Manners. There are so many different perspectives of what constitutes “good manners,” don’t you think? In my house growing up, I was not allowed to read at the dinner table. Common courtesy, or so it seemed. But these days, I go out with Kyle and I see kids tinkering with all sorts of video game-ish things at dinner—it’s totally baffling to me.
Image from here.
If we weren’t allowed to read at the dinner table at home, we most certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to read or play games at a restaurant, where we actually had to pay to eat. My parents would have been aghast; I am aghast!
See, that’s the thing about kids these days. They’re completely oblivious to the yaddah yaddah did you really think I was going to get on a soapbox about ill-mannered children when so many of my readers are parents themselves? No way, José. {And anyway, even if I were to rant and rave about snot-nosed kids, you can rest assured I wouldn’t be talking about any of your little dears—your children are angels, I promise.}
No; instead, I’m going to talk about bad manners within a marriage. This is going to be fun.
For the most part, my husband Poor Kyle is incredibly well-mannered. He always thanks me for dinner [“That was deLICious, my dear!”], usually eats everything I put in front of him (though sometimes with the aid of exhorbiant amounts of barbeque sauce, but I’m not offended), and almost always rinses off his plate after he’s finished. Sometimes I have to remind him that we have napkins by our plates for a reason, but really, who even cares if he sometimes lets ketchup build up in the corners of his mouth? Not me—I think it’s cute.
In fact, we’re actually pretty uncouth around each other. I remember the first time I accidentally tooted in front of Poor Kyle—he laughed and laughed, and thought it was so cute that such a funny noise came out of a sweet little thing like me. He called me his Little Tooter all night. Probably he shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it, because ever since then, I’ve had the opinion that Poor Kyle likes to hear me toot, so when the need arrives, I pretty much just let ‘er rip. (Part of me can’t believe I’m writing this on the internet; the other part wonders what took me so long.) So, yes. I toot {I stopped calling it “fart” years ago, but it you’d prefer it, I suppose I could use the word “flatulate;” it has a nice ring} in front of my spouse. And belch. And pick my toenails and pop my pimples and floss my teeth and good heavens, it’s going to be a long eternity for Poor Kyle, stuck with a smelly old broad like me.
That is, if we make it through this life without getting divorced. Because, according to a recent article on msn.com, tooting in front of my spouse is the first step on the highway to ex-hood:
Rut #7: Being Too Close
Why it’s bad: As much as you think burping, scratching, picking, or farting is funny or cute, it can backfire and cross the line. It may be a reflection of your closeness, but there should be a limit. Otherwise, you’re leaving your partner with a very unsexy image of you.
How to stop: Start a new rule. If you wouldn’t do it in front of your work friends, don’t do it in front of your honey. To get your mate to refrain, say: “I know we’re close, and we can share everything, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave the room, or leave me out, when you do that. It’s not very sexy, and I don’t want anything that makes you less sexy to me.”
Nice.
I don’t mind when Poor Kyle burps, scratches, picks, or toots. Really, I don’t. But I know he minds some of my less-than-ladylike bad habits. Like the jungle of hair I collect on the tile of our shower wall. I play a game with myself—I save each strand of hair that escapes my ever-thinning scalp, and stick it to the shower wall like a trophy, seeing how big the pile can get before it either falls from the weight of itself, or Poor Kyle gets so grossed out that I finally give in and toss it out.
{I’ve got a really good one going right now—this is about a week’s worth, give or take a few stragglers, but it’s about to be retired because Poor Kyle is threatening to leave me for someone with thicker hair [probably one of his lamespice ex-girlfriends.]}
Indeed, while I’d like you all to think that I am glamourous and graceful every moment of my life…
…in reality, I’m atrocious:
The proof is in the chicken wing.
So, in honour of this week’s Spin Cyle over at Sprite’s Keeper, I have decided…
…to remove the hair from the shower wall. I love you, Poor Kyle.
What sort of marriage-threatening bad manners do you exhibit? Or am I the only one in this situation?
Pingback: Archives of Our Lives » We All Got Boogers.