Let me be upfront before I get started: I did not vote for Barack Obama.
Call me out of touch, afraid of change or racist; I’ve heard it all. I was raised a Conservative Republican by Conservative Republican parents in Conservative Republican East Texas. Politics like religion are typically etched into the maturing psyche, and kids raised as Mormons typically end-up practicing Mormons. The same goes for Catholics, Buddhists, Muslims, etc. We are who we are primarily because our parents raised us to be that way. My mother and father raised me on Regan, Bush and the oil industry, and thusly; that’s why I am who I am.
On Election Night 2008 when the Western world celebrated ‘Change’, my wife and I shuddered to think what would become of my career. Just days before the FDIC ruled that my employer, Franklin Bank, was insolvent and no longer operable, the student loan industry that had constituted the nation’s higher education was squarely in the crosshairs of the Democratic Party. For years Ted Kennedy and his constituents hungered to make the Department of Education the only provider of student loans, thus driving private competition out to pasture and making Big Brother the only avenue to get a degree.
When Obama made his acceptance speech, I hung my head and muttered to my wife.
“It’s over.”
In 2008, like all years I’ve ever voted, I voted selfishly. Who was going to impact my bottom line and how? Who was going to enact policies that would most benefit my family? Obama and his party’s appetite to destroy the student loan industry made it an easy choice for me. I voted for John McCain in hopes that the Republican’s Party commitment to capitalism and private competition would stave-off a necessary career change. Unfortunately, Barack Obama’s overhyped rise to power couldn’t be stopped, and I was officially out of not only a job, but a career.
Fast forward 16 months and I’m doing just fine. I have a new career and a beautiful new son that keeps me up for hours on end. But it’s worth it. The American Dream somehow found its way into my life, and my continued pursuit of happiness drives me toward a better life for my family. As for our country? Well, the economy still blows harder than Paris Hilton after a lobster dinner, and the unemployment rate is soaring as higher than Robert Downey, Jr. circa 1990. Obama’s approval rating is in the toilet, and his ‘Change’ is on its death bed looking for a defibrillator. While the sluggish economy and failed stimulus initiative should be at the top of this Administration’s ‘to-do’ list, Obama and the Democratic Party has blown the last year attempting to ram a titanic health care bill down the throats of the American people.
I’ve always had healthcare. I’m going to venture that I will always have healthcare. It’s never been a concern or close to the tip of my tongue. Although I’m a ‘have’ as opposed to a ‘have-not’, I do recognize the need to reasonable access for those below the poverty line who simply do not have the means to acquire it. On the other hand, there are millions of parasitic-welfare drones sucking at the teats of government handouts that have no desire to better themselves simply because somebody else is going to do it for them. Universal Health Care has been the golden cow of the liberal Democratic Party for decades. Term after term they’ve tried to get it through, and finally after enough rule-bending, backdoor deal-making, Barack Obama’s legacy is near completion. Barry did it. He accomplished what Kennedy and Clinton could never do. He got a massive; almost $1 trillion healthcare bill passed that’ll insure 32 million uninsured Americans. It’ll restrict insurance companies from denying coverage to those with pre-existing conditions. Children will be able to remain on their parents’ policies until the age of 26. Those with health care plans will get to keep their own plan. What’s not to like?
The crooked process taken to achieve the ‘dream’ of healthcare reform sours our entire political process. Obama campaigned on a transparent political process, and he even declared that all healthcare conversation would be aired on C-Span. Apparently our President had a change of heart when it struck him that some Americans would be appalled at sweetheart deals given to Louisiana, Nebraska, New Jersey and others to buy votes. After Scott Brown won the Massachusetts senate seat long-held by Ted Kennedy and openly declared that he’d vote against the proposed Health Care initiatives, Pelosi, Reid and Obama scrambled to find a backdoor route to get the Democratic ‘dream’ to go through. As the President’s dream lay dying, he spoke plainly to members of the House and Senate.
“My presidency is at stake, here.”
So much for what’s good for the country, huh? In a few simple words the President illuminated the number one concern for all of our politicians: How am I going to get re-elected?
