I Totally Meant to Do That (13 page)

Again, this assumes you
have
a table. Next.

I agree wholeheartedly. As my father used to say, “No use crying over spilled milk.” Still, my mettle in this department has never truly been tested, as my dinnerware is literally valueless. When I say “literally” I don’t mean “figuratively.” I mean it was all free. My plates, bowls, and cutlery are a mishmash of dishes left behind by the dozen or so roommates who’ve moved in and out of my life over the years. My drinking glasses are either promotional items I swiped from work, which bear a variety of liquor company and hotel emblems, or they are Pom tea containers, the mason jars of my generation. As my mom says, “My name is Jimmy; I’ll take what you gimme.”

So, no, it doesn’t bother me to throw shards of any of these things in the bin, as they were all, at one point in their histories, trash already. Besides, if something breaks at one of my parties, I’m usually the one who did it. Because I’ve usually imbibed the most. Hosting is stressful. Any lady will tell you that.

Tell that to my friend Will Hines. While we were out at a bar one night, I gave delicacy a chance; I pushed my chair away from the table and said only, “Excuse me.”

Will, in a knee-jerk reaction to the information vacuum, looked up and asked, “Where are you going?”

Great, now I had the full attention of the table and two
decisions: (1) share my scatological pursuit far more openly than if I’d simply said, from the beginning, “I’m going to the bathroom,” or (2) say nothing and walk away, which will naturally lead my friends to assume I’m either a dine-and-dasher, a member of the CIA, or a superhero—because any of those explanations is more logical than the notion that I had to relieve myself, considering that, had that been the case, I surely would have said so at the start.

I’m not suggesting you should clink your glass, stand, and shout, “No reason for alarm! Please carry on while I go pull my skirt up and”—well, you know what you’d shout. That I don’t want to type it is why we created euphemisms in the first place. The word “bathroom” doesn’t have anything to do with what goes on in there. There is no bath in most restrooms; neither does one rest there, especially not if you have to squat. These words allow us to be polite while still relaying important information, such as the answer to the entirely warranted question, “Where in the hell are you going?!”

But “bathroom” is still too much for my mother, who finally relented to my argument by saying, “Fine, if you must say anything at all, say you’re going to
visit
the
ladies’ room.
” No! You can’t go around creating new euphemisms for ones still in perfectly good use.

I’d be willing to follow this rule if everyone else would. Instead, when I return from a “jaunt” to the “womyn’s den,” I find that my napkin has been taken off my chair, thrown open, refolded, and placed next to my plate. This is a problem because the sole purpose of the napkin is to get dirty so my clothes don’t. If someone refolds it, I won’t know which side had pea soup on it and which side was clean, which is especially a concern if I’m wearing white sometime between but not before or after Memorial and Labor Days.

At this point, I must hold the cloth up to the light emanating from the table’s one candle and inspect it for stains. I find no instructions regarding this behavior in Ms. Simpson-Giles book, but I assume it’s unacceptable.

Therefore, I’ve developed a way to buck the system. When entering an upscale joint, I make a point to notice how the linens are folded and where on the table they’re placed. Then, on the occasion I need to excuse myself, I fold my napkin and leave it just so to dupe the waiter into thinking he’s fixed it already. At this point I am free to leave the table without fear of dirtying my clothes upon returning from ducking out on the bill, assassinating a head of state, or saving a baby from a runaway train.

A desire to hit home this particular nugget is, I suspect, what sparked my aunt to embark upon the post office-enabled
literary lesson in which I’m currently mired. On that aforementioned trip home, I found myself in need of a slip—and without one.

I grew up Presbyterian. My family still goes to services. When at home, I do too. And the frock I’d packed for the occasion was clinging to my leg with truly religious fervor. Anyone walking behind me could have made out the holy trinity.

“Darling, just wear a slip,” my aunt said. After a bit of silence, she turned back to me and asked, “You
do
have one?”

In truth, I had, and still have, several. A long black one, a short gray one. Pure white and sheer nude. I have some with slits, some with lace, and several that are far too big. Over the years, my aunt has given me each. “Do you need another slip? I’ll get you another slip. Don’t you want to pick out a slip? You can always use another slip.” Even though they take up an entire dresser drawer, I can’t bear to throw any away because you can always use another slip.

I had not, however, brought any home. “I didn’t think to pack one,” I told her. “Because I never wear them in New York,” I said. “Because I don’t wear the kind of clothes which require them,” I explained. “Because I don’t go to church.”

OK, I didn’t say any of that.

Instead, I said, “Shoot! I forgot to pack my slip. If you have an extra, that’d be marvelous.” Throw it on the pile.