our way to…” when greeting an unexpected visitor? Better to tell a little tale than be held hostage in your home for upwards of three hours, am I right?

  Still, I get a little misty-eyed when I think about lazy Sunday afternoons that brimmed with possibility. You never knew who might drop by or whom you might drop in on your own self. The Princess will never know of this grand tradition, and I find that a wee bit sad.

  With visits, planned or unplanned, it’s important to remember the number one rule of visiting etiquette: Always leave them wanting more.

  Question: You mentioned the hospital visiting hours. I was recently in the hospital for a few days, and I was surprised how many people pay no attention whatsoever to visiting hours or how long they stay. I was exhausted, but visitors stayed and stayed in my room, asking me questions and disturbing my rest. What’s the correct etiquette on asking friends to leave you alone so you can recover?

  Of course, it’s cloddish to visit someone in the hospital and not pay attention to the telltale signs that it’s time for you to go, such as heavy sighing by the patient, who is also pointing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. Some people are simply so caught up in the fabulous ambience of being in a tower filled with the sick and dying that they can hardly tear themselves away! Seriously, I say this only to remind you that, yes, visitors can be a pain, but it’s no fun for them either. They’re probably staying so long because it took them an hour to find a parking space, find someone who knows which room you’re in, discover that you’re no longer in that wing, find someone who knows your new room number, locate the right bank of elevators, remember that they forgot to bring you anything so then find the gift shop, buy flowers/card/balloon/stuffed animal/candy/book, et cetera, and then, finally, collapse in a tired heap in your one visitor’s chair after a weary “How are you feeling?”

  There are, you see, two sides to every story, as irritating as that is to realize. That said, you’re absolutely within your rights to tell your visitor after, say, fifteen minutes that the nurse gave you something to help you sleep and you feel it “kicking in” right about now. As soon as they get out, you are welcome to crank up your pillow speaker and finish watching Celebrity Wife Swap until the next bedraggled visitor comes by. Damn! Doesn’t anybody respect the ratings gold that is a Niecy Nash versus Tina Yothers smack-down on TV?

  To the visitor: Please note that I said fifteen minutes. It’s the perfect amount of time even if the patient appears to be enjoying your company immensely. You’re probably not going to be the only visitor that day, or even that hour. Get gone.

  Question: I love my in-laws, but they tend to drop in without calling. A lot. How can I ask them not to do this without sounding rude? I’m sure it will hurt their feelings.

  Oh, yes. You’re the ones doing the nasty on Sunday afternoons, right? And there, all set to harsh your mellow, are his parents, bearing gifts of homemade honey or some such and just wanting to watch the ball game with you. And could you rustle up something to eat, dear? They’ve driven nearly an hour, and they’re famished!

  Many advice columnists have dealt with this issue for many years, which is to say that this is not a new problem and it’s not one that is going away anytime soon. In-laws can’t be treated like a casual friend whom you don’t have time to visit with (killing the lights and ducking below the windows when they knock on your door). No, no. This is family, and you have to tread lightly. Otherwise, you will become the least-favorite daughter-in-law, doomed to be introduced as “the one who doesn’t really like us very much and we don’t know why.”

  Your husband should be the fall guy on this one (and vice versa if it’s her parents showing up unannounced). He should explain to his parents that they need to call ahead to make sure you aren’t busy or have plans. They can’t expect you to drop everything and entertain them after both of you have worked all week and managed, finally, to carve out some “couple time.” But they will. Remind them, despite the wretched mental image this conjures, of what it was like when they were first married. Tact and diplomacy are called for here. Don’t be a badass and don’t be hostile. Be logical and kind.

  It won’t work, but you will have done the decent thing. Next time, draw the drapes and hit the floor.

  Question: My husband’s old college roommate drops by all the time, usually around dinnertime. He’s single and unemployed. We have kids and our schedules are fairly rigid, but “college boy” doesn’t seem to care. He just drops in, grabs a plate, and pulls up a chair. Have you ever?

  No, I never. Okay, maybe once, but only once. Tell your husband to man up and tell “CB” that they’re not in the dorm anymore, divvying up the weed and fighting over who’s going to camp out for Phish tickets. Look at it this way: You’re enabling CB’s bad behavior every time you let him intrude on your precious family time. He needs to find friends his own age, which, from the sound of it, is frozen at about twenty. These guys are as tenacious as the crabgrass that springs up on the front lawn of the darling house you’re making mortgage payments on while this guy lives in a Pacer. You let them in your house more than once, and they’ll never get out. Nip this in the bud. Yesterday.