Barry’s got a fight on his hands with the Health Care Bill. Thirty-six states are in the process of taking legal action against the federal government (on the grounds that it violates the Constitution when the government forces us to buy things; like health care) to stop this bill’s passage, so Reform isn’t a slam dunk just yet. But that won’t stop him and his cronies from moving onto the next item on their agenda. You’d assume it’d be unemployment and the economy, right? Think again. It’s an immigration battle where liberal lawmakers are seeking residency/citizenship for 10 million illegal immigrants. As soon as these folks are granted residency/immigration, they’ll qualify for health care under the Obama plan. And somehow, these 10 million illegal immigrants weren’t included in the Budget Office’s cost estimate. Odd.
We’ll see where the country is in a few years. The Democratic Party is likely to lose its grip on the House and Senate in the mid-term elections, and a Republican legislative body will likely stymie further efforts by the Obama Administration to socialize American institutions. Obama will lose in 2012, and the country will skew back toward the right. Too much of anything is not a good thing, including 8 years of Republican rule.
Tacked on to the Health Care Bill is a little piece about the government abolishing the private sector’s right to make student loans. It’s not a big deal, after all. It’s just that 90 percent of American students pay for their college education with student loans. When the Department of Education seized control of the consolidation loan business in 2007, they were so backlogged that they stopped taking applications for six months. When’s the last time a government-run social program has functioned more efficiently than private industry? Never, that’s when.
Before too long your hospitals, doctor’s offices and student financial offices will look like your local social security storefront. Just remember, America; you asked for it.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Setting the Record Straight
I guess this may come as a shock to some of you, but I love my wife unequivocally above anything in this world. She is what drives me to become a better person and be a better man, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to be kicking off our family any day now. She is the most important person in the world to me, and I can’t imagine living my life without her.
I don’t want anything I write to be misconstrued as vitriol toward my wife or women as a whole. Hell, I love women. Women are awesome, spectacular works of biological genius above reproach. When I sit down to write on my blog, I do so to entertain, whether that be to incite frustration or elicit a fist pump. Like I said in my Facebook post: “Mission Accomplished.”
My goal is this most recent rash of postings is to pave the way for my book, “The Plunge,” which has been in the works now going on three years. It’s all but finished now after seven rewrites, and after I rework the introduction it’ll be going out to agents and publishers. As I’ve been writing new blogs I’ve been thinking of topics relevant to single guys going into relationships, which is a lot part of what “The Plunge” is about. The last blog that I posted was about older, single men being run-off by older, single women due to overbearing behavior. It’s actually directed at two of my friends currently going through that situation. It had nothing to do whatsoever with my current situation or my marriage. And I expected to catch some heat on the ‘Slurpee’ blog, but not for the reasons I caught it. Oddly enough for all of the negative feedback, I got just as much positive.
Sometimes the things I say are misinterpreted and taken out of context. Other times they’re not. My wife edits any blog that may be taken as negative toward her. You know what? She put her stamp of approval on that blog and gets exactly where I’m coming from. When and if “The Plunge” sees the light of day, my wife will have read through every single line and given her stamp of approval. Trust me, there’s probably some stuff in there that will irritate folks as well; but that’s the point. Entertainment.
So in summation, I love my wife. She’s my best friend. Oh, and she approves my message. Have you had your Slurpee today?
I don’t want anything I write to be misconstrued as vitriol toward my wife or women as a whole. Hell, I love women. Women are awesome, spectacular works of biological genius above reproach. When I sit down to write on my blog, I do so to entertain, whether that be to incite frustration or elicit a fist pump. Like I said in my Facebook post: “Mission Accomplished.”
My goal is this most recent rash of postings is to pave the way for my book, “The Plunge,” which has been in the works now going on three years. It’s all but finished now after seven rewrites, and after I rework the introduction it’ll be going out to agents and publishers. As I’ve been writing new blogs I’ve been thinking of topics relevant to single guys going into relationships, which is a lot part of what “The Plunge” is about. The last blog that I posted was about older, single men being run-off by older, single women due to overbearing behavior. It’s actually directed at two of my friends currently going through that situation. It had nothing to do whatsoever with my current situation or my marriage. And I expected to catch some heat on the ‘Slurpee’ blog, but not for the reasons I caught it. Oddly enough for all of the negative feedback, I got just as much positive.
Sometimes the things I say are misinterpreted and taken out of context. Other times they’re not. My wife edits any blog that may be taken as negative toward her. You know what? She put her stamp of approval on that blog and gets exactly where I’m coming from. When and if “The Plunge” sees the light of day, my wife will have read through every single line and given her stamp of approval. Trust me, there’s probably some stuff in there that will irritate folks as well; but that’s the point. Entertainment.
