I always feel a little itchy when there are too many rules in the room. You get the yips and shivers all at once. So, folks like me tend to love stories of people like Betty Wales who lost her job in the downturn:

Betty was, in fact, the receptionist, but she enjoyed a certain seniority at the magazine, having started as a receptionist for Condé Nast Publications in the 1940s, at Vogue, when that magazine was in the Graybar Building. Elegant, giggly and forever blond, Betty seemed to sense she could do whatever she felt like, and that included inventing her own Betty rules for the phone. If the caller was a woman, Betty would transfer her to the intended party. But if the caller was a man, every once in a while she’d put the phone down, or maybe press the hold button, if she could be bothered to remember the technology. Then she’d leave the reception desk to seek out whatever editorial assistant or associate book editor the caller was trying to reach.

Yes, like you, I also am concerned when faced with the word giggly. That implies giggling which, at the workplace, also requires good solid doors or long long hallways for sustained happiness. Yet, given the alternatives, giggly can be very good indeed. Usually better than the sweary Mary. I heard of one such man whose entire room needed to be sound insulated due to his combination of profit-making and paint-peeling obscenity. Faced with that giggly sounds just fine.