When I moved to New York, the first thing I learned was the etiquette of tipping. In this grand metropolis, the ritual of greasing the palm is practically an art form.

Now, I've always been a very generous tipper, especially if someone is busting their hump to provide good service. Having worked as a waitress all through my teenage and college years, I know how much a good tip means. 20% is a given unless the service stinks and sometimes, I'll tip 25-30% if the service is really good. I don't have a problem with tipping to reward deserving folks. What does bother me are the strange rituals associated with tipping here, especially blatant during the holidays.

This practice first became apparent when I went to the hair salon. During one's tenure there, you are interacting with multiple people, all whom have a specific purpose: one washes your hair, one does only hair color, another one does only hair cuts or styling. You are expected to tip each one separately. So if your bill is $110, you're tipping the colorist $15, the stylist $15 and the shampoo person $5. And it's a cash only practice; there's no adding the tip onto a credit card. It took me awhile, but I got used to it.

When my Orkin man Don Pierre comes for his quarterly visits, I might slip him a $20 to insure he keeps those nasty cockroaches at bay. If the building porter helps me schlep some boxes, there will be a ten spot in his future. When the Fresh Direct delivery man comes, he'll get a few clams for his trouble. But this is during the year. During the holidays, this whole dynamic changes.

At this time of year, for those who have provided you some consistent service throughout the year, you need to acknowledge them in cold hard cash . For example: when I went to get my hair done last week, I doubled what I usually tip the trio of my salon regulars (and yes, a little extra to Darleesh because of the head massages). When I went to the nail salon, I took a gift basket for the owner and tripled the tip to Ruta, the girl who does my pedicures (as an aside, she's going back to Nepal to see her family for two months which has left me in a partial state of distress that she won't return). The mailman gets little taste. Mike at the dry cleaners. Enrique, the nice kid from the diner who always delivers my take out in record time, even in lousy weather. Even Don Pierre called to see if he could come by. 'Tis the season.

The biggest hoohaw of this ritual involves the apartment building I live in. The scene is set when a holiday card in stuck under your door. All the building staff, cited by their job responsibilities, send you holiday greetings. A few days later, a flyer titled "Holiday Tipping Guide" is slid under the door. Then, the last less than subtle hint appears in the guise of an invitation for the building residents to attend the staff holiday party. You are not being invited to raise a glass. You are being invited to dole out the largess. And in truth, you should.

The pecking order starts with the superintendent of the building. He's like the Great and Mighty Oz, lurking in his apartment and delegating tasks to the minions. He always gets the most because he's the big cheese. Also, I'm already thinking about the remodeling of my bathrooms that I'd like to start next month and if he's appeased, he will clear the way for the contractors and permits.

Then the doorman get a chunk. This building provides 24 hour doorman service and we have four doorman. My favorites, Raymond and Juan, are wonderful so I wanted to tip them a little extra, but I'm also mindful of the fact that doorman talk to one another, so I'll tip the same extra to all of them. This is a curious society: Doorman know all your secrets. They've seen you stumble in when you've been out too late. They are the souls of discretion...providing you remember them at the Yuletide. I've heard horror stories of spurned doormen. Suddenly, your deliveries don't show up anymore. The Chinese food you ordered never arrives. No one knows what happened to your dry cleaning. That's all I needed to know. Those hands that open the door for me everyday shall be generously crossed with green.

The next group are the porters. These are the fellows who haul the trash and the recycling and keep the joint looking tidy. They earn the tip, if only because it means I will never have to put the trash out on the street every Wednesday night myself. There are four of them.

Then there are the handymen. I've never actually used one here, but again, I may need to in the next few months since I intend to install new lighting fixtures and well, I was never handy with turn of the century electrical wiring. So they'll get a nice bit of change--call it insurance. There are three of them.

So yesterday I went to the bank and requested a large chunk of cash, all in 50 dollar bills, please. The teller didn't flinch a bit. She found the nicest crisp bills in her drawer and doled them out methodically. "Must be your building tips, " she said, sighing a little, "everyone wants fifty dollar bills. We're running short!"

What a racket.