Pssst. You gonna finish that?

No one has ever accused me of being classy, or refined, but I get by. I know which fork to use. I write thank-you notes in a timely fashion. I only scratch my butt and belch the National Anthem in the privacy of my own home. I have impeccable phone manners. I bathe, frequently, and use deodorant. I can pass, usually.

But occasionally some little remnant of my trailer-trash/urban poverty upbringing (I experienced both) will give me away. Someone will notice --at a black-tie function, invariably-- the half-inch of crud I neglected to clean out from under my fingernails, or that I'm wearing work boots. I've embarrassed more than one date with my habit of screaming advice to the protagonist on the movie screen, or even worse; on the stage at the opera (but c'mon, she should have stabbed him with that sword --two-timing baby-abandoning user-- right in front of his ugly American bitch). There's been the occasion when I've brought up inappropriate subject matter to people I barely know; Mother's cocaine addiction, how I'm having a painful, heavy period, my love of vintage porn, politics.

Or like the other night, at a five-star restaurant, a guest of G's Aunt in town on business, when I bit into what I thought was a complimentary piece of, I don't know...toast with some kind of Cracker Barrel meat spread on it (like I know from fois gras) and was so overwhelmed by how much it tasted like ass, I screeched "EEEeeeeewwwwwww!" into the packed room; loud enough to make every head in the place turn in my direction just as I was demurely spitting the foul duck-guts back onto the serving platter.

I tried to cover, of course. But the best thing I could come up with was to turn to his Aunt, mid-spew, and ask, "EEEEeeeeewwwww...enjoying your stay in New York so far?"

Yeah. Nobody bought it. But hey, I used the right fork.