So in summation, I love my wife. She’s my best friend. Oh, and she approves my message. Have you had your Slurpee today?
Friday, March 5, 2010
Stage V Clingers: A Comparative Analysis vs. The Slurpee
Memo to women: Guys want to be in committed relationships.
It’s true. It might come as a shock, but trust me on this one. Just as much as chicks start to freak out when they surpass the age of 25 without tying the knot, men, too start to feel their heartstrings tugged on by the finality of perpetuity. Think of it as the male version of the biological clock; we’re just tired of doing all of the fun stuff.
You’re probably thinking, “What the hell does that mean?” It’s an interesting premise altogether. For a woman steadily marching toward her thirties, when she’s considered ‘past her prime’ much like a 30-year-old NFL running back, the noose tightens steadily as all of her friends find men and settle down in remote suburbia. I can tell you from experience that when a woman is in her upper-20s and she’s never been close to tying the knot, warning sirens echo in the prospective male brain like a nuclear reactor meltdown. Why? Well, we’re wondering what’s wrong with you. Are you a Self-Made Diva? Are you too high maintenance? Do you wear deep-seeded emotional scars from failed relationships past? More often than not, the above questions aren’t what make you radioactive. The main problem is that you’re most likely a Stage V Clinger.
For a bachelor is his run before midlife, life is pretty spectacular. Unlimited free time, possibility, booze, chicks, sports, videogames, road trips and financial liberty are simply glorious. Those things that we love are the reason sometimes we decide to go it alone, because when you’re in a relationship a lot of that stuff goes out of the window. And do you know what that stuff is? That stuff my friends, is fun.
But in the end we get tired of that fun. Bars, apartments and occasional moments of shallow emptiness drive us toward the desire to settle down and become 'adults'. However, keep in mind that all of the fun stuff isn't easy to let go of. Women and relationships burn through time like hot knives through butter, and that knive signifies to imminent reduction of unencumbered time. When you've got a Clinger on your hands, brother you can multiply that by 1,000.
Let's use a Slurpee as an analogy. 7-11 stores, the owners and creators, of the Slurpee are pretty rare in these parts. And let's just say you're a huge fan of the Slurpee, and it's been years since you've had the pleasure of tasting one. At first you can do without Slurpees, because there are other things to hold your interest like ICEE and Parrot Ice. ICEE and Parrot Ice are initially outstanding; a new explosion of flavors create a cornucopia of fresh flavor that temporarily makes you wonder why Slurpee was so great in the first place. But over time, you start to ache for a Slurpee. You start to miss Slurpees and regret that you ever dismissed them for the love of ICEE and Parrot Ice. Slurpee becomes the nagging voice in the back of your mind, the bone in your fish-stick if you will. Slurpee kept getting stuck in your throat and setting-off a mean gag-reflex reserved for bachelor parties. And suddenly, just as your powering up your laptop to surf the web for good, free porn, you spy a headline that reads, "7-11 acquires 250 Houston Shell Stations." Bingo, my friends; Slurpee rides again!
After a few days, 7-11s begin popping-up across the land, and you rush into the first one you see. You order the largest Slurpee available and rip into it. Each gulp is delicious and fresh, baptising you in the everlasting love of high fructose corn syrup. But happens when you have too much, too fast? That's right; brain freeze. Too much of anything is never good, and the body revolts in excess. This relates directly to Stage V Clingers; your overbearing instances are a huge, pain-in-the-ass brain freeze.
Stage V Clingers want their new man every second of every day. After work? At her place. Before work? At her place? Staying the night? At her place? Want to watch the game with your buddies? Nope. At her parents' place. There is not one second that is excused from her presence, and do you know what happens if you try to do something without you? She digs her talons in deep, like a bald eagle into the scales of a snake and never lets go. And this is because the Clinger is afraid that if you leave or spend a night without her, you'll find something better and the pendulum of her biological clock will snap right off. This misconception on the part of the Clinger is what potentially drives Slurpee-loving men away. It's the misconception that just because we want time to ourselves, we don't like them anymore.
And to some extent, this is a manufacturer's defect with women as a whole. Men are lone wolves; roving souls at heart looking for excitement at every turn. To women, it's unfathomable that men could possibly enjoy hobbies and other interests that don't involve them. Somehow by enjoying these other things, we are selfish, immature bastards that don't care about who else we hurt. The Clinger takes this to the maximum level cap, and creates an atmosphere of perpetual misery.
