Rude Bitches Make Me Tired: Slightly Profane and Entirely Logical Answers to Modern Etiquette Dilemmas (11 page)

“You don’t want a party like those brats, do you?” I asked the Princess as we watched the daughter of the Ed Hardy T-shirt empire flicking her extensions about while auditioning male dancers for her soiree. Bubbles McVacant’s dad gave her a pimped-out Land Rover for her sixteenth with her name written all over the outside of the car. Who does that? I mean besides Domino’s.

Moments earlier, we’d watched Sean Combs’s son present a ten-thousand-dollar check for Haitian relief at his party, which is swell until you realize that his party cost nearly a million and the check was just to make him look like slightly less of an asshat. Didn’t work.

It should be noted that I don’t begrudge the hardworking young. The Biebs bought himself a Lambo for his sixteenth. God knows he earned it, what with fending off marriage proposals from raspy-voiced twelve-year-olds every night.
Très
exhausting! Ditto Miley Cyrus, who worked hard for the money even as her nitwit dad was whining that
Hannah Montana
ruined his family. Oh, puleez. Disney doesn’t kill families; families kill families.

As parents, we are charged with raising honest, capable, compassionate, well-mannered future leaders of America. These rich kids seem to have little knowledge of the world outside their own Rodeo Drive bubble. They’re all “acting ugly.” Pity.

chapter 13

Politics: The Elephant (or Donkey) in the Room

We know that it’s impolite to talk politics, but sometimes we just can’t help ourselves. So we dive in, with all good intentions of converting the ill-informed, the ignorant, and the outright idiotic, and, well, as you can see, things get nasty fast.

We just don’t see things the same way. It’s not our fault that you are so impossibly wrongheaded about all things political and we just can’t understand why you bristle at our gentle corrections, which, yes, occasionally end with a “and your greasy
grandmama
!” followed by a slammed door.

Why do we all behave so rudely when talking politics these days? It’s not just Rush Limbaugh, although his routine labeling of women who disagree with him as sluts, prostitutes, and “feminazis” certainly doesn’t elevate the dialogue.

Politics is brutal business, not for the faint of heart and definitely an etiquette minefield.

We should all make an effort to have civilized discourse that relies on facts, logic, reason, and measured tones instead of name-calling, screaming, and finger-pointing.

Early on in the Obama presidency, I wondered if—and I’m being quite serious—he might not be a little too nice for the job.

If it had been me standing there, giving the 2009 State of the Union address when South Carolina congressman Joe Wilson screamed, “You lie!” I would’ve paused and quietly instructed the sergeant at arms to remove the old fart from the building, and possibly the planet.

Alas, he basically ignored this huge breach of congressional etiquette and continued as though nothing had happened.

Obama would make a lousy poker player. He’d be the pleasant sad sack who showed up every week in some buddy’s heated garage, toting a six-pack of a nice pale ale and a decent amount of cash that he’d lose every time.

“Read ’em and weep,” he’d say, fanning out a hand that boasted a one-eyed jack and not much else.

When trounced by assorted flushes, ace-high straights, and even two pair, he would remain evenhanded and calm.

“Just not my night, fellas,” he’d say after going “all in” with a pair of deuces. Then, as they chuckled behind his back, he’d put on his black leather jacket and head into the cold night to live with his mother-in-law.

When Israel comes calling to ask if he’ll drop everything and help them bomb Iran, Obama responds with an even tone and invokes the need for diplomatic rather than nuclear solutions.

He is Politenessman, which is laudable but frustrating to those of us who aren’t quite so Zen about things.

I’m remembering that capitulation on unemployment benefits to the Republicans, who, as we all know, can’t sleep at night if their billionaires are fairly taxed. Even Nancy Pelosi’s cream cheese face melted into queso dip when Obama caved on that one.

He should’ve stood firm because I’m sure Boehner & Co. didn’t have the Triscuits to return home at Christmas and tell their constituents they were cutting off their unemployment and Happy freakin’ New Year!

These are challenging times. Can you imagine, even a few years ago, that you would see people holding signs saying
THANK GOD FOR BREAST CANCER
! as we did at Elizabeth Edwards’s funeral? Being civil, returning deliberate, thoughtful responses to the crazy people is exhausting, isn’t it?

I don’t even know why someone would want to run for office. In a survey, fewer than half the people interviewed on the street knew the name of the vice president. And I’m not talking about an old dead vice president like the one who served under Zachary Taylor Swift. I’m talking about the one who lives at 1313 Mockingbird Lane, Washingtonville.

