Facebook Realizations: The High School Reboot-Retox Part Deaux

The second time my friend request went unaccepted, I became suspicious.

"Maybe he's busy or something," I told myself, trying to convince myself that something wasn't wrong.

Why would anything be wrong? I hadn't talked to him in over a year, and there wasn't any bad blood between us. Surely my dangling request was a simple oversight. I'd resisted the Facebook urge so long that I assumed my premiere would create shockwaves across the social-networking universe, and my long-awaited appearance would result in hundreds of friends in no time. (As it turns out, people couldn't have cared less.)

I spammed the request again, as my old friend's account had remained relatively inactive. He had no Wall Posts about discovering a cow in the fields of Farmville, nor had he posted any new pics of his 24 kids. He hadn't even moved a stack of dynamite in Mafia Wars. Without these hallmarks of Facebook activity, it was clear he simply hadn't received my request. Without a doubt he'd get to me the next time he was on; it was only a matter of time.

But alas, a day later a new comment appeared from my friend on a mutual friend's wall, and my most recent request still had not been accepted. What the hell was going on? Did this guy have a beef? Was I on the verge of acquiring a nemesis without really even trying to cultivate one?

I was confused. Though I hadn't seen this guy in over a year, Facebook would be the great uniter, the Jesse Jackson of the technology generation (minus the thinly-veiled racism). Or so that's what I thought. I contacted my friend who also had intimate knowledge (non-Biblical) of my Facebook target's daily activities. I caught-up with him via Google chat (via Iphone at work, no less).

Tommy Cathey: Hey man...what's the deal with Brigham Young (a pseudonym for Facebook target. Don't read anything into the name. It was chosen completely at random).

Friend: What do you mean?

Tommy Cathey: I've had, like, three friend requests go unanswered.

Friend: Yeah...he's still pretty upset about not getting an invite to your wedding...

Stop right there. Did you catch that? HE is STILL UPSET about not getting invited to my wedding. A man, a full-grown man is hurt because he didn't get invited to a wedding. Now, there is only one cohort of grown men for whom it is acceptable to pout about not getting invited to a wedding, and that's the Italian-Mobster cohort. Any other man who's upset about not getting invited to a wedding is a complete doucher.

But this scenario got me thinking; when was I ever upset/disspointed/a doucher for not getting invited to a party of any sort? The only thing that came to mind was Natalie Carter's 8th grade birthday party, when I had to perpetrate a myriad of behind-the-scenes antics to finally get a half-assed 'your-invitation-was-lost' invite.

So, where in the hell is all of this going? High School.


Things I've Learned from Facebook High


1. Cliques and Attractiveness

If women in high school were a stock market, where would you have invested your money on a ten-year plan? All I know is that I would've lost my ass. Like, Enron times WorldCom lost my ass. Time can do terrible things to a body. If I had to estimate the collective amount of weight gained by folks I associated with at Tomball High School during my run, I'd say it's got to be over two tons. My God, what are people doing; eating sticks of sugar-covered butter?

In hindsight, high school adolescents ran in packs, like culled coyotes. The jocks all hung with each other, further segregated by sport. The Marilyn Manson/Misfits fans, all clad in black (and huge fans of Spiderman comic books, oddly enough), plotted their next cigarette break in the Senior Hall bathroom. And then there were the women. Was/Is there anything more vicious, shallow and heartless than high-school-women-posses? Outside of Miley Cyrus, no.

From a guy's perspective, these female cliques were cells to be infiltrated. Within these cells, there were varying amounts of quality. You had your prize, Grade-A talent, the hotness of which determined the overall desirability of the female cell. Then you had your mid-level stuff, your 6-7 on the 10 Scale stuff. These were solid, mid-level performers, and there was no shame in 'going steady' with one of those gals. At the bottom lurked your, "Association Girls." Now, these chicks would typically have no business hanging with the girls in that cell, but because of childhood friendships (getting into the group before being hot matters) and or convenience (has a swimming pool), they're still around. In the realm of high school, these chicks didn't typically get to date guys from the corresponding clique based on gender (i.e. Cheerleaders to Football Players; Youth Christian Group Chicks to Soccer Players). Instead, they were saddled with an FFA guy, or even worse an underclassman.

