Tag Archives: drinking

Stoked for your frat’s rush party next week. Thanks for the 500 invites.

End of August / beginning of September brings a number of wonderful things: college football (OMG 7 days until HOKIE FOOTBALL!!!!!!!), some respite from the gawd-awful heat of summer, Autumn and leaves changing,  and for some it means heading back to college. For Miss Sassy Pants, the only perks are the college football, and this season will even be a minimal perk since I will pretty much be going to zero games. Could not be more depressed about this, but I am wearing big girl panties and dealing with it. 9am kickoff can be awesome I am sure, and there are over 2,000 alumni in the SF area. Hokies Holler! ANYWHO.

Back to the point. College. College is so fun, and I totally miss it, possibly more than I did at this time last year since I was newly appreciating my paycheck from my gainful employer. This year however, the paycheck (while still nice) is less of a new commodity and does not combat my yearning to be back at Virginia Tech as much as it did previously. Blacksburg is probably the greatest place in the entire universe, and I do miss it dearly. Classes not so much, as we all know I was a less-than-stellar student (got me a job anywayz though obvs). My yearning and sadness to be back in this wonderful place is made worse by everyone constantly publishing statuses on numerous social networking sites with things such as “OMG SO EXCITED TO BE IN BLACKSBURG!!!!” and “Headed to TOTS, gosh I’ve missed this place!!!” and even “Already had my first quiz…first week of classes UGH!” These status updates make me want to do the following, respectively: cry, cry harder / drink a blue motorcycle, and slap that person in the face. Of course you will have quizzes dumbo, it’s college. I kind of miss quizzes when I am feeling nostalgic for those times of yore when I would go to class all unprepared-like, and still get A’s (LOL/JK).

The other thing that is so awesome about people going back to college are all the stinking invites! College is full of so much more than academics and going to class. Probably more so than any other place or time in life, college is filled with organized events. Someone’s having a birthday party, or a welcome-back-to-campus party, or a holy-crap-we’re-seniors party, or a I-lost-my-cellphone-last-night-in-TOTS-bathroom-so-I-need-your-number party. And of course every single organization ever created needs money and wants you to buy their cookies, t-shirts, topless carwash, or do a dance-a-thon or some such nonsense. Seriously, lets party for any reason (awesome), raise money for something random (we’re all broke), make it a FB event (obvs), and invite every person we’re friends with. Yes all 1,000 people. I am so over this for the following reasons:

  1. I have graduated. Therefore I am not able to attend your awesome so-excited-to-be-a-Hokie party.
  2. I have graduated and moved away from Blacksburg. Far away. Therefore I am unable to attend your fraternity’s rush party, though it sounds super cool and fun. BYOB ya’ll. Maybe you could bring the party to me out west next time? Might need to check that keg though, not sure they allow that as a carry-on item.
  3. I didn’t even go to your school. Therefore I do not want to attend a fundraiser pancake breakfast at JMU. Or go to your grad-school get-to-know-you picnic at the University of Never Heard of It. Super fun. Stop inviting every single person you’ve ever met. SO not necessary. It takes an extra 60 to 120 seconds (that’s 1 to 2 minutes for you business majors) to uncheck certain names from the invite list. Not a lot of wasted time for a whole bunch of people you won’t be bothering. Win-win.

I am sure I could go on, so instead I will stop and put out this general call to every single person who has ever used FB for event planning: PLEASE be a little more particular when inviting people to your events. Because even if I RSVP no-effing-way will I attend your event, I still get the 900 messages you send to all invitees after the fact. My phone chimes with the special little FB noise, I get all excited thinking someone sent something special to me only to realize I got yet another message from you and your stupid “VIP” party.  Who decided you were VIP anyway…that’s not the kind of thing that should be self-appointed. And speaking of 900 messages, it is definitely not necessary for you to send an event reminder daily for 3 weeks prior to your event. I got the invite. I remember. Maybe send one or two a couple days before. GEEZ. US. Can I get a virtual hallelujah.

That’s my soap box. Having said all of this, I will probably un-friend a record number of people this year JUST because you send too many messages to invitees. Even my best friends. Trust. Also trust that MSP loves being invited to stuff! There’s a huge difference though. Invite me specifically. It’s like that friend that always group texts and tries to make it feel personal. No one likes those texts because everyone knows it wasn’t special for them. And basically everyone just wants to feel special. So make me feel special by excluding me from your next fraternity party or band car wash. My lower annoyance level thanks you.

