Dear Rudence: Exhaustion Edition

A Riff on Dear Prudence, Post and Commentary Here

Well, true believers, Rudie is frustrated, exhausted, pissed off at the world. So what else is new, right? Well, this week's been a little more trying than usual and even Rudie has his limitations on the amount of rancorous phlegmatic spewing he can absorb. Supersaturated would probably be the correct term to use in this case, a condition of being at greater than 100% capacity of the amount of shit that he can take due to abnormal environmental conditions. Fortunately, this overcapacity should provide some serious fodder for your enjoyment, as Rudie intends to squeeze himself forthwith all over this weeks DP. Try not to get any on you, Rudie knows it to be toxic.

Dear Rudie,
Early next year, I will be a bridesmaid for a close college friend's wedding. As the date moves closer, the bride is acting in uncharacteristic ways that are beginning to hurt her friendships. Two other close college friends are in the party, both of whom have become pregnant since agreeing to participate. On the wedding date, one will have a month-old infant and one will be seven-and-a-half months pregnant. Both were honest with the bride early on that they were trying to get pregnant, and in both cases she did not hesitate to express her extreme unhappiness about the situation. Each has offered to not participate or to serve in a less central role, which was met with an even unhappier response. The bride's demands, which include not wanting them to wear maternity dresses or have the baby in the room where we're getting ready, are becoming more irrational and the other bridesmaids are becoming increasingly unhappy with her. I am slightly more protected, living far away, but there have been some significant financial requests beyond what I've encountered in the past as a bridesmaid. Is there a way to kindly steer her back to the land of reason without giving the impression that we don't understand the importance of this day for her?

—Annoyed Friend

Dear Abusive Demonspawn,

Oh please. Don't you get it? Your little shit machines are going to be spoiling her day. The 7 months pregnant woman is bad enough. All of the incessant prattle that goes on: 'OOOO! How far along are you?' 'You are positively GLOWING!', ' You look so BEAUTIFUL' *GUSH* (and that's the sound of PEOPLE gushing, however, on certain occasions of women with really BAD timing, that gush can be the sound of amniotic fluid suddenly released from its delicate bag of tissue and landing on linoleum).

No, it gets bloody fucked up when there's a newborn in the mix. I know how people get when confronted with a one month old. First thing that happens is their eyes bug out of their heads. Then they're faces contort into a grotesque combination of cutesy and surprise. Then the hands go to the face in homage to a certain John Hughes movie that claimed yet another poor promising actor in the trap of 'one-trick pony child star'. Then, as you think the insufferable wave of cutesy horror can go no further, the hands come off the face to the baby in an onslaught of pinches, tickles, and tummy pokes. All of this, as if to make a final attempt to rip space-time, is accompanied by regressed gibberish and weird, unearthly noises no adult human whose brains haven't been melted should ever make.

Of course the chick is pissed. How awfully nice of all of you to time your pregnancies so perfectly as to coincide with the one day where SHE, not your preggo friend nor the month-old svengali of cutesy, should be the center of attention.

Nice whine about the extra dough, by the way... you're breaking my fuzzy little heart.

—Rudie, did-you-make-a-poo-poo?-yes-you-did!-yes-you-did-poo-poo!-ly

Dear Rudence,
My family just moved in to a lovely townhouse and we have a lovely next-door neighbor. She is a mature, genteel lady who lives by herself and by most measures presents herself as the ideal neighbor: She sends over cookies when she's baking, collects newspapers when we are away for the weekend, offers to cat-sit, and so on. We have thanked her with cards and small gifts. This would be a rosy story of communal bliss but for one thing—our lovely neighbor, who is white, constantly makes reference to our race (black) in subtle or not-so-subtle ways: "The last owner lived here with a big black guy. He was nice, but they weren't married," she said once to my husband. "I really admire Colin Powell. I have his book, but I hadn't read it, but now …," she said on another occasion. "I heard that Tiger Woods won the British Open today, what do you think about that?" she asked my 8-year-old son. He just smiled quizzically and nodded. My child will have to smile and nod enough in his life because of the ignorance of people who ought to know better, or people who do know better but don't behave well. Certainly, this woman's conversational repertoire is fairly innocuous, but I am tired of her racial references. Do I withdraw from an obviously lonely but sweet woman, or try to teach an old, well, you know …

—Wary Neighbor

Dear Confused Homeowner,

Typically, Rudie would be quite glib with his response. However. Since this is a topic which is of above average interest to him, having grown up within this rapidly changing world having many of the same concerns himself, and since it seems that you both want to learn a little something, Rudie will be at his utmost earnest. (Fear not dear readers, Rudie's utmost earnest is a lot less utmost than most).

Mature? Genteel? Let me translate for you since you can't seem to bring yourself to say it: Kind old lady. Now just exactly how hard was that?

Frank talk is a part of life, and in her heyday, there were much clearer rules of engagement. She knows the world is changing while she kind of stays put, but at least she's trying to adapt to a new world that takes the kind of speech that she grew up with thinking it was fine, occasionally, with offense. The indication that she's trying to learn and adapt indicates that she's willing to learn. Perhaps an open discussion of your expectations, emphasizing your gratitude for her efforts, might be just the thing to make both of your existences more enjoyable.

Just try to be a little thankful. Of all the sorts of neighbors you could end up with, you should really try to take the good over the bad here. Here are just a few examples of the sorts you could have reasonably ended up with:

The Bitter Recluse

Think Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace here, except without the carefully hidden kind side. This one will knock on your door every time your kid traipses on their lawn to retrieve a ball. In extreme cases, this one will get a dog they can barely control just to make sure no one gets near their property. I will guarantee that you will probably have to call the cops on this nitz more than once as he attempts to scare the piss out of your kid.

