manners

I have a confession to make… I like politness.

I know that may seem untenable considering my foul mouth and general disregard for all things having to do with rules and decorum and yet— I love it when people are polite.

Hey all,
This week, after waiting nine years, my step-father finally, finally, received​ a long overdue and very much-needed​ kidney transplant. This took any plans I may have had about writing anything other than medical information and threw them into the wood chipper.

So, while flipping through Facebook this morning on the toilet at the hospital, I caught this post by Danielle LaPorte and I agreed with every single point—and I think you will too.

I know you’ll cut me a break on displaying anything resembling regular posting while we go through this life-changing​ transition (I’m talking to myself here).

Mucho love-o and carry on,
xox

There are still some basic good manners that should prevail no matter our generation, station, or affiliation. Here’s what it might mean to be classy, kind, and considerate whenever you are able (and we are almost always able):

1. Big Moments deserve a call. When someone texts to tell you they are pregnant, not pregnant, breaking up, getting engaged, got the job, lost the job, saw aliens in the sky… CALL THEM—even if you know they’re going to let it go to voicemail.

2. Bring something when you show up. A small bar of dark chocolate. A few sticks of incense rolled in a piece of paper with a message written on it. A book you read that you’re willing to loan or give. A postcard you had pinned up forever. Small beauty is a big gift.

3. Re: Customer service. It’s often well-meaning, but saying “No problem” when the customer thanks you is not a terrific response. Because it shouldn’t ever be a problem, you’re in the position of service. Powerful replies: You’re very welcome. My pleasure. I’m happy I could help.

4. I’ve heard that spitting on the sidewalk is illegal in the Netherlands. They’re on to something.

5. If you REALLY want to meet up with someone, don’t just say, “Let’s get together soon” and pause, waiting for them to bite or blow you off. If you REALLY want to get together (in person or on the phone) then just make it happen: Suggest a date, commit to calling them in a few weeks to arrange, make it happen. Otherwise… you probably don’t REALLY want to get together.

6. How can I say this lovingly? Please shut the fuck up on your cell phone. We can hear your conversation. And we don’t want to, and you probably don’t want us to either. You may think it’s OK because you think you’re talking at the same volume as you would be if you had your conversation person sitting right there with you. But you’re louder and it’s weird. Take the call when you’re not surrounded by other people, hide under your coat, find a corner, or just… don’t.

7. On a related note: Your earbuds. We can hear your really loud music and podcasts. And we don’t want to. (Also, ear cells that get fried by excessively loud noise do not regenerate. You could go deaf. Might be karma.)

8. If you’re meeting someone at their house or office, especially if it’s one-on-one, do not be early.

9. Don’t film people without their permission to be filmed.

10. Pregnant women don’t want to have their bellies touched, unless they say so. Also, most moms of babies don’t want you to touch their baby. They act nice about it, but they’re cringing inside re: your germs and vibes.

11. When someone is getting divorced and has children, they very likely do not need to be reminded that, “the children are what’s most important”. They are aware. It’s probably why they stayed longer than they should in the marriage. It’s probably one of the most heartbreaking factors of the divorce. They know. No need to mention it.

12. Push your chair back in when you leave.

13. Leave your phone off the restaurant table. I’m really over people who check their phone in between every micro pause. Like, the forty-five​ seconds that I’m “distracted” by giving the waiter my order should not be treated as my absence and your text time. I’m with you. Right there. You asked me for dinner. Because we adore each other. So let’s be adoring.

14. Thank people for the great service. Love on them. I’m so grateful. Thank you for your good care. Thanks for making this easy. Thanks for understanding.

15. Always help people with small kids. They are superheroes.

16. Never be too busy to bring food to a sick friend.

~Danielle LaPorte

Do you care to add any?  Head over to the comments.

 http://www.daniellelaporte.com/good-manners-and-some-wuv-we-could-all-use-more-of-them/

I walked into the gym bright and early, trying to beat this oppressive heat wave at its own game.
I like to sweat on my own terms.

Just inside the opening to the room where they keep the torture devices, weight machines, I spotted a young, ginger haired man wearing a loud purple t-shirt with the words Ima Hugger on the front. It took me a minute to figure out if that was a persons name, some obscure fraternity babble—or a mission statement.

