Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

I’ve spent the first half of my lunch hour today chatting with former classmates on Facebook. We have been talking about the old days at school and it is becoming quite apparent that I must have some sort of memory disorder because I remember too many things with too much detail to be labeled normal. I remember the names of teachers, their assigned room numbers (I wonder if my favorite math teacher is still in Room 202?), the names of teachers that retired before I even got to that grade, the bell schedule of the high school and the fact that the bell used to signal a class change was an A-flat played over the PA speakers. I guess it’s somewhat natural, due to my fascination with clocks, that I remember that the bell rang three seconds after the clock positioned itself to the right time for the class change and that teachers would insist we wait for the bell, even though I don’t think they would have been able to cram anymore learning into the moments between 09:36:00 and 09:36:03. I could also share that this quirk appeared in 1981 when the master clock in the main office was replaced but that would be downright spooky.

Ask me what I had for supper two nights ago and I probably could remember if I thought about it hard enough. I know that I’m trying to forget last night’s supper, which was at a Chinese buffet that we lovingly call “China Nazi” because when we go in the hostess, and I use that term loosely, motions us to our table and proclaims, “You sit THERE!”. Her tone makes me want to bark out a “Heil Hitler!” but I don’t because that’s a totally different continent.

I’m pretty good with dates for the most part, though today I wished our friend Mike a happy birthday when his birthday is on Sunday. I always think he’s just shy of a month younger than me when in reality he is a month and a day younger than me. I remember my aunt and uncle’s wedding anniversary in 1979 for no apparent reason (other than they’re family). I remember most my cousins’ birthdays. Earl proclaimed he didn’t know his brother’s phone number the other night but I told him what it was. The digits are nearly the same as 62 WHEN in Syracuse and somewhat in the neighborhood of Route 481, also in Syracuse, so it’s simple math, at least in my head. By the way, his brother lives nowhere near Syracuse but I suppose he would fit in if he lost the Philly accent.

One thing that makes me hesitant with my memory is names. Some may notice that it takes a few encounters before I will address someone I have met during my adult years by their name. I hate getting names wrong because it’s kind of embarrassing. When I was in the hospital in 8th grade, the next room over in pediatrics had a patient named Carrie but I always called her Marcia because I thought she looked like a Marcia. My roommate, Eric, reminded me several times and that made me hesitant to call someone by name if I can’t remember it. I usually have an idea of what a person should be named by appearance. That being said, I don’t know that I have ever actually called someone Creepella to their face. Okay, I did that one time and she was not amused.

I attribute this memory talent, for lack of a better word, completely to my father. I owe him for inheriting that trait, because he could be downright spooky too. During the days of the family store, a customer could walk in, having not been in the store for a decade, and my father would say hello like it was yesterday and remind them of the pound of 10-common nails they had purchased the last time they were there, usually sometime in the mid 1970s (even though the present date was sometime in the late 1980s). The same customer would then look at me, thinking I was really good at math, as I rang them up because I didn’t have to use the calculator or reference a tax chart to compute the tax required for their purchase. It wasn’t that I was doing math in my head, I had just memorized the tax chart. Think of the time I could save on figuring out my purchases today if the sales tax rate was still 4%! I wouldn’t have to use my fingers or anything.

All of this memory stuff comes full circle though, when friends and family remind me of something that they have told me a half dozen times in the past month. “I forgot!”

I think I need to upgrade my RAM. I have too much stuff up there.

As a bit of a social networking junkie and a downright nerd when it comes to all things connected, I get a bit of a kick out of the social networking app called Foursquare. If you’re unfamiliar with it, this is an app that lives on your favorite mobile device that allows you to ‘check-in’ at whatever business you happen to be in. They have made this part of a game; you earn little trinkets and doo-dads and if you go to the same place enough times, you eventually become ‘mayor’. As I understand it, some places offer specials to the Foursquare mayor of their business, but I have yet to be treated like royalty. There are other similar programs out there, such as Gowalla, plus there is Facebook Places and Google Places (and the check-ins on Google+) that allow you to do the same thing for the most part. Early in my discovery of Foursquare, I would earn myself some eye rolls from the folks I was with because I would squeal (in a very masculine voice) that I was now the mayor of places like the Cozy-Have-A-Snack¹. There were several blogger and Twitter types that would gripe when Foursquare announced to the world that we had just become mayor. I turned that feature off; I only update Twitter when I want people to know where I am.

And, while I’m on the subject, I’m really not that concerned about people knowing where I am because I’m the one that is doing and controlling the announcing. It’s not like my phone is automatically checking me in to their locations.

While I don’t really have an interest in the idea of earning mayorships of businesses that I visit frequently, I do think it’s a hoot when I earn one, especially if I’ve only been to that location once or twice. I’m more excited to see who else is checked in to the same location I’m at and the excitement of seeing another geek on the street and in the wild. It’s kind of like the early days of being out as a gay and you’d get a little giddy when you saw another gay on the street. This latter example subsided for me considerably when I lived in Boston and my gaydar blew several fuses, a circuit breaker and any modicum of composure when I walked down Newbury Street for the first time.

But I digress.

Up until recently I was the mayor of the Dunkin’ Donuts closest to work. I held this title for a long time. There were no advertised specials nor was my photo plastered on the wall, but ever since I was mayor I didn’t have any clear liquid stuff sprayed into tea nor did I receive a bagel with pink goo on it by mistake. My orders have been accurate. While we were in Denver, I received word that a person by the name of Amanda S. had taken over as mayor of the Dunkin’ Donuts.

When I checked in today, I noticed that she was also checked in to the location. At long last, our paths were crossing and we would have the opportunity to meet. I walked into the restaurant and saw that they had no customers. Must be she had already left. I asked for my usual unsweetened iced tea and after someone went to get it, I asked for lemon.

“Amanda, be sure to put a lemon in it”, the cashier yelled over to the prep station.

A HA!

Sure enough, Amanda with the lemon is Amanda S. the mayor of Dunkin’ Donuts on Foursquare. I bet she thought she was quite crafty by not wearing her name tag, but the Hardy Boy in me figured it out. She wasn’t hiding under the secret stair case, she was right there, working at the Dunkin’ Donuts and checking in every time she had to work.

When she came back to give me my tea I cocked an eyebrow and pointed a finger at her. “Amanda? Amanda S from Foursquare?”

She smiled, blushed and said yes.

I smiled and said, “nice to meet you.”

And that’s what makes social networking cool.

¹ Über points to the person that can name that very obscure pop culture reference.