Can somebody tell me something? What's the statute of limitations on 'Happy new year!', anyway?


I mean, that's all I've been hearing from people at work for the past week -- it's 'Happy new year!' this, and 'Happy new year!' that... 'Happy new year -- you're back!' 'Happy new year -- it's lunchtime!' 'Happy new year -- let's dance the watusi!' Blah, blah, blah.


Now, maybe I'm just grouchy at being back in the office -- okay, probably I'm just grouchy at being back -- but I'm done with the whole 'new year' thing. Honestly, people -- today is the eighth of January. The frigging eighth. It's done. Get over it, for chrissakes. Here's how it ought to work:


New Year's morning, early: Say it all you want. Tattoo 'Happy new year!' across your fricking nipples, if you want. This is your prime chance, all year, to get it out of your system. Say it loud, say it strong, say it while choking up champagne bubbles -- it's all good, for the first few hours after midnight.


New Year's Day, midday: Sure, you can still greet people with 'Happy new year!'... but what are you doing awake in the middle of the day, anyway? Don't be a douchebag -- you were up until four in the morning, and you started drinking at noon on New Year's Eve. And if you weren't, then all that cheerful bullshit is gonna annoy the piss out of those of us who were. Go the hell back to bed.


New Year's evening: Okay, we've all recovered by this point, so have at it. 'Happy new year!' yourself silly. Tell your family, and your friends. Shout it to your waiter, your bartendress, and your bus driver. Greet your hooker with it. Go nuts. It's still New Year's Day. You're good.


January 2nd: On the second, you get a free pass. You may not have had time to see everyone you know in one day -- especially since you likely spent much of it trying to keep your pounding head from exploding -- so you're free to whip out a 'Happy new year!' or two on the day after. Just don't be so goddamned cheery about it, all right? Some people have already moved on; don't piss them off so early in the year.


January 3rd: Now, normally, I'd say that the second is it. Finito. Done. But okay, once every seven or eight years, New Year's Day falls on a Saturday, so you may not see some of your homies until you get back to work on Monday. Fine. I can manage to be magnanimous once or twice a decade, so if the holiday falls on a Saturday, then you get Monday to be all giddy over the calendar turn, too. Part of Monday. Like, morning. By two, three in the afternoon, you're done. Wait till next year.


January 4th: No way. This shit is right out. If you didn't bother to seek someone out over the weekend, and didn't talk to them on Monday, then don't get all stupid and pretend that you're happy to see them with a big 'Happy new year!' when you finally deign to speak to them on the fourth. Don't even try. The year is already more than one percent over -- one full percent, dammit -- by this point. Find something else to yak about for the next three hundred and sixty-one days. Damn.


So, there it is. My view of when the 'new year' isn't news-worthily 'new' any more. Three days, max. And I know I'm gonna be hearing that shit for another week, at least. There'll probably be some part-time boobjob in the office, or wandering around the neighborhood, that I won't run into for a few weeks, and I'll be hearing that shit in fricking February. You'd think some of these people had never seen the calendar turn before. Humbug.

Social interaction used to be so much easier.


I remember the good old days, when not making an ass of yourself in public was simple. So long as your socks were matched and your fly was zipped, you could make up the rest as you went along. There was no real need to follow, or even learn, the sundry rules of polite society.


My, how things have changed. Social conventions have evolved, international customs have mingled, and we've all become more sensitive to respecting the culture and traditions and the sometimes irrational preconceptions of others. Venturing out into social situations has become a veritable minefield for clumsy knuckleheads like me; a wealth of opportunities to stick my foot in my mouth, take the wind out of my sails, and wonder why everyone's laughing at me when I made sure my zipper was up just a few minutes ago. For those of you who share my crippling social ineptitudes, you'll recognize these:


Five Common Social Pitfalls for the Modern Chowderhead

1. Committing a 'Fork Foul'


To be fair, using the wrong utensil is a long-standing anxiety among us boneheads. But back in the day, there was a fork for dinner, and a fork for salad, and that was it. If you could correctly identify a dessert spoon -- and refrain from cutting your steak with your butter knife -- you had it made.