Just one look at the guy’s cheerful, bubbly demeanor assured me it was the latter.

“Oh mah gawd, I’m a hugger too!” I declared, arms outstretched.

“Incoming!” That’s the warning my husband and I give each other when unexpected hugging breaks out.
It’s only polite.

Speaking of polite, I know people who say it’s rude to hug someone without their permission. Seriously? Get over yourself.
I see you looking at the ground or pretending you’re on the phone. Trust me when I say that I can read your body language and I’ll never force myself on you. You are probably an introvert. I’m Kryptonite to introverts.

Besides, no one likes to hug a corpse.

Anyway…I digress…

Completely taken aback and drenched in sweat, (which is not a great combination) My new ginger-pal put down the handles of the heavy, stainless steel, arm-stretchy thing he was pulling as exercise, and we came together in an awkward public display of affection among strangers.

“Sorry, I probably smell,” he cautioned as we patted each other on the back like we were dislodging large chunks of food that had stuck in our throats.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m about to peel the paint right off these walls with my odiferous-ness!”

We both laughed. So did the old man on the rowing machine.

As ginger-hugger turned around to resume his workout, he stopped for a second, his face awash in nostalgia.
“You know, I miss that. Nobody hugs here.”

“Here, like at the gym?” I asked because he was right about that. That only happens at the fancy, pick-up joints on the Westside that masquerade as gyms.

“No. I mean, I’m from the east coast and we hug it out—ALL THE TIME.”

“Seriously?” I said, finding it hard to believe that the hard scrabble, city folk on the east coast hug more than here in LaLa Land.
We even have a reputation as tree huggers.

Case in point. Here is my brother on a recent visit to LA hugging my tree. It’s genetic.

“I’m from LA, born and raised”, I said, “But when I’m in a foreign country and I say to people “Bring it in—I’m a hugger”, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE says “Oh, you must be from California!
I’m pretty sure it’s the only sentence I know in Mandarin.”

“It’s true!” he insisted. “Maybe it’s strictly a LA thing and it doesn’t bode true for the rest of California?”

“That could be it,” I agreed. “A lot of LA acts like it is way too cool for school.”

“It’s a virtual No Hug Zone“, he chimed in.

We both nodded in agreement. So did the lady on the stair-stepper thingy that you will NEVER catch me on.

He went back to his arm pulling and I mounted the elliptical apparatus like a boss.
But I couldn’t help but feel a little sad about the Hugging Ginger’s LA experience. I wanted to apologize for our aloofness and fear of showing affection.

After my heart rate came down to something sustainable, and I had beat the urge to vomit—I realized the aversion to hugging was just a phase. It’s not the locals who are afraid to hug, it’s the transplants. The beautiful people from Peoria and Poughkeepsie who have all found themselves here and are unaware of our customs. I know they worry about looking cool and fitting in so I’m sure hugging was one of the first things that they crossed off their list. After they threw away their crocks.

But then somebody like my beautiful, Hugging Ginger Man comes to town and breaks the mold.
I love that. Don’t you?

To all of you huggers out there…
Carry on,
xox

How do we feel about eye contact?

It’s kind of like a hug. Or sex. Too short and there’s no connection. Too long and it’s awkward. And exhausting.

I for one, don’t trust anyone who won’t make eye-contact. I believe they are sinister and creepy. They are clearly hiding something. Like the location of a body…or the name of a good tailor.

But what about unbroken eye contact?

Serial killer, right?

That or an accountant. Played by Nicolas Cage. Gawd, he’s the worst! His unblinking, unbroken eye contact in movies skeeves me out!

Ugh! Don’t get me started on no-blinkers!

Unless they have a rare medical condition like their eyelids are too short or don’t close at all, I really feel like someone nice, like a friend (who are we kidding?) or their mother, should advise them to blink once-in-a-while. It’s just common courtesy for god’s sake.

What about eye darters. You know those people whose eyes dart around wildly while you’re trying to have a conversation? Jinky right? I mean, what are they doing? Searching the room for fire exits?

And last, but most certainly not least—the cleavage starer. Unable to even hide the fact that staring at my boobs might be degrading and inappropriate, these pervs cannot help themselves. So how can I be mad? Boobs to them are like flames to a moth and since their brains are about the same size they operate on a similar kind of kind of primal instinct.

