Tag Archives: bars

You were cute until you opened your mouth. Next.

Breaking news. This past weekend I actually had a life, AND I went out on a week night. I know! I’ll pause a moment to let that sink in. I really enjoyed myself, and I attribute it in part to the fact that I was hanging out with some Hokies, of both old and new acquaintance. Something about being a Hokie which bonds us together and makes new friends seem like old friends. But I already waxed poetic about that jank so let’s move on to the hilariousness.

It has been a long while since I got hit on. Totally kidding. I don’t like to brag, but in fact it has not been a while. It has been a hot sec. It’s all good though, it keeps me on my toes, and it gives me something to write about. I love watching it happen and anticipating how everything will go down. It’s like watching TV sometimes when the plot is all too predictable, and you find yourself in a situation in which you predicted all to accurately, which renders you bored and/or laughing at the predictability of it all. It’s comical really. Plus, seriously, guys will hit on anything when they’re drunk, and some will hit on anything at any time, so this really isn’t even a compliment to me. I’m just there, enjoying my Corona Light. And I’ve been told my short stature and poofy hair makes me more approachable. Whatever. The following is indiscretion at it’s best.

I’m hanging out with a group of people which I have met recently (I’m going to be intentionally vague to protect the sources…I know, such honorable journalistic ethics), and there’s this dude. There’s always a dude. Or two. He’s decently good looking, friendly, etc. He’s chatty. The first time we met was a while back at a previous gathering. He was friendly, cute, and chatty then as well. And also extremely drunk. Recognizing this, I was appropriately holding back. I don’t like getting into deep convos or becoming extremely involved with super drunk dudes. Because one of two things happens: they forget they talked to you / had an awesome connection / got your number OR they just stare at your chest all night while babbling about something they incoherently feel is an awesome pick up line, which gets old. SO. We had this conversation which included him asking me inappropriate questions (which I will not enumerate here or anywhere) and making equally inappropriate comments. He informed me he had a girlfriend when I asked, so I was appropriately appropriate, despite his inappropriateness.

Fast forward to this past weekend. He’s at the bar, sans girlfriend and we’re chatting again. He’s getting to the point where he’s almost as drunk as he was the last time I saw him. We start talking about that last interaction. He tells me, a bit contrite, that he has only vague memories of our last conversation but remembers enough to know he should apologize. Inappropriateness, while sometimes comical, is not always the best course of action. We then talk about his girlfriend. It comes out in conversation that he did not, in fact, actually have this girlfriend the last time we talked. Only he thought it would be an awesome way to “get me” if he told me he had one. I politely inform him that typically this is not the tastiest bait for girls. He disagrees with me and says he’s had success with that line in the past. I shrug because really it doesn’t matter. You said you have one, I’m me and I’m special I guess so to me that closes the door, even if she is not present. I guess you could say I respect myself. He’s a bit more shocked by this than I thought he should be, and we go on talking about his “chances” the last time we met. He says, “so I could have gotten you last time?” I am unsure what he means by that statement, so I clarify and say that he could have asked me out and I would have at least considered it. He wants clarification. Does “asking me out” mean hooking up? Negative, I say, they are not synonyms. I tell him that next time he’s interested in a girl, perhaps he shouldn’t claim to have a girlfriend who is waiting for him at home. He nods appreciatively like he’ll definitely keep that in mind. I attempt to move on to some other more friendly and single people we’re out with. This guy is annoying me now because he just wants his ego stroked.

Then we have an exchange that went something like this:
Him: Those jeans are soooooooo tight. [slurring slightly]
Me: [blink blink] Sorry.
Him: What color underwear are you wearing?
Me: [blink blink] [unamused raised eyebrow]
Him, trying to give me a cute face but failing: Awww come on. Just the color?
Me, glancing at my not-empty-enough beer, sifting quickly through all the available bitchy comments I could choose from: [blink blink]

Luckily (for him) at this moment a much cuter and more single friend comes over and makes a remark about how weird it is that west coast people use 10 cups for beer pong instead of 6. Mr. Drunk Undies is captivated by this and wanders over to bother the two very attractive females who are playing said game. I feel bad for them but happy for me that he left and I didn’t even have to comment. Much better and more appropriate and adult conversation ensues with cuter, singler, less ridiculously drunk guy. Victory.

