Etiquette of a cookie swap

I went to a cookie exchange in mid-December.  This is the only time in recent memory that I've done such a thing.  

Also the world's biggest Christmas present showed up in my house this year.

Step one is to decide what kind of cookies to bake/bring.  

Chocolate chip cookies are a crowd winner, but not very Christmasy.  This is a Christmas event, so the cookies should be seasonal.  Plus, the point is to exchange and end up with a variety, so it should be something unique and interesting.  Snowballs (aka Italian wedding cookies, Mexican tea cakes, Russian tea cake, butterballs, jumble...) are a natural choice as they're a favorite of mine, not too finicky, and delicious, since I make them as my mother used to, with mini chocolate chips instead of the appalling international tradition of nuts {blech}.  

But Jason disparaged my cookie choice so contemptuously, and so earnestly insisted that "nobody likes snowballs," that I felt I must change my mind.  I ended up making marble cake cookies, which, although not necessarily seasonal, are unusual enough that not everyone has the recipe.

Buck's unceremonious ride home from the pet store just before Christmas, under cover of darkness.

When I arrived at the party with my cake cookies and was directed to the display table, what did I see front and center but -- snowball cookies.  Of course.  Because everyone in their right mind likes snowball cookies.

(Unless of course you abide by dreadful international tradition and put nuts in them, rather than the enlightened and corrected version with mini chocolate chips.  You're welcome, fellow cookie swappers, that I brought cake cookies with chocolate chips in them as a viable alternative to Russian wedding nut cakes.)

Happily, this was not a socialist cookie swap, where everyone would go home with an equal number of cookies regardless of how many they brought.  Here you got to take home the number of cookies equal to the number you brought (note to self: bring more cookies next time).   

All these cookie-related rules and regulations are straightforward and doable.  Much more complex, frightening, and fraught with uncertainty are the rules of engagement for human interaction.  Being the weird, unsocialized homeschooler that I am, I prefer to minimize human contact, keep Amazon Prime in business, and never leave my house.

So, armed with my exceedingly well-thought-out cookie box and a nervously winsome smile on my face, I entered the arena--er, party.

Upon crossing straight over to greet the hostess, I found myself in a group of six people:  besides myself; the hostess (whom I knew); and another friend of mine; there were an older lady, a teenager, and a woman roughly my own age, none of whom I recognized.

Nervously winsome smile frozen on my face, I experienced a moment of inward socially-induced panic.  

Have I met this person before and don't remember her?  Will someone else offer an introduction?  Should I stick out my hand and say my name?  Are the rules different when greeting a woman of another generation?  Should I just smile and join the conversation?

I was paralyzed.

Caleb:  never awkward, from his fuzzy wolf ears to his church loafers, and all the Paw Patrol pajamas in between.

Back when I used to have social skills (college), before homeschooling getting married effectively snuffed them out, along with most need of them; I used to habitually say, "Hi, I'm Mindy," while sticking out my hand to shake.  

But then The Art of Manliness made me question this habit in light of my femininity.  Egads!  Have I been coming across as manly all this time?  But then what should one do?  No wonder the guy who wrote the book on social awkwardness says that our generation is the most awkward in history.

This is why we long for Jane Austen-style choreographed social interaction.  Tell me when to stand, when to bow, and when to sip tea, and we'll all be ok.

The thing is, you get one chance to say "Hi, I'm ____" and offer a handshake.  If you neglect this social ceremony at the outset, you can't turn around after an entire conversation with people and then say, "Hi, I'm Mindy!"

Unless you're aiming to be the most socially awkward person in the room.  

Some of us get there without trying.

Others of us are naturally adorable and incontrovertibly charming!

Back to my moment of paralysis.  In this instance--as in many, sad to say--I did neglect the introductory ritual.  And I drove home after a lovely evening still not knowing whom I was talking to.

It reminds me of a terrible faux pas I committed in college (yes, at the height of my social skillfulness) that built so gradually and for so long that I didn't see a graceful way out of it.  

I had taken a very small, discussion-based world history class with maybe 15 students in it.  The next semester, I took a larger art history class, and on the first day, recognized a guy from the last class.  The recognition was mutual, and we sat together that day, making only small talk.  I knew I should remember his name from the world history class, but racking my brain through the hour of art slides, I couldn't come up with it, and none of his small talk jogged my memory.

The next class, as creatures of habit do, we sat in the same seats and chatted casually again.  And so on the next class, and the next, and the entire semester.

And I never did remember his name.  But eh, no matter, right?  Right.

Except then I ran into him on campus--as I had other times, but a wave, hello, and brief comment were sufficient to move on.  This time I was with my roommate...who expected an introduction.  

Blast.

I did my best.  "Oh, hi!  This is my roommate, _____."  And then I hoped and prayed that she would offer her hand and say, "Hi, I'm _______"; he would respond with "Hi, I'm _________" and all would be right.  

But they didn't.  And my dear roommate called me on it, actually asking me out loud, "What's his name?"  To which I gazed at the clouds and pretended I didn't hear her, until he finally offered his name and I feigned clumsiness:  "Oh yes, this is ________."  

And as soon as we walked away, she said, "You didn't know his name, did you?"  To which I wailed, "Noooo!!  And we sit next to each other every day in art history and he was in my history class last semester and we always say hi and I've never known his name auugghh!!"

The moral of this story is that you need to get people's names right away.  And if a slight acquaintance shows up on the first day of art history class, you need to immediately confess that you don't remember their name and ask for it again.

And then probably write it down.

But not on your art history notebook or he'll see it and it'll get even weirder.

If necessary, confess at the start of each class that you forgot it again.  Anything to avoid the terrible, terrible moment of truth outside the dining hall with your insistent roommate.  

[Thanks, Jess, for your part in a story that has actually caused me to break out in a cold sweat remembering it 18 years later.]

The ginormous present, unwrapped:  a chaise lounge that I've always wanted! 

And so, the next time I get a party invitation, I will either a) build a time machine and escape to Victorian England, where I will be taught how to make proper introductions and dance a minuet, or b) repeatedly visualize myself shaking hands and saying, "Hi, I'm Mindy" like an Olympic athlete.  After all, Emily Post does say, more or less, that handshakes are an appropriate form of greeting.

Because in lieu of actual rules of engagement in our anything-goes society, I suppose being upfront about not knowing someone's name, but caring enough to know it, is as good a strategy as any.

That, and bringing plenty of cookies.