Clingers, remember that men all want their Slurpees. ICEEs are okay for awhile, but in the end we want to be slotted where the natural order says we should be placed. However, brain freezes suck. Don't give men a brain freeze, and your biological clock will be serviced in due time.
It’s true. It might come as a shock, but trust me on this one. Just as much as chicks start to freak out when they surpass the age of 25 without tying the knot, men, too start to feel their heartstrings tugged on by the finality of perpetuity. Think of it as the male version of the biological clock; we’re just tired of doing all of the fun stuff.
You’re probably thinking, “What the hell does that mean?” It’s an interesting premise altogether. For a woman steadily marching toward her thirties, when she’s considered ‘past her prime’ much like a 30-year-old NFL running back, the noose tightens steadily as all of her friends find men and settle down in remote suburbia. I can tell you from experience that when a woman is in her upper-20s and she’s never been close to tying the knot, warning sirens echo in the prospective male brain like a nuclear reactor meltdown. Why? Well, we’re wondering what’s wrong with you. Are you a Self-Made Diva? Are you too high maintenance? Do you wear deep-seeded emotional scars from failed relationships past? More often than not, the above questions aren’t what make you radioactive. The main problem is that you’re most likely a Stage V Clinger.
For a bachelor is his run before midlife, life is pretty spectacular. Unlimited free time, possibility, booze, chicks, sports, videogames, road trips and financial liberty are simply glorious. Those things that we love are the reason sometimes we decide to go it alone, because when you’re in a relationship a lot of that stuff goes out of the window. And do you know what that stuff is? That stuff my friends, is fun.
But in the end we get tired of that fun. Bars, apartments and occasional moments of shallow emptiness drive us toward the desire to settle down and become 'adults'. However, keep in mind that all of the fun stuff isn't easy to let go of. Women and relationships burn through time like hot knives through butter, and that knive signifies to imminent reduction of unencumbered time. When you've got a Clinger on your hands, brother you can multiply that by 1,000.
Let's use a Slurpee as an analogy. 7-11 stores, the owners and creators, of the Slurpee are pretty rare in these parts. And let's just say you're a huge fan of the Slurpee, and it's been years since you've had the pleasure of tasting one. At first you can do without Slurpees, because there are other things to hold your interest like ICEE and Parrot Ice. ICEE and Parrot Ice are initially outstanding; a new explosion of flavors create a cornucopia of fresh flavor that temporarily makes you wonder why Slurpee was so great in the first place. But over time, you start to ache for a Slurpee. You start to miss Slurpees and regret that you ever dismissed them for the love of ICEE and Parrot Ice. Slurpee becomes the nagging voice in the back of your mind, the bone in your fish-stick if you will. Slurpee kept getting stuck in your throat and setting-off a mean gag-reflex reserved for bachelor parties. And suddenly, just as your powering up your laptop to surf the web for good, free porn, you spy a headline that reads, "7-11 acquires 250 Houston Shell Stations." Bingo, my friends; Slurpee rides again!
After a few days, 7-11s begin popping-up across the land, and you rush into the first one you see. You order the largest Slurpee available and rip into it. Each gulp is delicious and fresh, baptising you in the everlasting love of high fructose corn syrup. But happens when you have too much, too fast? That's right; brain freeze. Too much of anything is never good, and the body revolts in excess. This relates directly to Stage V Clingers; your overbearing instances are a huge, pain-in-the-ass brain freeze.
Stage V Clingers want their new man every second of every day. After work? At her place. Before work? At her place? Staying the night? At her place? Want to watch the game with your buddies? Nope. At her parents' place. There is not one second that is excused from her presence, and do you know what happens if you try to do something without you? She digs her talons in deep, like a bald eagle into the scales of a snake and never lets go. And this is because the Clinger is afraid that if you leave or spend a night without her, you'll find something better and the pendulum of her biological clock will snap right off. This misconception on the part of the Clinger is what potentially drives Slurpee-loving men away. It's the misconception that just because we want time to ourselves, we don't like them anymore.
And to some extent, this is a manufacturer's defect with women as a whole. Men are lone wolves; roving souls at heart looking for excitement at every turn. To women, it's unfathomable that men could possibly enjoy hobbies and other interests that don't involve them. Somehow by enjoying these other things, we are selfish, immature bastards that don't care about who else we hurt. The Clinger takes this to the maximum level cap, and creates an atmosphere of perpetual misery.
