Anne, subject of one of my recent posts has written up a wonderful follow-up to her first venture, “how to make out with a girl”. I was hoping for something equally light-hearted and cute as the first one but this time around, she gets right down to business (come on, Anne, at least give me a *giggle*). Nevertheless, I still recommend the second part of her brief mini-series and hope my fellow readers will find the advice insightful.

Anne covers, for example, the delicate issue of what a true gentleman should do with his hands (or rather, should not do), and also takes the time to suggest several theatrical demonstrations of the curious technique, other than The Little Mermaid, which was previously mentioned.

Most helpful are her thoughts as to what possible “sweet nothings” one can whisper in the ear of a lady friend before swooping in for the kill. Mentions about how pretty she looks or how wonderful her hair smells lead to positive outcomes. Catchphrases like, “Hey babe. I wanna jump your bones” will lead to negative ones. Probably.

To: Girl crossing the street
From: Phil
Date: July 23, 2006 6:15 PM
Subject: None

I was driving home and I caught you crossing the street.

You had blonde hair and a bit of a depressed look about you, but you reminded of someone I once knew so well — right down to the slump in your shoulders and the way you walked. I couldn’t help but stare. You were dressed in a light purple top, a knee length skirt, and high heels. And you were damn uncomfortable.

I could tell you were itching to go home, kick off that skirt and those heels, and slip into your old jeans and sneakers. You made an ill-attempt to adjust your skirt discreetly, but only after you slipped three times and nearly rolled your ankle. I wondered for whom you decided to get all dressed up for.

When you made it to the other side of the street and onto the grass, you kicked off your heels, hefted a big sigh of content, and began marching home barefoot.

Behind me, the middle aged woman in the Toyota honked twice. And I was off.

Phil

If using the title of “How to make out with a girl” doesn’t garner me at least a few dozen hits from Google, I don’t know what will — and frankly, getting a few extra hits by pre-adolescent, love-starved boys will do wonders for my target demographic, don’t you think?

mack attack

For example, the technique of yawning and subtly placing one’s arm around the lady is not at all dead in this day and age […] but the author still recommends a look at The Little Mermaid in order to see a visual demonstration of the [correct way to smooch].

I recently stumbled across a fellow blogger who’s most recent post caught my interest. This young lady has devoted an entire guide to outlining the correct algorithm you should apply in order to succesfully snog that special guy/girl you’ve been, like, totally crushing on (in Ms. Henry’s grade 9 Geography class no less!). In fact, in order to make things completely believable, she’s taken the liberty of sprinkling cute *giggles* and smiley faces all over the place.

Oh god.

It’s amusing how many true nuggets of wisdom the author drops in the process of writing her little step-by-step. From this little gem of a guide, I’ve already learnt that, for example, the technique of yawning and subtly placing one’s arm around the lady is not at all dead in this day and age. I’d like to say I’m more experienced with these sort of affairs now that I’m older, but the author still recommends I take a look at The Little Mermaid in order to see a visual demonstration of the coveted technique.

The author is a modest gal, going so far as to admit that “girls […] don’t even understand [themselves] half the time”, and warns the reader that her guide is not the be-all-and-end-all teenagers are so desperately looking for:

An excellent suggestion, honey. The next time I’m holed up in the locker room with a couple of my mates, I’ll be sure to pop the question, “Yo Frank. Can you show me how to make out?”

Then I’ll hastily gather my gear with one hand, double check the towel is properly obscuring my derriere, and run for dear life.

To: Readers of philsproof.com
From: Phil
Date: July 22, 2006 Noon-ish
Subject: My Christmas Present

Dear Readers,

I do understand how difficult it can be to select a Christmas present for a friend; a Christmas present that will be memorable, will be kept and cherished with each passing moment, and one that won’t be hastily rewrapped and re-gifted as soon as the opportune moment arises.

But you can all stop your endless pondering, because I know what I want.

Sadly, I’ve no idea where you can buy one, nor do I know how much it might run you. But I figure this will make up for that Nintendo I never got as a kid.

Oh, I would love it if you could wrap it in say, a saucy French maid outfit but really, I’m not that picky.

I know it’s still early, but these things take time. So just to warn you: Christmas Eve, I’ll be waiting at home, wearing nothing by a silky mauve Italian dress robe, holding a platter of milk and cookies, and hoping that the FedEx man shows up at my door with a box about 5′9 in height and curiously wobbling from side to side.