So, question. Actually couple of questions and comments. Do many guys think it is a good idea to claim a girlfriend to up your chances with another girl? Does this work? Ladies, is this attractive to you? And dudes, what does knowing the color of my undies have to do with anything? When I see a tush I like, I simply use my imagination. It’s more creative that way and to my liking. Maybe just be creative, that way you don’t have to risk offending said lady by inquiring about her undergarments.

Regardless. The conclusion is this: boys are smelly and stupid, throw rocks at them. And I learned that sometimes time should just not be wasted on those who are wasted. Keep it classy, San Francisco.

Listen. It’s been real, but I have to go wash my hair now.

Here’s the thing ya’ll. I know last time I wrote about being all googoo for boys and losing my cool and whatnot. It happens to the best of us, and plus we weren’t talking about me, we were talking about you. But today I am lamenting the fact that I sometimes find myself being the dude. Yes, occasionally I get dumped or passed by or whatever, but at least I take a hint. Nothing is less classy than the inability to let go of a relationship, after one party has made it abundantly clear the door is closed. When you are dismissed, nod your head, have a little pity party, get angry for a couple minutes then move forward. And do not go crawling back for your own leftovers. It is not cute. It’s like (warning: unpleasant) how cows chew their food, digest it part way, then re-chew it again. So gross, but it’s a perfectly apt comparison.

So why am I the dude? I think maybe because some dudes need to read He’s Just Not That Into You and realize it works both ways. Is there a version out there for men? She’s Just Not That Into You? There should be. A quick google search tells me it doesn’t exist, so maybe I should partner with the author of the original and crank that out. Anywho. Seems like the stereotype is guy meets girl, guy likes girl for a little bit, girl sees wedding bells and future babies, guy decides he doesn’t like her, moves on, girl is devastated and keeps calling/texting/facebooking/inappropriately being mean and bitter on social media sites, etc. and can’t let go or move on until she finds Mr. Man of Her Dreams, Runner Up. I believe that it is an under-acknowledged happening when the girl moves on and the guy doesn’t. We are not all soft and googoo and wishy-washy wedding wishers all the time. See previous post, but remember most the time we are cool and collected, and know there are sites like match.com should we ever grow weary of meeting guys at bars or become desperate.

The situations can vary, but the best example of this is when you get cast aside. You’re not really dating him, but you go out a couple times maybe, he expresses interest in you, you express interest in him, it’s super fun. Then in pretty short order he changes his mind, for any number of reasons including but not limited to: an ex he can’t get over, he’s just not that into you, different places in life, he’s just not that into you, or perhaps he prefers blonds, which = he’s just not that into you. [It’s a trend because it’s a fact, sorry.] So you think, well that sort of stinks. He was really  nice, and good looking, and you thought you had a lot in common and you saw it possibly progressing nicely. You had a good time. But you know what? Everything happens for a reason. He’s not right for you because he’s not over the moon for you, so you shrug it off, mentally place him in the friend zone and move on. And things are fine for a bit. You still hang out, still get drinks after work, still hang with the same crowd and it’s not awkward for anyone and that’s fab. But he seems to forget sometimes that he said no thanks. He is inconsistently crossing the friend zone border, and your border control is working overtime to keep him behind enemy lines. Not cute ya’ll.

Let’s switch perspectives, since this actually happened to me. It is one thing to flirt and be cute while in the friend zone. That’s fun. And if you are both adults and communicate about where you stand with each other, it’s harmless (which in my opinion makes it more fun). But this is not that kind of friend zone breach. I don’t care if you flirt with me after you dump me. I will flirt back, and you’re welcome. But do not pretend to be my man when we go out. Do not try to be cute and fake-coupley in public. Do not do the possessive guy thing in which you assert yourself on me so other dudes think I’m with you. Please do not block people from talking to me, guys or girls. I will cut you. And lawd, do not make moves on me. Some girls may go for it, but you found out when you first met me what kind of girl I am. If you say no thanks to a relationship with me, you do not get any other goodies on the side. Except my friendship and my presence. And I am not such a pushover that I will acquiesce to your whiles because you think you are smooth. Don’t make me remind you that you had your chance, and now it’s time to let the other little boys have a turn, mmk pumpkin?