Clingers, remember that men all want their Slurpees. ICEEs are okay for awhile, but in the end we want to be slotted where the natural order says we should be placed. However, brain freezes suck. Don't give men a brain freeze, and your biological clock will be serviced in due time.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
51/49: A Philosophy of Life for a More Civilized Age
Could somoene please tell me why my wife finds the lives of dwarves...er...little people so mesmerizing? She's pounding a turkey sando, a can of Sour Cream Pringles and a 32 oz. bottle of Gatorade while taking in her SECOND episode of 'The Little Couple'. Too bad we're out of tequila...
I've been so damned busy putting the finishing touches on my book and writing query letters that I haven't had the time to write new material for the blog. So this week I'm airing the equivalent of the 'retrospective episode', you know, the episode of you favorite show where the main character hosts a bunch of flashback clips? Hell, even Seinfeld had a 'retrospective.' In that vain, I present to you something from my archives; 51/49.
In 2004 a good friend of mine, Dan Starr, created 51/49 out of frustration, and we ran with it for years. I hope you find it enjoyable, and if you don't, well; I'm sure you can still catch 'The Little Couple.'
Dan and I both found ourselves reunited years later after we first met still working within the same community college system where we had met four years earlier, neither of us making any progress in life doing the same job. My college degree disappointingly netted me the exact same position I had before I transferred from my hometown to Austin. The new campus became an exercise in exhaustion. We were underpaid, overworked and weary of doing the same thing.
I worked at the point of attack in the front intake center. Waves of mothers and students bombarded me daily; as a promiscuous 33-year-old Pakistani immigrant co-worker did everything he could to fan the flames of their discord by hitting on every woman that walked through the door. I slumped into a deep gloominess, losing 35 pounds and dying my hair bleach blond in a useless attempt to affect change in my dreary life. I experienced a quarter-life crisis, culminating in the purchase of a brand new Chevrolet Corvette, which I couldn’t afford.
The front counter was the waste disposal position of all college jobs, and I flushed my life down daily when I crawled through the door. The only advantage was that I’d get to check out all of the young girls who walked past everyday in short shorts and skimpy spaghetti tops. The scenery, however, provided only momentary respite from the dearth of my situation.
Dan worked in the back and had an office as the advisor to incoming international students. He had the joy of slicing through thick accents to determine whether or not a particular Middle-Eastern student named Amal had legally entered the country, and wondered if each student he saw was a terrorist. We hated our jobs, which is no different than most Americans I suppose. We occupied time by chatting on our interoffice messaging system, voicing our disgust with society like two haphazard revolutionaries looking to overthrow the status quo.
We’d shoot messages back and forth, and at times we’d each have the joy of listening to each other complain about all of our problems, namely his marital travails. As Dan complained about everything having to do with being married. One day like an absurd, Dan typed in a message after complaining about his son crying all the time, “It’s about 51/49, dude.” A seed was planted.
The idea birthed easily in passing, but over the course of the last four years it has matured into something that’s much more concrete, serving as a rally cry for pushing through the muck of female trials. We came to reason that out of a possible 100 happiness points, marriage and relationships made you happy on average 51 percent of the time, and miserable the other 49. The converse was true for being single, it’s heavenly 49 percent of the time, but lonely, self-destructive and vacuous the other 51 percent.
Both lifestyles have advantages and shortfalls. For example, if you’re in a relationship, then you’re never lonely, typically have a steady supply of passionate sexy-time, have someone to build a life with and also have to someone with whom you confide in. Conversely, being in a relationship reduces your free time drastically, restricts your from controlling what you want to do with your money and causes you to be responsible to someone every second of your life. Happiness prevails 51 percent of the time, but 49 percent of the time you wish you imagine what life would be like if that person wasn’t around.
51/49 fluctuates quickly, rapidly changing like the markets. For clarity, let’s take a look at a few scenarios. Let’s suppose that you’re a single person, living alone in a dank apartment. The few friends you have are busy and can’t be bothered by you for the third consecutive weekend. You’ve got nothing. You work your cell phone, racking your brain with ideas of who you can call to get out for the night. Then you realize that there is nothing. You realize that you’re lonely. You wish there was someone for you; to keep you warm through the lonesome nights. At that point, you may think that being single registers about a 20 on the positive scale, and an 80 on the negative scale. Therefore your number is 20/80 toward solitary living. But wait! The cell phone rings and it’s one of your friends returning your earlier desperation call. Before you know what happens, you’re invited to a party where there will be free booze and food….and possibly women. Suddenly the worm has turned, and not being shackled to someone else feels like the for certain best way to live life. That 20/80 number in the negative instantly becomes a 90/10 for the positive. If you weren’t single, you’d never be able to go out so whimsically and have the potential to pick-up other chicks. You feel like being in a relationship or even dating someone seriously sucks. 51/49 evolves with your current climate, and the average is slightly affirmative for relationships, probably on the strength of not dying alone.
