Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 445

There is nothing wrong with wearing a hat at the table, regardless of what your grandmother taught you. Here’s why.

In response to yesterday’s post about the perfection of my wife and my annoyance with being asked to remove my hat in a restaurant, many readers argued that removing one’s hat at the table is polite and expected and sided with the restaurateur.

That really wasn’t the point of the piece (it was more about my wife than table etiquette), but my rebuttal to their argument is as follows:

Every expert on polite society, including Emily Post, says that hats should be removed at the dinner table. Post and others go on to say that hats should be removed whenever you are in someone’s home, at work, in public buildings such as libraries or town halls and in movie theaters.

Leaving the insanity of the movie theater and town hall behind, it turns out (and I know this is fairly obvious but is also seemingly forgotten) that none of these so-called etiquette experts are my boss. None of them have any authority over me or anyone else. None of them are credentialed in any way. Experts like Emily Post declare themselves experts (or take over the job from their mothers in some bizarre yet completely accepted form of etiquette nepotism),  prescribe rules and customs to the masses, and watch as people who are inexplicably invested in these rules point to them (and their grandmothers) as sources of wisdom and authority.

I would like to offer an opposing hypothesis:

I believe that it’s far more polite (and perhaps more moral) to accept a person for who she or he is, appearance included, as long as that appearance does not infringe on the experience or safety of another.

My baseball cap did not infringe on the experience of my fellow diners in any way. It made no difference to anyone save a snobbish restaurateur.

I would argue that imposing your own arcane set of beliefs upon your guests for no useful purpose is far ruder than any man who chooses to wear a hat at the dinner table.

And this hat-at-the-dinner-table restriction is arcane. It originated in the late nineteenth century when cities were dirty from all of the industries that burned coal for power. Men wore hats to keep the coal-burning debris out of their hair and off of their faces. As a result, these hats became dirty. When men sat down at the table, they removed their hats because they did not want to spill any dirt or soot on the table or in the food.

At the time, removing one’s hat at the dinner table served a purpose and was considered polite because it was polite. Spilling soot onto the mashed potatoes would be considered rude by anyone’s measure.

But the soot that once filled the air is gone today. There is no danger of my baseball cap contaminating the food or the table cloth. The reason behind the rule is gone, yet the expectation remains.

Therefore, I reject the expectation. In my microscopic way, I am attempting to force change. I am bucking the system.

Changes in etiquette happen all the time.

There was a time, not so long ago, when men were expected to dress in suits when flying on an airplane. Air travel was considered glamorous, and as such, people dressed for the occasion. To see a man boarding an airplane in a tee shirt and jeans would’ve been unheard of fifty years ago, but today, it’s commonplace, and this change took place long before the increased screening procedures in airports.

We simply agreed that dressing up for travel was unnecessary and probably a waste of time. And it probably began with a few ne’re-do-wells like me who dared to violate the custom and dress down for their plane ride.

Was society harmed by the relaxing of the airline dress code? Of course not.

It was once required that the bride’s parents pay for the entire wedding. Today this expense is often shared by both sets of parents and the couple themselves.

Has society been damaged by the change in economic etiquette?

Of course not. Nor would we be harmed if men wore hats at the dinner table. Until the air is filled with soot again and there is a genuine need to remove a hat at the table in order to protect the sanctity of the potatoes, it is far ruder and incredibly arrogant to impose your arbitrary and meaningless standards of etiquette on your guests.

Better to allow your guests the freedom of self expression than the shackles of your pointless expectation.

He won’t always be so easily entertained

The restaurant made me remove my hat, which angered me beyond measure. But it also reminded me of how perfect my wife is. Also, I have already plotted my revenge.

My daughter is a lot like me. She possesses a distinct and often divergent point of view, and she cares little for what others may think of it. When everyone is sitting, she stands. When everyone is singing, she is silent. She does things her own way, in her own time. Conformity is not her concern.

She owns a shirt with the image of a dog on the front, but she wears it backwards because she doesn’t “want to have to look at that dog all day.”

Thankfully, she also possesses an uncommon level of sweetness that allows her to be compliant to authority figures when necessary.

I’m hoping that this will always be the case, but if my genes win out, it won’t.

Speaking from experience, it will be critical for my daughter to find the right spouse someday. Some people are harder to be married to than others. I’m not always the easiest, and I think my daughter will be the same way.

Case in point:

On Friday night Elysha and I went to dinner at Peppercorn’s Grill in Hartford before I was to take the stage at the Mark Twain House to tell a story.

