STRANGER THAN FICTION: WHERE'S A SNAPPY ANSWER WHEN YOU NEED ONE?

What ever happened to the word "nice?"

Once upon a time, being nice was a good thing. If you were selling a blind date to a friend, you'd tell her he had a "nice personality." If you were trying to break up with someone gently, you'd tell him he was nice, but really not your type.

Now the word makes people groan. There are phrases like "nice guys finish last." A nice girl is one who sits at home doing needlepoint on Saturday nights instead of getting out and having a good time.

The word even sounds funny. Go ahead, say it a few times loudly. Never mind your family's shocked stares or the men in white suits. NICE, NICE, NICE!

Having said that, I'd like to admit something. My name is Heidi, and I'm a nice person.

Lord knows I've tried to shake the image. I've written news stories about lesbian mothers accused of witchcraft and child abuse and waited for The Enquirer to offer me a job. I've put the phone down while people ranted and raved about my lack of professionalism and just waited for the noise to stop so I could say "bye" and hang up.

But nobody seems to notice. An ex-boyfriend used to call me at work to chat, never seeming to determine the difference between a person sitting at home with nothing to do and one at work with a covered desk. He called one time, and I covered the receiver and told my buddy Sandy, "It's Jon again. Watch this. I'll get rid of him."

To everything Jon said, I replied with a disinterested "uh-huh." When the conversation lulled, I didn't fill in the gap.

He finally hung up. I looked at Sandy triumphantly, waiting for her approval.

"You sounded as interested as ever," she said.

Argh!

This same inability to tell people off has left me standing there sputtering after every insult. Someone calls me "Jolly Green Giant" and I just stand there. The best comeback I ever developed was "OH, YEAH?!?!"

Of course, the perfect reply comes to me while I'm in my car, driving away from the encounter. Turning around, going back to the person and saying, "What's it to you, Sprout?" never seems like a good option.

But you who have taken advantage of my good nature better watch out. I'm a smart-aleck in training, learning from the best there is.

His name is A.B. He carries a wit.

A.B. is my idol. He was teaching his nephew to skip rocks the other day and a woman accused him of trying to hit some ducks. He told her that just because she had one foot in the grave doesn't mean young people shouldn't be able to have a good time without her interference.

When A.B. asked for a refill on his drink and the waitress angrily snatched the glass out of his hand, A.B. reminded her that he didn't ask for "a side order of attitude."

Now A.B. is giving me step-by-step lessons on how to be more like him. Here's how they go:

STEP 1: I get insulted.

STEP 2: I stand there sputtering and stammering until the rude person walks away shaking her head.

STEP 3: I call A.B. and tell him exactly how the conversation went.

STEP 4: A.B. tells me what he would have said.

STEP 5: I get insulted again. Repeat steps one through five.

Using this method, A.B. hopes I'll be able to stand up for myself in case somebody walks up and says, "Whoa! You're bigger than the Statue of Liberty!"

OH, YEAH!

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.