Tips for Talking to the Person Who Is Not a Doormat

Because I've worked part-time in a bar, I've had my share of opportunities to talk to new and interesting people.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's awesome.  As Bill Nye the Science Guy said, "Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don't."  But every once in a while, there's that outlier that doesn't make the experience awesome...

(There is a disclaimer at the end of this post.  Some of the below experiences are borrowed from other people.  If that much bullshit were directed at me, I'd explode.)


** Personal space.  This is particularly important in a bar environment, because you probably have beer breath.

** There is a limit to how many times you can call/text/email her after one conversation.  Disproportionate attempts at communication will make her wonder if you are a stalker.

** Don't get upset if she doesn't call/text back immediately.  She probably has a life.  That's a good thing.

** Don't tell her who she can/can't talk to.  Talking is a particularly useful form of communication, and often means nothing more than a pleasant (or sometimes unpleasant) conversation.  Holster the jealousy or be prepared to be punched in the throat.

** Grabbing her ass will not be taken as an invitation to come home with you.  It will be taken as an invitation to punch you in the throat.  Same goes for the old slide-your-hand-around-her-back-and-under-her-arm-for-a-bit-of-side-boob squeeze.  You are not being subtle.  You are being a dick.

** Buying her a drink doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  A long conversation doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  Trading phone numbers doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever, if you were still wondering. 

** If she says she has plans, you can probably assume that she has plans.  Accusing her of lying to blow you off will earn you a punch in the throat.

** And if she says she's not interested in going on that date you suggested, you can probably take that to mean she's not interested in going on that date you suggested.  Just a suggestion.  There is not always romantic subtext.  Sometimes, a conversation is just a conversation.  Try to force more, and you'll deserve more than just a punch in the throat.

** If she says, "No," or "Enough," or "Stop:"  No, you aren't going to change her mind.  She's had enough.  Stop.


Or, in other words, (Wil Wheaton's, to be exact), don't be a dick.


(True:  These are all experiences I've had, or friends have had, or friends of friends have had.  I've used the pronoun "she" because I'm a she.  And most of the friends/friends of friends whose experiences I've borrowed for this post are also shes (but not all).  Substitute pronouns as needed.  And you might notice that I'm giving these tips to a "you"--not a "he" or "she."  That's because dickitude is not exclusive to any one gender.  Neither are these tips specific to romantically-inclined conversations or situations.  Friends don't treat each other that way, either.  Get it?  Don't be a dick--whoever you are--to whomever you're speaking to.  End disclaimer.)

Breath Mints of DOOOOM!

Even though I no longer run karaoke, I still go pretty regularly.  It's usually a nice mix of people I know and new faces.  Some of those new faces do not approve of me.

For example, the time I was sitting by a bar buddy and her friend, who I'd never met before.  New Face seemed like a nice enough lady, and we chatted casually for a while.  It seemed natural enough to offer her a mint when I opened the tin to grab one myself.

New Face took a long, hard look at the tin and finally said, "No thanks, I'm a Christian."  And then she got up to grab another beer, finding another seat when she'd been served.

Via

Later, by the light of a lone, black, chicken blood-scented candle, I spun a maraschino cherry on the lid of my Mystifying Mints, and the stem pointed to "Good Bye," and I realized what a terrible person I am.  But at least I'm a terrible person with devilishly fresh breath.


(True:  The pointer thingy that comes with a Ouija board is called a "planchette."  I know this because I read trashy romance novels.)

Next Time They Should Muzzle Me.

I had this work networking thing last night at the House of Blues--such a cool venue.  I gawk like an idiot every time I'm there.  As the office noob, my coworkers and boss think it's very amusing to get me another drink every time I reach the half-way point of the one I'm working on, despite (or, more likely, because of) my insistence that I can't hold my liquor.  So I spent half the night with two drinks in my hands.

Now, as you may know, I have a habit of making myself look ridiculous on a fairly regular basis.  And that's without social lubrication.  So, of course when a contractor I work with (but had never met in person) approached me and asked about the dual drinks, I blurted out, "They'll all double-fisting me!"

What are the odds that he'll forget I was even there?  Slim?  None?  Super.

Well, that's one way to be memorable.


(True:  This Saturday, April 28, is my last night as Karaoke Jockey at Blueberry Hill in Forest Park, Illinois.  Be there or be square.  Or just far away.)

The Land of the Living

Here I am...  A day late, and a dollar short.  (I'm sure I owe somebody a dollar, anyway.)  I thought briefly about posting yesterday even though I was home sick, but by the time I cast a line out and reeled my head in from across the street, I had fallen back asleep.

