Tag Archives: etiquette

No ooey gooey

Tonight on Facebook,  a friend posted this pic on pie etiquette:


I must protest.

Meringue is a national nightmare. Even a dollop is a spoonful too much for me. Encouraging the egregious behavior above means more scraping at restaurants… more apologies to meringue-loving friends and family… more gooey mess.

Just say no to meringue, America…at least in front of me.

Bad manners

You have to love Brits. So proper,  so polished, so personable.

Wimbledon has always been a prime example…until this year.


Novak Djokovic, the defending champion, beat Roger Federer in Sunday’s final.

And Wimbledon had the bad manners to telegraph their choice for the trophy. Both before and after the match, their social media feeds were full of Federer — waxing poetic on the possibility of his eighth title, and openly weeping at his eventual defeat.

In contrast, Serena Williams’ win in the ladies’ championship was celebrated without question or sadness for those she felled along the way.

I expect more from you, Wimbledon.  Remember — even Federer had to defeat favorites in his early years at the tourney.

Today’s top men’s seeds deserve the same respect.

Twitter etiquette

When Teddy Kennedy died back in August 2009, I was surprised to learn the news via Twitter instead of more traditional news sources.

Today, Twitter breaks most big stories.

bob simonFor instance, legendary CBS News reporter and 60 Minutes correspondent Bob Simon was killed yesterday in an automobile accident in my neighborhood, yet I still heard about it on Twitter.

Then celebrities from all walks of life began making their statements of sympathy.

On Twitter.

Yet another development many a publicist and PR maven probably didn’t see coming down the information superhighway.

All those carefully worded press releases and statements of sympathy and support that once earned them an extra billable hour or six?  Gone.  Because now their clients can take to Twitter and, in 140 typo- and emoji-filled characters, sum up their feelings about the dearly departed.

And start a Twitter sh#t storm at the same time.

You pokin’ me?

I’m a poker.  If you poke me, I’ll poke you.  Love to poke.

Poke, poke, poke.

If we’re friends.
If we know each other.
If we both understand what poking is all about.

But lately, I’ve been signing into Facebook — you did know I was talking about Facebook poking, right? — and people I’ve never seen before are on my pokers’ list.

We’re not friends.
We’ve never been friends.
So, I’m certainly not going to poke ’em.

Haven’t these people heard of sending friend requests?  Is a poke the new friend-making shorthand?

I think not.

If you’ve been using this strategy to make new friends on Facebook, let me share a little etiquette that I made up this very moment:

Poking is way intimate.  You can poke your friends, but they have to be existing friends.  Friends that get what you mean by the poke.  Not random strangers who come up and poke you, when you don’t know what the poke means to the other person.

This is important stuff here.

Don’t be messing with the poke.  The thing’s loaded.

Sidewalk sermon

Are there etiquette rules for hailing a taxi?

One lady seems to think so.

Yesterday morning I rolled my wheelie bag to Columbus Avenue and stood mid-block, because taxis can get ticketed for picking up fares in the crosswalk.

At the corner two woman were also hailing taxis — in the crosswalk — but it’s not unusual to be one of many vying for a cab on the same spot in New York City.

After I had assumed the position — luggage in front of me, arm outstretched — one of the woman started yelling at me for “getting in front of her in line.”

Say what?

Taxis in Manhattan are plentiful, and I could already see about six of them with their lights on headed our way.

I chose to ignore the yelling at first, but she decided to walk over and confront me.

“Excuse me,” she said with quite a bit of ‘tude.  “You just walked in front of me.”

“Taxis can get tickets for picking up people in the crosswalk,” I said calmly.  “I simply moved down.”

“You moved ahead of me,” she repeated, hands on her hips.

I just turned away and continued to signal for the cab.  It was a moot point as far as I was concerned.

“And me, eight months pregnant — nice,” she huffed, and walked way.

Now, I hadn’t really paid attention to her in the first place, and I certainly hadn’t noticed she was pregnant under her heavy winter coat.  But I don’t think that knowledge would have changed my behavior….or should have.

Nobody made her get pregnant.  And nobody made her stand in the crosswalk.

Everybody makes their own choices.

Some…are simply poor ones.