But now foods have gotten all fancy. It's not 'dinner' any more; it's 'cuisine'. And with each wacko new dish or course comes a piping hot fresh new silverware hell. Is that long skinny spoon for the gelatto, or the iced tea? Do I use the fat fork to help myself to the asparagus, or to mortally wound the oysters? If there really is a fly in my soup, am I allowed to fight it with the crab mallet? These are now questions I'm equipped to answer.


2. "I'll Take 'Country of Origin' for $200, Alex"


Here's a handy rule of thumb: if you don't know for certain which nation one of your companions hails from, don't guess. Not under any circumstances. It can't possibly turn out well. Most likely, you'll choose the wrong country and look like an ass. If you think someone is Korean, then they're probably from Viet Nam. If you say Vietnamese, they're likely Japanese. If you guess Japanese, and they are Japanese, they'll still say they're from Hong Kong, just to screw with your head. You deserved that.


As a corollary, there's no culturally sensitive way to ask whether someone's Indian as in 'from India', or Indian as in 'misnamed as a collective group of people four hundred years ago by some drunken European fool who meant to take a left at Hispaniola'. It's not possible. Don't go there.


3. Improper Handshake Teqhnique


The problem with handshakes is that there are so many ways they can go wrong. I've heard people say that they can judge the character of a person by the way they shake hands.


I call bullshit.


Personally, I find that I need to decipher all I can about a person's makeup before I shake hands, to properly prepare. Am I faced with a grim, old-school gent who'll shake firm and quickly, or is it one of those touchy-feely 'long-shaker' types? If it's a woman, do I 'shake soft', or does she seem to want the real deal? Is that kid going to squeeze the hell out of my hand to prove himself, or is he still young and fragile and a cracked metacarpal lawsuit just waiting to happen?


And don't even get me started about trying to accurately predict chest bumps, forearm slaps, and fist knocks -- top, bottom, or knuckles ahead. By the time I finally get to the shaking-hands part, I'm so frazzled I'm likely to either shake like a limp wet tuna, or go nuts and kiss the person on the lips. Which can be awfully embarrassing. Mental note for future reference -- no more tongue for the in-laws. Maybe I should just wave from afar.


4. "Da, I Sprechen ze Douche"


If you're like me, you enjoy being exposed to other cultures and customs. You might even like to get involved, to 'do as the Romans' once in a while. Possibly, you'd go so far as to pick up a few phrases in the native tongue, and try speaking them to your foreign-speaking friends.


That couldn't be a worse idea if it involved a cheese grater and a bathtub full of rubbing alcohol. And depending on what you say, and how atrocious your pronunciation, it just might.


Don't get me wrong -- if you want to learn another language, more power to you. Immerse yourself, buy a translation dictionary, and go to it. But remember that a little information is a dangerous thing. Like learning how 'Hello, friend!' is said in another language, and not realizing how it translates to 'Suck toes, granny-humper!' if you forget to roll your R's. Just don't be surprised when they pull out that cheese grater.


5. The European-Style *kiss kiss* Greeting


Finally, the ultimate bane for those of us who are neither worldly nor agile. A guy like me doesn't have many 'fancy' female friends -- but once in a while, we encounter a lady who expects a peck on each cheek. For her, it's a simple, everyday procedure. For us, it's a bewildering and complex dance, as likely to injure as it is to embarrass. There are so many ways it can go wrong.


First, there's the lunge. Do you go for the left cheek first, or the right? Should you bob in one direction, then weave back to the other? I've yet to find a reliable solution. And if you zig while the girl zags, then you either catch her full on the mouth with a wet smackeroo, or you find yourself with your lips crammed in some woman's ear. Depending on the lady, one or both of those situations may turn out to be rather unpleasant.


