There are many things I can tolerate in life. In fact, I am one of the more easy-going chicas you are likely to come across in your travels around this grand earth-ball of ours. A little dumb? That’s ok with me. Feeling ornery? Alright. You like to sing Barry Manilow songs to the full moon in your underwear? Go for it. But if there’s one thing I can’t abide by, it’s when someone is half ass.
What is the true definition of half ass? It’s one of those indefinable things, isn’t it? You know it when you see it though, right? It’s when someone doesn’t follow through. It bugs the holy hell out of me. Or it’s when someone just kind of does something. I kind of like him, so I guess I will date him. That sort of thing. Or when one works in a service job with the public (oh, like perhaps in a library) and gives shoddy service. Half ass. Nordic Boy thinks I am a little bit obsessed with this idea and that’s because I’m always naming it when I see it. And for some reason, I am seeing it a lot.
Him: Saw Roberta today. She said she would love to have us over sometime.
Me: She says that every time we see her. She’s been saying that for a whole year.
Him: I know.
Me: Did she actually follow through? Suggest a time? Anything?
Me: God. What a half ass.
Once I have pronounced something “half ass,” Nordic Boy knows that the conversation is over. It is, I think, the one thing for which I am judgy. I don’t know why. I don’t know where this comes from. Follow through, people. Don’t do a lackluster job of things. Don’t be tepid. In or out. Yes or no. That’s what I respond to. Balls out. Hey- I guess the opposite of half ass would be balls out. How funny is that?
Anyway, Nordic Boy and I were invited to a costume party this weekend. In our busy-ness, we didn’t have time to come up with a really good costume. And costumes were required at this party. So, at the last minute, we didn’t go. Why? I could not bring myself to just go in a half-ass costume. I cannot be half ass! It will not happen! That underwear Barry Manilow singing thing? I would do that before knowingly being half ass about anything. I am not going to do something like put on my regular clothes, wear lots of eyeliner and dark shadow around my eyes, and go as “Heroin Addict Me” or some shit like that. Lame. And I’m not doing it. No way no how. It’s all in or not at all as far as I am concerned.
So, on Saturday night, Nordic Boy and I found ourselves suddenly sans plans. What should we do? Nordic Boy came up with the perfect solution. “Let’s go on a high school date.” So that’s what we did.
First, we went to dinner. The waiter must have known that we were on a high school date, because the first thing he did was card me. And yes, my evolved, womanly, mature self was happy that this happened. It could even be said that I “got my jollies” from it. (Did you all use the word “jollies” in this manner when you were in high school? I am not ashamed to say that I did.) And then, not only did he card me, he then noticed that my driver’s license just expired about a week ago (I totally didn’t know that) and kicked us out of the bar area of the restaurant! How much of a high school date event is THAT? I got kicked out of many a joint back in the day. Ah, memories.
When we were re-seated in the all-ages area, I ordered a soda. The waiter brought me my soda and it looked like this.
After dinner, we went to a movie. The theater was full of actual teenagers, but we stuck to the plan. After the movie, we went to an arcade. Oh yes. We did.
The feeling of being a teenager was marred a bit by the fact that we had to go up to the “oldies” section to find any games that we knew how to play. (Well, that’s not entirely true. I know how to play DDR and Guitar Hero and stuff like that, but if you think I am going to play those games in front of crowds of actual teenagers, you are out of your everloving gourd). So up to the oldes section we went. I played a little bit of Ms. PacMan…
Nordic Boy played a little Frogger, we both played a little bit of Skee-Ball, (where I won myself some nice jelly bracelets, thanks very much), and Nordic Boy found his favorite game of all time: Galaga. And he got on that thing (which he hasn’t played in at least ten years) and friggin’ rocked it. I was giggly teen girlfriend watching him go. It was awesome.
Then, on the way home, this is what transpired:
Him: So, we should talk about something that teenagers talk about. If we’re on a high school date and all.
Me: Ok, so like what?
Him: I don’t know. Doogie Howser?
Me: Teens don’t talk about Doogie Howser.
Him: But we’re on a teenager date, like from when we were teenagers. We just got done playing Galaga, for Christ’s sake. So we should talk about something that we would have talked about back when we were teenagers.
Me: And Doogie Howser is what you come up with for that?
Him: Yeah, I guess you’re right.
Me: Although, man. I loved Doogie. I never could see what he liked so much about Wanda though.
Him: Who’s Wanda?
Me: WHO’S WANDA? You’re the one who brought this whole topic up, and you don’t know who Wanda is?
Him: Actually, I never watched that show.
Him: So, anyway. What I really want to know is: were you the type to put out in high school or what? Because the date is about to end and all, so. Just asking.
Me: Um, maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. Depends on your definitions.
Him: Depends? Either you did or you didn’t. How can you say “kind of”?
Me: I don’t know. It’s not clear-cut.
Him: Half ass.