It’s sometimes in the pile of materials on the desk that you may never look through?
Volunteer. The past few years I have spent a few hours a week helping at various non profits. My parents completely don’t get it and have told me I’m wasting my time. They are otherwise very nice people, so this is strange.
Thanks for all the replies…I didn’t know about tipping the maid til I read a “Dear Abby” or something on the topic a few years ago.
Granted, I think I’ve spent maybe three nights in a hotel room since I left home, so it’s not like I’ve been stiffing hordes of maids for a decade…
But when I was a kid we traveled frequently and I never once saw my parents tip the maid. The bellhop, yes. But not the maid. And we stayed in pretty nice places, too, and my dad is a mess. I feel bad for those maids, thinking about it.
I should also mention that my parents never taught me not to be racist; I learned “other viewpoints” from television and media. I knew they were prejudiced but I didn’t discover HOW prejudiced til I brought home a Hispanic boyfriend, and they completely, utterly lost it. Disowned me, the whole nine yards…
That guy and I broke up and they adore my current SO but I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face. It was eye-opening!
I always prop up the pillows and place 2-3 dollars on the pillow. That seems to be a pretty clear signal that it is intended for the maid. I have never come back and found the money sitting somewhere, so I am assuming they figured out my intent.
By the time I was born, my dad was very civilized in some respects, yet in others unfit to live amongst civilized folk. He was a strange combination of intellectual sophisticate and total dirtball. So we kind of picked up on the do’s and don’ts together as I grew up.
Don’t:
Throw fast-food trash out the window as you’re heading down the freeway
Urinate outdoors unless you’re camping
Go shirtless when meeting with your insurance agent
Pee with the bathroom door open
Nap on the couch while visiting the in-laws
Belch loudly at the conclusion of each meal
Say “Sheeeit” at the conclusion of a yawn. (“Yeeeaaaawwwwwshhheeeit”)
Answer a perfunctory “How are you?” with a description of your hemorrhoids
Spit honkers out the window of a car
Drop cigarette butts everywhere
Do:
Tip the pizza guy
Say “Could I have…” instead of “Gimme…” when ordering a meal
Turn the TV off when guests arrive
Offer guests something to drink
This was a man who had a keener grasp of economics, politics and history than most of my college professors.
I never learned how to socialize with my neighbors. We never lived in one place very long and so we never gained much closeness with them, but Mom in particular has never been particularly sociable to people outside her family.
As far as tipping maids goes: I was a chambermaid at a bed and breakfast for about six months in college. I was tipped once or twice that I remember and I cleaned a LOT of rooms. Not that it isn’t nice, I just don’t think it’s expected.
I come from a family of yellers – at least, we were growing up. (Three kids within three years of age.) Everything from DINNER! and TELEPHONE! to I’LL GET TO IT LATER, OKAY? and DON’T FORGET TO PACK THE THING! Not to mention the inter-sibling fighting. I went away to college and them came home and realized, holy cow, we are loud. Other families don’t communicate at the top of their voices all the time.
My mother pretty much allowed us to dress however the hell we wanted. I don’t think it was her allowing us to express our creativity, I think as long as we were covered, she was either too busy to care or just really didn’t care. Now my sister and I look at pictures of us from childhood – especially the early years of school pictures – and wonder how the hell she let us out of the house looking like that. We were raised without any idea that appearance meant anything. Slowly figuring out at the age of, oh, say twelve, that you look like a complete nimrod and other kids make fun of you – not fun. I’m not saying “appearance uber alles” or anything, but your kids should not look like refugess from Bozo’s School of Colorblind Homeless Clowns.
ETA: Oh! And my dad always spat his used chewing gum out an open car window, if he happened to be in the car, and so we did the same. I was in my early twenties and on a car trip with a friend when I rolled the window down and ptooie! spat my gum out. I turned back to her and saw a look of horrified surprise. She gently explained that a lot of people don’t do that, because it’s littering. And, y’know, graceful.
I was always taught that if you thank them in person when you open the gift you don’t have to write thank yous. Only if the gift was mailed or not opened at the time (like at weddings), you need to write a note.
My parents taught me stuff that they then didn’t practice - I was taught not to answer the phone at the damned dinner table unless, say, your mother is in the ICU, but now that he has a cell phone my dad will answer it at the table and then yammer on for ages on the thing. Not even try to keep it short. Argh!
I’m always really, really surprised at the people who grew up in a nonreligious household and start eating the minute food lands on the table without waiting to make sure nobody’s going to bust out with grace, or, say, a toast or something. I mean, sure, I did grow up saying grace, but when I’m a guest in somebody’s home I’m always hyper-aware not to be, you know, “first”, just in case I make a mistake or seem greedy.
I’ll be 32 two weeks from tomorrow. 1995 is the year I started college, so maybe you’re on to something. It wasn’t an alien concept when I was in high school, though; our HS classrooms had recycling bins for paper.
My parents never taught me to write thank-you notes for gifts.
So pull up behind the person (blocking them in) and get out and move the cart. You have effectively fined them in the time spent waiting on you. Make sure to give them a cheery thumbs up.
To the question, can’t think of anything my parents didn’t tell me about except maybe hotel maid tipping.
Now that I’ve thought about it, I’m totally wrong- I distinctly remember going with my mother to the local supermarket, which had bulk recycling bins in the parking area for glass. One for brown, one for green, and one for clear.
This was in the UK in about 1992.
The idea of having your recycling picked up was totally foreign to me until I moved to the States, though.
Oh shit! Oops. Sorry!
My mom never taught me to wash my hands after using the bathroom, either. She was obsessive about laying strips of toilet paper over the seat, though. I wash my hands now, but I never cover the seat.
We never ate “family style.” Mom carried filled plates to the table around which we were all seated, and we passed plates, the first one going to Dad. My husband embarrassed me terribly one time when we were at a restaurant with a group of people. We’d all ordered the same thing. I happened to be the first person served, and I passed the plate to my husband. He excoriated me in front of the waiter. Guess his mom never taught him that it’s rude to correct someone’s manners in public.
Even though I have curly/wavy (=bushy/frizzy) hair, I was raised to try to tame it with a brush and comb. I was in my forties before I finally discovered hair picks. My mother’s comment? “Only blacks use picks”. :rolleyes:
I didn’t learn to send thank you notes. I was expected to thank the giver on receiving a present, or the host(ess) at the conclusion of a party or other event. With that done, sending a note afterwards just seems unnecessary.