I Am Not Alone
Reading further into Wilhelm’s text continues to frustrate me. He rails against standardized testing and I agree with his theology, but am also surrounded by the need for “Academic Data”. Our department came under fire last year because the new ‘it” word for the school year became “skill based testing”; we test for the proficiency of skill and a mind map doesn’t cut it for “raw data”. This year, in an effort to gather “raw data”, we proctor a pre-test for every unit, a mid-unit test, and the regular post-unit exam, but wait there’s more!
We’ve had Beginning of Year Tests (or BOYTs) and look forward to MOYTs (Middle of Year Tests) and EOYTs (End of Year Tests). I can’t forget about our beginning and end of year benchmark tests, too. Recently our principal also created and requested the outcome of a quick Formative Assessment quiz. We’ve already spent a day proctoring the PLAN test and will spend a day next Wednesday to proctor the PSAT. I recently finished working my way through the PSAT practice booklet with my students.
As you can imagine, Wilhelm’s horror stories of being on Standardized testing committees inspired me to rant. I don’t feel empowered or comfortable enough to rage against the machine as Wilhelm does; not until my tenure is in place. However, my gripes have started and it is harder to hold the complaints at bay. Senior teachers I’m most vocal to advocate the words of Baines and Farrell, “shifts in curricular models can give teachers a sense of déjà vu” (74). I’ve been told this standardized push is only the current trend and time will pass and the pendulum swings back to The Process Model (80) of teaching, a model I prefer – maybe because I’ve seen the highest amount of engagement through this or because it’s just personal preference.
Baines and Farrell are only too accurate by stating the “most neglected, influences on learning is a teacher’s ability to engage students” (75). It is a daily challenge to engage in such a mechanical teaching style as scantron answer sheets and multiple choice questions. I tried to engage their senses through the grading process after taking multiple choice formative and/or summative tests:
“Okay class, if you answered ‘A’ for question one, clap your hands. If you answered ‘B’, stand on one leg. If you answered ‘C’, meow like a cat! If you answered ‘D’, pat your neighbor on the back because ‘D’ is the correct answer! Now people standing on one leg, someone explain why you answered ‘B’ as the best answer.”
My final question, and maybe a decent question for a thesis paper, is if Dewey suggested decades ago that “many standardized tests still give little diagnostic help for students who fail to do well on them”, why do I still succumb to the tyranny of administration that hasn’t even set foot in my classroom to see what my students can really produce?
10.13.2009
9.14.2009
Eating Dinner with Two Roads
Then I dropped the bombshell. “Mi hijo! No!” my mom said. “That’s a great idea, Mihito!” my father admitted. The eruption of objections and enthusiasm interrupt the silent Mexican cantina and in moments such as this you can only reach into the basket strategically placed in the middle of the table, choose at random a rigid prize, and indulge in another scoop of the deep ruby hot sauce. It’s easy to fill your stomach with the smoky flavored salsa.
Sitting at dinner, I explained to mom and dad how interesting it would be to visit other countries and teach for a year. My mother wasn't a fan of the idea, but my dad was supportive. Despite the combined objections and encouragements, I continued to casually explain the challenge bringing my dog, Molly Jane, along for the ride. It would be taxing enough to part ways with my car.
Before dinner, I was already day dreaming a hair brained scheme on how to make it happen, fully knowing nothing worthwhile goes according to plan. My father’s curiosity broke first.
"Where did you get this idea?"
"Well" I started "I’ve been reading this book for class called A Moveable Feast about Hemingway's life in Paris living content although somewhat in poverty..."
"Oh hell..." My mom interrupts "He was probably on drugs or drunk the whole time, you know!"
"Yes, Mom. Probably."
"And besides, you don't want to live in poverty. You’ve never had to and couldn’t manage without central air. And you wouldn’t want to!"
"I didn't say I wanted to live in poverty, but I could live comfortably. If I wasn't okay with living comfortably, I wouldn’t have been a teacher in this state."
