A Lady Doesn't

There are certain social structures in the South. For instance:  A Lady doesn't drink out of a bottle. That was pounded into me by my mother back when the bottles were Coca-Cola and root beer. She'd grab it out of my hand, pour its contents into a glass and hand it back to me saying, "A Lady doesn't drink out of a bottle."

When I was 18, my father gave me the first of many diamond earrings for Christmas. "A Lady doesn't buy her own jewelry," he instructed.

There's another one about how a Lady doesn't stand while she smokes. I don't know much about that one, but I've heard of it. Truthfully, I think it should be amended to  A Lady doesn't smoke.

And then there's my favorite one: A Lady doesn't pour her own drink.

This has less to do with a Lady's behavior than it does a man's. I learned it at my first kegger at the university. I stood in the back of the line for the keg. Some guy approached me, grabbed my red Dixie cup, pumped the keg and filled my plastic cup, blew off the foam and handed it back to me.

"A Lady doesn't pour her own drink," he smiled.

And that was that. I've never poured my own drink. I hand my bottles to the closest guy to open for me (and then promptly dump into a glass, mom). I'd hand my wine glass to the guy standing by the bottle and I push my pint glass towards the guy sitting by the pitcher. And they always refill me, no questions asked. Valdosta would monitor my glass and refill it on his own. When I'm out with South Carolina Bestie and her boyfriend, he pours my drink. I'm not going to lie; it's a nice little perk to being a Lady.

The other weekend at the lake house, Schmoozer was standing in the kitchen making himself a Red Bull and vodka. I was seated in the other room with a book in my lap.

"Make me one too?" I called.

"No," he said simply.

What? What is this behavior?

"A Lady doesn't make her own drink!" I gently reminded him. "It's a Southern thing."

"I'm not from the South!" he called back. "And you're not a Lady!"

I put my book down and padded into the kitchen and stood by him as he poured.

"You're seriously not going to put down another cup and do the exact same thing you're doing now?"

"Nope."

"You don't understand. Guys always pour the drinks. Even when I'm stinky and sweaty in my kickball team bar playing flip cup, boys always fill my cup." Even when Hot Douchebag told me he didn't like me as a person, he stilled poured my beer.

"No! You women preach gender equality and then you want things like doors opened for you and your drinks poured. If you want equality, you do it yourself! This is why you don't date!" He was laughing, but he was serious.

It's not equality. It's manners.

"But I've never had a Red Bull and vodka and I don't know what it's supposed to taste like."

"Here," He pushed the bottle and can towards me. "You'll figure it out."

And then I made myself the strongest, nastiest drink I've ever had and it knocked me into drunken oblivion for the rest of the night. Joke's on him though because he had to deal with my drunken Lady ass. He really would have been better off pouring me a proper drink with the proper amount of alcohol in it.

However, when it was time for drunken sandwiches, Swayze and Government Mule—who had been fetching me my drinks—got one and Schmoozer didn't. Because Ladies may not pour their own drinks, but they do make awesome sandwiches.

***

Last weekend I was out with South Carolina Bestie, her boyfriend and his friend. We were enjoying a really nice dinner in honor of the boyfriend's 30th birthday and big promotion. Boyfriend ordered an appetizer and several bottles of wine for the table, and when the bill came, he paid for them.

We teetered out of the restaurant and walked a block to the next location. It was Friday night in Midtown: the sidewalks were brimming with people spilling out of the bars. The boyfriend's friend turned around and located me maneuvering across the crosswalk. He then slowed his pace until I passed him. I knew what he was doing—it's a safer position for me to be in front of him than behind him. Just like how Ladies walk on the inside of sidewalks and men walk on the outside.

This is the Southern man. Silent, strong and protective.

At the bar I asked where the two boys had grown up. Sure enough, it was the South. And when I bought the first round of drinks to show a sign of appreciation to the boyfriend for buying all those bottles of wine, he asked for a three-dollar beer. The boyfriend's friend noted I bought the first round, and then bought my second round.

"Tell them about Schmoozer!" called South Carolina. She had received a long e-mail that week from me detailing all the ways in which Schmoozer had behaved lately that did not make him a gentleman. It ended with me being so annoyed that I canceled happy hour with him.

I recounted the non-drink. "When we were at your beach house, I made your drinks all weekend," noted the boyfriend.

"I know!"

"It's manners," said his friend.

"I KNOW!"

Another boy showed up to celebrate with the boyfriend. When I discovered he was from out of state and staying in a hotel, I bought him a round of three-dollar beer as well. It's Southern hospitality for our guests. As I slid the pint glass towards him, he looked at me. "It's supposed to be the other way around. I'm supposed to buy your drink,"  he said in all sincerity.

I whirled around and shot South Carolina a pointed look. She laughed. He had no idea about the previous conversation; he arrived after it transpired.

***

Saturday night I was out with Schmoozer's best friend and we headed to a party at Harvey's house. We stopped at the grocery store to buy courtesy beer to leave at the hostess' house. We rang up separately. As we exited the store, the BF reached his hand out. "Here, let me carry your beer for you."

"Where did you grow up?"

"West Virginia."

I rest my case.