It is widely acknowledged that we do not drive when drunk, or operate heavy machinery. Or get married. Unless you’re famous, bored, in Vegas, and can afford a good divorce lawyer.
Mobile phone use on the other hand? No restrictions. Knock yourself out! Text, Call, Tweet away with drunken glee. If you are lucky, you may lose the faculties with which to operate your phone. Unfortunately this rarely happens. In personal experience you have a higher probability of dropping your mobile down a toilet, or leaving it in a taxi, than actually being unable to use it.
But the worst thing is, technology has a memory. So when you’re lying in bed the morning after the night before, pillow over delicate head, stomach gnawing with the fear, your friendly phone will remind you just what a prat you were.
I need the rules to be changed. I need to be barred from being drunk in charge of my personal life.
Sooo… before I delete the evidence. Here are the texts I sent my Ex whilst drunk at my Christmas party. Peel hands away from eyes and commence typing. ARGHHH.
- ‘HAPPY CHRISTMAS. JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT MIKE SAYS HI!’ – (A random pointless text, blatantly designed to elicit attention. FYI Mike is my boss. Mike has met my Ex once in his lifetime. And no, Mike had not said ‘hi.’)
- ‘OOPS! YOU KNOW WHICH MIKE. MY BOSS MIKE. AM AT XMAS PARTY. TIPSY. X’– (Over clarification a tad unnecessary. Kiss, very unnecessary.)
This is the point I should have just left it. But no, sometimes rampant lack of self control is like an itch you just have to irritate.
- ‘WHAT YOU UP TO TONIGHT? ARE YOU IN TOWN?’ (Desperate.)
- ‘NOT THAT I WANT TO MEET UP WITH YOU.’ (Trying to claw it back.)
- ‘UNLESS YOU WANT TO MEET UP?’ (And we’re straight back to desperate.)
A half hour pause in textual activity. During which time I pointlessly/pathetically/hopefully waited for a response. And, usefully, drank more wine.
- ‘I NEED TO SEE YOU TO GIVE YOU YOUR STUFF BACK. NOT THAT I HAVE YOUR STUFF WITH ME TONIGHT. THAT WOULD BE WEIRD.’ (No. I keep texting someone who does not reply to me. That is weird.)
- ‘WHY ARE YOU NOT TALKING TO ME?’ (When sober I’d assume this is a natural symptom of him dumping me. Or… that he was in the cinema…. I really hope he wasn’t in the cinema.)
- ‘DO YOU EVEN WANT YOUR STUFF BACK? OR SHOULD I BIN IT?’ (Ooooh getting angry drunk now. This is where my phone should forcibly shut down and only resuscitate if needed to call the emergency services. Or my Mum.)
This was followed by a ten minute Black Sambucca session. Like that was going to help me retrieve my dwindling rationality.
- ‘DON’T NEED YOUR SHIT IN MY HOUSE ANY MORE.’ – (Well if I keep being this charming, of course he’ll get back in touch!)
If memory serves me right it was then onto tequila shots with the idiot guy from Marketing.
- ‘FUCK YOU ASSHOLE.’ – (Classy Evie. Classy.)
There was then a brief interlude, where I gave up on the texts and fruitlessly tried phoning my Ex instead. My final bedtime text when I got home was lovely, simple, and humiliating.
- ‘I’M REALLY RELLY SORRY RELLY SORRY I JUST MISS YOU I LOVE YOU I LOST A SHOE TONIGHT I LOVE YOU MISS YOU XXXXXXXXXXX’
Awesome. What really distresses me is that I even lost the ability to punctuate.
Needless to say he hasn’t been in touch. I don’t particularly blame him.
Bring on 2013, the year where I don’t make a complete and total divvy out of myself. Although I may be being a little optimistic there.
So it’s that time of year again. No I don’t mean Christmas. I mean the office Christmas party. The one where you invariably embarrass yourself to the point of redundancy.
I promised myself I wouldn’t get drunk. I even wore shoes that I cannot walk in sober, as a reminder to keep the booze to a minimum. Needless to say this did not help (and one of the said shoes is now missing in action). I miss that shoe. But I digress.
Picture the scene. Sophisticated city centre restaurant, sparkling lights, party dresses and smart suits. And 47 employees intent on getting utterly wasted on free alcohol. What can I say? I’m easily led.
It was one of those evenings when I actually left the house feeling half human. By some miracle of Christmas, my hair was tolerable, my frock fitted (just), and my make up was reasonably applied. Then I looked in the mirror at 10pm and my face looked like it had been badly constructed out of melting Play dough. I actually found a false eyelash on my cheek at one point. And I wasn’t wearing any.
So what did I do wrong? Would you like a list? I’m rather fond of lists, they remind me of food shopping.
- I sat next to my boss. And I talked to my boss. I talked to my boss WAY too much.
- I told my boss (in utter confidence of course) that I wasn’t keen on the new Marketing guy. The new Marketing guy was sat next to us. I assume he has ears. I think it is safe to say that the new Marketing guy now does not like me. Fair play.
- While I was on a roll, I told my boss that most of the staff don’t seem to like him, and that he should be “friendlier” at work. Argh! They should abolish the lie detector and just get people massively tipsy. Much cheaper.