As the hostess seated us, she leaned in close to me and whispered, “I’m going to have to ask you to remove your hat.”

I was dressed as I normally am for a storytelling event: jeans, a shirt, a good pair of shoes and a baseball cap. The lighting at many of these events is pointed almost directly into the storyteller’s eyes, so a cap with a brim helps to diffuse the glare and allows me see my audience better.

Needless to say, I was angered by the request. While it’s entirely within the restaurant’s rights to impose a dress code, I found the arbitrary nature of the request insulting and ridiculous.

I also become unreasonably annoyed and petulant when anyone tells me what to wear. It’s #10 on my list of shortcomings and flaws.

Did my hat somehow detract from the experience of my fellow diners?

Did it harm the reputation or image of the establishment?

Did it threaten profits?

Snobbery and pretention. That is why I was asked to remove my hat. Management had deemed hat-wearing patrons unworthy of their establishment’s fine reputation. I was being asked to conform to their snobbish standards.

I despise snobbery. I abhor pretention. But I hate conformity most of all. 

My first reaction was to turn around and leave, but we only had about an hour before the show, and we were using a Groupon. If we didn’t use it, we would lose it.

My second thought was to refuse to remove the hat and see what happened. Again, the limited amount of time I had to eat, coupled with the potential  loss of the Groupon, prevented me from taking this course of action, though I seriously considered it for a moment.

Elysha also loves this restaurant. We celebrated our anniversary at this restaurant back in July. The food is great. The parking is free. The wait staff is extraordinary. Even though she was almost as annoyed about the request as me, I wasn’t going to spoil her evening.

This represents significant growth, by the way. Ten years ago, I would’ve spoiled the evening. I’m a much better person today.

But I couldn’t let it go, either. I couldn’t allow this ridiculous request to remain unchallenged in some way. After we ordered dinner, I proposed a plan:

We would return to this restaurant in the near future. In lieu of a hat, I would wear my oldest, most ill-fitting concert tee-shirt from the 1980s. Motley Crüe, perhaps. Better yet, Skid Row.

Add to this a pair of ripped jeans and my rattiest pair of sneakers.

If the restaurant is so concerned about their image, they’ll have no choice but to turn me away. If a simple baseball cap is unacceptable, a man dressed in the ancient, torn, ill-fitting clothing of a heavy metal fan from 25 years ago can’t be deemed acceptable.

Right?

Or was it simply an aversion to hats that the restaurateur suffers, and if so, what if a woman wore a hat to dinner? Would she be asked to remove it as well? 

What if I had been an 80 year-old man wearing a fedora? Would I have received the same treatment?

What if I had wrapped a bandana around my head? Would I be asked to remove my bandana as well?

What if I had been one of the many film or television stars who make their home in Connecticut? Kevin Bacon? Paul Giamatti? Michael J. Fox? Paul Newman? Would I still have been asked to remove my hat?

Elysha and I spoke about all of this as we waited for our meal, but here’s the thing. The most important thing:

Elysha supports the plan. She agreed without hesitation. She would never do such a thing (even though she thinks their hat policy is rude and arbitrary as well), but she has no qualms about me being me. She’s willing to go along to see what happens. I think she may even be looking forward to it.

Perhaps a majority of spouses would feel the same way, but I don’t think so. I suspect that many would veto the plan entirely or at least attempt to talk their spouse out of it. Others might tell their spouse to execute the plan without them.

I don’t think there are many who would’ve instantly, happily agreed as Elysha did.

And it’s not because Elysha thinks this is a great idea. In a perfect world, I think she would prefer that I simply avoid wearing a hat whenever we dine at Peppercorn’s Grill, but she also knows that as silly as this may seem, it’s important to me.

Above all else, my wife wants me to be me, and she wants this without reservation, hesitation or uncertainty.

It is why I feel like the luckiest spouse on the face of the Earth. How rare it is to find someone who not only accepts but embraces you for being you.

This is what I hope my daughter can find someday, too. If my suspicions are correct, she, too, will not be the easiest person to marry. She will likely possess certain ideas and beliefs that run counter to the thoughts and actions of the majority. She will do things her own way, in her own time, regardless of what others may think. She will need to find someone who can accept and embrace this about her, as Elysha has done for me.

Not someone simply willing to accept the Skid Row tee-shirt, but someone willing to support it without reservation.  

I just hope there are more people like Elysha in the world, because based upon what I see and hear, she seems like a very precious commodity.