Ideally we’d all like to have it both ways, but it’s inherently impossible by the very nature of relationships to have your cake and eat it, too. Relationships are self-dying and sacrifice. You have to give-up some things to enjoy to the fruits in return, and for some people, that’s the reason that their relationships fail. I love to play videogames, strum my guitar, watch movies, workout and write, but when I interject another person in my life the time I have to do all of those times flies out the window. To compromise I have to give-up some things I enjoy doing in order to give some of myself to that other person. That means watching some lame comedy rerun on the WB or a ridiculous reality show instead of playing my favorite game online with my buddy in Dallas because that’s what she likes to do; watch brain-wasting television programs. The bottom line is that successful relationships are give-and-take, involving a lack of selfishness and personal interests. And most of the time, if a man doesn’t give her woman her way; it’s an all out bitch-fest until she gets it. So what’s the point in even fighting it? Just roll over and accept it.
All of the days I spent self-aggrandizing, immersing my brain in worldly interests eventually became tiresome and pointless. I might acquire the most sought after items in a videogame or watch all three Lord of the Rings films in one sitting, but those activities were complete empty-headed wastes of time. Did it make me a better person, or was I building toward anything life? It seemed was that I mired in mind-numbing actions to dull my senses until death. There had to be more juice to squeeze out of the fruit of life.
After spending a few months of indulging in hedonistic pursuits, I would inevitably begin to feel like a loser and be lonely all of the time. My 49 percent slice of the pie became moldy. Like clockwork I’d begin to scan MySpace for women who were single or cling desperately to any shred of possibility with any woman anywhere. I searched for any remote possibility on social networking sites. The bottom of the barrel wasn’t scraped; it was busted through! A rainy night and cuddling on the couch with that special someone, watching a movie and giggling together sounded like heaven. I’d pray for a date night or a walk in the park. No matter where I was the grass was always greener on the other side of life, and it is in those moments of realization that I needed to be honest with myself to see where I wanted to be. So it came to Dan, then to me that the line that separated happiness in relationships was somewhat of a blur, but we always concluded that it was slightly better to be involved in the pursuit of love. But just barely.
I've been so damned busy putting the finishing touches on my book and writing query letters that I haven't had the time to write new material for the blog. So this week I'm airing the equivalent of the 'retrospective episode', you know, the episode of you favorite show where the main character hosts a bunch of flashback clips? Hell, even Seinfeld had a 'retrospective.' In that vain, I present to you something from my archives; 51/49.
In 2004 a good friend of mine, Dan Starr, created 51/49 out of frustration, and we ran with it for years. I hope you find it enjoyable, and if you don't, well; I'm sure you can still catch 'The Little Couple.'
Dan and I both found ourselves reunited years later after we first met still working within the same community college system where we had met four years earlier, neither of us making any progress in life doing the same job. My college degree disappointingly netted me the exact same position I had before I transferred from my hometown to Austin. The new campus became an exercise in exhaustion. We were underpaid, overworked and weary of doing the same thing.
I worked at the point of attack in the front intake center. Waves of mothers and students bombarded me daily; as a promiscuous 33-year-old Pakistani immigrant co-worker did everything he could to fan the flames of their discord by hitting on every woman that walked through the door. I slumped into a deep gloominess, losing 35 pounds and dying my hair bleach blond in a useless attempt to affect change in my dreary life. I experienced a quarter-life crisis, culminating in the purchase of a brand new Chevrolet Corvette, which I couldn’t afford.
The front counter was the waste disposal position of all college jobs, and I flushed my life down daily when I crawled through the door. The only advantage was that I’d get to check out all of the young girls who walked past everyday in short shorts and skimpy spaghetti tops. The scenery, however, provided only momentary respite from the dearth of my situation.
Dan worked in the back and had an office as the advisor to incoming international students. He had the joy of slicing through thick accents to determine whether or not a particular Middle-Eastern student named Amal had legally entered the country, and wondered if each student he saw was a terrorist. We hated our jobs, which is no different than most Americans I suppose. We occupied time by chatting on our interoffice messaging system, voicing our disgust with society like two haphazard revolutionaries looking to overthrow the status quo.