8.06.2009
Violetta
He distorted her highborn visage,
sufficed they war on in dismal beds.
Those lips worth a steep sacrifice,
the weight of an albatross instead.
sufficed they war on in dismal beds.
Those lips worth a steep sacrifice,
the weight of an albatross instead.
8.04.2009
A Funny Thing Happened to Me on the way to the Plaza
7. 3.09 Santa Fe, NM.
Day 1, Entry 1
Location: Sleepy Dog Tavern
Today was my day. Having missed the shuttle to this fabled "Plaza", I ventured out on foot with a map from our hotel. My "smart" phone predicted an hour and a half walk. Thirty minutes into the trek I realized my running shoes would have been a better choice than leather hi-top Converse, but at least I looked stylish. So stylish, in fact, that I was granted cat calls from two Mamasitas in a grey coupe. Maybe they mistook me for someone else because I was taking a detour, through their neighbor brood. I had to detour because I was looking for a Bank of America. I never found it, but on the bright side, burned some calories and was treated like a piece of meat.
Thirty minutes later, my phone went dead! I push a button. No response. I push reset buttons. No response. I had a moment of silence and said a silent prayer of thanks to our lord and savior, Bronson Alcott. Looking at my WWTD (What Would Thoreau Do?) bracelet, I concluded this was a great thing - an event even! Finally, I was free of technology and left to fend for myself in an unfamiliar city like a modern survivor Man!
Standing at the corner of Cerrillos and Pasco de Peralta, a four way stoop was held up when a kind woman braked in front of my side walk plateau, rolled down an automatic window and asked "Where are you going? Need directions?” I either looked impossibly lost or it was once again due to the stylish kicks. I prefer to think the later. I thanked her, but the reality was I had arrived at the Plaza!
Day 1, Entry 1
Location: Sleepy Dog Tavern
Today was my day. Having missed the shuttle to this fabled "Plaza", I ventured out on foot with a map from our hotel. My "smart" phone predicted an hour and a half walk. Thirty minutes into the trek I realized my running shoes would have been a better choice than leather hi-top Converse, but at least I looked stylish. So stylish, in fact, that I was granted cat calls from two Mamasitas in a grey coupe. Maybe they mistook me for someone else because I was taking a detour, through their neighbor brood. I had to detour because I was looking for a Bank of America. I never found it, but on the bright side, burned some calories and was treated like a piece of meat.
Thirty minutes later, my phone went dead! I push a button. No response. I push reset buttons. No response. I had a moment of silence and said a silent prayer of thanks to our lord and savior, Bronson Alcott. Looking at my WWTD (What Would Thoreau Do?) bracelet, I concluded this was a great thing - an event even! Finally, I was free of technology and left to fend for myself in an unfamiliar city like a modern survivor Man!
Standing at the corner of Cerrillos and Pasco de Peralta, a four way stoop was held up when a kind woman braked in front of my side walk plateau, rolled down an automatic window and asked "Where are you going? Need directions?” I either looked impossibly lost or it was once again due to the stylish kicks. I prefer to think the later. I thanked her, but the reality was I had arrived at the Plaza!
I took refuge in the Sleepy Dog Tavern to write because I miss my dog and it was happy hour.
Honorable mention stops along the way included:
- Red House. A hole in the wall smoke and paraphernalia shop filled wall-to-wall with colorful glass blown pipes of various sizes.
- Five Star Tattoo. Ask for Spike.
- True Believer Comics. It’s not worth returning until Wednesday.
- Taqueria Portable
- The Invisible Bank of America
- The Chuck Jones Art Museum. With special guest, DR. SEUSS!
- Toyopolis. I found various knock off figurines of Roman, Egyptian, Western, and Pirate culture. As well as extinct species such as pegasi and unicorns. Most importantly, Deadpool action figure!