The Party Freak

This younger sort is just out of college, got himself a well-paying job, bought a house, but is still stuck in party mode. He'll invite his never-sober friends over every weekend night so they can enjoy his new abode. They'll play the worst nu-metal drivel at level 12 (Nigel Tufnel had NOTHING on these guys) until that old heirloom picture of great-uncle Fred falls off the wall, knocks over a vase, smashing both and destroying the picture with water damage.

When you go over to quiet them down, one of the more blitzed friends will greet you at the door with a beer in one hand, a spliff in the other, one eye at half mast, the other fully open and bloodshot, and give you a mouthful of inebriated attitude:

"Fucckck yuuuu. Wer jushhh havin a little funn here, buzzkilllller. HEY TONY! JOE! This chick wans us to turn down th' music, but I totally told her to go fuckcck herslfff. (from the back you hear, Dude! Knock it off! That's my neighbor!) (unfazed) HAAAAHAAAAHAAAA (right in your face, acrid beer smell and all) whoooooaaaa (slips) *CRASH* (crumples to floor)"

You don't know it yet, but his limp body and gashed up forehead are an odd metaphor for your patience in the upcoming years.

And... scene.

The Snooper

If you are unfortunate to have moved next to this yutz, you will be guaranteed at least three visits per day. An outwardly friendly sort, you will let this one into your house, invite him/her to a barbeque, etc. Once your back is turned, however, they'll casually start milling about, opening drawers, poking their foot through piles of whatever junk you may have in the backyard, rifling through your medicine cabinet. Pretty soon, you might even catch them in your bedroom looking through your unmentionables. What they are hoping to find, you have no idea.

—Rudie a-grain-of-salt-makes-almost-anything-taste-better-ly

Rudence,
Internet dating is very popular these days and of course works well if you are honest in communicating with the person on the other end. I have a walking disability, but for the most part am very mobile. I play basketball, I swim, ride a bike, etc. Since my handicap is not visible to the women I talk to on the Internet, how would you recommend I bring it up? Tell them beforehand, or just wait until we meet?

—A Distinctive Walk

Dear Unique Perambulator,

I noticed you enclosed no 'Dear' when addressing me. For that alone, I should shred your letter and the envelope it came in. From henceforth, you shall not address me as Rudence, nor even Dear Rudence, you will either address me as Lord Rudence, God of Seriously Wrathful Vengeance and Giver of Deep Paper Cuts, Ltd. (TM), or more conveniently, My Liege.

Firstly, you unworthy slime, you make your overlord laugh when you say you are internet dating. Are you dating the whole internet? Are you canoodling while you're Googling? Do you suck face with MySpace? Are you a fapster when viewing Napster?

HAHAHAHA... haha... hah. hmm. As they say in Yoyovia, little man, no good schmengy! Whatever.

So, worm. You don't know how to bring up the fact that you have a, ahem, unique style of locomotion? It's immaterial if you're never going to meet in person. If you are, then, oh, I don't fucking know, why don't you just tell her everything you just told me! Difference being... SHE might actually give a shit! Begone, knave.

—Rudie, your-God-has-spoken-ly

Dear Rudie,
My longtime boyfriend came back from a business trip in Asia, and afterward was inexplicably out of sorts. Finally, he confessed that he had cheated on me with a prostitute one night when he'd gone to a nightclub with two male co-workers. Prudie, I know my boyfriend, and I would never have imagined he would be the type of guy who would do such a thing. We have a very close, loving, and honest relationship, and I know he has never done anything like this before. What makes things more confusing is that while he was away, my mom spilled the beans that right before he left, he visited her to ask permission to propose to me. He had even purchased a ring. My mom said they were both so happy they cried. I wasn't surprised to hear about my boyfriend's impending proposal, because we had been talking about marriage for a while now that we have finished our graduate schooling and gotten jobs. How could he do such a thing to me, especially when we were on the verge of starting a bright new life together? My boyfriend is extremely remorseful, telling me that he is shocked as well at his own behavior and has never felt so low in his life. While a younger version of myself could have said, "See ya," without flinching, I realize now that it's not so easy. I still love him with all my heart and believe he is a good man. Should I stay and work things out, or leave these damaged goods behind?

—Torn

Dear Ripped (or at least buzzed),

You know, drunk mailings are just as foolish as drunk dialing. Both never seem quite as good an idea the day after, but since you sent me one, we have to deal with what we've got. Impressively lucid, but it carries with it the gentle aroma of... what was it... dear Old Granddad?

You talked to your girlfriends, didn't you. They told you that he's just not worth it right? Well the younger you would have taken all of that stupid pride and shoved it clean up his ass along with a thick sheaf of walking papers, right?

Well thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster that you aren't a child anymore. Many women have said that a good man is hard to find, and a few others have said that a hard man is good to find, usually under their breath. It appears you got both here. Rudie's a little concerned about the crying with your mom thing, though, that's a little odd, unless he was crying about his soon-to-be lost bachelorhood. Rudie's not a cryer, but that would shake the tears loose for him.

Anyway, he's really sorry and hopefully uninfected. Let him go and you and your prideful inner bonehead can be lonely and stupid together.

Besides, from your letter, it seems that just you want someone to tell you what you've already decided to do. Consider yourself told.

And that, sunshine, is a complete waste of Rudie's time, and he is now officially gripped by paroxysms of rage.

Rudie needs some 'alone' time now.

-Rudie, that's-thirty-seconds-Rudie-will-never-get-back-ly

That's all for this week kids, and remember, if you ever stick your foot in your mouth, don't despair. There might be a little gum on the bottom of your shoe you can chew on, and wouldn't that be nice?