  Question: This is sticky. My neighbor loves to drop in because she knows that I work from home and I’m home all day. I like her a lot, but I can’t seem to find the way to tell her that “work from home” means just that. I’d love to talk with her over a cup of coffee in my kitchen, but I can’t do that and get my work done.

  I work from home, so I can sympathize. Even though I’ve done this for more than fifteen years now after decades of working in an office
, most of my friends really don’t believe it’s true. There have been times, many times, when I simply haven’t answered the door. If I have a project with a deadline, I have to remember that these same people would never drop in on me in an office building for a coffee and chat session. It’s really no different. So, although it sounds hostile and weird on the surface, I find that not answering the door (and the phone) gets the job done with no hurt feelings. If they say, “I dropped by, but I guess you were out for a walk,” just smile and say, “I guess I was so caught up in finishing my work project, I didn’t hear the doorbell.” There is no need to say, “Yes! A walk! That’s it!” or the transparently lame “I must’ve been in the shower.”

  Sometimes, you really do need a friendly break from work at home and the drop-in might be welcome. If so, enjoy, but remind yourself that, after an hour, it’s time to go back to work. Let the drop-in know, too.

  As with all things, this is much harder with relatives. Aunt Verlie, for instance, calls me two or three times a day. She always says, “You’re not working, are you?” and I always say, “Yes, I am,” and she always just blows right by that and continues her conversation. Caller ID is a wonderful thing. Use it.

  Question: This isn’t technically a visiting issue, but it sort of is. I wish my dad wouldn’t “visit” my soccer games, because he always yells at the coach and embarrasses me. How can I convince him that he needs to stay home?

  Your dad is the worst kind of visitor. The kind that shows up for a “visit” and then misbehaves in front of his family and his “host.” With all the emphasis on kids’ sports these days, I’m not surprised that this sort of thing is getting worse all the time. I know a ton of kids who spend every weekend being shuttled around the Southeastern United States for “traveling soccer,” “traveling baseball,” and even “traveling gymnastics,” whatever the hell that is. The point is this: We’ve created a culture in which everything’s a competition, and when that happens, people, including your dad, get a little crazy. Show him this section in the book, and tell him he’s causing you emotional pain. Then tell him I said to stop acting like such an undisciplined asshat in front of his kid. I hate any situation in which the kid has to be the parent. Hate it.

  chapter 15

  Get a Clue in the Loo: Restroom Etiquette for the Lasses

  I have a confession to make: One time, I used a men’s restroom. It happened only once and it was an utterly horrifying experience. If it helps, you should know that I was with my friend Elizabeth at a Rolling Stones concert at Carter–Finley Stadium in Raleigh, North Carolina, and boy did we have to tee-tee.

  Yes, grown women say that. It was a long walk from our wretched seats (Mick was just a faraway blur; he might as well have been SpongeBob, for all we could tell) to the ladies’ bathrooms. When we got there, we quickly realized that a coup had been staged. Fed up with the ridiculous line, the women had taken over the men’s restroom as well!

  I’m not saying this was good manners; a coup often doesn’t concern itself with the social graces, after all, but I will say I understood, completely, the frustration at seeing no line in one huge restroom while the line to the ladies’ room snaked around the complex all the way to the parking lot.

  I don’t want to repeat what I saw in that desperately dreadful place, except to say that it was far worse than anything I could’ve imagined. I have a vague memory of some sort of trough. There were only a few stalls with doors on them, as God intended, which we all made a dash for. As a distant Mick informed us that he would nevah, evah be our beast of burden, we did what we came to do, realized that, of course, the toilet wouldn’t flush, and ran out of there like our clothes were on fire. Yes, yes, we washed our hands, but they felt dirtier afterwards, strangely.

  All of this is by way of saying that I understand there might be different, very different, rules of etiquette for men and women using public restrooms.

  For example, I cannot imagine a woman shouting to her neighbor in the next stall: “Lord, please! How ’bout a courtesy flush, sistah?” (For those of you with delicate sensibilities, a courtesy flush is an early flush of poo while one is still conducting one’s business. It is used to mitigate the, ahem, odor. Please don’t make me speak of this again.)

  But I have been told by several men-type people that this notion is the height of good manners. Both the request for it and the resultant flush.

  I know nothing of this culture of “courtesy flushes” because, of course, decent women never do their “serious business” in public toilets. Yes, yes, I suppose if you’re caught unawares (stomach virus, dicey seafood gumbo, etc.) you could find yourself discovering, quite awfully and literally, that, yes, shit happens.