Day 1, Entry 3
Location: Keva Juice
This day couldn't get more perfect! I’m sitting at the bar in Keva Juice waiting for my strawberry-orange fornicator Grande juice with Protein-biser Energizer blend-in. Crystal says it's the most popular drink. In ten minutes I'll walk back to the At&t store and talk to Emily about the diagnostic on my phone. She'll either have it fixed or I'll have an excuse to upgrade (I’ve been waiting for an excuse, too.) Either way, Kelly is an awesome hippie-surf chick with a tattoo on her right wrist and both feet. Her wrist has a design from the gear shift knob of a manual driven car. Her feet have the blue prints of two pieces of a car’s engine – the gas pedal and brake pedal. This makes her more impressive than Megan Fox's weak research for Transformers.
Ned was lost in the forest. He passed a rock thatlooked like every other rock he had passed sixtyseconds ago. The growling stayed on his heels ashe trampled away from the intimidating unknown.
Teddy was lost in the forest. He passed a tree thatlooked like every other tree he had passed sixtyseconds ago. The heavy breathing stayed on his heels ashe trampled away from the intimidating unknown.
3.01.2009
Halo Girl
In 2001, everything was going according to plan. Central State wasn’t a well-known university to anyone outside the state. It was a great stepping stone into life with the underrated opportunities for academics and socializing. Even with an apartment off campus, everything was within walking distance and I was happy existing in this perfect little bubble.
In 2002, everything was still going according to plan, but I decided to throw them away. My girlfriend, dead set to attend the University of Oklahoma, was not interested in living inside my perfect bubble. A pair of high school friends already attending OU and thought this would be a great opportunity to transfer schools and buy a house. After all, I had many perks to working for a nationwide bank – perks such as obtaining a low rate mortgage. My two best friends would move in and pay rent, my girlfriend would go to OU, and the four of us would live happily ever after!
In 2003, nothing went according to plan, except the part where I transfer schools, job, and buy a house. I was now attending an overrated university, but my girlfriend had come to the conclusion that it was just too difficult to meet OU’s standards. She instead enrolled at Central State. My two best friends decided they couldn’t move into the already purchased house. The bedrooms were half-a-foot smaller than their current rooms (I know, because I measured and apparently size mattered to them).
On weekends I'd drive the forty-five minutes from OU to Central State and visit my girlfriend at the newly constructed dorms. After becoming well-known to her dorm mates and neighbors – even the residents flirting with her on weekdays when I wasn’t around - I started to participate in friendly dorm wars via Halo, a first-person shoot ‘em up! I wasn’t religiously attending, but enjoyed taking the opportunity to snipe particular flirty residents; I couldn’t stop them during the week, but enjoyed embarrassing them on the weekend!
One visiting weekend, the devotees and I congregated in a small lounge ready to divide into Red and Blue teams. The process was a simple, but was taking longer than usual today on account of the intrusion of a new player - a new female player. I was the only one unfamiliar with the girl, but also the only one not drooling and pining for her attention. It was clear this “Halo girl” loved the spotlight. I wasn’t about to fall for it although understood her popular following. Most of these guys never received attention from girls, let alone one with a flawless slender frame with just-enough curves and a “genuine” interest in video games. I was still pessimistic. Just because she strutted into the room donning fitted yoga pants, accentuating her perfectly contoured lower body with an X-Box S-Controller lingering around her neck, did not mean she could handle a game like Halo.
Girls are perfectly capable of handling two dimensional, up-and-down, back-and-forth movements (see Tetris, Mario Bros., etc.). Halo was not a girl-friendly game. Any girl that attempts to play, gets lost in the expansive virtual fields, confused at the concept of three dimensional movement, spends the majority of their time spinning in circles and are easy targets for opposing teams to earn points or “kills”.
Halo Girl couldn't possibly be any different. She was too gorgeous and confident to actually be skilled, or even decent at a man's game, like Halo. As fate would have it, she was paired up with my friend Zach and me as members of the Blue team. I was certain she would be in constant need of babysitting lest she become cannon fodder and hurt our score.
I was wrong.
