Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, Douchebag, etiquette, friends, friendship, Middle-Age, New Girl, office humor, relationships, Roadhouse
I’ve figured out how I’m going to retire early. Stealing from the under-rated show New Girl, I’m going to start carrying around a Douchebag Jar.
In case you’re still scratching your head and wondering “What the hell is she talking about now?” here’s the deal: You carry a mason jar or whatever you have handy (depending on where you are it may need to be a full-on trash can), and whenever someone commits an act of douchebaggery, they must contribute a fine to the jar.
What is a douchebag? Urban Dictionary defines it as “An individual who has an over-inflated sense of self-worth, compounded by a low level of intelligence, behaving ridiculously in front of people with no sense of how moronic he appears.”
When can you point out that someone is acting like a douchebag? Well, that’s where it gets a little tricky. Generally, calling someone out for douchebaggery at work is not a good idea; after all, we are supposed to respect our colleagues and play nice in the sandbox, etc. Plus, it could get you fired:
Accuser: “You owe a dollar to the DB Jar.”
Co-Worker: “Why?”
Accuser: “Because you interrupted my client call to tell me you’re going to Bonaroo and MIGHT or MIGHT NOT be back on Monday.”
Co-Worker: “You’re just jealous. Going to Bonaroo doesn’t make me DB.”
Accuser: “No, but thinking your undefined availability while you’re at a concert matters more than my client call, does.”
Co-Worker: “You’re fired.”
Accuser: “You still owe The Jar, plus $20 more because you’re 50 and going to Bonaroo.”
Calling someone out that you don’t know, especially in public, can lead to violence (reference every bar fight ever).
So that leaves friends.
That’s right, sometimes you have to call out your friends. Most folks have at least one friend who periodically acts in a douche-baggy fashion and needs to be corrected. After all, isn’t that what friends are for? We are friends with people for lots of reasons, but one of the best is that they help to make us better people. Don’t believe me? When was the last time your friends gave you an eye roll or responded in a voice dripping with sarcasm to something you said? That’s your friends correcting your behavior, and in theory making you a better person. The Douchebag Jar is just another tool for correcting behavior.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: 80's, bars, cover bands, dance, Dancing, dating, Dirty Dancing, drinking, Enzos, guys, Johnny castle, Middles, rail drinks, Roadhouse
There are very few things scarier than a bar full of horny, sweating 40–60-year-olds. Unlike college kids and 25-year-olds who are up front about what they’re doing there – drinking and trying to get laid, Middle-Agers (a.k.a. Middles) try very hard NOT to look like that’s what they’re doing. Oh, some put it all out there, with their backless turtlenecks (not a good look on anyone over 30), or the open-necked shirts showing off all that non-millennial chest hair. But for the most part, when you look around a bar full of Middles, its full of copious amounts of eye liner and hairspray, missing wedding rings, annoyed spouses who hate dancing, and lingering (but squinting) glances that border on being creepy because Middles don’t realize they are old enough now to look like rapists and pedophiles.
A couple of weekends ago we were invited to go see a great local 80’s cover band at one of the bars in our area, located in a Food Kitty parking lot. Usually the music there is geared towards the older crowd (think Carolina beach music), and when we go, we are the youngest by at least 15 years. This time, there were Middles like us happily re-living their high school and college years, but with better drinks and an Uber app on their phones.
While there are a few differences between going to bars in your 20’s and bars as a Middle, there are still the same bar guys – they’re just a little older:
Roadhouse is either an ex-Frat Guy or a Redneck just out looking to start shit. He looks like he reads Maxim and goes to the gym more than he reads social cues. Roadhouse is the guy who will start a fight with the smaller guy in your vicinity by looking your way and saying things like, “This guy bothering you?” or giving the guy a shove and saying “The F*&K did you say?” The beauty of being a Middle is that this is no longer impressive. In reality, it means I’m probably going to get a drink spilled on me, and frankly, I’m not drinking rail drinks anymore, so that’s going to piss me off.
About 15 minutes after the band started up, Johnny Castle (Patrick Swayze’s character from Dirty dancing) started dancing…or at least some guy in his mid-50s who thinks he looks like Patrick Swayze. Johnny Castle sports a form-fitting black vest (no short underneath) and skin-tight black pants, and a black fedora on his shaven, balding head. And, he is clearly on the hunt. Johnny Castle spends the entire evening gyrating, twisting and generally trying to grind on anything female that moves. He thinks the empty circle of space around him that appeared while he put on his Michael Jackson moves was created out of sheer awe, not from fear that he might grab one of usand pull us in for a Dirty Dancing grind.
Several feet away from Johnny Castle is Colonel Sanders. At least 70 years old, Colonel Sanders is also on the hunt, lurking around the edge of the dancers, looking like an old Rutger Hauer (see above reference to pedophiles). An 80’s cover band event it really isn’t his scene, but the alternative of watching pat Sajack is too depressing for him. He eventually either finds someone age-appropriate or hangs out with the bar owner in the corner looking cynical and hopeful at the same time.
Of course, no matter what bar you go to or what age the patrons are, there are the Wall Props. These guys don’t like dancing and are usually too drunk to do more than hold up the wall near the bathroom and hit on women as they wait in line. They might slur and try to cop a feel, but they’re easy to slide past. But ladies, if you want a free drink – that’s your guy. No expectations on either side – he’s just happy to be there.
And last, every bar containing Middles has “married-guy-on-the-prowl.” This guy looks harmless, but has the suspicious white skin band around his wedding finger where he just took his ring off. His posse of married guy friends are sheepishly drinking craft beers in the background, having given up on deterring him from his mission: to hook up with someone other than his wife. Usually this guy is from out of town, but sometimes he is stupid enough to go poaching in the local forest – inevitably he will be caught by his wife’s network of friends, and the drama that ensues is fodder for suburban cookouts for weeks to come.
And like any good night at a bar with a band, there were groupies, a fight, a guy who stood like a stone doing the head nod while his girlfriend twisted and swayed around him, and at least three couples who left in a huff.
So, after two bourbons and three straight hours of dancing, I had somethings confirmed:
- Rail drinks are not my friend – I’m better than that now
- I still suck at dancing – Hubby’s got the moves, not me, but the beauty of being a Middle is I don’t care anymore;
- The White Man’s Overbite is alive and well
- I’m grateful I have Hubby to go home with – the Middles’ dating pool desperately needs some chlorine; and
- Blister in the Sun is still crazy-fun to bounce in a circle to, like one of the characters in A Charlie brown Christmas!
Subourbon Mom 