Model the behavior you seek in others – or just give up and laugh

If you don’t have something nice to say about someone, come sit by me.

People tend to get worked up, or concerned, about behavior they themselves exhibit. How many times have you heard a friend yell at her son for interrupting and fought the urge to say,

“Bitch, do you hear yourself during our conversations? I can’t get more than a word in edgewise.”

Unfortunately, people don’t hear themselves. They aren’t aware that their personality, along with that bikini and ass, cause other people to seek psychiatric help. They focus on you and me instead. They complain about attributes in friends without ever realizing they are describing themselves.

I wish they’d take to heart what Husband often says, “When you point a finger at someone else, there’s three left pointing right back at you.”

Recently, I’ve heard complaints about family members and their tendency to gossip. The same people who get giddy over an aunt’s arrest or sibling’s *five* grammatical errors in an email, get annoyed when they are the subject of such scrutiny.

“Why do you tell stories?” they ask. “I heard you were even talking about me the other day. Why is my wife’s interior decorating skills, or lack thereof, concerning you? Why is everyone so goddamn interested in color schemes?”

“In short,” I replied, “we gossip because that’s what families do.”

Perhaps we shouldn’t. Maybe we ought to know better. But there it is. The love is still there, but when we gather together over the phone or in person, with or without wine, opinions and secrets spill. This causes some to get paranoid and keep everything to themselves. No worries, we’ll talk about that.

Don’t pretend to be surprised or appalled, especially after telling some whoppers of your own.

In other words, if you bring it to the table, be prepared to eat.

I cannot think of a single person who can say they haven’t discussed sensitive information, at one point or another, with members of their family. Can you? Just because we share the same bloodstream, do I have any business knowing who gets arrested, who gets herpes, and who gets audited?

And yet I know.

Why?

Because what the hell else are we going to talk about at reunions? Lost?

In return for this indulgence to talk shit about people I love, I don’t lecture or act indignant when they find something in my writing or behavior to gossip about. And even though I no longer write about politics or post pictures of myself in a bikini or get drunk and throw things, rest assured, they always find something.

And guaranteed it’s usually something I learned from them.

But these are the same people who would give me a kidney if I needed it, so I try not to judge.

Yes, here I sit, typing this post, reveling in a superior moment, high upon a pedestal, when it occurs to me: I’m no different.

One of my favorite stories involving one of my favorite people: A few years back, Ariana came up from Palm Bay with her husband Joe to hang out with us before we left for Colorado Springs. My sister was also in town with her five month-old baby. During one of his naps, she would occasionally remind us to keep our voices down.

After a few minutes, I walked outside and joined Ariana and my mom by the pool.

“Can you believe Ms. Uptight in there? She’s having a stroke because people are making noise – at a party. Why does her little angel need a nap anyway? I’d love to hold him some more.” I chuckled and sipped my cosmopolitan. So smug.

Ariana almost spit hers out.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked. “I seem to remember a new mommy visiting us a few years back with twin babies. After they finally fell asleep, you asked us to turn down the television, which was already on Mute, and later asked me to put a pillow over Joe’s face to muffle his snoring. I couldn’t even do the dishes because you turned off all the lights.”

I felt my face grow red.

“Please. Get over yourself.” My mother chimed in. “You yelled at your brother once for walking through the house during nap time with noisy ankles.”

I drank the rest of my cosmo in one gulp. “So this is what sheepish feels like?”

I didn’t get mad. People who aren’t afraid to be honest with my sanctimonious ass are worth their weight in gold. I was just glad they didn’t call me a bitch. I *hate* it when people do that.

So there you have it. I’m as bad as you. Feel free to pass this around at the next barbecue.