Sincerely Yours,
Phil

Do drop me a line if you’d like me to tell you who she is, or if you’d like me to confirm any of your guesses.

Yesterday night, I had coffee at a café with a math student I hadn’t seen since the school year. As the evening wound down, we had the following, rather ackward exchange:

‘Phil, can I ask you a question?’

Taken aback by the seriousness of her tone, I wondered whether it was going to be something embarrassing like, ‘When was the last time you saw another man naked?’ It wasn’t.

snapshot

You see, Snapshot is a bit of a celebrity among math students at Carleton University - we call him that because he likes to stand up in class with his little pocket camera and take pictures of the board, much to the annoyance of his fellow classmates.

‘Have you ever noticed how weird math people are?’

I frowned and took a sip of my Latté. I never thought we were weird. Maybe a little bit eccentric but it came with the territory.

‘Erm. No, I can’t say I have. Why would you say that?’

‘Oh come off it,’ she said, exasperated, ‘think of our Game Theory class. Everyone in that class was either weird-acting, weird-looking, or worse, both. Remember Snapshot?’

We both laughed like idiots.

You see, Snapshot is a bit of a celebrity among math students at Carleton University - we call him that because he likes to stand up in class with his little pocket camera and take pictures of the board, much to the annoyance of his fellow classmates. If that wasn’t enough he wears the dirtiest, most raggedy t-shirts in public, prides himself for sporting a swanky fanny pack, lugs around an enormous gym bag, and absolutely loves to fill his pants with the strangest objects, including a digital camera, a pencil case, a calculator, a few dozen pens, and packets of candy.

If you had ever seen a dirty, fat, annoying Russian with enormous hips, boxlike and inflated from the sheer number of objects he delighted in stuffing into his own trousers, there’s a very good chance you knew Snapshot.

‘See, it’s not just him I’m talking about,’ she continued unphased, ‘there’s that 60 year old lady with the short gray hair and the thick English accent.’

‘Sleepy Jeff,’ I murmured, finding a contribution of my own, ‘who works at night and sleeps in class.’

‘Tim’, she added, ‘or was it Tom? The guy who’s always so hopped up on espressos, he can’t stop stuttering. And what is up with the man’s hair?’

‘It’s Tim.’ I answered, helpfully. ‘Those six Chinese students who huddle together because they can only speak Mandarin?’

‘Oh. I think they’re getting better at English now. Then there’s Anthony. Do you remember him?’

‘That’s the old grad student with the tics and the fake nails right?’

Our conversation was a verbal tennis match. She: firing examples of typical math oddity at me. Me: clumsily batting back one of my own.

‘Andrew, the Goth in the trench coat.’

‘Olga, the Russian. I heard she’s dating the Analysis prof.’

‘Ew. Tiny Adam, who wears the giant, DJ-style headphones in class.’

‘Lane, the totally beefy blonde who scares all her tutorial students.’

‘God, I hate her. Hiba, the Lebanese woman with the four kids.’

‘That guy with the blue hair who walks like his feet are four sizes too large.’

We stopped and sat there in silence, slightly out of breath. Fine, she had a point, I grudgingly admitted. Our math classes are always a potpourri of oddness.

‘And let’s not forget about you, Phil.’

‘Well, what about me?’

‘You’re the worst one of all.’

‘What the fuck!’

‘Phil, think about it,’ she began slowly, ‘you’re a 20 year old grad student who started studying at 18.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being ambitious’, I said quickly getting on the defensive.

‘People think you stumble into our math classes by accident, having taken a wrong turn from the gym.’

‘So I’m a bit more defined. So I have, uh, contours. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘You don’t sleep. You work 17 hours a day. You live on coffee. You live on math. You’d rather work on campus when everyone’s in bed than during the day.’

‘It’s more quiet that way,’ I explained helpfully, ‘I get the entire campus to myself.’

She ignored me. ‘And let’s not get into your tastes. What kind of 20 year old likes classical music and listens to the opera?’

I was beginning to crumble. ‘You’ll find that I’m simply a bit more refined than the average hoodlum.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Phil, if you were any more refined, you’d have a senior citizen’s discount at the local Shoppers. Now, I’m saying this as a friend: You’re one of the best examples of why math students are freaks of the academic world. You’re the cherry on top.’

‘Oh god. What should I do?’

‘Just don’t fight it. It’ll go down a helluva lot easier. Besides, I hear Snapshot needs a friend.’