Why are you hanging on?

Divine darlings gathered for a reunion last night to drink wine and catch up on gossip and sex lives. I lurked. Finally, one of the lovelies noticed me and thought she knew me from somewhere. Yep, I dated her friend. I played along, hoping the ex didn’t trash me too thoroughly.

“Hi, you look so familiar to me.”

“You’ve probably seen me on TV.”

“Really?”

“Yep, Awful Chefs, Lifestyles of the Poor and Insignificant, or The Perpetual Bachelor.”

“Ha! No, I don’t know you from TV.”

“Well, Christine, I haven’t a clue.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. You remembered my name.”

“I also remember where we met and what you do for a living. Still impressed, or is this becoming creepy?”

Take note, gentlemen: Remember as much as you can when you meet a woman. Drill it into your memory. Make room by casting away the useless ditties you’re storing, such as:

• Childhood friends’ phone numbers.
• A grade school teacher’s name.
• The details surrounding your first orgasm.
• Important dates, which can easily be transferred onto an electronic calendar.
• How to make a margarita. (Leave it to the experts.)
• The lyrics to “Da Butt.”
• Quotes from Seinfeld.
• High school locker number or combination.
• Pi.
• The capital of Norway.
• Who was president before Reagan.
• Where you hid the porn.

Turns out the woman I impressed was married (*sigh*) but her friend was delicious and ringless (*grin*), so I began my mating dance. Turns out my target had a boyfriend I could tell she was none too pleased with.

“Why do you stay?”

“Because I can’t see myself hanging out in places like this.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.”

“It’s such a scene. Ugh.”

“And you’d rather stay in an unfulfilling relationship?”

“Beats being alone or desperate.”

“Leave him immediately.”

“What?”

“Go home right now and start packing. This is nonsense. You’re wasting your time forcing something to work that has probably been over for months or years. Move on!”

“No. I’m not going to go through dating hell again. I can’t imagine hanging out in bars or online dating sites. That would be depressing.”

“It is what you make it, darling. If you seek desperately, you make yourself unattractive. If you’re amused by the process and see it as a way to meet new people, you’ll thrive.”

“So, are you telling me you’re here in this club tonight to network?”

“That’s not the ultimate goal, but it’s one I can live with. I met you and you’re not going to sleep with me … are you?”

“Doubtful.”

“See? I still like you and am enjoying our conversation even though it probably won’t end in a sex puddle.”

“Fair enough.”

God, I hate to see women hanging onto to the frayed threads of remnant relationships. Please lose the man who isn’t treating you right as well as your fear of being judged for doing so.

Bar etiquette for those with rookie livers.

There’s a difference between people who drink often and people who get drunk often. I am a professional among the former, who dabbles in the latter, when necessary. As such, I’m out practically nightly honing my skills and occasionally slamming my clipboard to the turf as I witness egregious fouls. Play is becoming sloppy, people. Something needs to change. The don’t-be-a-pussy beer commercials aren’t helping because they are self-serving and everyone knows light beer doesn’t taste like anything except rusty club soda.

Here are today’s lessons, which I hope you’ll share with the stumbling, bumbling first-beer-ever boobs you see out this weekend.

• Do not buy anyone a drink unless there is a legitimate chance it will make you more attractive to the recipient and said recipient hasn’t already warned you that you’ll never see her or him without clothing.

a.       If you’re a man, do not buy me a drink. If you buy me a drink, you create yet another debt I must repay. This annoys me. Also, I’m probably not through with the drink I have, so the new drink is going to become warm and watery before I get to it. This also annoys me.

b.      If you’re a woman, do not buy me a drink. If you’re attractive, you will have emasculated me causing embarrassment as my brothers wonder what happened to my testes. If you’re mediocre, please allow me to determine how much I need to imbibe to make you a mating option. If you’re unattractive, you’ve put me in a difficult situation, which will probably cause me to excuse myself to the toilet and set off the rear-exit alarm as I sprint to my Jeep.

c.       If you’re a bartender or server, don’t buy me a drink. I used to own a club and nothing irked me more than when one of my bartenders said, “This one’s on me.” Technically, it was fucking on me, the owner. Right? So, if you’re the owner, I will accept your generosity and probably frequent your establishment. Don’t be surprised if you find me sleeping in a stall. It happens and you’d be partially to blame. Consider yourself forewarned.

• If you’re posted up at the bar, use your peripheral vision for more than locating cleavage and cock lumps. Be aware of people who are thirstily waiting for access to the bartender. You’re probably blocking their advance. See them waving those large bills and credit cards or doing jumping jacks? No, they’re not Richard Simmons’ fans; they’re parched. Move it, roadblock!

a.       If you stubbornly block access, this is what you will encounter: The odorous armpit of stoner dude who thinks himself a surfing Kurt Cobain reincarnated and thus refuses to wash his hair while he wears the same goddamn plaid flannel shirt six times before tossing it in the laundry.

b.      The two attractive ladies standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they’re scanning your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and coloring. Ah, but you think you’re slick. You offer to get the bartender’s attention for the ladies or take it a step further and offer to order their drinks. Neither the bartender (trying to make a living off you’re one dollar tip) nor the ladies need you involved in the transaction. Step aside.

c.       You’re going to be dripped upon. It may be as innocuous as condensation or it may be pinot-gone-wild. In some bars—the ones who play Taylor Swift’s music—what lands on you may be tobacco drool from the lower lip of an inbred who just mated with a cousin, four-legged creature, or jar of Mother’s strawberry preserves. Spit leaves stains, so, unless you’re wearing a body condom, scram.

Take these lessons to heart, friends. You must study and remember that practice makes others hate you a little less.