Assuming you make your way unimpeded to your intended cheek, what do you do then? Some women want actual contact over there, while others content themselves with 'air kisses'. And if you thought reading a handshaker was hard, just try predicting in advance what a girl wants you to do involving your mouth and her face. I get served more restraining orders that way. At least the in-laws seem to like it.

I'm having a problem with an 'aggressive greeter'. That's one of those people that makes a point of saying 'hello', regardless of your obvious attempts to ignore them completely. This forces you to grudgingly return the greeting, or else continue failing to acknowledge the person's existence, and feel like an asshole about it later. And I don't like being forced into difficult decisions like that, dammit. How rude.


Here's what's been happening:


There's a store I go to a couple of times a week. What type of store isn't important -- maybe it's a convenience store, or a boobie bar, or liquor barn of some kind. Possibly, it's a pet store where I swallow my pride and take the mutt for 'doggy daycare' twice a week. You'd never get me to admit that, but it's theoretically possible that's the store in question.


Now, my routine in this particular establishment is simple. Get in, do my thing, and get out. It's not a social call; I haven't stopped by for a heart-to-heart over a cup of joe and a quilting bee. I've got shit to do, and ninety percent of that shit is outside the store, dig?


Besides, I'm only in this store at two times of day -- in the morning, when I'm grumpily on my way to the office to nap, and after work, when all I really want is to get home and start shooting tequila. Either way, extra minutes spent in the store is time stolen away from what I'd rather be doing. So I tend to focus on getting in and out without a lot of fuss.


I should also mention that these trips don't require a trip to the cash register. The actual monetary transactions are taken care of outside the scope of these visits, so there's no need to interact with the staff behind the counter. At all.


And yet.


Every morning I walk into the store, scurrying head down and blinker-eyed to my destination. Past the displays up front, past the first few rows of shelves, and past... the checkout counter.


'HELLO, THERE!'


Every day. Like clockwork. There are at least a dozen people that work shifts in this store, but one woman in particular is there every single morning, afternoon, or evening I walk in. I can switch days I show up -- doesn't matter. I can go early, later, just before closing, whenever. She'll be there. Perky and smiling and forcing her chirpy salutations down my throat.


'GOOD MORNING!'


'HEY, I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T GOING TO MAKE IT TODAY!'


'HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU, IS IT? HIYA!'


Some days I want to stuff her full of kibble and feed her to a pack of dingoes.


Now, I know she means well. She's just one of those cheerful, outgoing, perpetually perky sorts of people. The kind that remind the rest of us why we live far, far away from Katie Couric and Mary Lou Retton, and why it wouldn't be safe to own heavy blunt instruments if we did.


I just don't like being manipulated into interpersonal interactions, is all. I mean, just look at me. I have the social skills of a lobotomized poo-flinging rhesus monkey. Why force me into uncomfortable situations that can only end in tears, hurt feelings, and smashed Snausages? I don't get it.


I do my duty, though. When the lady greets me -- from thirty or more feet away, and far out of eye contact -- I sigh, choke back a 'Curses! Foiled again!' expression, and say hello. It's the only reasonable, neighborly thing to do. Could I walk by, pretending the greeting were never delivered and ignoring her completely?


Maybe.


But could I ignore her words, and sleep at night without the nightmares of an angry unrequited 'hello' haunting my dreams? I think not.


Still, it's maddening. It's a little game I play -- Is she out today? Could she be on break? Will she miss me altogether? But I never win. And I'm never going to win -- this woman's there for the long haul. I can see that.


So, I'll have to change my strategy. Trying to walk by her isn't working; I need a way to distract her from her mission. Maybe I could dump Cat Chow in the floor, and slip by while she's cleaning it up. Or add catnip to the ventilation system, to angry up the felines. Start a fire in the gerbil Gymboree, maybe? Seems iffy.


I suppose I'll just do what I've done every time so far. I'll walk in, take my 'HOW ARE YA?!' like a man, and get the hell out of there. After all, how else could you deal with one of these 'aggressive greeters'? They're diabolical!