Ah ... high school

My 15-year high school reunion, which costs $40 flippin’ dollars per person to attend, is just under a month away. I don’t much mind the actual reunion as there are a few people I’d like to see. I did receive word that one of the prima donna princesses from my class won’t be attending. Oh poo.

Back story on the princess: One day during senior year, I was out in the parking lot smoking with some friends. The princess pulled up in a Saab. She got out of the car, pouting, and stomped over to her friends who were close by. Very clearly, I heard her say, “Daddy wouldn’t let me take the Audi!” and literally stomped her foot on the ground in digust.

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?

My family wasn’t and isn’t poor, but I was a work-study kid all the way through high school, which meant I was the scourge of the earth in some people’s eyes because I actually “had” to work to help my parents pay my hoity toity private school tuition. I also rode the bus home on occasion – city transportation; imagine that – and didn’t have a car to use until my senior year. Occasionally, said car was the 1975 Mercedes my dad had purchased, which looked pretty new, but for a good portion of that year, it was the 1973 faded red Oldsmobile (which did NOT look new) that belonged to my grandfather. The Mercedes broke at some point and was in the shop for months, so Grandpa V loaned us a car he wasn’t using so we wouldn’t be screwed. I loved the Olds. It was 14,000 feet long and had something crazy like a V-800 under the hood. That car drove FAST. It was the perfect car for a 16-year-old kid to drive, which I got to do often because King V was too embarrassed to drive it to his place of business. Hey, it was a car, man. I had no pride. Soul II Soul’s “Back to Life” was a big hit on the radio then and I lurrrrved that song. Ah, adolescence. It wasn’t all bad.

The nice thing about this impending get-together is that I don’t have to worry that I’ve lost my hair or gained weight and must now hair plug or crash diet my way back to my high school self. I look remarkably similar at 32 to the self I was at 17. I’ll show you pictures sometime if you don’t believe me. Okay, so I’ve gained some weight and probably look a little more jaded. Let’s just say it’s been an … interesting … 15 years.

I’m just glad I’m not going to have some cheesy-romantic-comedy-adventure in which I try to locate someone to escort my over-30-year-old self to this event. True, I’d rather not go to the event alone, but I am secure enough in my singledom to show up solo rather than show up with someone who falls below my standards for dating material, e.g., The Date. I know, I know, I went out with her, but that’s all I asked of the Universe. A date with The Date. I wasn’t more specific, e.g., “make her a decent human being who knows how to use a phone.” She is an insecure flake in whom I am rapidly losing interest and, post-odd-lunch-with-her-on-Saturday, have realized (okay, accepted) that I need to stop exerting energy anywhere remotely close to her direction.

There are no other prospects on the horizon, not that I feel compelled to spend $80 to hang out with people from high school. Jesus. For $40, someone better drunkenly confess that I was the hottest grrl they ever laid eyes on during their adolescence and they secretly wanted to ask me to the prom. Okay, maybe not. A grrl can have her Sixteen Candles fantasies, can't she?

I have a bad feeling that my $40 is going to buy me the chance to drink a couple beers, play some pool, and stare down the snobby ex-cheerleaders who were aghast – simply horrified, I tell you! – when I showed up to the five-year high school reunion with a female date in tow. Ah, those wacky heterosexuals whose sphincters slam shut when a homo is in their presence. That’ll be a treat. Really.

Update: It was a waste of money. SEVEN people showed (a mere 5% of my graduating class) and spent most of the evening talking about their kids. And their kids' poop. I had nothing to contribute poop-wise, so I got drunk. See you at the 25th!

In other news, I’m moving next month. I’m pretty stoked; I found 1/5 of a house (one house, five units) near downtown which falls within my price range that is not located at the corner or Murderville and Cracktown. Finally I can leave the west side of the city, apartments, and neighbors who like to play their stereo at nice, quiet, weekend times. I’ll have almost twice the room I have now, I’ll be near some homos, and will hopefully be blessed with respectful neighbors. I’m looking forward to painting and buying rugs for the hardwood floors I will soon have. Oh yes. I think it will be sweet. I’m already imagining the colors of moon and light that I will paint my new bedroom.

Weekend recap:

Saw Last Holiday at a friend's house on Friday night. Sucked. My friend's dog kept licking my bare legs. At one point, the dog got up, went and drank out of the toilet, and I said, “THAT’S why I don’t want the dog to lick me.”

Saturday: Relaxed. Co-hosted and read/performed at a poetry reading. Spent morning running errands, soaking up beautiful weather, and looking for new place to live. Had lunch with The Date. Odd.

Sunday: Relaxed. Prepped to teach a yoga class in the evening. Spent time on balcony, looking at lake view, eating oatmeal (mmm, sludge), wearing pink fuzzy slippers and sunglasses. Taught class, came home, watched part of Six Feet Under. I’m only halfway through the season, so don’t effing tell me how it ends.