If you really and truly have changed your mind (it happens) then win me over the real man way. Take me out. Buy me diamonds and a Lamborghini. Whatever. But do not breach the friend zone without proper consent, because my border control is far better than Arizona’s and you shall not pass.

Big Hat, No Cattle.

Who doesn’t love this phrase I have learned recently?! Big hat, no cattle. It’s gloriously southern, to the point, charming, and seems to me can be used in a wide variety of contexts. I am pretty much in love with this phrase and will probably add it to the list of words that I apparently overuse on the regs. It is especially versatile and I’m really quite excited to put it in practice as often as possible. Since I had to get an explanation, I’ll assume I’m not the only one who’s unsure what it means – especially since I know some of you readers are yanks, I know ya’ll need some extra guidance. Miss Sassy is here to learn you once again, don’t worry.

My favorite and probably the most excellent example of how this phrase can be used is when referencing a big talkin man. You know, the kind with big egos who yack at the mouth about all their crazy skillz with women. Miss Sassy of course knows nothing about any sort of anything about these supposed and rumored skills, however she does have a fantastic BS meter! And this weekend, it was tested and proved to be in good working order.

Friday night, Roomz and I found ourselves with some friends at this cool place in downtown Ralz called Hibernian. It’s the perfect place for seeing, being seen, meeting and mingling. There’s at least 4 different bars, plenty of seating, a cute little outdoor patio perfect for people watching, and the music isn’t too loud. Nothing worse than zero conversation because I can’t even hear myself think. Anywho, so Roomz and I are on our last drink, closing out tabs, beginning to think better of the shots we just took, when Roomz spots a real live cowboy across the bar. She’s from Pennsylvania and has never seen a man in a cowboy hat and boots (and tight jeans and a big belt buckle if you must know) so she wants a picture. I don’t have my camera but we don’t discover that until we’ve already drawn him into conversation. So we’re chatting and then mid-convo, he leans over to me and asks for my number. Oy. Roomz excuses herself thinking she’s doing me a favor, meanwhile in my head I’m screaming please don’t leave me with this tool! Too late. I hesitate, thinking that I’m about to say my usual: no thanks, I don’t give out my number, sorry. But then I say “I’m moving in 3 weeks, does that change your mind?” (cute right!) He says he doesn’t care and I shrug and hear myself say “um, sure.” I know, so enthusiastic. He’s excited, it’s kind of cute. I’m still trying to decide if he’s actually good looking or if it’s just the hat that drew me in. We chat for a couple minutes about standard things. Where do you work? What do you do? Where are you from? I ask a bit more unconventional questions like, “Are you really a cowboy?” and “Why are you wearing that hat here?” dripping with my usual sarcasm. He thinks I’m joking, which is also cute because I’m so not. Then he asks me what my first impression of him was. This kind of question always makes me laugh, because really, it’s like asking “So, you think I’m hot right? I know.” And ya’ll know, I’m not a batting eyelashes while nodding and giggling kind of girl. I will say what I think, especially if I’m on the backside of 5ish drinks. So I gave him a once-over and told him he was wearing that big hat and buckle for a reason, and that his boots were awful fancy (I think they were snake skin. Yuck). He chuckles and asks me what I mean by that. I politely explain that no man in Raleigh, North Carolina wears those big 10 gallon cowboy hats so he must be trying to get noticed with all his Texas finery. He of course denies it and says that he’s been wearing that hat since he was 5 years old. Again, I repeat, this is Raleigh, not a party on your daddy’s ranch. It is at this point that I devise my exit strategy. My future husband is not hiding underneath that hat, and I don’t do snake skin. Next in line please.

