When You’re Planning On Dating Sheldon Cooper

, , , , , , , | Romantic | January 15, 2018

(I am sat next to my male colleague, who I’m quite good friends with. I’m female and have recently realised I’m bi. I am complaining to him about my new discovery that I am terrible at chatting up women, when I realise that he has a girlfriend and ask him for tips. Note that we’re both lawyers. We chat for a bit about what he used to do and then…)

Colleague: “I think now… Okay, so, I guess if it was now, you’d want to just talk to her. And then you agree that it’s exclusive, so you know the terms you stand on.”

Me: “Are you suggesting I make her sign an exclusivity agreement?”

Colleague: “Bring it on the first date.”

Me: “That’ll go down well.”

Colleague: “Make sure you include all the relevant warranties.”

Me: “To the best of my knowledge and belief, I am not dating anyone else?”

Colleague: “Schedule five contains a list of all former relationships.”

Me: “A list of all ex-lovers who might want to kill me.”

Colleague: “Let’s go for material relationships; that’ll do it.”

Me: “Do I stick indemnities in there, as well? Like, in the event of a break up, you will indemnify me for the cost of all gifts over a certain amount?”

Colleague: “Couldn’t hurt. You see, this will be very romantic.”

Me: “Yup. Do we have to give notice to terminate?”

Colleague: “No, we’ll go for at-will.”

Me: “Very American. Also sensible.”

Colleague: “Oh, but in the event of a material breach…”

Me: “You have to remedy within ten days?”

Colleague: “Yes!”

Me: “You know, when I asked you for help, I wasn’t expecting you to advise I bring a 100-page legal document with me.”

Colleague: “Well, it could just be heads of terms. So, not binding.”

Me: “Like a lesser version of a prenup?”

Colleague: “If you keep adding terms, though, you know what it’ll be?”

Me: “…what?”

Colleague: “A relationship agreement!”

Me: “…”

Colleague: “What?”

Me: “That’s terrible.”

Colleague: “It’s true, though. It’s an agreement that governs the relationship between two parties. A relationship agreement!”

Me: “This is the last time I ask you for advice on dating.”

(For the record, the other lawyers sitting around us slowly edged away during this conversation…)

 

Related:

Dating Sheldon Cooper, Part 15

Dating Sheldon Cooper, Part 14

Dating Sheldon Cooper, Part 13

Expecting A Big Fat Apology

, , , , , , , | Related | January 12, 2018

(I’ve recently returned home to New Zealand from overseas travel. I worked in the UK in a pub for over a year and picked up heaps of skills and experience from the job. Now that I’m back home, I need to get a new job to get myself back on my feet. I’ve always had an ability to pull off job interviews well. Now, I’m a chunky girl, but not heinously overweight, and I carry myself well.)

Me: “I saw [Pub] has a sign out looking for staff, so I’m going to go drop CVs in and around them today.”

Mum: “Oh, no, you’re way too fat to work there. I’ve only seen skinny girls working at [Pub]. There’s no way they’ll hire you!”

(Understandably, I am upset, though not surprised as my mum has a massive hang up on my size and is constantly on at me. So, in spite, I apply, and I get called back the same afternoon. After a long, friendly, chatty interview with the manager I get offered the job on the spot. I head home, incredibly chuffed that I’ve not only got a job, but that it’s at the place I was deemed “too fat” to work at by my mum. As I walk through the door, Mum asks where I handed out my CVs today and I tell her, leaving [Pub] till last.)

Mum: “Oh, yeah, and have you heard anything back?”

Me: “Oh, I probably should have started with this, but yeah. I got a new job; I start tomorrow night.”

Mum: “Wow, really? Where?”

Me: “[Pub].”

(Needless to say, her face showed mixed emotions: pissed that I proved her wrong, but ultimately pleased that I was employed.)

Going Crazy One Half-Pint At A Time

, , , , | Right | September 17, 2017

(We have a fairly strict policy about not serving drunk people. One tactic we have in place is a blanket ban on groups; i.e., if one person is unfit for us to serve, we knock back the whole group until the drunk person leaves. On Sunday, two drunk guys come in, so I say, very nicely:)

Me: “Sorry, chaps, not tonight. Another night perhaps, but not tonight.”

(They take it fine, but one of them tries to get my colleague to serve them. He says no, obviously, so the shorter of the two guys heads over to me.)

Man: “So, how come you’re saying no?”

Me: “Truthfully, you’re friend looks really unsteady on his feet, and he’s clearly slurring his speech, but as you came in together, it’s our policy to refuse the group. It’s not personal, but it’s not something I’m going to change.”

(He seems to think that was fair enough, but keeps asking for just a drink for him, asking me to explain myself again, and telling me that it is just his friend, not him. I am polite and firm, but am getting tired of this discussion.)

Man: “Besides, he’s only had three pints!”

