There’re things polite people aren’t supposed

to say or do, yet every day, somewhere

in a city, town or suburb, someone

asks a woman when her baby’s due. This

may not seem terribly awkward, unless

she’s not pregnant. Oh-my-gosh, witnessing

that would cause even me to grimace,

and nothing fazes me. I’m with Dave Barry,

“You should never say anything to a woman

that even remotely suggests you think she’s

pregnant unless you can see an actual baby

emerging from her at that moment.”

How about when someone asks how

much you weigh? I’ve never personally

had this happen because really, who’d have

the courage to go down that boulevard with

me? I’ve heard of this happening though,

and what do you say? “Well, I’m more than

enough for some and not enough for others.”

Then you throat punch that jerk, because he

needs it. I say “he” because it would be a guy

saying it. A woman wouldn’t, but she’d do

an equally absurd thing. She’d ask if you’ve

lost weight? If you have, God bless you,

scream it from the rooftop. If you haven’t,

what would be a correct response? “No, I

just bought bigger clothes.”

This brings us to, “How much do you

make?” I’m asked this from time to time.

Maybe I should run with a higher class of

people. Actually, I have no problem telling

a clod my salary. It’s relative though.

It blows some folk’s minds because they’re

astonished an employer finds me valuable

enough to pay me anything, much less that

much! For others, they wonder, with that

miniscule amount of time for money swap,

why get out of bed in the morning? When all

the stars line up and the day is going well,

I don’t fuss too much about income, even

though I feel it should always be more, but

when I’m up to my ears in alligators with

humanity, and up to my elbows in any number

of bodily fluids, I’m a little testy about

income. I’ve actually stated, “I want a raise.

I’m thinking, about a million dollars a minute,

payable by Monday.” I’m still shopping

secondhand stores for treasures, so obviously,

I’m not taken seriously by any of my

bosses.

I’m often politely asked, “How are you

doing?” Generally, I pause before replying.

Is this person really inquiring, or merely trying

to make conversation, while desperately

looking for an exit? When it comes to how

we’re doing, most of us are fighting dragons

every day. Since nobody wants to hear that,

I have a standard answer, “I’m dying, thanks

for asking.” In actuality, when it comes to

troubles, half the people don’t care, and the

other half are glad we’ve got ‘em. So, when

someone asks, “How are you,” I sometimes

give the same answer my old washer repairman

used to give, “I’m cute, how are you?”

When you’re introduced to a new person,

do you remember their name? Really, do

you? I mean, if you do, write me with your

secret, and don’t tell me, it’s because you’re

a nice person. I want to remember and I try

to remember, so I do all the tricks that have

been suggested. I immediately say, “So nice

to meet you Darla.” Then I say it several

times in a row, “Darla, Darla, Darla.” Then

I attempt to rhyme the name with an object,

Darla … what? Smarla? I hope I’m sitting

by someone who knows the person, so when

I forget, I can ask. My worst-case scenario

of forgetting is, I pray the ground opens up

and swallows me before I have to introduce

her to someone else. At my age, memory

problems exist, so if I see her somewhere

two months later, I’ll say, “I know you from

somewhere but I’m old and can’t remember

your name.” If the person knows me, she’ll

want to say, “Good.” If I haven’t seen someone

in a few years, I have trouble remembering

her name too. That would be awkward

and embarrassing for normal people but I

just lean in and ask. What else can a goofy

person do, right Ellen? When my kids say

something about my age or wherewithal, I

frown and say, “I’m sorry, am I supposed

to know you?” Dale Carnegie was noted for

saying, “Remember that a person’s name is

to that person, the sweetest and most important

sound in any language.” Well, not to a

teenager whose mother is yelling, “Benjamin,

get in here and do the dishes.”

Contact Trena Eiden at trenaid@hotmail.

com.