Helpful Phrases For Small Talk Scenarios

Chit chat. Small talk. It serves a purpose, but there's a reason it makes us yawn and roll our eyes when we think about it. All you're doing is saying the same thing each time, and wasting the precious brain cells you still have by uttering inane comments.

Here is my gift to you: a series of responses that you can memorize and use, allowing your brain to focus on quantum physics or the last episode of Dance Moms. Also, if you get the delivery right, you won't have to worry about making small talk much longer.

Please note: while these are conversations I often have, your experience may vary -- so please feel free to adapt them.

"How are you doing today?"
"[fill in long explanation with unnecessary details and tears]"

"What are your plans for this afternoon?"
See above.

"Your hair is amazing!"
"That's what I said to the last owner."

"You're kind of conceited."
"Yes."

"What great weather we're having!"
"It's a trap -- they want you lulled into a false sense of security before they unleash the zombies."

"Would you like the ravioli packaged to go?"
"No, I plan to grill it immediately -- I hear it tastes best that way."

"So what do you do for a living?"
"I've found eating food and sleeping regularly to be highly successful for me."

"Is that debit or credit?"
"Klout, actually."

"Hi, my name is [name]. It's so great to meet you!"
"It's great to meet you, too. Good thing I won't remember your name, so we can do this again."


Okay, so my idea of "small talk" extends to nearly "all talk." But I find the above responses infinitely helpful in sparing my brain the pain of ordinary responses. Tell me in the comments -- what do you (or have you) said in a common chit chat scenario?

Rejection: For Fun And Profit

When I was on a work trip a few weeks back, my co-workers and I were chatting over dinner, and somehow got to to talking about the Rejection Line. Never heard of it? One of them hadn't either, so I called it and put it on speakerphone for group entertainment.

(Call it right now if you never have -- 212-479-7990).

Someone suggested that Seattle needed a local Rejection Line, since the New York area code kind of made the whole thing fishy for us west coasters. Last weekend, I discovered there IS a Seattle rejection number.

It's mine.

"Hey :-)" came the text message from an unknown number.

"I'm sorry, but I don't recognize your number. Who is this?" While my gut reaction was to respond with a little more attitude, I have my cell listed on my business cards and toned it down a bit.

"It's Don. We met on the bus this evening. The guy with the Bud Light sign."

I don't use public transportation. This was clearly a mistake. I let him know, he apologized, and I thought how strange it was that this had happened the previous weekend, too.

Minute later, a new number texted me:

"Hey :-) It's Daren. Nice to meet you today. That was fun on the bus. You work tomorrow?"

All of these people mentioned the bus... and it clicked. Some crazy itchy bee was giving out my number as her own to men on public transportation.

"Someone has been giving out my number as her own, but I'm afraid it isn't me. I don't ride the bus. I'm sorry."

"Oh wow. So sorry. I had no idea. That is really messed up," came the response. Then: "Well, I guess it's never too late to make a new friend! How was your weekend?"

Great.

"Thank you but no. I don't really want to talk. I'm sorry someone was rude to you but you can throw away this number now."

He apologized and left me alone... for two days.

"Hey, I know you weren't really in the mood to talk before. But I couldn't help but to ask how you are doing? How is your week going?"

So. Anyone want to sponsor this impromptu career I'm starting? I will happily mention your company in my rejections.

"I'm sorry, but I'd rather be eating ____while watching _____, my favorite ____, than text or talk to you. But for comfort during this terrible time of rejection, may I suggest trying _____?"

Get in touch, sponsors. I'm open to your offers.

I Heard There Will Be A Conga Line At My Funeral

My friends are looters and zombie killers. But apparently? Also sentimental. Please consider the recent conversation below Exhibit A.

Me: Okay I need your opinion: free skydiving lesson was offered to me -- not off a plane, into a tube. Take it?

A: Do it!

Me: What if I told you the instructor was in training? Still do it?

A: It's in a tube... What could go wrong?

Me: I don't know, I haven't had a freak accident before. I'm not sure how they go down.

A: Do it!

Me: If I die, not only do you HAVE to come to my funeral, but also give a euology (and pronounce it like Zoolander) about how beautiful and kind hearted I am. You may not mention that I gave you instructions on what to say.

A: Okay.

Me: You want me dead. I knew it.

A: I do. I want your iPhone.

Me: When I jump to my death under your orders, please help yourself.

A: Okay... what else do you have that I want?

Me: My hair?

A: Maybe.

Me: Hey! Don't be mean! You love my hair and would want to save it for the baby.

A: I'll make a blanket for him with it.

Me: That is the perfect legacy.

A: We will have a conga line at your funeral!

Me: I want to come! Maybe we can have a fake funeral where I show up. Surprise! Not dead! I feel like maybe people would be mad instead of joyful. Because I have terrible friends.

