Manners Separate Us from the Animals

I have this thing about table manners. The lack thereof makes me nuts.

I never planned to be the local manners police, but having grown up under my mother’s well-aimed flyswatter and Amy Vanderbilt books, I suppose, (sigh) it was fate. You want me to admit one of my best friends volunteered me to teach table manners to her daughter’s Brownie Troop? All right, already yet. She did. I’m planning to do so.

My mother is still so proper we could never put a jar of peanut butter on the table. It had to be in a cut glass jar. Mustard, mayonnaise, and ketchup went into matching condiment dishes. Milk went into a pitcher, usually cut glass. We were never allowed to eat boxed cereal let alone put the box on the table.

If my father wanted Worcestershire Sauce, he put the bottle on the floor by his chair. Paper napkins were an obscenity up there next to certain words we still aren’t allowed to say. Even now when my mother has a picnic, I must do battle with her for the treat of using paper plates, napkins, cutlery, and cups.

Get the picture?

The Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not double-dip or thou shalt burn in hell.

First, nothing is worse than a man wearing a baseball cap or any head covering to the table. I don’t care if you are eating in a fast food joint or a greasy spoon. It is terrible, improper, and shows a complete lack of respect for your surroundings and the people around you.

Guys, you look like a chaw-spitting redneck with a dead deer strapped to the front hood of the pickup and your dead mother-in-law tied to the lawn chair on the tailgate. You never never never ever ever wear a hat to a proper indoor table. You can get away with it on some alfresco occasions, but not many. I really don’t care if it is tradition in the Southwest to wear your cowboy hat at the dining table. You don’t see President Bush wearing his to a state dinner.

Secondly, there is absolutely nothing more revolting than a man dining anywhere but on South Beach wearing a strappy-t-shirt or one of those absurd looking weight-lifting shirts. I have news for you. Your under-arm hair just isn’t all that attractive to me. Do you really think it is sexy? Your glistening biceps might look mediocre in the gym, but they are repulsive to look at during a meal. It really isn’t conducive to fine dining. Less is definitely not more. If it didn’t work for Brad Pitt when he was all hunked up for Troy, it won’t work for Joe Blow.

Article Author: SJ Reidhead

SJ Reidhead is the author of two western novels, and several non-fiction books about Tombstone and Wyatt Earp. She blogs at The Pink Flamingo. While she is highly critical of the influence of far right conservatives on her beloved Republican Party, …

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