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.

No, I do not want to be your magicians assistant but thanks for asking.

I am very excited to share the myriad of trifeness that occurred this past weekend. It began when Queenie flew down to good old R-town on Friday and we partied like it was 1999 with some pals from work.

So after a lovely dinner just us gals, we ventured to Natty Greene’s, where apparently it was “Be as Trife as Possible Night”. We are sitting at the bar with our friends, I am telling a story about something not important but probably extremely funny, when I hear, “Excuse us, I know you’re in the middle of something but we want to ask you something.” Strike one. Of so many more.

Of course I stop talking and we give these two young men our attention. My first thought is that they are sort of cute but a little skinny for my taste. My second thought (before they started speaking again) was that maybe they could redeem themselves for interrupting me by having something cute or interesting to say.  “My friend here believes in magic,” the taller one says, “like the kind with magicians and rabbits and hats and stuff. I think it’s all bullshit. So we want to know, what do you think? Is magic real?” Strike two. THIS is what you interrupted me for? Oh but wait! It gets better. Queenie and I both agree, magic like that is all BS, all an illusion, and can always be explained. Hearing our answer, the shorter one pipes up and says he can prove that magic is real. At this point I am so tired of these guys I don’t even want to be nice or polite, I just want to walk away but the bar is crowded and I don’t want to give up my seat. He asks us if we have two dollars. We don’t. No one around us does. Shockingly, he finds two dollars in his pocket, shows them to us, and then folds them in fourths in a ball in his hand. Is anyone else cringing? I was, and was not taking pains to hide my displeasure with him and his money trick. He holds his hand out to me and tells me to blow on it. Blow on his hand. Like I am a 5 year old girl at the carnival. Strike three. I give him the not-amused eyebrow raise (not the cute smirky eyebrow raise) and blow because he’s being a pain in my tush. Then he proceeds to futz with the two dollars in his fist until he’s produced a $5 bill. OMG! Magic exists! EXCEPT then the other two dollar bills peek out from behind the $5, thus ruining his trick and his point. Strike four. And hilarious, something we also take to pains to hide. At this point, I deem it appropriate to turn around on my stool putting my back to both of them and continue my conversation with Queenie.

This definitely is in the book of worst pick-up lines/stories ever. I mean I can’t even explain how awkward, not cute, and irritating it was. Dudes: if you are irritating me, it’s not a good sign, and you should probably move on to a more drunk chick who might confuse your annoying-ness for attractiveness. But wait! It’s not over yet. [Right?! Some just don’t know when to call it quits.]

An hour or so and two or three beers later, same bar, same friends, these same two dudes approach us again. AGAIN. And once again interrupt our conversation with other, cuter boys. Strike five. “Hey listen,” says the taller one, “We were totally joking with that magic stuff earlier, we just wanted an excuse to talk to you ladies.” I laughed out loud because a) this is not news and b) it does not matter that they are admitting this now and c) it is just sad and hilarious. They both hold out hands to introduce themselves, trying to be cool in the face of my laughter. Their names might as well have been Dumb and Dumber for all the attention I paid to them and their limpy handshakes. Then the shorter one says, “I mean you two are the prettiest ones in here, of course we wanted to talk to you!” This is just ridiculous. After all of the magic jank, they think they can still charm us into a little flirty convo.  Queenie and I exchange that glance that only girls have that says are-you-freaking-kidding-me-could-this-get-any-worse. Their parting trifeness included using the word “seriously” way too many times, and pointing out their table in case we changed our minds later. Strike six. Sure! If I suddenly get amnesia I’ll let you know. And apparently later in the evening, one of them followed Queenie to the bathroom and waited for her outside the door (creepy and not cute guys, do not follow any girl to the potty, especially if she has shut you down greater than or equal to one time in one evening). When she came out, he asked her about the other boys we were hanging out with. As in, “are you serious with those guys? They’re so not as cool as me.” Strike seven and eight.

Un-freaking-believable and hilarious. Dudes, please read carefully and learn. Luckily, the evening got infinitely better after that trifeness. Stay tuned for more from Nascar-bomb weekend, each day gets better ya’ll!

