Quipster Wannabe (or No Quipping Allowed)

Barbara: Summer is a good time to test out your banter skills. There are generally more parties, more get-togethers, more chances for leisurely encounters with people you hardly know or don’t know at all. When it comes to the basics of social intercourse, I’m usually pretty good. For those of our readers who cringe at the thought of any kind of exchange of idle conversation, here’s the trick that will get you through pretty much any social situation: ask questions about the other person. In my experience that breaks all but the hardest ice, and if you start the questioning, you don’t have to answer any yourself! But when it comes to witty retorts and lighthearted banter, I just want to let you know that you should watch me in action: it would dispel all of your fears forever. Yes, you too can suck at witty retorts and survive!

With so many living lessons from the Banter Jedi Masters (hello, Deb!), you’d think I could rock this whole arena of life, but I confess I am a Quipster wannabe. I routinely hear myself coming up with banter that verges on the inanely incomprehensible. Before I’ve even formed the thought behind the things I want to say, strange words or variations thereof stumble from my mouth.

Passing the same British couple every morning on the beach in Antigua, already having exchanged a few pleasantries over the days, now arriving at the Quipping Point:

Them: You were the dancing queen on the dance floor last night.

Me: Hey, mock me if you want, but I didn’t see you two out there lumming it up.

We share polite laughter as I walk on (shaking my head to myself: “Lumming it up???”)

At a party where, for a moment, a young child becomes the focus of attention amid general party banter.

Me: Are you going to play a song for us on your guitar?

Him: Yes. I’ve been practicing.

Me: You’re going to be like the next (everyone waits, including kid, this is gonna be good)… awesome …(what’s she gonna say?) like, jam … rocker … dude.

A quiet second of WTF before the kid grins and nods (even at 8 he understands he must rescue me from my social mire), while the adults around us politely chuckle.

Or there is the real conversational gaffe. Saying real words in a sensible order but making no intelligent sense. Chatting with a film director with whom I’ve just finished shooting, me so respectful of her work.

She: (in answer to my question) Yeah, I just finished working on a novel.

Me: That’s wonderful. Fiction or non-fiction?

She: Um, isn’t a novel always fiction?

Me: Mmfle-murf. (as I run off to quaff a glass of wine, never to idle banter with her again)

The truth is, here’s the good news: people don’t care! They smile and nod their heads in agreement, sometimes even laugh at the supposed punchline of my “joke”. If not for the lingering sound of my own words echoing in my ear I would possibly remain forever ignorant of my quip ineptitudes.

Sadly, I hear the echo. (“The horror, the horror.”)

Deb: It’s funny because we were joking that this weekend I was Shecky McGrath. Everything was a quip and that sort of became a joke in itself. I love the quip, I love wit and I am sure Barb that you do yourself a great disservice. But next time you throw out a lame one, just in case ... pretend you’re drunk. 

Christmas Party Performance Anxiety

Barbara: I bet almost all of you know what I mean by this, right? I can’t count how many people I’ve spoken to over the years who admit to suffering from some form of it. People that would surprise you. You know, super-outgoing people, easily conversant people. Yes, people like me.

Why me, you ask? Why would I worry about Christmas party banter when I usually­­––and so obviously––have a great time at get-togethers?

I have almost never met someone I HAVEN’T liked at a party (and if I don’t like them, usually it’s because they’re rude or mean-spirited). I LOVE meeting new people, or catching up with people I like but who I don’t keep in touch with, or, best of all, seeing dear dear friends who I haven’t seen in ages.

And there is absolutely nothing like a good ‘ol Christmas party to give ample opportunity to enjoy all of the above.

And yet, before I go to parties (particularly larger, casual ones), I succumb to the usual performance anxiety. What if I can’t think of anything to talk about? What if I can’t find anyone to talk to? What if everyone just stares at me blankly as I struggle with awkward silences and banal patter? And with my husband traveling a lot, I often go to these parties on my own—so no “safety net”.

Then I realized that these concerns are mere hiccups in my insecurity blanket. There is one foible that trumps all the others. I realized yesterday that it’s not the actual talking to people that I fear, or even the not-knowing-what–to-say thing. I am (as I said) an outgoing and chatty reveller. But I am a notorious question-asker. I truly love hearing about your life. Which is great if your questions are meaningful, apropos (ie, you haven’t forgotten major personal information, like a parent’s death (!), a recent illness, or a child’s accomplishment), and personal but not too personal.

I ask stupid questions all the time. I am embarrassed to say the forgetting of deaths and illness has trumped me from time to time. Or someone will tell me a personal tidbit and, in my rush to ask my next question, I miss a key detail that they’ve JUST told me: 
Them: I’ve been really busy working on my next novel.

Me: Oh, that’s wonderful! Is it fiction or non-fiction?

Pause. Awkward pause.

Them: Um, aren’t all novels fiction?  

Yes. Yes, they are. Oops.

But stupid questions aside (strangely, I’m okay with those; they’re like my signature or something), the real trouble-spot for me is in the “personal but not too personal” department.

Did you notice that one on my list? I discovered that this is the very crux of my performance anxiety. Before I head into that next festive and delightful party, I am worried that I will somehow bruise you with my questions. That I will infringe. Or extricate. Or impinge. It worries me. Lots of people are way more private than I am, so I don’t have the same barometer for where that line might be.

So, I’m begging you: help me, please! Please tell me what I can ask you at the next party … and what I can’t.

Deb: Barb, the mere thought that you do not see yourself as this shiny sweet guest is killing me! I love your questions. Bring them on. More people should ask rather than tell. It’s always lovely to see that someone is genuinely interested. But if I must, here are some guidelines.

DO

- How are you spending the holidays?

- Are you hosting or being hosted?

- Did you do all your shopping yet?

- Cold enough for you?

- What are your Christmas traditions?

- Do you do turkey, goose, or tofurky?

DON’T

-       Help me out here. I know someone in your family recently died, but I don’t remember who? Parent? Dog?

-       Oh, go ahead, have another cheese puff. You’ll lose that extra weight you’re packing in the New Year!

-       I saw your husband Doug at the Marriott. He was going up the elevator and I didn’t get a chance to say hi before the doors closed. Did you guys have a little romantic getaway? ... Oh ... sorry ... I … you know, now that I think of it, maybe it wasn’t Doug. (big gulp of wine)

-       Wow, Joanne, (loud voice) GREAT FACELIFT!