Why is it that most men will deny that they are trying to get noticed? I have no problem admitting that when I get dolled up to go out, I am wearing shorts with 4 inch zebra heels to get noticed. I do not wear them for my health or because they help tone my gluts and hamstrings. If I wasn’t trying to get noticed I’d probably wear baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Or I’d stay at home and watch Gilmore Girls instead. Simple. And really, it’s not so bad to just admit it. Why lie? Why try to be all, “Oh I’m just here to hang out with friends and have a few beers.” It’s cute really, but we all know why we are all there. If you only wanted a few beers with friends, you could hit up the Piggly Wiggly and get yourself a case and catch up with friends on your couch. I feel like it’s just human nature. We spend time making ourselves look as not trife as possible and go out to be social because we are social creatures. And there is nothing wrong with admitting that you are proud of your tush and so yeah, you bought those tight jeans specifically to go out in because you heard chicks dig them (fact). And yes, you bought that shirt because it fits better, shows off your pecs and biceps that you work so hard on. Seriously, it’s ok. And yes, we notice. But please, don’t try to be all innocent like it’s an accident that you look so good (or flashy, which does not necessarily equal good). You consciously decided to wear that big buckle, put on your best boots, and wear that hat (indoors even. Rude.) because you know it’ll set you apart from other tight-jean’d dudes. And surprise! It worked, we noticed you. But, surprise! You had nothing behind the hat to back it up except for a feeble and disrespectful attempt to get me to go home with you. Ergo: big hat, no cattle.

Your “Game” is terrible. Try again.

I know many of you are clamoring to hear all about NASCAR adventures, all the hot rugby boys we hung out with, all the beer I drank, the number of hot dogs I ate, the ridiculously fat guy in a speedo that Queenie took a photo with, etc. I promise to get on that as soon as possible. But I must take a timeout and add some thoughts to Tuesday’s post. Thanks to one of my dear friends here in Raleigh, a book has come to my attention which I had never heard of. Correction: I had heard of this kind of  book/tv show/concept but it stayed in that back part of my mind that holds all the irrelevant information. In general I never really thought any of this was actually put in practice, but last Friday I was proven wrong apparently.

The book is called The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. Click the link and read, as I did, the synopsis/editorial review provided by Amazon.com, and you may find some familiar lines in just that one summary paragraph. I must admit I was shocked when I read this. While I do not find it remotely hard to believe that books like this exist, I do find it incredible that guys actually use this jank in public on real live women and think they will get results. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m too picky, or snobby, or just not as dumb and easy as other chicks are. I don’t know because I’m me. Ladies? Am I wrong? Is this not ridiculous? When I relayed this development to Momma Sassy, we had a good laugh which was followed by her expressing sympathy for these two epic failure pickup artist wannabes. “I actually feel bad for them,” she says, in that motherly-pity-voice that mothers do so well. I am shocked and do not see any room for sympathy or pity in this situation and ask her to explain. “Well, don’t you think it’s just pitiful that they felt the need to read a book to teach them how to just talk to women?” Um, not really. “I just think it’s extremely pitiful.” Ok fine, I agree, it’s pitiful but I feel zero sympathy for a guy who thinks “Do you believe in magic tricks” is a good way to start a conversation at a bar. Or anywhere. Just say no.

Let’s take a step back. I am not so insensitive to think that all men should just know they should just be themselves and be confident enough to talk to a pretty girl/gorgeous cougar at a bar/some other public venue. It’s like Hitch said, a guy wants a plan because he’s worried he might walk up to said lady and have a brain fart (as I referred to them in the past, so ladylike).  But seriously, being yourself and being normal…it works. Even if you are only trying to, as Momma Sassy so delicately put it, “get into someone’s pants” for one night, I’d say you have a better chance of succeeding if you aren’t a super sketch ball right from the start, especially with some kid magic trick my 10 year old cousin can do. How about, show me the magic of your personality and why I should pick you out of every other guy in here? If you start talking and I start wishing I had stayed home to watch Gilmore Girls reruns, it’s not good.

What is super great (and gratifying for gals like me) about this book is that, at the end, the author apparently comes to the same conclusion as I have stated here. The pickup lines and supposed “smoothness” don’t actually work. As the synopsis says: “…he comes to an important realization. His techniques were actually off-putting to the woman he ended up falling in love with. And they never prepared him for actually having a relationship. After a while, he ran out of one-liners and had to have a real conversation.” OMG ya’ll! A real conversation! Who would have guessed that in the end, none of those chicks he “scored” would want to end up with him? Who knew that women like a real guy who knows how to carry on a conversation. We do actually want a man with a brain, in addition to our desire for big biceps and 6-packs. Shocking news. Also I love the part about how it didn’t prepare him for a relationship. Um, ya think?

So I guess, if you would like to have an in general meaningless existence filled with meaningless hookups, dumb chicks, and herpes, read and heed the advice of this book and others like it. If, however, you are on the prowl for a cute chick with a brain, try using “hi” and “my name is …” as your pickup lines and she just might say hi back.