How To Pick Up a Guy with Questionable Sexual Preferences

Last night Roomz and I ventured out into the wild that is dt Rals. Tuesdays are ON FIRE let me tell you. Just playing. But seriously we did go out, and I’m proud of us because we stayed out until 1am! A record for me of late, as I am fast turning into an old lady who goes to bed no later than 10:30pm. Feisty. Anywho, we met some friends (yes, friends! I found some!) at this cool bar called the Flying Saucer, where they were having weekly Trivia night. Super fun, totally unrelated to the story. So we’re chatting it up and one of my pals brought up Miss Sassy Pants! This here blog loves to be mentioned in everyday convo because it means more readers and typically fuels the fire for some good sassy stories to share (spread the good Sassy news people). Which is exactly what happened here. I was saying that I am sort of boring lately and haven’t had any good stories or triflin messes to share…and my sweet little Roomz reminded me that I haven’t shared the gay waiter story! Oh yes. Now you’re hooked. So now Miss Sassy will commence to explaining How To Pick Up a Guy with Questionable Sexual Preferences. You know, for all those times you just aren’t sure.

Let’s rewind to the first weekend after I moved to the Rals. So picture it: Just met Roomz, know nothing about Raleigh, tired from the first week of work, stressed a bit from all the projects I was assigned, probably feeling a bit overwhelmed, not on my game. So Roomz’ friend GBFF, who we can all infer from his nickname is gay, comes to visit this weekend. We all go out to dinner to PFChangs, and while waiting for our table at the bar, all take notice of a particularly good looking waiter. I mean really good looking. Tall, dark, and handsome, mysterious, cute smile, total package. And he’s not a 50-yarder, which is a plus. So GBFF points him out first, saying that he’s hot stuff, to which Roomz and I instantly agree. BUT is he gay? GBFF thinks yes, I said no, Roomz couldn’t decide. Eventually we’re seated, unfortunately not in his section despite trying our hardest. Throughout dinner we all get our stare on, discreetly of course, and may or may not have drawn attention to ourselves while simultaneously eye-flirting with him throughout our meal. Honestly I don’t remember, but it’s entirely possible and probable. Then the end of dinner roles around and GBFF is stuck on this guy. I mean rage-at-the-machine in love with him because he is so ridiculously good looking. But what to do? It’s not a typical pick-up scene. He’s busy waitering, we’re busy with our teriyaki, would probably be rude to interrupt him taking orders at his table and ask him what sign he is and does he live nearby. Not to mention the fact that we still can’t decide if he’s gay or not. Conflicting gay-dar readings do not a concensus make. So Roomz comes up with a brilliant plan, grabs a cocktail napkin and pen from my mom-bag and writes the following:

Are you gay? If yes: GBFF, 919-555-0000. If no: Roomz, 919-555-0001.

Except she used their real phone numbers, duh. Then, when we had all paid our checks and were ready to leave, she bravely walked up to Mr. Hunky Waiter and presented him with the little note. Ballsy little gal! We walked out of there giggling like fools, vowing to never return to that particular PFChangs if neither of them got a phone call. Which they didn’t. What makes the story even better is that GBFF’s parents visited the next day and wanted to go to PFChangs for lunch. Clearly that didn’t happen.

The moral of this story is that sassiness comes in all shapes and sizes. While Miss Sassy does not personally give out her phone number to strangers or even good looking men in bars or restaurants anymore (unless it says “Mr. Perfect-for-Miss-Sassy” on his forehead), it is sassy to act if you like what you see. Because you never know where the next adventure will start. No, you probably won’t marry Mr. Hunky Waiter, but he might be a nature enthusiast just like you! And maybe he’ll take you out a couple times and you might get some fun flirting in. Why not? Do it while you’re young people because eventually you’ll be a creepy old guy or a wrinkled too-tan cougar. But always always always, as I always say always, maintain the class. Sass – Class = Trash. And trash smells bad, even from 50-yards away.

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.

My future as a network-fixing, Corona-drinking geek.

