by Jane Borden
I’m not suggesting you should clink your glass, stand, and shout, “No reason for alarm! Please carry on while I go pull my skirt up and”—well, you know what you’d shout. That I don’t want to type it is why we created euphemisms in the first place. The word “bathroom” doesn’t have anything to do with what goes on in there. There is no bath in most restrooms; neither does one rest there, especially not if you have to squat. These words allow us to be polite while still relaying important information, such as the answer to the entirely warranted question, “Where in the hell are you going?!”
But “bathroom” is still too much for my mother, who finally relented to my argument by saying, “Fine, if you must say anything at all, say you’re going to visit the ladies’ room.” No! You can’t go around creating new euphemisms for ones still in perfectly good use.
A lady never places her napkin back on the table until she is finished with her meal and is about to leave.
I’d be willing to follow this rule if everyone else would. Instead, when I return from a “jaunt” to the “womyn’s den,” I find that my napkin has been taken off my chair, thrown open, refolded, and placed next to my plate. This is a problem because the sole purpose of the napkin is to get dirty so my clothes don’t. If someone refolds it, I won’t know which side had pea soup on it and which side was clean, which is especially a concern if I’m wearing white sometime between but not before or after Memorial and Labor Days.
At this point, I must hold the cloth up to the light emanating from the table’s one candle and inspect it for stains. I find no instructions regarding this behavior in Ms. Simpson-Giles book, but I assume it’s unacceptable.
Therefore, I’ve developed a way to buck the system. When entering an upscale joint, I make a point to notice how the linens are folded and where on the table they’re placed. Then, on the occasion I need to excuse myself, I fold my napkin and leave it just so to dupe the waiter into thinking he’s fixed it already. At this point I am free to leave the table without fear of dirtying my clothes upon returning from ducking out on the bill, assassinating a head of state, or saving a baby from a runaway train.
A lady knows when to wear a slip or half-slip and does so.
A desire to hit home this particular nugget is, I suspect, what sparked my aunt to embark upon the post office-enabled literary lesson in which I’m currently mired. On that aforementioned trip home, I found myself in need of a slip—and without one.
I grew up Presbyterian. My family still goes to services. When at home, I do too. And the frock I’d packed for the occasion was clinging to my leg with truly religious fervor. Anyone walking behind me could have made out the holy trinity.
“Darling, just wear a slip,” my aunt said. After a bit of silence, she turned back to me and asked, “You do have one?”
In truth, I had, and still have, several. A long black one, a short gray one. Pure white and sheer nude. I have some with slits, some with lace, and several that are far too big. Over the years, my aunt has given me each. “Do you need another slip? I’ll get you another slip. Don’t you want to pick out a slip? You can always use another slip.” Even though they take up an entire dresser drawer, I can’t bear to throw any away because you can always use another slip.
I had not, however, brought any home. “I didn’t think to pack one,” I told her. “Because I never wear them in New York,” I said. “Because I don’t wear the kind of clothes which require them,” I explained. “Because I don’t go to church.”
OK, I didn’t say any of that.
Instead, I said, “Shoot! I forgot to pack my slip. If you have an extra, that’d be marvelous.” Throw it on the pile.
A lady wears hosiery to formal weddings and dinners.
I can’t figure out how hosiery manufacturers stay in business. No one under sixty-five wears hose. And women over sixty-five probably get a discount. The only other hosiery-wearing segment of our population I can think of is drag queens. But only 11 percent of the population is gay, and only half of these are men, and less than half of this group likes to sing onstage. I suppose film-set designers occasionally purchase hose to hang over clotheslines in fictional shantytowns … but that could only be, at most, a couple hundred pairs a year. And there are also the pairs that criminals pull over their heads before robbing quickie-marts, but those are shoplifted anyway.
I won’t pretend to have investigated the causes behind the cultural shift away from panty hose, but I imagine it has something to do with the word “panty.”
A lady realizes that the purse she carries makes a statement about her.
Agreed. For example, the fading tie-dyed canvas bag on the shoulder of the fifty-seven-year-old with wild hair says, “I’m too tired to fight the establishment anymore.” And the brand-new, multipocketed backpack on the clean-cut older man says, “I’m a pedophile.” But I suspect Ms. Simpson-Giles’s admonition reaches beyond general aesthetics; usually the statement made by a woman’s purse is a written one, such as “Louis Vuitton” or “Kate Spade.” Additionally, each of those written statements says one of two other things: either “I need you to know I have money” or “I need you to think I have money.”
OK, Mom’s right: I’m a reverse snob. But if there’s anything I learned during the two years I spent busting Chinatown counterfeiters, it’s that the only statement a fake bag makes is, “I flew in from Omaha and all I got was this shitty bag!” (Hmm, sounds like I might be a good old-fashioned regular snob too. That would explain the self-loathing.)