We’d shoot messages back and forth, and at times we’d each have the joy of listening to each other complain about all of our problems, namely his marital travails. As Dan complained about everything having to do with being married. One day like an absurd, Dan typed in a message after complaining about his son crying all the time, “It’s about 51/49, dude.” A seed was planted.
The idea birthed easily in passing, but over the course of the last four years it has matured into something that’s much more concrete, serving as a rally cry for pushing through the muck of female trials. We came to reason that out of a possible 100 happiness points, marriage and relationships made you happy on average 51 percent of the time, and miserable the other 49. The converse was true for being single, it’s heavenly 49 percent of the time, but lonely, self-destructive and vacuous the other 51 percent.
Both lifestyles have advantages and shortfalls. For example, if you’re in a relationship, then you’re never lonely, typically have a steady supply of passionate sexy-time, have someone to build a life with and also have to someone with whom you confide in. Conversely, being in a relationship reduces your free time drastically, restricts your from controlling what you want to do with your money and causes you to be responsible to someone every second of your life. Happiness prevails 51 percent of the time, but 49 percent of the time you wish you imagine what life would be like if that person wasn’t around.
51/49 fluctuates quickly, rapidly changing like the markets. For clarity, let’s take a look at a few scenarios. Let’s suppose that you’re a single person, living alone in a dank apartment. The few friends you have are busy and can’t be bothered by you for the third consecutive weekend. You’ve got nothing. You work your cell phone, racking your brain with ideas of who you can call to get out for the night. Then you realize that there is nothing. You realize that you’re lonely. You wish there was someone for you; to keep you warm through the lonesome nights. At that point, you may think that being single registers about a 20 on the positive scale, and an 80 on the negative scale. Therefore your number is 20/80 toward solitary living. But wait! The cell phone rings and it’s one of your friends returning your earlier desperation call. Before you know what happens, you’re invited to a party where there will be free booze and food….and possibly women. Suddenly the worm has turned, and not being shackled to someone else feels like the for certain best way to live life. That 20/80 number in the negative instantly becomes a 90/10 for the positive. If you weren’t single, you’d never be able to go out so whimsically and have the potential to pick-up other chicks. You feel like being in a relationship or even dating someone seriously sucks. 51/49 evolves with your current climate, and the average is slightly affirmative for relationships, probably on the strength of not dying alone.
Ideally we’d all like to have it both ways, but it’s inherently impossible by the very nature of relationships to have your cake and eat it, too. Relationships are self-dying and sacrifice. You have to give-up some things to enjoy to the fruits in return, and for some people, that’s the reason that their relationships fail. I love to play videogames, strum my guitar, watch movies, workout and write, but when I interject another person in my life the time I have to do all of those times flies out the window. To compromise I have to give-up some things I enjoy doing in order to give some of myself to that other person. That means watching some lame comedy rerun on the WB or a ridiculous reality show instead of playing my favorite game online with my buddy in Dallas because that’s what she likes to do; watch brain-wasting television programs. The bottom line is that successful relationships are give-and-take, involving a lack of selfishness and personal interests. And most of the time, if a man doesn’t give her woman her way; it’s an all out bitch-fest until she gets it. So what’s the point in even fighting it? Just roll over and accept it.
All of the days I spent self-aggrandizing, immersing my brain in worldly interests eventually became tiresome and pointless. I might acquire the most sought after items in a videogame or watch all three Lord of the Rings films in one sitting, but those activities were complete empty-headed wastes of time. Did it make me a better person, or was I building toward anything life? It seemed was that I mired in mind-numbing actions to dull my senses until death. There had to be more juice to squeeze out of the fruit of life.
After spending a few months of indulging in hedonistic pursuits, I would inevitably begin to feel like a loser and be lonely all of the time. My 49 percent slice of the pie became moldy. Like clockwork I’d begin to scan MySpace for women who were single or cling desperately to any shred of possibility with any woman anywhere. I searched for any remote possibility on social networking sites. The bottom of the barrel wasn’t scraped; it was busted through! A rainy night and cuddling on the couch with that special someone, watching a movie and giggling together sounded like heaven. I’d pray for a date night or a walk in the park. No matter where I was the grass was always greener on the other side of life, and it is in those moments of realization that I needed to be honest with myself to see where I wanted to be. So it came to Dan, then to me that the line that separated happiness in relationships was somewhat of a blur, but we always concluded that it was slightly better to be involved in the pursuit of love. But just barely.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
It’s universally accepted among those with a dual set of X-chromosomes that videogames are for kids, and adults that play games are insecure losers fit for a lifetime of cat ownership and pay-go porn sites.