Thursdays are the standing night out for everyone on my team. Read: the men in IT who have been working together for 10+ years, who all have a fondness for enjoying Coronas and nachos together. They were gracious enough to invite me to join their weekly soiree and I have taken them up on their offer a few times. And let me tell you it is entertaining to say the least. Picture it: me (small, young, thin, female), and about 5 or 6 middle aged men. And we’re not talking stereotypical IT guys either. In fact none of them look anything like that guy, nor have creepy mustaches or anything gross like that, and only a couple are balding and they manage to do it gracefully; i.e. no comb-over (guys: shave it all or own the bald spot, do NOT comb that ish over! It blows, it’s much too long, it is not meant to be worn that way, and you are not fooling anyone! Ugh). So now for this bar we frequent: it’s a Capital Ale House cousin, in that it is actually called Carolina Ale House, and has similar layout, beer, and clientele. Which means this is not a happenin’ place with hotties. My future husband will not be found in this place, Lord help me. Nor will my pals find themselves a nice young lady to spend the evening with, nor will they find the cougar variety to…do whatever with. Really there are no women worth winking at in this place unless you have consumed every Corona in the bar and can’t see straight. Judgment face on the real, people, and I don’t even hide it most times. Digression.

So I think you have a clear picture now, and really it’s like this every week. We go basically to talk about people from work who don’t show up, discuss the latest network outage, mull over which server we think will go down next, and who’ll be the sorry SOB who’s on call to fix it at 3am. No joke people, this is my future. Oh it’s Friday night? You’re out with your girls showing that mohito who’s boss? Too bad. Get on the conference call and fix that server, biotch! Remotely and drunk if you have too, but you better not mess up business, or profits go down and it’s all your fault. [It’s ok though, the “jobs bill” got passed so you’d find work in no time if they fire you!] Oy. Digression again.

Anywho, the interesting part of these little outings is the dynamic of the group. Something tells me it is vastly – or at least marginally different with me there than before. Here’s some things I’ve noticed. The first time I went, I could tell everyone had their sensors and filters on high alert. The next few times, there are more curse words (gasp!), more judgment of so-called “fat cows” at the bar (yes that’s a quote, and yes I taught them all about the judgment face). They have also started asking my opinion about chicks in the bar. “Is she hot or should I stop drinking?” They’ve started being protective of me, like brothers or dads. Or the Secret Service. “That guy is staring at you, he’s ugly, let me stand in front of him so he can’t see you.” No kidding, this has happened (and honestly most the time I’m thankful…like I said, no future husbands or anyone even close). I also get to hear all about their kids, which is vastly entertaining, especially because in some/most/all cases I am closer to their kids’ ages than I am to their ages. Last week, it was daughters night, and I got to hear all about the daughters’ past dating experiences. “This one time, some punk came to pick up my daughter, and honked his GD horn in my &*^% driveway! She tried to get away but of course I stopped her. Walked out there and I said, Son, you ever honk your horn in my driveway again, you’ll get your #$@ !#$%@#$!#  #@$%^&$! Yeah, never saw his ass again.” Said with chest puffed out, lots of agreement nods, and badass chugging of beer. Of course this is not a new story for me, or likely for anyone in the history of dads and daughters who like boys, but it’s still hilarious to be the only non-dad in the group and watch them get all hackled up just talking about some kid who tried courting their daughter 10 years ago.

The next most hilarious thing is that they also pick out men for me. “What about that guy in the stupid ass shorts?” They were madras, and yes he looked sort of silly in them. “That guy is totally checking you out,” one will say, followed by, “no, he’s just wondering what the hell she’s doing with us!” Which is followed by raucous laughter and probably a spilled Corona. Then my boss will remember he doesn’t want me to make friends or have a life so I can work later and have no excuses, clear his throat and say, “Rusty! They’re no good! Work only!” Which again will be followed by more laughter, as they apparently think I would like to do even more work after hours than I do, on a salary which doesn’t pay overtime. Ahem. I never complain, because I am Miss Sassy Pants, and complaining is not sassy. Own it, work it.

Wait, Rusty? Caught that, did you? Save it for another entry. For now, we’ll focus on the closing point, which is that old men aren’t so awful! Just playing, that’s not the point. Just wanted to share that little cliffhanger concerning my new nickname. And that I am becoming a bigger nerd as each day passes. And that, of the friends I’ve made since moving here, these feisty middle aged men definitely take home the most cool points at the end of the day. Plus I get free beer, and who wants to turn their nose at that? Stay tuned, for I’m sure more hilarity will ensue.