Not only did they not know his name, a scary number thought that there were only fifty-two U.S. Senators and members of the House. Total. I suppose the thinking is one per state with a couple around as understudies in case somebody is too sick to perform that day or perhaps two Miss Congenialities.

It must be frustrating to spend $500 million to win an office only to discover that the average citizen doesn’t know your name. You’d be better off changing it to Bob Evans, so at least people would say, “Love your stacked-and-stuffed hotcakes. Your Honorship.”

Question: I think that so-called push polling is the height of rudeness, not only because of the nature of the questions but also because they call only at dinnertime.

I know, right? And I love the way they say, “This won’t take long, maybe thirty or thirty-five minutes.” Honey, you have
no
idea what I, and every mom I know, can get done in thirty-five minutes. It is staggering.

Push-polling is a dreadful—but dreadfully effective—political strategy. To those of you who don’t know what it is, here’s how it works.…

None of this is true, of course, but it sits in the back of your mind and marinates until you regurgitate it to someone else and they tell someone else and so forth until it morphs into “sorta fact.” If you have the time, you can have some fun with push polls. For instance, if they go to the gas scare, say, “I’m so relieved to hear that. I’ve long thought that Americans shouldn’t be paying roughly one-third as much as Europeans for gas. Don’t you agree?” I’ve used this tactic more than once with pseudo-charities that call regularly.

See how easy?

Question: My friends ask me whom I’m going to vote for in every election. I think this is rude because I was raised to believe that voting is a private matter. Isn’t that why they have those curtains around the voting machines, after all?

I guess so, but to me, those curtains are kinda weird. They look like really poorly designed dressing rooms. I’ve often thought it would be high-larious to close the curtain and then take off enough clothes to freak people out. When the bra hits the floor of the voting booth, that would be so funny, am I right?

I always leave the curtain open because I am proud of whom I vote for. This curtain business makes it seem like voting is something that should be done in the dark and is somehow secret and shameful, like attending an Adam Sandler movie.

But, of course, you are right. It’s ill-mannered at best and nosy at worst to ask someone whom they’re going to vote for. I’m happy to put up yard signs and even knock on doors for a good candidate (back in the ’70s, this was rewarded with what we called “bong hits”), but not everyone is eager to share.

So, my advice would be to smile and say: “I don’t like to discuss politics.”

If they start yammering about why you should vote for their candidate, you can say,
“I don’t like to discuss politics.”
Repeat as often as necessary.

Question: A neighbor who is running for reelection to local office is always in “campaign mode,” no matter where she goes. I’ve even seen her show up at a funeral wearing her buttons and badges and (!) handing out magnets and bumper stickers. I’d like to set her straight but don’t have the gumption.

Quick question: Is gumption grandpaspeak for “balls”? Thought so. While I do love a good refrigerator magnet because there’s always some piece of kids’ “artwork” I need to hang, having a candidate corner me in front of the corpse is fairly tacky. Local politicians can be surprisingly aggressive even when running for goofy offices like Soil & Water Conservation Supervisor. I’ve seen this sort of misbehavior in person, and it’s off-putting at best.

Next time this happens, find your, uh, gumption and tell this opportunistic buffoon that “this is neither the time nor the place.” Say it in a very imperious
Downton Abbey
kind of tone for greater effect.

Question: How can I convince my family not to talk politics when we get together for the holidays? My husband is the only non-Republican in the room, and he feels “ganged up on” most of the time. He’s been a pretty good sport so far, but he often wants to go home before we even get to the pumpkin pie to avoid my father’s bourbon-fueled soliloquy on how all liberals are Communists. I honestly can’t blame him.

Holiday dinners are always minefields of misbehavior, aren’t they? It’s the rare family, indeed, that can sit down, have convivial conversation, and enjoy a nice meal without even a whisper of tension.

The only thing you can do is to ask, in advance, that your family shape the hell up and stop being so disrespectful of your husband’s opinions and beliefs. Really, it doesn’t matter what party anyone belongs to. Mutual respect and consideration are the point. Hot-button topics like politics have no place at the holiday dinner unless you’re sure everyone’s on the same page. If so, yes, have a side of sanctimony with that corn bread dressing and green bean casserole, by all means. If not, talk about the weather or how the only begotten grandson performed so beautifully in a small but telling role as “third broccoli on the left” at his first-grade play.

I’m not saying it’s going to be interesting, but at least your husband won’t feel the need to stab anyone with a meat fork midmeal.

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?