Anyway, here's a story for you, and it's even true.

This weekend, I had a work function, the kind that involves beer and schmoozing with customers.  My boss played on of those bar games where you punch the punching game for points.  He got enough points, and the machine spat out a prize in a plastic sphere.  Shrugging, he gave it to me.  Being the curious sort, I opened it right away.

BAD IDEA.

Honestly, where is my robot?  You know, the one that will wave it's arms and cry, "Danger, Dana the Biped, Danger."

I opened the prize and promptly regretted my existence.  I'm not certain whose existence my boss regretted, mine or his own.  Probably both.

In that innocuous plastic sphere, which I had opened in front of God, my coworkers, and a good number of our customers, was not the plastic soldier with a plastic parachute or something expected like that.  Oh, no.  I lucked out enough to get the frilly underpants.


(True:  I recently saw a video of one of the guys I work with at karaoke singing with no shirt on, with lots of women rubbing up against him.  Knowing this guy as I do, the part that upset me was the fact that his hair is so much better than mine.  Also, my life is pretty strange.)

Dear Dora, I'm really sorry that this is the week you were stuck with me.

(Update:  I just decided I didn't blog yesterday because SOPA sucks.  Unless you speak Spanish, and are talking about soup.  Soup is cool.)

Defensive Karaoke Part Three: Ew.

Short post today, because my To-Do pile is so large it's literally (not figuratively) spilling off my desk.

New Year's Eve:  I worked the karaoke.  It was a pretty normal night, if somewhat busier than normal.  The Squeeze and some friends were there, which is always fun, expecially since it means people are less likely to try to lick my ear.

I've mentioned before that my station is near the ladies' room.  It's a one-seater and locks from the inside.  For the first time, I actually had to grab a guy by the scruff of his neck and haul him away from following his lady-friend in.  Instead, they proceeded to make out and...  Well.  Clothes pretty much stayed on, thank goodness.  They started at nine p.m.  I left at quarter to four in the morning, and they were still going.  Ew.

Chapstick, anyone?


(True:  I don't really get this whole kissing someone on New Year's Eve thing.  I mean, fine if you're out with someone, but if you don't have a date, it just seems like a good way to get cooties.)

Trapper is cootie-free and looking for love.

Defensive Karaoke Part Two: Yes, This Really Happened

Being a KJ can be hazardous.  You might be shocked into muteness.

For example, a guy is singing "Piano Man," and he's actually not half bad.  You're looking around to see if the next person on your queue is around or has gone out for a smoke.  Looking back at the person singing, you realize that his pants are around his skinny hipster ankles.

I took several education courses in college.  I spent an entire day learning how to give the Evil Teacher Eye, so that naughty kids take you seriously and stop whatever irritating thing they are doing.  I use this lesson regularly in karaoke, but this is one of the few times I had to accompany it with words.

"You need to put your pants on right now.  Right now.  Or you can leave without them."

Apparently, I made this threat sound so scary, that poor skinny kid apologized to me not once, not twice, but four times over the course of the night, and has never shown his face or his boxer briefs at the bar again.


(True:  I will wear pants or skirts or dresses, but I do not wear shorts.  Ever.  I don't know why.)

Nikita's got her eyes closed because she doesn't want to see those skinny white legs, either. But she would take some snuggles if you have any handy.

Defensive Karaoke, Part One

One night a week, I stop being a paper-pushing bore and become . . . a karaoke jockey.

The bar I work at is a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with wood paneling and dogs.  Don't order the wine.  No, really.  And while the bartender can build you a decent pint of Guiness, most patrons drink beer imported all the way from Milwaukee.

KJing (yes, that is what it's called) requires a defensive plan.  People come up to me to put in their songs, and it's my job to encourage that.  Unfortunately, that also makes me approachable.

The Women:

My station is set up near the ladies room--they have to walk behind me to get there.  Sometimes, if the one-seater is occupied, they choose to wait in my personal space.  One regular likes to lean her head on my shoulder.  Occasionally, she drools.  Another regular thinks it's hilarious to rest her boobs on my arm.  On one memorable occasion, a woman who was a total stranger simultaneously humped my leg and sneezed on me.


(True:  The parts of your brain that are stimulated by a sneeze are the same parts of your brain that fire during an orgasm.  The only part of your brain that is stimulated by a humpsneeze is the "Ohmygodmakeitstopickickick" part.)