Just imagine how much better books will be when he can actually read them.

The University of London’s Institute of Education Children has released a study showing that reading for pleasure can “significantly” improve a child’s school performance.

As a teacher, I can tell you that those of us in the classroom on a daily basis have known this for years. But nothing wrong with a little scientific validation.

This is why my son’s affinity for books thrills me. Just imagine how much more he will love books when he can actually read the words.

Real friends are mean as hell.

I missed the Patriots home opener against the Jets on Thursday night because of a poorly timed Open House at my school. It was the first home opener that I’ve missed in at least six years, and the first Patriots-Jets game that I’ve missed in the last ten years.

While I was shaking parents’ hands and reminding students that behavioral expectations do not cease to exist after the sun has gone down, my fellow Patriots season ticket holders and closest friends were texting me photographs from their tailgate party and inside the stadium.

Along with these photos, I received messages like:

Game day, baby! Wahoooooooo!

Ice cream in the parking lot!

Best day of the year!

Don’t you just love the home opener?

   

Missing the game was hard for me. I know that sounds silly. It was just another football game. I’ve attended many, many games over the years, so missing one shouldn’t be a big deal. But this is something I look forward to every year. Not only do I love my hometown football team and despise the New York Jets with every fiber of my being, but I love the time that I spend with my friends on game day just as much.

These are always special, memorable days for me. 

As a result, I was legitimately sad on Thursday night.

My friends knew this, and yet they still taunted me throughout the evening, reveling openly in their gridiron joy while I smiled and nodded and made small talk with parents back home. 

It was mean. It was at least a little cruel.

I expected nothing less from them.

I showed the photos and texts to one of the parents who I know well, and she found their cruelty appalling. She questioned their level of compassion, and she suggested that I find myself some new friends.

She doesn’t understand. This is what friends do.

At least this is what my friends do.

I suspect that this is what only the closest and best of friends do.

Had our roles been reversed, I would’ve done exactly the same thing. In fact, I probably would’ve been even crueler than my friends, sending photos and texts in much greater quantities and perhaps staging or even doctoring some impossible, once-in-a-lifetime shot just to rub it in a little more. 

Politeness, gentleness and kindness are excellent and advisable ways of treating acquaintances, colleagues and those tertiary friends to whom you can’t be honest and direct. The kind of friend you have and enjoy but don’t necessarily need. 

But the closest of friendships, the most essential of friendships, at least for me, often resemble a sibling relationship, and the best of kind of sibling relationship invariably contains a healthy dose of honesty and cruelty.

My closest and best friends are almost impossible to offend. They are men and women who not only accept me for who I am but want me for who I am. These are the friends who do not require and do not expect caution, deference or unnecessary platitudes from me. They are friends to whom I can always be honest, and I expect nothing less in return . I can say exactly what’s on my mind, without thought or concern about measuring my words or calculating my opinions.

They may judge me, but they will still love me.

These are friends who can be cruel and callous with my feelings (as I can be with theirs), because there is no question of the love that we share.

I explained to this parent that if I needed to be gentle and polite with my friends or they with me, I would question our level of friendship. Artificial pleasantries and culturally-imposed caution should never be a requirement of a truly great friendship. My closest friendships are raw, honest, direct, sharp, unfettered and often filled with one-sided laughs. 

There were many one-sided laughs on Thursday night as my friends celebrated the opening night festivities and a hard-fought Patriots victory. They made sure that I knew all that I was missing.

I returned to my home after Open House and watched the game on a twelve year-old television. It was a little sad and a little lonely. I thought about my friends, sitting in the stands, cheering on our team, and I missed them.

But it also gave me plenty of time to plot my revenge.

If my plan works, the next series of one-sided laughs will be mine.

Frightening fathers everywhere

As the father of a four year-old daughter, this scares the hell out of me.

I applied AGAIN to BeautifulPeople.com, a social network for only the most beautiful of people. Here are the results of the voting.

As promised, I attempted to gain access to BeautifulPeople.com over the Labor Day weekend, hoping that the members of the social network feel slightly more charitable than the last time I tried to join.

BeautifulPeople was originally launched as a dating site that billed itself as “an exclusively beautiful community.” It recently added an employment feature on the website intended for employers who want to hire “good-looking staff.”