A: We would be confused. And think you were a zombie. And kill you. You would be bald.

Thanks. I love you, too.

Diary of An Angry Black Woman (Who Isn't Black)

Airport security -- no one's favorite, but never been an issue for me.

Take off your jacket? Okay! Remove your jewelry and belt? Sure thing. Kick off the shoes? Of course -- did that back at check-in. Pull out everything you packed and dump each item into separate bins? You got it -- I was hoping to lose something today anyway.

But last week, I got a pat down.

OF MY HAIR.

This hair.

After walking through the security conveyer belt, throwing my hands in the air (like I just didn't care) for the body scanning machine, and walking forward, I was informed that my hair was suspiciously full and lustrous and they had to pat it down.

They *might* have left out the compliments, but I was fairly confident that was why... they're a jealous bunch, those TSA people.

I'm not going to lie, it was a disappointing experience. There was no awkward massage of my shoulders or anything. When my co-worker got patted down, he got the full body treatment (women discriminated against again!).

But today, my friend sent me an article from the TIME website: "Woman Calls TSA Hair Pat Down 'Racially Motivated.'"

Oh.my.goodness. The same airport? The same pat down?

It's obvious: the TSA thinks I'm black.

It's not the first time this mistake has been made.

I thought the pat down was funny when it was just hair jealousy. Now that I know it's because I'm Jewish-and-confused-for-another-minority? Now I'm enraged.

I'm going to have to talk to some media about being singled out for my poofy full, lustrous hair.

The Five Stages of Sickness, or, I Am Now Dying

This may be my last blog post, because I'm probably dying. I have a really sore throat, people. So I'm tracking my Five Stages of Grieving (read up on Wikipedia, a non-credible source, if you don't know what those are). I think these stages -- and their order -- pretty much describe every illness I've ever had.

Enjoy my pain.

DENIAL
This usually occurs Day 1. I wake up with a sore throat, and cheerfully scold myself, "Oh, you! You drank too much coffee yesterday and then slept with your mouth open!" Self grumbles, but knows this to be true. Illness is not an option.

Denial becomes a little more difficult as the day goes on, and gallons of water don't seem to hydrate throat enough to make it stop hurting. "No, no, NO, I am NOT sick!" is the refrain because my body is like a lizard -- if something goes wrong, I'll just regrow a tail or a pancreas or whatever I need to not have a sore throat.


ACCEPTANCE
Upon waking on Day 2 with a sore throat, acceptance comes. It sounds like this:

"I'm siiiiiiiiiiiiiickkkkkk!"

Paranoia is a common side affect of acceptance -- I accept that I'm sick, but I also accept that someone, somewhere gave me germs and it was probably on purpose. This time, I doubt it was bin Laden because he's dead, but I haven't ruled out some other terrorists. Or my co-workers. They're interrogated appropriately about their recent symptoms.

"When you got sick, was your throat sore? How long? Tell me, dammit! Or," I continue ominously, "this unicorn and its pet puppy will pay."


ANGER
Day 3 falls on a weekend, almost invariably. This brings on ANGER. I think that's pretty self-explanatory.


BARGAINING
This can fall on Day 3, too, since I quarantine myself and then I get bored. I might as well bargain as watch Dirty Dancing again.

Example bargains:
- If I'm going to die, at least I'm a martyr -- I'm protecting innnocent lives from the death I'm about to experience, because if it can take on my hearty immune system it's clearly the kernel of a pandemic. You're welcome, world, for staying home and eating popcorn.

- If I'm going to die, people had better say nice things about me at my funeral. My best friend gets an email asking about the eulogy she should have planned. She responds that it will be awesome but refuses to provide details for my editing. My mother gets a text about my impending death and a request that she not tell "humorous" stories at my funeral. She agrees to talk about my nobility of character, my beautiful visage, and my humility. She seems eager to talk about my humility.

- If I'm going to die, I need to at least survive until I'm done eating the chocolate truffles in my apartment, because they are $1.19 for three now. They used to be $0.89, for goodness sake! I'm eating them before I die, even if they scratch up my throat that is already killing me.

I'm not good at bargaining.

DEPRESSION
You might be surprised, but Kubler-Ross didn't say the stages she outlined followed her chronology. Sure, acceptance would be awesome here, but really -- depression is all that's left. Depressed that I'm never going to get well. Depressed that the consulting nurse told me over the phone that if I don't have strep throat I probably have acid dripping down the back of my throat (like a mutant or a dragon... both of those are bad). Depressed that the doctor ran tests and confirmed I *don't* have strep (but asked me if I planned to spit on him. I have never spit on him before... in fact, I've never met him. I just look like someone who spits on strangers).


On the off chance I survive, it's scheduled for Thursday. But by then I'll have run out of stages of sickness and/or grieving. Do you experience any stages I didn't mention?