QUICK SIDENOTE: Notice that the gender-dating age mechanic gets established early on. Men are allowed to date younger women, but if a girl goes younger it's either Cougar or desperation.

But you see, in high school that's the natural order and not too big to overcome. A group of guys can cavort with a popular female group, while the 'Association Girl' toils in dating obscurity. When you transition to the collegiate/post collegiate dating scene, it gets a bit more complicated.

Fast forward. You're 24 years old and at a bar with your boys. It's been a long day at work, and right at 5:43 p.m. you took off your tie and rolled-up your Oxford button-down sleeves. You grab a low-carb beer and survey the scene. It's slow, but it's early, and you're not worried about scene just yet. But as you survey the landscape, you spot a coven of good-looking women your age at a cocktail table in the corner. The diluted beer begins to taste even more like water, and life gets good. You elbow your buddies and begin to determine the pecking order; who gets who? At this stage, you and your guys lay claim, starting with the hottest chick and then subsequently down the ladder. There's some light negotiating here, including the purchase of drinks or roommate house-cleaning duties. Once you're at the bottom, someone has to own the duty of taking the 'Association Girl.' And guess what? There isn't an FFA guy in sight; it's just you and your posse. Assuming that there is no FFA guy in your group, somebody's got to take the lowest rung on the ladder. This man, this hero; is what we now call, 'The Wingman.'

The Wingman is a position of sacrifice and honor. He has to spend the entire night pretending to be interested in the Low Rung while his buddies laugh-it-up the night through. And being the Wingman does not come without risks. What happens if you have a few too many and you end-up off site with the lowest rung? Alcohol can make you do some regrettable, horrific things; like some 'Crying Game' things.


NOTE: This blog got way too long, so kudos to those of you that made it this far. I've decided to make this an ongoing series as long as Facebook relates to high school. From the looks of things, I'll be working on this for months...

The Adventures of Tom Cathey: Episode XIII--Self-Made Divas and the Rise of the Douchebags

When you're sharing a bathroom with a 26-year-old dude whose bedroom smelled like Nick Nolte's breath after a DWI arrest, you start to re-think your place in the world.

I was 25 and single, with three roommates; two of which were a fiance-future groom combo and the aforementioned smelly-guy. Something had to give. I'd spent the better part of two years trying to remake myself into everything Maxim told me I needed to be to Dean Martin with chicks.

For starters, I worked out way too much and flamed 200 bucks a month of supplements that the FDA wouldn't approve with a bag full of lobbyist blood-money. Carbs were the plague, and I consumed so much protein my colon excreted an odor that should've been used as an interrogation tactic at Gitmo.

Magazines and websites told me what I needed to wear, and somehow they convinced me that it was socially acceptable to shave my entire body and moisturize with products 'for men.' I stopped short of joining a tanning bed or fake tanning at home. I did, however, purchase at-home teeth whitening kits in bulk. What I didn't realize, however, is what I was becoming.

I was at the forefront of the Douchebag Movement, which hit its peak in the years 2005-2008. To be a card-carrying, uniform-sporting douchebag, the following was required:

1. Obesession over phyisical appearance (six-pack abs, being 'ripped')
2. Interest in 'designer' clothes by clothing companies not made for men (Coach, BCBG, Lucky Jeans, Prada, Gucci, etc.)
3. Excessive use of hair product (purchased at salons only)
4. Trucker hats (worn to the side, or 'crooked.')
5. Popped collars (self-explanatory)
6. Enjoyment of the bands, 311, Nickelback, as well as an interest in the 'Texas Country' movement
7. Low-carb Beer
8. Pointy-shoes (you know the ones, the leather shoes that look three inches too long with the toes curled up at the end)
9. Stocking caps or beanies, worn in the middle of Summer when it's 100 degrees outside