All I want is to avoid making any statements, period. I would chalk this up to New Yorkification, but really it’s a lesson I learned in college. If you are wise enough to recognize that, although that subculture gets the most press, most young black men are not gangsters, then you must also admit, no matter how prejudiced you are, that not all sorority girls are idiots. It’s just that the ones who get the most press—who advertise their sisterhood via T-shirts, emblem baseball caps, and lettered pendants—are exclusively idiots. In college, they gave the rest of us a bad name. They made it impossible for me to wear any of my own Tri Delt T-shirts because, thanks to them, those letters made their own statement: “Date-rape me.”
That lesson stuck. Ever since, when I receive a designer bag or wallet from my mother or aunt, I painstakingly remove the label before carrying it. I can appreciate the make and look of a purse without needing the world to know who’s responsible for it. And yes, I realize this means the only difference between me and that fifty-seven-year-old with the wild hair is that I have slightly better taste. But I’ll tell you this: I bet she never got date-raped either.
When a lady pours from a bottle of wine, she finishes by turning the bottle slightly upward, thus preventing drips that might stain.
Um, I know this one already. Not because I’m a lady. Because I’m a wino. Unless those are the same thing, in which case I am way ahead of the curve.
A lady is mindful of her appearance at all times.
Like the bit about the slip, this highlighted entry is more than a general suggestion. My aunt is making a specific behavioral critique. Since I’ve been old enough to wear makeup (let’s say fifteen; that is, JonBenét was not old enough) my aunt has been begging me to do so. “Darling, don’t you want to put on a touch of lipstick?” “What about some mascara?” “How about a little rooooouge?”
Over the years, I’ve fired back with several logical traps. “Are you saying I need makeup?” to which she dutifully responds that of course I’m beautiful without it but “imagine how much prettier you could be.”
Usually some mention of “You never know when you’re going to meet a man” is thrown in, at which point I counterattack with, “The guys I like prefer women who don’t hide behind a mask.” That usually gets me a “Hooooaahh!” in Doppler effect as she huffs out of the room.
My disdain for cosmetics stems from many sources, but I’ll mention just one. My roommate in boarding school wouldn’t leave our dorm without several la
yers. To visit the commons area, to get frozen yogurt off campus, no matter where we went, we first had to wait while she applied what she called her “daily confidence.” I don’t need to explain why that’s twisted.
To be honest, though, I’m mostly just lazy. It takes ten minutes to apply the stuff in the morning, plus an extra ten throughout the day to touch up, and another five to remove it at night. I could use that time to exercise, which will do far more for my appearance than lipstick. And if I end up spending those accumulated twenty-five minutes watching bad reality TV instead … well, there’s nothing in Ms. Simpon-Giles’s book about motivation.
When a lady makes her way down a row in a crowded theater, she faces the people who are already in their seats. A lady never forces others to stare at her backside.
So instead I force them to stare at my crotch? While, at the same time, bumping my rear into the unsuspecting heads of those sitting in front of us? This makes no sense at all. Does the maxim also apply to church pews? Because then, the one who’d be forced to stare at my backside is Jesus. And if his job is to judge the quick and the dead, I don’t want him assessing the size of my ass.
In truth, neither option is sound. Whether you enter facing forward or backward, those already seated will be indisposed. That is why, when faced with a crowded row, I seek out a peopleless route. Typically, this involves finding an empty row one or two away from mine, walking down to the middle of it, and then crawling over seats until I reach my own. No one is disturbed and I get some exercise: win win.
A lady knows that whenever there is doubt about the color, black is best.
Here, here!!
A lady uses the word “companion” when introducing two friends who live together. She realizes the term denotes a special relationship that is beyond boyfriend/girlfriend.
Actually, “companion” means gay. So if by “special relationship,” you mean “gay,” then yes. Otherwise, the word “companion” is off-limits … at least until gay marriage is legalized and we can all use “husband” and “wife.” That’s the rule so don’t confuse people. If you introduce me to a woman and say that her partner is by the buffet, I will assume this partner is also a woman. Then, when her boyfriend returns with a plate of food and sits next to me, chances are I’ll hit on him. Believe me, she won’t be more inclined to forgive the transgression when I say, “Sorry, I thought you were gay.”
A lady is not ashamed to ask for the sexual history of a man with whom she may become intimate.
I can’t believe she highlighted that. No one in my family has ever talked to me about sex. I’m not even allowed to use the words “stink” or “snot” under my parents’ roof; it goes without saying that no one’s uttered “erection” or “secretion.” My sisters and I don’t even broach the subject with one another and we’re all over thirty.
This is officially the most awkward way a family member has ever brought up the birds and the bees—fifteen years too late and via a pink highlighted passage in an etiquette book. Which means, I guess, that I’ve got to hand it to both my aunt and Ms. Simpson-Giles for proactive intentions. Still, it’s important to note that my aunt did not highlight the piece of text directly following that passage: “A lady is not ashamed to purchase condoms or other forms of birth control.” I guess in some ways it’s still a man’s world.
I don’t get joy out of this battle; it doesn’t please me to discount Ms. Simpson-Giles’s edicts. In matters of etiquette, I do need help. I want help. But this book, although claiming to be contemporary, offers little guidance regarding the situations of my modern New York life. Perhaps she simply forgot those chapters, so I’ll pose my questions now in case she’s reading.
