Southern Lady Code: Essays(22)

The Best Guest knows when the hostess has had enough. A telltale sign is when game time is over, guests have gotten into the good Scotch, secrets are spilling, and strangers are getting handsy, but the hostess can’t stop staring at the worst guest, who is balancing the remains of his cherry pie on his medically diagnosed “shaky leg.”

Before the plate hits the carpet, the Best Guest knows it’s time to call it a night.

The Best Guest is the first one in and the first one out.

And she is the first to write a thank-you note because the stationery and pen are laid out by her bedside for when she gets home.





WHEN TO WRITE


            A THANK-YOU NOTE





“Did you write your thank-you notes?” is a Southern lady’s “Good morning.”

Mama said it to me after birthdays, Christmases, and countless other occasions when someone gave me a gift or a gift of their time. Now I say it to myself. It’s like a mantra. Instead of Om, I wake up and think, Did you write your thank-you notes? If the answer is no, the writing of the note is my meditation.

I don’t write thank-you notes every day, but I do write them for dinner parties or a special night out with a friend. When it comes to marriage, they should amend the bride’s vows. Do you promise to love, honor, and write the thank-you notes? You do. Do you have to write a thank-you note to your husband for picking a squirrel corpse out of the roof gutter? You don’t.

But it would be nice.

There’s nothing nicer than unexpected appreciation. Hallmark doesn’t make a card for everything, so sometimes we make a judgment call. No, I don’t mean texting. My motto is: if you’re grateful, get a pen.

When I became an aunt, I wrote a thank-you note to my godmother for setting an example of how to be a good influence. I wrote a note to a high school friend for saying something kind to me at our twentieth reunion. When I had a tooth crowned, I wrote a note to my dentist (for alleviating my fear of dentists), the hygienist (for holding my hand when the dentist stuck my gums with a needle as long as a Samurai sword), and the receptionist (for politely calling me back to rebook my appointment every time I’d canceled). I wrote a note to a vet for putting our cat down.

But just because I write a lot of notes doesn’t mean I always write a note. If I can’t find something sincere to say about the thought behind an awful gift—and I have thanked people for bad art and canned fruitcakes—I don’t bother. Mama didn’t raise me to fake it.

For example, I did not write a thank-you note to a boyfriend who gave me Hanes panty hose in his sister’s size.

Mama said, “Helen Michelle, that screams hussy. Break up.”

And I did not write a thank-you note for a box of thank-you cards.

Mama said, “Helen Michelle, giving someone a box of thank-you cards is another way to say you never say thank you. It’s passive-aggressive. It’s like a punch in the face.”

Not everyone needs to write thank-yous, though. I’m officially letting these folks off the hook: new moms, the bereaved, and women jilted at the altar. If your breasts are leaking at the Piggly Wiggly, or your daddy’s under the dirt, or your bedazzled white dress can’t be returned, you don’t need to write me a note for a onesie, or a casserole, or a chip-and-dip bowl. And while I’m at it, I’m pardoning teenage boys. Because my idea of hell is being sentenced to read nothing but one-sentence fill-in-the-blank notes written by teenage boys.

But the rest of us should send our thank-you notes. And no, it’s never too late.





AN EMILY POST FOR


            THE APOCALYPSE





Visiting my parents in Alabama, I sat with my mother over my traditional breakfast of Coke and cinnamon toast and told her a story that my friend had told me about a neighbor who’d blown his own head off, in front of his two young sons, five minutes before his ex-wife was due to pick them up.

Mama said, “Well, that is just rude. Helen Michelle, if you’re going to commit suicide, what you do is get into a bathtub fully clothed. That way, when you shoot yourself, your brains will go all over the tiles, and it will be easier to clean up. And since you’re not nekkid, it will be less embarrassing for the person who finds you.”

All my life, my mother has taught me to be polite in extreme situations. Teaching your children to say “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir,” to chew with their mouths closed, and to pick their noses in private is for amateurs. My mother is an Emily Post for the Apocalypse.

There’s etiquette for the insane: “Helen Michelle, that man rocks by the Winn Dixie because he is crazy, but we still wave at crazy people when they wave at us.”

Etiquette for phone solicitors: “Helen Michelle, the way you stop someone from calling again is by saying, ‘Thank you so much for calling, but I’ve just murdered my husband and need to finish digging a hole in the backyard. Good-bye.”

Etiquette for sons-in-law: “Helen Michelle, when your husband calls me, please have him start with ‘Hello, everything is fine, I’m just calling for fill-in-the-blank.’ Otherwise, I’ll assume he’s calling to tell me you’ve been kidnapped and sold into sex slavery.”