I honestly had a chick tell me one time that I’d never find a woman because I played videogames. She looked me square in the eye with her judgmental, vacuous, self-righteous view of the world, and condemned all gamers as losers with no social skills or aptitude. Of course I couldn’t call her out at the time; I was in the midst of an epic chick-slump that hanged tighter than Rosie O’Donnell’s top button. I had no comeback, no rallying cry I could call upon to combat her ignorant slander of myself and my brethren. Never mind the fact that I was in my early-20s, had few friends and spent more time with a console controller than I did working on getting to second base. Of course I proved her wrong with the emergence of the Self-Made Diva some months down the line, but her contention was one I’d been battling my whole life: Videogames are child’s play.
In 2004, I wrote an article about videogames and their explosion into popular culture. Sean Connery (You’re the man now, dog!) had just finished reprising his role as 007 in the videogame adaptation of ‘From Russia With Love,’ and Vin Diesel (yeah I know he sucks now) was on the verge of starring an original ‘Riddick’ game. It only took 25 years, but videogames had finally been accepted into popular culture. I referenced a popular Australian study (http://blogs.theage.com.au/screenplay/archives//004937.html) in my article that suggested that half of all gamers were women, and the average age overall was 28. I felt like the little kid tired of being bullied who finally sticks his chest out because his big brother (science) steps in. Take that, snooty chicks!
“If Heath Ledger can play videogames (pre-OD), then so can I!”
I rolled with that study every time I encountered a combatant woman or doucher who questioned my favorite hobby. I was untouchable, unflappable even. I didn’t feel like a pedophile walking into Gamestop (I’ve got to admit, it was starting to get weird). I was vindicated, and with the burgeoning explosion of gaming I could finally emerge from behind a stack of Nintendo Power magazines and come clean.
“Yes, I am a gamer. No, I’m not an overweight, socially awkward loser.”
As it turns out five years later, I could possibly be an overweight, socially awkward loser.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/8206163.stm
When this hit, my wife took about three seconds to say, “See, I told you!”
Was the nation of gamers growing older, fatter and socially inept? Was I more depressed than everyone else in America, or were gamers catching a bad rap?
To be honest, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. On average, we probably look like the stereotypical Chuck Taylor-wearing, Wolverine t-shirt-sportin’, Depeche Mode listenin’ virgins. But can we really paint an entire segment of our culture with broad strokes? Does stereotyping really exist in America of all places, the freest country in the galaxy?
Hell yes, stereotyping is running strong, and woman line-up in droves to expound just how immature gaming is.
“Why can’t men grow-up?” they often ask while ignoring the fact they're obsessed with ‘Twilight’, the poorly-written book series that spawned the equally inept movie franchise. Does anyone realize how many women are obsessed with this stuff? The books are about a bunch of young vampire kids reciting cardboard dialogue. So realize that this book franchise is aiming for the 15-year-old demographic, not the 28-year-old demographic. And does anyone else think that ‘Twi-moms’ obsessing over Rob and Taylor beside their daughters is disturbing in a ‘The Graduate’ sort of way?
Geez, as long as women are watching/reading Twilight in droves, they might as well go ahead and watch MTV reality television to complete unsatisfied high school dreams.
The Real World. Jersey Shore. The Hills. Laguna Beach. Road Rules. Super Sweet 16. These are just a few examples of the youth-driven programming that airs on the Music Television Network. And you know what? Women love that stuff. Six shows, all with the same dialogue and created for girls in training bras.
“I know, right?”
“Like whatever!”
“You know, like, I wanna like him but like, you know, like; I just don’t know.”
All I’m saying, ladies, is that you’re not as mature as you think you might be.
Don’t get me wrong; they’re lots of gamers that look exactly like this guy:
Then again, there are gamers that look like this: (Obviously before Chris Brown used her face as a speed bag)
So ladies, the next time you’re chiding your men because they’re playing a videogame, put down your copy of New Moon, turn off The Hills and take a look in the mirror; preferably the mirror in your ‘Edward’ compact.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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...
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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.
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.
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