The 50-yarder gets me every time!

You know when you’re out somewhere, maybe doing something innocent like shopping, and you’re looking around and suddenly you spot a good looking somebody. You are standing just far enough away that you can take a good long look and not get caught. Nice bod, good looking hair, and it’s just far enough away that you’re guessing on facial features but with the lighting and shadows, it looks just right. Now, who really picks up a chick or a dude while shopping…no one. But let’s say you’re in a bar, and add beer to the equation. NOW that person across the bar is smokin’ hot and you can’t take your eyes away. You’re telling all your buddies…”OMG Stacy look at that guy down there! I SO want him, he is the picture of perfection!” [No, I have never used any of those words whilst at a bar, nice try] Or, “Dude, chick is bangin. Check it.” Yeah, clearly I’m not a dude so I have no idea how it really goes. Maybe it’s more like “Yeah, I’d hit that,” which makes what’s about to happen even worse because now what you’re about to hit explodes into ugliness! Because here he/she comes, walking you’re way, maybe being coy and heading for the bathroom or doing a frat lap or something around the bar (in real life, seems like there’s no frat lap anymore which is a shame because I always liked that part of being at TOTS) and he get’s closer…and closer…and BAM. The ugly slaps you in the face! Shit! How did that happen? And now, Stacy and whatever dude you shared your find with is laughing hysterically at you as you both watch in astonishment at how ugly this person is in actuality and up close. I know what you’re thinking now…surely this has never happened to you Miss Sassy Pants! Your radar is so good! False.

Anecdotal proof: Rewind a 5 years. I’ve just graduated from high school and am at the beach with some girl friends for “beach week.” Holler to underage drinking. JK we didn’t drink obvs! So I have this friend, she’s a little hard of hearing and so when we’re sitting on the beach checking out dudes (what else is there to do?) we obviously can’t yell or talk loudly depending on how close they are, so we come up with a code word: Grapefruit. Don’t ask, just go with it. So when you see something worth looking at, as a courtesy to the other ladies, you announce his presence by yelling: “Grapefruit!!” And then indicate his position using the clock system (a tale as old as time…pun intended). So one day I see “red shorts guy” as he was dubbed. He’s about 50 yards away or more, but he looks pretty solidly built, super tan, brown hair with sandy sun-highlighted hair blowing in the wind. Baywatch lifeguard material from afar. So the alert goes out: “Grapefruit! 10:30!” So we’re watching, and he gets a little closer and a little closer still…and he’s not even that close to us, still about 25 yards away when it becomes painfully clear that he is at the very least over 50. Yes. 50-yard extreme foul on my part. Thus, MSP’s grapefruit alerting privileges were revoked and it took a couple years for that joke to go away.  No doubt by resurrecting it here I will catch more flack for it. So I like older dudes, whatev…JK again…I might like my men a bit older but 50+ is so not my scene, unless you own a yacht, then we’ll chat. Digression.

This 50-yard catastrophe continues. Last week I was out with some coworkers again, and there were these two pretty ladies sitting a good distance away. I pointed them out because obviously I have good taste in cougars, but was politely corrected that they were indeed 50-yarders. Upon further examination I accepted the correction as fact and we moved on, a little disappointed. The gym also causes me to be victim to the 50-yarder. Of course there can’t possibly be 50 yards in between me and every dude in a muscle T but the sweat in my eyes (and the sheer determination to get jacked) clouds my vision and so pretty much everyone there except the grandpas looks like a hottie. Tonight at the gym I was sorely disappointed numerous times. As in at least 15 times in a row they’d walk by or I’d walk by and get a closer look (no not on purpose, you judgers) and instantly avert my eyes. It is sad! It is also awkward when Judgement Face comes out of nowhere and they see it when you walk by. Remember when I said the JF cannot be stopped? Still true.

The lesson to be learned here folks is simple. 9 times out of 10, you will not find your happily ever after at a bar. So when you see that cougar or cute boy across the bar, let them stay there. When you walk by the bench press or pull up bar, take in the sights with your peripheral vision, because I’m telling you it looks better from there. Once you focus, the fantasy is shattered an all you’ve got to think about while you’re doing crunches is ugly. And ugly is not nearly as motivating as smokin’ hot, even if it’s an illusion.