Conversation over. Besides, I might use words with more than two syllables that could easily confuse them.

I’m not dissimilar to you guys or anybody on the planet for that matter. All I want out of human interaction is a connection. I want to be heard and understood. And I equate eye-contact with presence. End of story.

So, who knew we, (and I’m including you because I know you’re with me on this) were so opinionated about something as ordinary as eye contact?

Huh…

Maybe we need to get a life?

Carry on,
xox

“Josephine caught my eye and gave me a signal we’d used for years to indicate that one of us had to leave. The signal was mouthing the words “I have to leave” and pointing at the door.”
~Lemony Snicket

I saw this quote the other day and it got me to thinking…I’m freakin’ Josephine.

When stuck at a painfully boring event, like the college graduation of the son of your husband’s boss, any party that starts with the word THEME, most New Year’s Eves, or any occasion where there is no alcohol served, how do you signal that you’ve had enough?

What charades do you employ to make your escape without seeming like a complete and total ass?

Do you discuss it with your companion ahead of time?
Do you have hand gestures?
Safe Words?

Back in the day a certain boyfriend and I employed the simple gun-to-the-head technique which consisted of basically putting the point of your index finger to your temple and pulling the imaginary trigger. If the food was particularly ghastly, which was often the case since we were all under thirty (think melted Velveeta cheese), we added a dramatic flair with eye rolls to heaven.
If we just couldn’t stand to breathe the smoke filled air for even one more minute, the trigger pull was accompanied by sound effects.

I would pass him at the makeshift bar set up in the bathtub (or at the keg), point the finger at my head.
Boom!
He’d get the message and within five minutes we were on our way to In-N-Out.

Over the years, my sister and I have taken this to another level.

We’ve become Bad Party Mercenaries.

When we catch each other’s eye at some bullshit obligatory event that we both tried to get out of—but couldn’t—we reach into our purses for the imaginary grenade we brought with us—pull the pin out with our teeth (you know, like you do), and throw it toward the biggest blowhard in the room, saving those around him from one more minute of torture.

I suppose it’s a humanitarian act. We should both get a medal.

When shit gets real and it looks like the madness will never end, we also have an imaginary bazooka which we’ve been known to pull out of thin air, put up on our shoulder, pull the two hand grips down and  back and BLOW THE PLACE DOWN.

BOOM! (Our cheeks blow up like a blowfish because bigger weapons need better sound effects).

Then we burst out laughing with snorts and guffaws and make a run for the cheese dip.

Every event has an implied “It’s safe to leave and not look like an idiot” marker.

You’re not supposed to leave a bridal shower until she’s opened all the presents and is sporting the “gift bow hat.” (Insert dramatic eye roll here.)

It is considered bad taste to leave a graduation until they hand out the diplomas.
The thing is they leave that task until the very end and it can take many, many hours in the hot sun waiting for your friend’s kid, R. Ziskin to walk up to the stage and shake hands.

Truth be told, I’ve thrown many a grenade before he ever throws his cap in the air.

At weddings, you’re supposed to wait until after they cut the cake.
I have been known to risk ridicule and leave prior to the cake cut because the band sucked, the bride and groom were drunk and the cake was white on white. (What? Why?)

These days I mostly sneak out (with snacks in my pockets), after saying my goodbyes to the hosts. (My husband makes me).

So, tell me. Do you guys adhere to all of the party etiquettes? Are you the last to leave…or the first?
What’s your silent signal?

I won’t be mad if you want to steal our bazooka idea. (It’s an acquired skill. We’re thinking of doing a YouTube tutorial).

Carry on,
xox

This one hit a nerve and I’ve had a ton of requests (okay, five) to re-run it.
Here ya go!
xox

Thank you, doctor, for keeping me waiting forty minutes for my fifteen-minute, two hundred and fifty dollar consultation.
I’m your second appointment of the day. It’s 10 am. How the fuck could you already be running that far behind? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m firing you on account of bad time management. I may not have all the letters after my name — but my time is just as valuable as yours.

Thank you, dear friend who is chronically late because she can never find parking.
Because of you I keep a ten-minute window ahead of all my appointments, even lunch dates, to make sure I can wrangle the admittedly criminal lack of sufficient parking in Los Angeles.
I love you so I’ll tolerate this one character flaw.