  In general, however, this sort of behavior is to be avoided in public unless failure to address it would result in an even more horrendous violation of etiquette in polite company.

  (“Oh, heavenly days, Phillip, I do believe your date just beshat herself. Clearly she is NOKD.” Not Our Kind, Dear.)

  I have to confess to a sincere appreciation for scatological humor, so here’s a story to ponder along those lines.…

  A rather brash young British MP became overheated on the floor of Commons and mildly offended Winston Churchill. Party elders took the young man aside and said, “Look, we know that he’s the opposition, but that is Sir Winston. You must visit his home and personally apologize for such a breach of etiquette.”

  Later that afternoon, the young man was driven to Chartwell, the Churchill estate, where he explained to the butler that he had to speak with Sir Winston on matter of great urgency. The butler excused himself and returned a few moments later to announce that Sir Winston was currently indisposed. The young MP grew even more anxious and said, “I must speak with him and I am willing to wait.” The butler disappeared again and returned several minutes later to say: “Sir Winston says for me to relay that he can take only one shit at a time.”

  I just love historical bathroom humor, don’t you? And speaking of things historic …

  Question: This is a delicate subject but I need guidance. My son’s fiancée knows that we have old plumbing in our historic home, yet she continues to flush her female, uh, accessories, down the toilet whenever she visits. This always necessitates a visit from the plumber the next day and a subsequent two-hundred-dollar bill at the minimum. How can we ask her to stop doing this? Should I present her with the plumber’s bill?

  Oh, dear. She’s flushing Coach purses and Vera Wang scarves down your toilet? What an odd girl.

  Kidding! I know that you’re talking about tampons, but really, “accessories”? You get style points for quaint. We do not walk about with tampons dangling from our earlobes, for heaven’s sake. Well, maybe Barbara Walters, but really, no one else comes to mind.

  That said, you have asked a delicate question in a caring way, and so I will respond in like manner.

  What the hell is wrong with you? Surely she knows that this is unacceptable, because I’m sure your idiot son has told her. What’s that? He’s too shy to mention it?

  Wait a minute. Aren’t these two engaged? Which means they’re regularly bumpin’ uglies? And he’s too shy to tell her to quit tearing up your family throne every time she visits?

  Admittedly, I am more sensitive to this issue than most, as I live in a ninety-year-old house with plumbing that requires neonatal-intensive-care levels of tenderness. In fact, if anyone asks to use our bathroom, I give them a good five-minute lecture on what is acceptable and what is not. Sometimes, it’s so off-putting that the guest, utterly defeated, decides to go home instead. Which is fine because, really, how many times do you have to hear: “You know what they say? You don’t buy beer; you just rent it!”

  Tell her that she’s ruining your plumbing with her indiscriminate flushing of unmentionables. If she does it again, yes, by all means, present her with the plumbing bill. She sounds like a colossal dumb-ass; it may take a visual to get this one to shape up. Speaking of visuals, you could inst
all a lovely framed and severely calligraphied warning just above the toilet:

  Please refrain from flushing personal products; our elderly plumbing can’t take it! Thank you.

  Question: The other day I recognized the shoes of a coworker in the next stall. She left before I did, but I never heard her wash her hands. Since she frequently brings and serves treats to us in the break room, should I say something?

  Oh, no. It would be much better to grab a couple of those butterscotch brownies and dig in, relishing the extra flavor zing from the E. coli coursing through your system with each bite. Jesus, did you see the movie Contagion? I did. And let me just say that now I know that the entire planet is just one misplaced bat turd falling into a suckling pig in Mongolia away from complete annihilation.

  Of course you should call her out, publicly if possible, and definitely before anyone has the chance to dive into Germapolooza. Tell her that you know that she doesn’t wash her hands after she pees (and probably the other), and that’s just gross. It’s a brave move, granted, and it’s definitely a friendship buster. But you don’t need to hang out with such an inconsiderate cow anyway.

  Question: Why do so many women hover over the toilet, leaving pee spray on the seat when there are perfectly good seat protectors in a wall dispenser that could be used and then flushed away?

  While I always believe one should wipe away one’s “pee spray,” as you so colorfully call it, I’m afraid I’m less than reliable when it comes to using those disposable paper seat protectors because I don’t like getting too intimately involved with the process. What process? you ask. That’s easy.…

  Pull out seat protector.

  Watch it disintegrate in your hands.

  Pull out second seat protector and try to punch out poorly perforated center section.