Playfully teasing about being a girl gamer, not wanting to fall for her deceptive and alluring lips like the rest of the herd, I joked that she “try and stay close so we can protect you”. She just continued to brag about her prowess with a sniper rifle.
The game started.
Halo Girl revealed her foul-mouthed, trigger-happy, inner-self. Zach was quickly left behind as we proceeded to sweep through rooms of opponents. I started sweating. She was at the heels of my kill count and catching up. Life wasn’t much different on the other side of the controller where we started to talk, laugh, joke, and flirt. Flirting was unavoidable. We clicked on every level. Then the dorm room door clicked open and my girlfriend walked in as Halo Girl and I were celebrating another capture-the-flag win with a vigorous victory embrace.
"Are you going to spend any time with me or are you going to play Halo all night?"
I quickly released our embrace.
"We'll be done soon.”
She glanced at Halo Girl and glared at me with dagger eyes. You know what I’m talking about!
When we were safe again, Halo Girl asked, “Who was that?”
“Oh, nobody just my girlfriend.”
A steel wall went up between us before I finished saying "girlfriend" and the once faithful Halo Girl scooted closer to the forgotten Zach. On the other side of the controller, she began sweeping through opponents with Zack, too. I was almost certain something was wrong when Halo Girl tried to run over me with a Scorpion Tank, claiming it was by accident and I should “be more careful of who I choose to follow”.
After the last game, we stood arms-length from each other in the empty dorm halls. I wanted to know when she would be playing again. Halo Girl said she wouldn’t be playing again – she was transferring to a college out of state. I was never going to have a second chance to play with her. Do you know that feeling when you want to say something, something important, but can’t think of just the right words to say it? We were both feeling that. Finally, I admitted:
"It was great playing with you. Good luck in college"
"Thank you''
She turned and strolled away. I turned, defeated, and went to argue with my girlfriend.
In some ways, I was grateful Halo Girl wouldn’t be around anymore to distract me from my girlfriend. It’s also foolish to fall in love with someone you just met and didn’t even catch their real name, right?
Time passed and Halo Girl was out of my life, but not my memory. Every path crossed with a girl gamer was met with disappointment. There was only one Halo Girl and I would never find her again.
In 2009, everything was going according to plan. My professional and personal life was starting to reach the fabled equilibrium. Then, everything changed three days ago when I was reunited with my Halo Girl.
In 2002, everything was still going according to plan, but I decided to throw them away. My girlfriend, dead set to attend the University of Oklahoma, was not interested in living inside my perfect bubble. A pair of high school friends already attending OU and thought this would be a great opportunity to transfer schools and buy a house. After all, I had many perks to working for a nationwide bank – perks such as obtaining a low rate mortgage. My two best friends would move in and pay rent, my girlfriend would go to OU, and the four of us would live happily ever after!
In 2003, nothing went according to plan, except the part where I transfer schools, job, and buy a house. I was now attending an overrated university, but my girlfriend had come to the conclusion that it was just too difficult to meet OU’s standards. She instead enrolled at Central State. My two best friends decided they couldn’t move into the already purchased house. The bedrooms were half-a-foot smaller than their current rooms (I know, because I measured and apparently size mattered to them).
On weekends I'd drive the forty-five minutes from OU to Central State and visit my girlfriend at the newly constructed dorms. After becoming well-known to her dorm mates and neighbors – even the residents flirting with her on weekdays when I wasn’t around - I started to participate in friendly dorm wars via Halo, a first-person shoot ‘em up! I wasn’t religiously attending, but enjoyed taking the opportunity to snipe particular flirty residents; I couldn’t stop them during the week, but enjoyed embarrassing them on the weekend!
One visiting weekend, the devotees and I congregated in a small lounge ready to divide into Red and Blue teams. The process was a simple, but was taking longer than usual today on account of the intrusion of a new player - a new female player. I was the only one unfamiliar with the girl, but also the only one not drooling and pining for her attention. It was clear this “Halo girl” loved the spotlight. I wasn’t about to fall for it although understood her popular following. Most of these guys never received attention from girls, let alone one with a flawless slender frame with just-enough curves and a “genuine” interest in video games. I was still pessimistic. Just because she strutted into the room donning fitted yoga pants, accentuating her perfectly contoured lower body with an X-Box S-Controller lingering around her neck, did not mean she could handle a game like Halo.