To be granted entry to BeautifulPeople, individuals must submit a headshot that is voted upon by existing members of the opposite sex. If one is deemed beautiful enough to gain entry – a process the company claims is “fair and democratic” – not only will you “have access to the most attractive people locally and from around the globe,” but job seekers will also be able to look through the site’s job listings, apply directly to companies and network with other presumably “beautiful” people.

After uploading my headshot, I began the 48 hour process in which women who are already members of the social network voted on my level of  attractiveness.   

The voting is fairly transparent. At any time, you can see how you are faring on the attractiveness scale, as well as your current IN/OUT standing.

Things did not start out well. Less than three minutes into the voting, I was already out, which was a dramatic change from the first time I applied. Almost instantly, women who I had never met found me unworthy.

Needless to say, I was discouraged and feeling stupid for trying this thing again.

Ten minutes later, I was feeling even worse, both because I was desperate enough to hit refresh after only 10 minutes and because my In/Out status was looking even worse. My status plummeted to levels that I’d never seen during my first attempt, and the number of women who clearly felt that I was not beautiful had soared.

I began to lose hope.

When I awoke the next morning, I braced myself for disappointment and grudgingly checked my status again. Surprisingly, I was greeted with excellent news. Not only had my score increased considerably, but I was in! Not too many members of BeautifulPeople.com considered me beautiful, but a whole bunch thought of me as “Hmmm… OK.”

I could live with “Hmmm, OK.” I could easily leave this.

This is probably how my wife would describe me.

Six hours later my status had dipped a bit, but I was still in. Like the first time I applied to this social network, my status continued to hover on the line between In and Out, but as long as I remained In, I didn’t mind.

I didn’t need a slam-dunk. I didn’t want absolute beauty. Just acceptance.

Four hours later, my status has soared.

Not really, but it felt as if it had soared. Every millimeter to the right of center felt like a mile. I was nearing the halfway point of my voting period and the ladies clearly felt that I was solidly “Hmmm… OK.”

It was thrilling.

It was nine hours before I could check my status again. As I clicked the refresh button, I crossed my fingers, hoping for anything above the In/Out line. A micrometer would do.

Unfortunately, the micrometer was on the wrong side of center. I was out. It was by the barest of margins, but I was definitively out. Even worse, my “Absolutely not” ratings had soared.

A significant number of women were unable to find my physical appearance even mildly palatable.

All hope was lost.

Three hours later, I refreshed my status, not expecting to find anything good but knowing that I would need screen shots to write this post.

Just like that, Hope was restored! I was in, by the slimmest of margins yet again, but this fight was not over. Women all over the world were rising up and saying, “He’s… hmmm, OK, damn it! Let him in!”

I couldn’t believe it.

Three hours later, my status had risen considerable. Three-quarters of the way through my voting period and with an afternoon and evening of Labor Day left for voting, I was clearly, undeniably beautiful. If my plan was working, all of these female voters were spending the last day of their holiday weekend at beaches, picnics and backyard barbeques. None of them would have the time nor the inclination to log into their network and vote on candidates like me.

My entry into this network would be all but assured.

Just before leaving for my own backyard barbeque, I refreshed my browser one more time. My status was holding strong. Things were looking good. I left my home with hope in my heart and visions of beauty in my mind.

I returned home with less than two hours remaining in the voting and refreshed. Hope was instantly replaced by despair. Though the women who were voting on me were verifiably beautiful (at least by their social network standards), none of them had apparently been invited to any social gatherings for Labor Day. Voting had continued while I was eating hot dogs and swapping stories with friends, and it had not gone well. I was once again out, hovering around the center of the status bar.

I also noticed that I was receiving considerably fewer “Beautiful” ratings than my last attempt to gain access to the network. This was turning into a battle between women who thought I was not beautiful and women who thought I was marginally acceptable.

This was not good.

With less than an hour to go, I was still out and hope was fading fast. There were nearly as many “Absolutely Not” ratings than anything else. Even though I was still hovering near the center of the status bar, I felt like my goose was cooked.

It was.

When the voting ended, my beauty was clearly to the left of the status bar. In the end, there had been more “Hmmm…OK” voters than “Absolutely Not” voters, but barely.

In the minds of the BeautifulPeople.com voters, I was either grudgingly acceptable or absolutely not beautiful.

Once again, I received an exceedingly pleasant and encouraging email from BeautifulPeople.com, reminding me again that the reasons for my failure could include:

Wearing Sunglasses on the application photo
More than one person on the photo
Bad quality photo
Lack of profile description

Once again, none of these were the case for me. I suspect the real reason that I did not gain entry is because of my actual physical appearance.