Thank you every commercial airline I’ve ever flown.
You treat departure and arrival times as loose suggestions, which has forced me to get all the apps that alert me of your lateness so that I don’t end up getting trapped at the airport, overspending at the duty-free shops, or standing so long at the arrivals gate that I end up printing a random name on a box lid just to fit in.

As long as I’m venting, thank you private jet travel.
I’ve been fortunate to partake in your luxurious expediency and I must say: You have ruined me.
It is my belief that NO individual who is financially incapable of sustaining their own jet ( which is 99% of us), should be allowed to fly private.
It is a mind fuck on steroids.
When they say they’re leaving at 10, you may arrive at 9:50, but you will be wildly, inappropriately, “rookie” early because by 9:53 someone will have taken your bags, lead you to your double-wide, leather, Barcalounger; peeled you a grape, dipped you a strawberry, massaged your feet and told you a joke. There is no long security line, no barefooted X-ray pat down or frantic belt removal.
And if everyone is on board by 9:54 — they just take off.
What?
It’s too good. I can’t take it! Never again.

And last but not least thank you over-entitled rock singers. You know who you are.
At my current age of fifty-seven I’m well aware that I’ve wasted vast portions of my youth, hundreds if not thousands of hours, waiting for you to start your fucking concerts and I’m pissed and I want that time back! I know you’ve been to the arena or stadium. You had a soundcheck and a driver for Pete’s sake. Why can’t you manage to be fed, made-up and dressed by showtime? I can.
Is that too much to ask for the millions we’re paying to see you live? I just don’t get.

And thank you, Taylor Swift. Although I’ve yet to see you live, I heard you start your set right on time. Just one of the things I love about you.

Sorry about that, I just needed to vent. I have a thing about punctuality!
What about you? Are you late as a habit? Do you think it’s rude? How long will you wait for someone?

Carry on,
xox

*Below is a post from last year that got a lot of play. I like the story and I stick with my observation about people in LA. I should know, I was born here after all.
Watcha think?

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox

BRAT
noun.
a child, especially an annoying, spoiled, or impolite child (usually used in contempt or irritation).

Today I had a brat attack. It is only second in its savagery to a terrorist attack.
It’s like a five-year old terrorist has taken over my emotions, behavior and mouth.
Then I blew up; all. over. my. husband.

Do you ever do that? No, I’m sure I’m the only one…..

My brat inspired tantrum, albeit short, was ugly.
I wanted to stomp my feet, throw myself on the floor and pull at my hair……but I was driving…..and talking on the phone. My five-year old annoying, impolite child, said stuff. Stupid stuff using a five-year old’s limited language.

When she inhabits me to that degree, there’s no reasoning with her. Have you ever tried to reason with a pissed off five-year old?

Have you ever said stupid stuff like that? No…..I’m sure you haven’t.

Anyway…
I’m inclined to blame it on the “energy”, or solar flares, but I think the sun’s been pretty quiet, so I suppose I have to take responsibility.

I have no excuse except frustration at a situation and my own bad behavior in handling it.

Do you do that? No? Hmmmmmmm…guess it’s just me…

My inner brat doesn’t rear her wild haired little head too often in my life. I do try to embrace her ( like a human straightjacket ) when she does and I’d never want her to go away for good.

She lets me know when I’ve exceeded my limit. When things have gone too far.

She is the barometer of how high my stress, shame or frustration level has gotten.

When she howls; I listen. If I resort to her terrorist tactics…there’s a problem. Either it’s something real and I’m too tired or cranky to deal.
Or, my perception has been hijacked by my ego, and I need to just get over myself.
Then other times; she’s just plain being a bitch.

Can you relate? No? Really??

I texted my husband a mea culpa as soon as I parked. Then I laughed at the absurdity of the attack.

He’s met my brat; she doesn’t scare him. Once, when they scuffled, he threatened to call my mother and rat her out.

Today’s visit was short-lived and I got the message.

Note to self: Don’t save important things until the last-minute and learn to accept help, otherwise it’s a set up for frustration. And don’t nosedive and dial.

The call was unnecessary and self indulgent…oh, that is sooooo her.

You ever nosedive and dial? Don’t lie. Tell me about your last brat attack!

Xox