Girls are perfectly capable of handling two dimensional, up-and-down, back-and-forth movements (see Tetris, Mario Bros., etc.). Halo was not a girl-friendly game. Any girl that attempts to play, gets lost in the expansive virtual fields, confused at the concept of three dimensional movement, spends the majority of their time spinning in circles and are easy targets for opposing teams to earn points or “kills”.
Halo Girl couldn't possibly be any different. She was too gorgeous and confident to actually be skilled, or even decent at a man's game, like Halo. As fate would have it, she was paired up with my friend Zach and me as members of the Blue team. I was certain she would be in constant need of babysitting lest she become cannon fodder and hurt our score.
I was wrong.
Playfully teasing about being a girl gamer, not wanting to fall for her deceptive and alluring lips like the rest of the herd, I joked that she “try and stay close so we can protect you”. She just continued to brag about her prowess with a sniper rifle.
The game started.
Halo Girl revealed her foul-mouthed, trigger-happy, inner-self. Zach was quickly left behind as we proceeded to sweep through rooms of opponents. I started sweating. She was at the heels of my kill count and catching up. Life wasn’t much different on the other side of the controller where we started to talk, laugh, joke, and flirt. Flirting was unavoidable. We clicked on every level. Then the dorm room door clicked open and my girlfriend walked in as Halo Girl and I were celebrating another capture-the-flag win with a vigorous victory embrace.
"Are you going to spend any time with me or are you going to play Halo all night?"
I quickly released our embrace.
"We'll be done soon.”
She glanced at Halo Girl and glared at me with dagger eyes. You know what I’m talking about!
When we were safe again, Halo Girl asked, “Who was that?”
“Oh, nobody just my girlfriend.”
A steel wall went up between us before I finished saying "girlfriend" and the once faithful Halo Girl scooted closer to the forgotten Zach. On the other side of the controller, she began sweeping through opponents with Zack, too. I was almost certain something was wrong when Halo Girl tried to run over me with a Scorpion Tank, claiming it was by accident and I should “be more careful of who I choose to follow”.
After the last game, we stood arms-length from each other in the empty dorm halls. I wanted to know when she would be playing again. Halo Girl said she wouldn’t be playing again – she was transferring to a college out of state. I was never going to have a second chance to play with her. Do you know that feeling when you want to say something, something important, but can’t think of just the right words to say it? We were both feeling that. Finally, I admitted:
"It was great playing with you. Good luck in college"
"Thank you''
She turned and strolled away. I turned, defeated, and went to argue with my girlfriend.
In some ways, I was grateful Halo Girl wouldn’t be around anymore to distract me from my girlfriend. It’s also foolish to fall in love with someone you just met and didn’t even catch their real name, right?
Time passed and Halo Girl was out of my life, but not my memory. Every path crossed with a girl gamer was met with disappointment. There was only one Halo Girl and I would never find her again.
In 2009, everything was going according to plan. My professional and personal life was starting to reach the fabled equilibrium. Then, everything changed three days ago when I was reunited with my Halo Girl.
1.28.2009
Byron
After a late night school event, drinks are in order, especially on a Friday night. When co-workers aren't up to the task, I can always count on Byron. One late Friday after school, I went out for a round with Byron at a local sports bar - turned fraternity den. After our first round, we were joined by his girlfriend (his live-in girlfriend). After the second round, we had sent a mass text message. At the sixth round, we had assimilated two more tables and our party had grown to eight. After the seventh round, I made a motion that we needed a Fat Sandwich.