In 2006, I was a douchebag. A soppy, soaking, dyed-in-estrogen douchebag. My hair was spiked and glistening, my too-tight long-sleeved shirt's sleeves were rolled-up and my teeth were whiter than a line of Lindsay Lohan's coke hit. Every weekend I spent hours in dubious bars, surveying 'the scene' with dozens of other douchebags that looked exactly like me. We all competed for the same vacuous, delusional wannabe chicks who thought themselves Houston-incarnations of the 'Sex and the City' tramps.

During my douchebag-run, I didn't have too much success in the dating realm. There were a few bingos, but not many. Sometimes I didn't get it. Sometimes I didn't understand what made the other douchebags a better douchebag than I was. For the life of me I couldn't figure it out. What I needed was a slump-buster, a sure-thing, an ace in the hole. What I got, was the Self-Made Diva.

The Self-Made Diva (SMD going forward) was a fairly-attractive, young, self-centered, egotistical spoiled brat who got everything she wanted. Her parents were blue collar, living in a modest home on the outskirts of suburban Houston. The made middle-class money and drove middle-class cars, and on the weekends they danced at country bars with sawdust on the floor. The SMD was an only child of average intelligence and above-average looks. She thought she was Beyonce; the white-Beyonce.

I began dating the SMD in the summer of 2006, and I went full-throttle. At first it was fun, a new hobby instead of the same-old crap. I plotted fancy dinners and fun events, while pushing my body in the gym. And the SMD was pretty solid, I'd say a 7.5 on the famed ten-scale (others would say she was a 8.0 or so). If you could imagine the most shallow, self-absorbed materliastic woman in the world, take that imagery and multiply it by 20. This chick was the worst I'd ever seen.

For starters, she had a little toy dog named, 'Gucci'. I shit you not. Not only was the dog named, Gucci, but she also carried a $2,000 Gucci bag. And you better freaking believe that Gucci was carried in the Gucci bag. Yeah, it actually happens outside of 'Legally Blond.' By the way, that was her favorite movie. Number two? You guessed it; 'Legally Blond 2'.

She wore only $200 jeans, and $500 Jimmy Chus (women's shoes) were the norm. I was actually in the store with her when she bought the Paris Hilton album. She looked-up to Kim Kardashian, Coco Chanel and that skank that divorced Reverend Run. And as stomach-churning as I knew she was, I didn't care. You want to know why I didn't
care? Because she was hot. That's where my priorities rested; hotness.

Our relationship moved into October, and even though she was an idiot, I was pretty content. She was away at school during the week, which allowed me time to relax and get away from her. I was only dealing with SMD on the weekends. Now, the SMD refused to to pay for anything. She stated up front that she wasn't going to pay for dinner, movies, coffee, gifts...nothing. And I didn't care because she was hot. Then Halloween came.

SMD's work friends were having a party in a bad part of town in Houston. It was in the part of Houston where hoodlum rides a bicycle where the handle bars scoop way out so that other hoodlums can ride on the handle bars. It's like the movie, "Baby Boy" starring Tyrese and Snoop Dogg. It was pretty scary.

SMD was such a financial burden that I couldn't afford to roll with a tight costume. Instead I went as Neo (Matrix) for the second year in a row. SMD? She went as a 'Gold Digger.' What does a 'Gold Digger' costume look like? It looks like this:

Please Note: SMD was not even close to this hot. This kind of hot is like on a different scale of hot, an abnormal, 99.9 percent-of-the-world-can't-compete-for- this kind of hot.



Now, I wasn't okay with SMD wearing this, but it wasn't a deal breaker. When she took a picture of herself bending down and thrusting a golden shovel into my wallet (my actual, honest-to-goodness wallet), the deal was broken. At that moment, I began to plot an exit strategy. That strategy dragged on way longer than it needed to.