When I’m out and about, is it unladylike to use a store’s bathroom when I don’t intend to buy anything?
If I’m feeling too lazy to do dishes, is it more mannered to leave them in the sink for my roommate or to take bites directly from her block of cheese and return it to the fridge bearing teeth marks?
If I’m throwing a party and I run out of glasses, is it more ladylike to force my guests to drink out of common paper cups or to pass around the bottle saying, “Most of you have made out with each other at some point anyway?”
that night to thank her for the package. “You opened it at work, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Hoahhh!”
“I’m sorry,” I said before realizing she was holding the phone away from her face and couldn’t hear me.
I hadn’t intentionally gone against her wishes. I just found her request dubious. My aunt sends packages all the time: a pastel reversible raincoat, a paisley-print shower cap, a bag full of eye shadows. I don’t complain. I love the presents. I’ve gotten a lot of slips out of the bargain. So how was I to know this package would be so different and sensational as to truly require secrecy? On my part, as Condoleezza Rice once said, it was a lack of imagination.
Besides, I couldn’t rob my coworkers of the opportunity to see the parcel’s contents. They’ve come to appreciate these packages—hers are the gifts that keep giving. One time a box landed on my chair while I was out to lunch. When I returned, my desk mate Erin had already checked the return address and spread word throughout our pod: “Jane’s proper aunt sent another one.” They are fascinated not only by the contents, but even the wrapping: shiny white paper, a pale-green cloth ribbon (of which she says all her friends are jealous), and one large sprig of rosemary tied into the knot (because “Rosemary is for remembrance”).
“Why is there a plant on it?” Erin once asked.
It’s like receiving artifacts from an archaeological dig. Which piece of cultural ephemera would it be this time? “Ah, Professor, your hypothesis was correct: Southerners will monogram anything.”
Obviously my aunt didn’t know any of this—yet somehow she still knew it.
“Your New York friends might think I’m silly,” she said, with eerie accuracy. “But listen to me, Jane: You are not from New York!”
Ain’t that the truth. The more time I spend here, the more it sinks in. Or rather, the further I get from North Carolina, the stranger my home appears. What I’d thought was reality turns out to be a specific anomaly.
You mean people in other parts of the world don’t give each other sausage for Christmas? Every year, for decades, their children don’t wrap forty to fifty tubes of raw pork in red and green paper, affix “Love, the Bordens” tags to their twisty-ties, and deliver them around town? Occasionally, if it was a family’s first time on our list, or if a new housekeeper answered the door, the bags of raw meat were accidentally placed under the trees. On Christmas morning, they became, to unsuspecting children, a surprise far more disturbing than the truth about Santa.
I thought celebrating Christmas with pork was completely normal. Being disabused of this notion suddenly threw everything else into question. What else had I been taking for granted? The deli on Sixth Avenue that accidentally gave me unsweetened tea? After which I made a mental note that up here one must specify sweet instead of assuming it understood? “Guess what,” I told myself. “That place probably doesn’t sell sweet tea at all.” Furthermore, I bet—regardless of the window sign—it isn’t the “Best Deli in the World.”
And what about that restaurant on Thirty-Sixth Street? The barbecue spot that happens to be owned by Koreans? Like how sometimes Chinese people own taco shops? It probably serves a different style of barbecue altogether that—dear Lord, deliver us—might not even be made out of pigs.
Eventually, of course, came the bigger realization: There are so many people who don’t celebrate Christmas. When my friend Bartow received a copy of the office vacation calendar at his first job in New York, he asked a coworker, “Who is Rosh Hashanah?”
Growing up in Greensboro, I knew one Jewish girl. And her dad owned a jewelry store. But I didn’t know that was a stereotype until recently. Because I didn’t know anti-Semitism still existed until I moved to New York. Seriously. I kn
ew it used to be a problem, but I thought it had been isolated and cured on D-Day like a strain of polio. Obviously, I was the isolated one. At least my ignorance was optimistic.
For this and other reasons, my life is the subject of wonder to New Yorkers, who sit elbow on knee, chin in hand, and wide-eyed while I talk about the thirty-seven cousins who crowd in my parents’ living room every Thanksgiving, or the grocery store in Goldsboro dedicated solely to pig products (yes, there’s an entire aisle of chitterlings). My Northern friends especially love the rare occasions when my flattened accent remembers its rounded lilt.
Once, while backstage at a comedy theater, Aunt Jane called my cell phone. It wasn’t the best timing but our conversations are typically brief and one-sided. She runs through a litany of yes-and-no questions, tells me she loves me, and hangs up before I can say, “Good-b—.” So I snuck into a quiet corner of the green room, turned my back to the crowd, and answered my phone.
“Yes ma’am.… Yes ma’am.… A pink sweater, black pants, and flats.… Yes ma’am.… Love you too.… And Uncle Lucius.… OK, by—.… Hello? Oh.”
I closed my phone, spun around, and discovered a small audience.
“ ‘Uncle ‘Lucius’?” my friend asked incredulously. “Lucius! Who were you talking to?”