(For anyone unfamiliar with Fat Sandwich, truly a treasure from the gods or Satan him/herself, I'll try my damnedest to convey its greatness. Fat Sandwich is a small shop in the located in the heart of many walking-distance bars. This simple sandwich shop stays open until three in the morning. My personal favorite menu item incorporates gyro meat, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, cheese steak, and the French fries, ketchup, mayo come standard in every sandwich.)
After a farewell Irish car-bomb, I take my leave and walk to Fat sandwich. I read a free local paper with my sandwich and drive home.
The next morning, a “good morning” hangover and six text messages were waiting for me to get out of bed. All six were from Byron.
Trying to piece together the previous night, I had just finished talking with his girlfriend when I said my cheers and finished a car bomb. Despite the group telling me to wait, I left for a sobering and fattening sandwich. Roughly two hours passed from the time I went to bed and receiving the first text message. How could anyone fuck up a friendly night of debauchery to such an extent?
After reviewing the messages, I replied:
Asking for money, admitting to crying, and fear of losing his girlfriend were all out of character for Byron - imagine a real world incarnation of Peter Griffin and a trucker with the mind of a more crude George Carlin. It was typical that he'd send me reminders that I’m a '"pussy" or alerts that he'd bee crashing at my place for various reasons, but this took his drunk texting to a new level.
My phone rings an hour later. It's Byron.
Still feeling bad about last night’s Fat Sandwich, I had a salad and a bloody Mary with Byron.
(For anyone unfamiliar with Fat Sandwich, truly a treasure from the gods or Satan him/herself, I'll try my damnedest to convey its greatness. Fat Sandwich is a small shop in the located in the heart of many walking-distance bars. This simple sandwich shop stays open until three in the morning. My personal favorite menu item incorporates gyro meat, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, cheese steak, and the French fries, ketchup, mayo come standard in every sandwich.)
After a farewell Irish car-bomb, I take my leave and walk to Fat sandwich. I read a free local paper with my sandwich and drive home.
The next morning, a “good morning” hangover and six text messages were waiting for me to get out of bed. All six were from Byron.
Curious and worried, I turned back to bed and went to sleep again. I needed less of a hangover before dealing with this latest escapade.2:39 AM - Dude whyd you leave? You pussy.
2:57 AM - this sucks now. Samantha is being a total bitch. She had too much to drink.
3:49 AM - Fuck I might need to crash at your place tonight.
4:05 AM - I Fucked up bro! Really Fucked up big this time! Oh My God shes going to leave me! I got to fix this shit and you got to help me can I borrow 300 dollars?
4:26 AM - 0 MY FUCKING GOD THIS HURTS SO MUCH!
6:26 AM - This hurts so much! Do you know how much it sucks to cry when you haven't done it in over a decade! I really fucked up big time. She's moving out and I can’t stop her!
Trying to piece together the previous night, I had just finished talking with his girlfriend when I said my cheers and finished a car bomb. Despite the group telling me to wait, I left for a sobering and fattening sandwich. Roughly two hours passed from the time I went to bed and receiving the first text message. How could anyone fuck up a friendly night of debauchery to such an extent?
After reviewing the messages, I replied:
10:14 AM - I don't even know where to start. Call Me.
Asking for money, admitting to crying, and fear of losing his girlfriend were all out of character for Byron - imagine a real world incarnation of Peter Griffin and a trucker with the mind of a more crude George Carlin. It was typical that he'd send me reminders that I’m a '"pussy" or alerts that he'd bee crashing at my place for various reasons, but this took his drunk texting to a new level.
My phone rings an hour later. It's Byron.
"I had to walk to work"
"No way"
"Yeah bro. Gimme a ride home?"
"How about a bite?"
“Funny you mention it...”
"What?"
"Never mind. Come get me."
Still feeling bad about last night’s Fat Sandwich, I had a salad and a bloody Mary with Byron.
"I asked you for money?"I pull up the texts from earlier this morning.
"300 dollars."
"Wow. I was so high last night."
"So what the fuck? Was it all because you were high?"
"No, brother, she is so freaking pissed at me – I dunno where to start."