I’ve failed twice to gain entry to BeautfulPeople.com. Both times I have flirted with success but ultimately failed. I was hoping that timing might make a difference this time. Labor Day weekend is a time when people feel happy and good, and I had hoped to benefit from some of those positive feelings.

I had hoped to find a more charitable audience. Alas, that was not the case. Though the course of the voting had been slightly different, the end result was nearly identical.

I am not beautiful. I must accept this.

Until Christmas. Christmas is the time when people are feeling the most charitable. Christmas is a time of good cheer and generosity. Christmas is a time when marginally acceptable looking people can become Hmmm, OK.  

That’s when I’ll apply to BeautifulPeople.com again. I’ll post my application just after midnight on the day of Christmas Eve. Voting will take place from December 24 through December 25, and on midnight of Christmas Day, I should receive one extra, unexpected, glorious gift.

The gift of confirmed, verifiable, undeniable beauty.

Christmas, my friends. That is when I will be beautiful.

I saved my life for the sake of my children.

I can’t remember who sent this to me, but I couldn’t agree more.

I weighed 255 pounds when my wife got pregnant with our daughter in 2008. After finding out that we were going to have a baby, I almost immediately began an “eat a little less, exercise a little more” regime that included regular trips to the gym, push-ups and sit-ups at home and calorie counting via an iPhone app until I was able to count calories with the expertise of a nutritionist.

Since that day in 2008, I have lost more than 60 pounds.

I was an idiot to wait as long as I did to get fit. From the ages of 30-35, I gained the weight through a series of poor dietary decisions which included an affection for candy bars and a switch from Diet Coke to apple juice. Once I finally committed myself to living a healthier lifestyle, I discovered that it wasn’t all that difficult. “Eat a little less, exercise a little more” works, and if you are patient, it is not hard. 

Most important, I had a reason to lose the weight.

I didn’t try to lose weight to improve my appearance. I didn’t do it to feel better or increase my athletic performance. 

I did it to save my life. To save my life for the sake of my children.

This photograph is a freakin’ horror show

Mental Floss ‘s 11 Fashions the Kids Were Wearing Back in 1993 is full of amusing and nostalgic images of fashion from 20 years ago, but one imagine in particular is unbelievable.

The cast of the hit television show 90210 in mom jeans.

I understand that every generation looks back and wonders what the hell the previous generation was thinking in terms of fashion, but mom jeans hold a unique and particularly horrifying position in the fashion.

High-waisted, astoundingly bunchy in the front, tight in the back and unflattering in every way possible, there is simply no explanation for the existence of this garment. And there is especially no explanation for why young, fit, good looking people would want to year a pair of jeans with enough additional material in front to hide a small baby or several cans of dog food.

In fact, the actors in this photo seem specifically posed in order to accentuate the horrifying nature of the jeans, with hands stuffed in pockets, hands resting on the jeans of fellow cast members, and the arms of two men wrapped nearly around their partner’s chests because of the high-waisted nature of the jeans.

Perhaps I’m generationally biased, except that I’m not. My Spuds Mackenzie tee-shirt and boat shoes without socks looked stupid, but mom jeans take fashion stupidity to a whole new level.

Moth Radio Hour appearance!

Exciting news! One of the stories that I told onstage for The Moth’s GrandSLAM championship last year has been chosen for The Moth Radio Hour this week. It will be airing on over 250 stations nationwide from Wednesday through Sunday.

The show will be airing in the Hartford area on WNPR at 9:00 PM on Sunday.

It’ll be airing in New York City on 93.9 WNYC on Wednesday night at 8pm, Saturday at 2pm, and then on WNYC’s AM station, 820, on Saturday at 7pm.

It will be airing in Los Angeles on KPCC Sunday at 11am, on Chicago Public Radio Saturday at 2pm, and on WBUR and WGBH in Boston on Thursday at 9pm, and Saturday at 2pm, respectively.

If you are in a market not mention, click here to see if it’s airing in a city or town near you.

You can also listen to the episode online as well on The Moth Radio Hour website.

Just as exciting, this episode of The Moth’s Radio Hour will also be featured as The Moth’s weekly podcast, which is how I was first introduced to The Moth and live storytelling three years ago. The Moth podcast has more than 70,000 subscribers and is downloaded more than a million times each month. If you’re not already listening, I can’t recommend it enough.

You can download the episode featuring my story starting on Tuesday from iTunes or whatever service you use to listen to your podcasts.