It was Christmastime, and I still hadn't dumped the SMD. I didn't really like her all that much, and her obnoxious materialism wasn't as novel as it once was. And since I'd been unable to dump the poor snob, I was saddled with a Christmas gift purchase. What did SMD want for Christmas? SMD wanted at $2,500, diamond-encrusted Tiffany necklace. When I promptly told her she was out of her f*&^ing mind, she lost it and began screaming at me.

"You've ruined Christmas for me!" she said, her MAC lipstick flying from her lips.

Eventually she calmed down, and out of the kindness of her heart she went to the mall and picked out $600 worth of jewelry.

"I'm saving you almost $2,000," she said.

And not only did she select her Christmas gifts, she obtained the sales person's card and told the salesperson, "he'll be in later." So when she told me of her actions and gave me the card, do you know what I did? Can you even guess what I did to this pompous wretch? Yeah, that's right; I went straight the mall and bought the damned jewelry. All of this for a person I hated more than reality shows about midgets.

My exit strategy had spilled into 2007, and after Valentine's Day I wasn't any closer to breaking-up with SMD. My inability to man-up and do the deed had cost me $2,000 in additional gifts/restaurant bills. Something needed to give, but the future looked pretty damned bleak. Then out of the blue, like a miracle kissed from the lips of God, I had my opening.

Now, I'm a smartass by trade, which surprises no one. So one day after I made a joke about the size of her ankles (I know it's pretty tacky, but you have to remember, I didn't give two craps about her emotions) she refused to go to an evening wedding shower with me. THEN, she sent me an email saying, "You need to decide what you want. We can go two ways. 1. We can talk through this and resume or relationship. 2. We can go our separate ways." It was a miracle! She actually brought up the possibility of a break-up!

So later that night after the shower, I came home after a night of macking on this older chick. She was digging me, which helped to convince me that I still had decent-enough game to bag a woman somewhere down the line. The hit was finally and mercifully put out on SMD. Now, how to carry out the kill.

I didn't have much experience dumping women. I did know that there were three options:

1. The In-Person

Considered the most difficult to pull-off, but definitely the most honorable. This sit-down style is typically carried out in a public forum where screaming/throwing of objects are minimized. There's always the risk of tears and possible reconciliation, thus damning one to additional, unwanted weeks of a broken relationship.

2. The Over-The-Phone

Not the best bet, but certainly not the worst. The Over-The-Phone is a live format, which is always nice. You don't have to worry about airborne objects, and at any second you can hang-up and end the conversation. Still, it's kind of weak and spineless, but at least you're giving the dumpee the courtesy of a real human voice.

3. The Electronic

If you're a complete spineless, weak, gutless coward, than this method is for you. You're given a lot of different formats here. It's basically anything online or text messaging. Facebook, Myspace, text message, email...you name it, it's yours. Here you can say it, edit it, re-edit it and get it out without fear of reprisal. That's a plus. However, you are a complete tool to go this route, and probably a bad person.

So which did I choose? If you guessed The Electronic, then you are correct. I hammered that email, and right before I got ready to send it I deleted my Myspace. Why did I do this? For starters, I was friends with all of her friends, and there were just too many damned pictures of her to delete. Plus I didn't want to have to put up with all of the, "What happened?" comments from everybody. That's what I do when things get tough. I run away and hideout until the coast is clear. And yes, I'm a spineless tool.

With my Myspace account deleted I sent the email, and I never heard from her again. She did, however, get in a parting shot. One day while sitting at home (lonely, of course), I checked out her Myspace account. SMD had embedded a YouTube clip from "Sex in the City." It's apparently some famous clip about a guy who breaks-up with Carrie via a Post-It Note. I actually laughed. The SMD had gotten in a shot. Hell, I deserved it for resorting to The Electronic. And in the end I couldn't have cared less. I was rid of her, Gucci, and designer clothes. Oh, and her fat ankles.