"How about 'This hurts so fucking much'?"It was a declarative statement. Not an exclamation of shock or aversion.
"Oh yeah. That was probably after she bit me"
"She bit you."
"Yeah, that shit still hurts, see?"Byron rolls up his sleeve to reveal fresh, deep teeth marks on his upper arm. Taking a single finger, he pokes the pink hue an moves the injured muscle around as if it was internally detached and floating under the skin.
"I don't think it's supposed to move like that.", I responded.Byron makes a breaking in half motion with his hands.
'"Yeah? That's fucked up."
"I guess I have to ask: why did she bite you?"
"She was drunk and trying to leave but I'll be damned if I let my woman put herself in danger like drive drunk..."
"And they say chivalry is dead..."
"Yeah, right? So, I reach in to take the keys out of the ignition and she chomps down!"
"What got her pissed enough to leave?"
"Well, I had just broke her new cell phone.”
"You broke her new cell phone." Another declarative statement.
"Yeah, she was making a big fuss and we were yelling at each other so she hid my keys..."
"She hid your keys."
"Yeah, but forgot she had given me her cell phone to hold at the bar. So, she starts yelling at me to give it back and I said ‘You want it back?’ and I take it out and...”
"Here!"
"I guess that's why you walked to work."
“That’s why I had to walk to work"
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
"Well... I can't wait to tell Tony about this because this is fucking hilarious."
"Totally fuck you both."
1.19.2009
Date a Girl Your Friends and Family Hate
It’s not important for your friends and family to like/enjoy the company of your girlfriend. It’s actually as important as the number of cup holders in your car. After all, you don’t need cup holders when you have a pair of functioning hands. Sure it is convenient to have cup holders, but you can live without, just like you can live peacefully with a girlfriend who isn’t accepted by your friends and family.
It took me many years to learn this fact; in high school, I never had a girlfriend that was acceptable by friends and family alike. It is, in fact, a lot to ask of a girl to display the necessary class and charisma required to linger between socializing with friends one night and having dinner family the next.
I’ve had girlfriends who got along with my friend, but not my family. And girls who got along with my family, but not with my friends. Even girls who didn't get along with my friends and family; heck, I’ve even dated girls that I didn’t get along with! The real tragedy is I once had (HAD) a girl who got along with both! They do exist.
One would’ve assumed this makes life easier and one would be fucking incorrect. Understand that, in theory, it would be an ideal situation if it weren't for the fact that my friends and family eventually started to like this particular girl MORE than they liked me! When your friends and family like your girlfriend to such an extent, it is like having a dozen aunts as your only friends.
And they're all over 30.
And unmarried.
And Jewish. Is that a racist stereotype? The answer: only if it wasn't true. Let me explain – the North American, domesticated, over thirty, unmarried, Jewish aunt has an impeccable memory. It’s science. Because of this gift, all the horrible shit you ever did as an adolescent immediately comes back to bite you in the ass – because your yenta friends make it a pain in your ass. Your former friends will consider that brash, blunder-filled history destined to repeat itself and drive her away. Luckily, they all remind you – in case you actually forgot.
"You better be nice to her! Not like the time when you ____________!"
"You better take her some whore nice! Not like that time when you ___________!"
They would repeatedly remind me basing their rationale on a few failed relationships with girls who lacked self-esteem (just like I like ‘em [because they’re easily attracted to me like flies to a fly zapper]), but that's another story for another day.
My dad was the worst when it came to this girl! He even had a check list of requirement and expectations that needed to be met before we’d go on a date. He never cared about my previous, self-esteem lacking girlfriends, but this girl must have been the daughter he always wanted.
Therefore, before I’d take her out:
1. My car had to be freshly vacuumed…
2. …the exterior should be clean, too.
3. I had to shave (and a hair cut wouldn’t be a bad idea either)
4. My clothes had to be ironed
5. And (this is the important part), if necessary and sometimes when it wasn’t necessary, my father – who made me sign-up to work as early as legally possible and had me working for money years before it was legally possible - would give me money for our date!
