High School Nostalgism (Fuck it. I don't care if that's not a word.)

Someone asked me to describe what I was like during my high school years, compared to the way I am now. I couldn't come up with a good answer on the spot, despite my usual wittiness.

It's been a couple of days since then and I've had a think. I tried to look at it as objectively as I could. Here's what I came up with:

I think I spent most of high school walking the fine line between nerd and loser.

How is that different to how I am now? Well I think I'm still both of those things, but to a lesser degree. I exhibit tendencies more likened to a "geek" now, which is the nerd's more socially apt cousin, and I have a girlfriend, which immediately removes some notches from the "loser" tally. BUT, I play video games, invest copious amounts of time into science-fiction and hang around with a bunch of stoners. So it seems not a whole lot has changed.

I don't get bullied as much these days, which is a notable plus.

There was going to be more to this post but I think I'll leave it there and close with a question to you, dear reader. Now I know everybody likes to talk about themselves, especially on the Internet, so no excuses for not answering. Here goes:

Have you changed much since high school? Think objectively, as if you were someone else looking at you.

Place your comments at the door and kindly leave without making a fuss.

Why Jenifer and I aren't gonna sit on your face

Stolen from the personal files of Amber-Bamber

Thursday night I went out with my new friend Jenifer. Yes -- one "N."Jenifer is one of those people you're instantly drawn to. She's graceful, witty, a good eye-contact maker. And she's confident. As much as I want to go on about how cool Jen is, she's still a new friend and I don't want to freak her out too much.

Yet.

I'm also tempted to blog here about how inadequate a friend-date I was Thursday.

For example, I barfed in Jenifer's sink.

Oh, that and my card was rejected at the restaurant. Apparently a check hadn't cleared yet, or some such nonsense.

Major jerk (fingers pointing to self).

Anyway, I'm not going to feast on my many imperfections in this blog. I'll save that for later. Like in a few minutes, when I hit my mattress.

But I will say that hanging with Jenifer was a night well spent.

I owe her dinner and a new sink.

And I hope she'll have me over again. So I can bring her dinner. And a new sink.

Anyway, before I puked, Jen and I got on the topic of sitting on your face.

No, not your face, you pervert.

Just "your" face like "your" face.

Apparently we don't "do" sitting on faces.

"Face-sitting" is not for us. We are not "face-sitters." Anymore at least.

Now, you (again, by "you" I don't mean "you") may have known us as "face-sitters" in the past.

But we aren't anymore.

Sorry.

Don't get me wrong....

Jen and I love oral.

And we decided Thursday night most women love oral. And if they don't, there's probably something pathologically "off" about them and they should be further investigated.

But as much as we love oral, Jen and I also decided, based on empirical findings, that "face-sitting" is not necessarily what we want to do.

For many reasons:

1) We are afraid we are going to kill you.
2) We don't like the strain of the legs it takes to avoid killing you.
3) We don't like that angle of our bodies from your (no, not your. "Your.") POV.
4) It's not really easy to "get anywhere" this way. For real. For real.
5) I feel like we had a few other reasons here.

Basically, Jen and I feel it's a bit of a cop out and we know your ("your") neck hurts when we're on our backs.

But it's significantly more comfortable. For us. Physically and in the head.

Because again, we don't want to kill you ("you") and we don't want to have to think about the possibility of killing you ("you") during this precious time.

Oh, also Jen said that "come sit on my face" is too porn.

I wouldn't know, because I haven't seen porn. Don't laugh! That's not a funny tidbit. It's an enduring one.
But I think I know what goes down in porn, generally, and I subscribe to Jen's observation. Yes, I just typed "goes down."

So, this was our brilliant conclusion at one in the morning on Friday.

It was a mutual realization that followed less important talk about love, travel and work.

And a mutual realization that preceded my barfing in Jen's sink.
This window of time between the bar and the sink was full of pure wisdom.

Thought I'd pass the information along.

Horror at Register No. Four

Do you talk to checkout people? I do.

I don't know about you, but I can't help but feel empathy every time I see a forlorn youngster barking for a price-check, shoulders so drooped that you would think she's giving a piggy-back to an invisible Kirstie Alley. There is nothing she would rather do than jump up on the conveyor belt and boot boxes of Bratz dolls into customer's stupid faces. But instead, something compels her to display a shit-eating grin and ask, always with the utmost sincerity and interest, "How are you?"

I'll tell you how I am. I just spent thirty-five minutes navigating a store that was designed by an autistic contestant from America's Next Top Model. Why are batteries and toilet paper in the same aisle? Is there some kind of new vibrating toilet roll I don't know about? And how about this register situation? It's 11pm. The only people shopping now are single twenty-somethings who just want to get their cookie-dough back home in time to get stoned and catch Letterman. So why do you have eight staff working on the regular registers, while the so called "express" lanes are manned only by yourself and a zombie in a red tie. (Seriously, what's that guy's deal anyway? Does the government have some kind of "flesh-eaters employment scheme" going? Jesus, at least clean up the brain-matter on his chin.) And what's with the music? If I wanted to listen to Billy Joel, I would have my headphones on, wouldn't I? Here's a magnifying glass. Get a clue.

But instead I just smile back and say, "fine, thanks", you piss-weak douche. That is, until recently.

It started off small.

"Hi, how are you?" they would ask.

My reply, "Eh, I'm okay." No reaction.

Then, "how's it going?"

"Terrible", I would state bluntly. This actually got a genuine smile, and sometimes even a "yeah, me too".

I figured at the very least I was giving this poor soul hope that, yes, there are people out there who don't turn into complete robots in public situations.

Then, finally, my confidence got the better of me, as it so often does, culminating in what can only be described as a horrifying display.

"Hi, how are you?" she asked, as she hovered my cookie-dough over the scanner.

"Fuckin' shit!" I bellowed with a grin.

I swear, even Billy Joel went silent.

She looked up at me, slack jawed, as if I had just grown a second head with Paris Hilton's face on it. I could do nothing else but imitate the same shit-eating grin I had been greeted with so many times before. Now I knew why they did it. Utter shame.

I didn't turn around, but I could sense the line of people behind me displaying the same gaping maw and incredulous eyebrows as the checkout girl. Finally, someone, I don't know who, it could have been me, but someone, thank Christ, cleared their throat. Billy Joel resumed wailing on the piano and time, at last, resumed.

Blushing like a girl who's just been loudly sworn at in front of a whole store of people, the checkout girl bagged my grocery and I promptly swiped my card without another single exchange of words.

I left the store more crestfallen than embarrassed. Any hope I had of tearing down society's insistence on bland politeness was dashed against the cold, hard, white linoleum of Safeway, Preston.

I shop at Coles now.

The moral? Never turn your back on Kirstie Alley.