Me: “Only three pints? All that proves is that your friend can’t drink, if that’s the state of him after three pints!”

(Luckily, he found it funny that I was making fun of his friend, shook my hand, and left. Not my most professional moment, but it worked!)

Looking Less And Less Impressive

, , , , , | Right | September 5, 2017

(My sister works at a pub while at university. She is also gay and usually wears a t-shirt that says, “Don’t bother. I’m mad for gyno,” on it when she works. This night she isn’t, though. I am waiting with her girlfriend for her shift to end. There has been a guy pestering her for the majority of the time we’ve been waiting. She takes his last order before she finishes, and makes a disgusted noise before going to get his drink. She also motions to us to get ready. When she comes back, the guy stands up and drops his trousers and underwear. The entire pub goes silent and some of the male regulars stand.)

Customer: “So, sweetheart, good enough for you and your [slur] friend?”

Sister: *glaring at his crotch* “Mate, if you think that could satisfy even one p****, then I’ve got some bad news.”

(The entire pub laughs, and the guy pulls his trousers up and sprints out, as a couple of the regulars follow. My sister grabs her things and meets us.)

Girlfriend: “Do you need to phone the police or anything?”

Sister: “Oh, I don’t bother. The guys [regulars] will make sure he’ll never come back.”

Me: “Does it happen a lot?”

Sister: “Every now and again. For some reason, drunks seem to think because I’m gay that I’ve never seen a penis, and that somehow seeing theirs will magically make me want to have sex, AND include my girlfriend. I just insult it and call it a day.”

No Longer Part Of The Charity Machine

, , , , , , | Right | September 2, 2017

(My husband and I both work at a community centre, which provides emergency relief [food vouchers and parcels, help to get medications and pay bills such as rent, electricity, etc.] generally only four times a year, but some people take advantage of this. I have just been promoted from a volunteer to a paid worker, while my husband has been a paid worker for two years. We go to a local pub for dinner to celebrate. After dinner, we decide to put a couple of dollars in the pokies. My husband goes to the bathroom and to get drinks while I choose a machine. There are only handful of people in the gaming room. I find a machine I like and put a couple of dollars in it, and on my second spin I win some free games. I notice an older lady standing behind me, watching as I win over $60. As I go to play it down to an even $60, I can hear her mumbling behind me but don’t pay any attention. I happen to get the free games again, taking my total up to just over $100. I get a coin bucket and push “collect” when I’m pushed off my chair. I look up to see the old lady grabbing dollar coins from the machine.)

Me: “What the h***?”

Lady: “This is my machine. You’re playing my machine, so this is my money.”

(I’m confused, as there was no credit on the machine or reserve sign up. My husband and the gaming manager race over to help me.)

Husband: “What the heck are you doing to my wife?”

Lady: “She’s trying to steal my money. That’s my machine.”

Manager: *after radioing for security* “Ma’am, you weren’t playing a machine. I have to ask you to give this lady her money back and leave, unless she would like to press assault charges. You will also be banned from here.”

Lady: “No, this is my machine, I always play this machine. I spend more here in a week than they’d make in a whole month. You ban them.”

(By this time, two security guards have arrived and my husband has helped me up, I decline to press charges and she is escorted out, screaming about how it’s her machine. We are given vouchers for drinks and the restaurant. The next week at the community centre, I’m being trained in the welfare side of things, as I had only worked in the second hand shop before, when the lady from the pub comes in. She doesn’t recognise me, but I pull aside the senior worker who is training me and explain what has happened. She explains that this lady comes in every week demanding food vouchers, payment for her prescriptions, and help with rent and bills. They had already decided to just give her a food parcel and advise her on financial counselling if she came back within three months, but after I explain what happened at the pub, this is what the senior worker does.)

Senior Worker: “I’m sorry Mrs. [Lady], but we are unable to assist you anymore. I can give you the numbers of some other places that may be able to help you.”

Lady: “What? No, you are a charity; you have to help me. I need food vouchers and these bills paid now.”

Senior Worker: “I’m afraid that, no, we don’t have to help you, as we generally only assist every three months, and if it’s more than that we only give food parcels. You have been here every week for the last three months, demanding assistance. I’m sorry; we can’t help you anymore for the next 12 months.”

Lady: “What? This is an outrage. How am I meant to pay my rent? How am I meant to eat? I have diabetes, you know. If I die because of not eating, it’s all your fault.”

Senior Worker: “Ma’am, as I said, I’ve got a list of numbers here that may help you, but can I suggest not spending more in a week than I make a whole month at [Pub]?”

(I tried not to laugh as the lady looked between me and the senior worker. She finally recognised my husband and me as another worker arrived to escort her out, all while she was screaming how it was her machine and her money, and how she was going to die because we wouldn’t give her food. The manager contacted other services in the area to warn them about her.)

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