I always had a job and even paid my own bills. Nevertheless, dad made sure I could afford appetizers, desserts, and even candy at movie theater prices!
Eventually, you’re told that you're going to “fuck up" enough times that it is all you can think about. Every date has the pressure of a first date with the added responsibility of your friend’s and family’s happiness – because they won’t let you be happy if and when you fuck-up again.
Naturally, the prophecy comes true and you do fuck-up. Royally. Finally, you can look forward to the aftermath of the break-up when all your loyal friends and family declare, “I knew you’d fuck-up”. To make things worse, your own mother says "I knew you'd fuck-up and I’m still sending her a Christmas card!”
Not only did you let the girl down, you let everyone you know down. It’s a lot like never letting Cinderella reunite with Prince Charming in the end. That’s why it’s easier to date imperfection – and there’s a lot of it out there.
It took me many years to learn this fact; in high school, I never had a girlfriend that was acceptable by friends and family alike. It is, in fact, a lot to ask of a girl to display the necessary class and charisma required to linger between socializing with friends one night and having dinner family the next.
I’ve had girlfriends who got along with my friend, but not my family. And girls who got along with my family, but not with my friends. Even girls who didn't get along with my friends and family; heck, I’ve even dated girls that I didn’t get along with! The real tragedy is I once had (HAD) a girl who got along with both! They do exist.
One would’ve assumed this makes life easier and one would be fucking incorrect. Understand that, in theory, it would be an ideal situation if it weren't for the fact that my friends and family eventually started to like this particular girl MORE than they liked me! When your friends and family like your girlfriend to such an extent, it is like having a dozen aunts as your only friends.
And they're all over 30.
And unmarried.
And Jewish. Is that a racist stereotype? The answer: only if it wasn't true. Let me explain – the North American, domesticated, over thirty, unmarried, Jewish aunt has an impeccable memory. It’s science. Because of this gift, all the horrible shit you ever did as an adolescent immediately comes back to bite you in the ass – because your yenta friends make it a pain in your ass. Your former friends will consider that brash, blunder-filled history destined to repeat itself and drive her away. Luckily, they all remind you – in case you actually forgot.
"You better be nice to her! Not like the time when you ____________!"
"You better take her some whore nice! Not like that time when you ___________!"
They would repeatedly remind me basing their rationale on a few failed relationships with girls who lacked self-esteem (just like I like ‘em [because they’re easily attracted to me like flies to a fly zapper]), but that's another story for another day.
My dad was the worst when it came to this girl! He even had a check list of requirement and expectations that needed to be met before we’d go on a date. He never cared about my previous, self-esteem lacking girlfriends, but this girl must have been the daughter he always wanted.
Therefore, before I’d take her out:
1. My car had to be freshly vacuumed…
2. …the exterior should be clean, too.
3. I had to shave (and a hair cut wouldn’t be a bad idea either)
4. My clothes had to be ironed
5. And (this is the important part), if necessary and sometimes when it wasn’t necessary, my father – who made me sign-up to work as early as legally possible and had me working for money years before it was legally possible - would give me money for our date!
I always had a job and even paid my own bills. Nevertheless, dad made sure I could afford appetizers, desserts, and even candy at movie theater prices!
Eventually, you’re told that you're going to “fuck up" enough times that it is all you can think about. Every date has the pressure of a first date with the added responsibility of your friend’s and family’s happiness – because they won’t let you be happy if and when you fuck-up again.
Naturally, the prophecy comes true and you do fuck-up. Royally. Finally, you can look forward to the aftermath of the break-up when all your loyal friends and family declare, “I knew you’d fuck-up”. To make things worse, your own mother says "I knew you'd fuck-up and I’m still sending her a Christmas card!”
Not only did you let the girl down, you let everyone you know down. It’s a lot like never letting Cinderella reunite with Prince Charming in the end. That’s why it’s easier to date imperfection – and there’s a lot of it out there.
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