- As if to compensate, I told my boss that of course I liked him. In fact I loved him. I was going for sycophantic employee. The look on his face screamed “restraining order”.
- I stroked my boss’s arm (I am cringing as I’m typing now). Did I mention that I’m the type of drunk that hugs people a lot and tells everyone they love them? No? Maybe someone needs to tell that to my boss.
- When my clearly uncomfortable boss moved his chair away from me, and enquired about Richard, I told him that Richard was without question the love of my life. Whilst crying.
- I then ignored everyone around my table for the rest of the evening and texted Richard. Many, many, many, times.
- I then called Richard. He didn’t pick up, although according to my call log, I was persistent.
- Then I called Richard’s best friend. Who now presumably thinks I’m mental.
- Eventually I got poured into a taxi home, by the new Marketing guy. Minus my shoe.
Simply bloody marvellous.
I have just been re reading the texts I sent to Richard. With one eye closed. If I can get up the courage, I will blog the texts at some point. Needless to say it is very clear to Richard, and his best friend, that I am not over my Ex. And now my boss thinks I am in love with him. The HR department will be having kittens.
I cannot go into work on Monday. I need to get flu. Fast.
Big Love Evie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxx
So this weekend I attended the wedding of an ex work colleague of mine. Lets call her Jenny*. She looked absolutely amazing and I got to spend a surprising amount of quality time with her (see below). And I must admit that despite a few hiccups (also confessed to below), I had a surprisingly good time. Although for the amount of money I spent, I could’ve gone on a package holiday, gotten sunburnt, and enjoyed a lovely slimming bout of food poisoning. But enough of my financial grumbles, here is what I have learnt about weddings.
DOUBLE CHECK THE NAME OF THE CHURCH – It is possible to have two St Matthew’s churches within a close vicinity. And if you are late to the ceremony, everyone will stare at you. Everyone. Especially when you dramatically push the doors open during the ‘does anyone object’ part.
FIND OUT WHAT COLOUR THE BRIDESMAIDS ARE WEARING – And don’t wear it. Apparently official photographers get easily baffled by colour schemes. If the bridesmaids are wearing purple, and you are wearing purple, hide. Or you will repeatedly have to extricate yourself from unnecessary, and socially uncomfortable, group photographs.
IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU DON’T LIKE GOATS CHEESE – The starter will invariably include Goats cheese. Faking a dairy intolerance only results in the starter being removed, and replaced by a bread roll. And then they confiscate your butter.
IF YOU SEE THE BRIDE CRYING IN THE LADIES AFTER THE CEREMONY – Don’t ask her if is she is ok. This is a redundant question. It only prompts wailing. Instead immediately run and find a closer friend or family member. Preferably one with a PHD in Counselling.
DON’T OFFER TO DANCE WITH THE KIDS – If you do so, every kid at the reception will be taking it in turns to dance on your feet. Some of those kids are heavy. And the fun only stops when Jenny’s Great Uncle Nigel offers to waltz you round the room.
DON’T DANCE WITH GREAT UNCLE NIGEL – His hands wander.
PRE BOOK A TAXI TO YOUR HOTEL – Otherwise you end up with a forty minute wait. Whilst trying to politely explain that no you don’t want to sleep on Great Uncle Nigel’s sofa bed. Very kind offer but you know….
Anyway on the plus side, my taxi for one eventually arrived. And most importantly, Jenny stopped crying and decided that she wasn’t “ruining her life” by getting married after all. Which was a bonus for her oblivious, and very sweet, new husband.
I suppose when you are single, you assume that everyone in a relationship is blissfully happy. Maybe the grass isn’t always greener…..
And at least I got chatted up. Now I just need to find someone a few decades younger than Nigel. Who preferably still has their own teeth. And original hips.
Big Love Evie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It’s that time of year when sentiment takes hold of your sanity and punches it in the head. As I am still seeing stars and slightly woozy, I wondered if you guys could help give me a moment of clarity.
99.9% of the fibre in my being is telling me it’s 100% ok, normal, functional, polite even, to send my Ex a Christmas card. But I’m worried that the 0.01% of me that’s reticent is my one functioning brain cell. And that brain cell is desperately jumping up and down and softly squeaking “No, no, no, don’t send him a card. Grow a little self respect you crazy lovestruck doormat….. And please don’t drink any more wine. If you kill me we’re both screwed.” Stupid brain cell.
Please help and give your consideration to this poll.
Next week’s poll? Should I buy him a present?………….Only kidding. Although…
Thanking you in advance for some cool, collected, unbiased advice, (please let me send him a card!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).
Big Love Evie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxx
I usually really look forward to weddings. Free food. Good cake. Pretty dresses. And the comedy drunk relative who offends the bride. What’s not to love? But I’m dreading the one I’m going to next weekend.
I was supposed to be there with my Ex. But I’m assuming he’s not coming with me now….. Although maybe I should text him just to make sure….? Anyhoo, I’ve conscientiously let the bride know that he ripped my heart out with a spoon. And she’s graciously given me till Saturday to find a new plus one, or I will be moved to the ‘single table’.
Ok so I’m just about capable of not getting sacked from work at present. Just. The thought of flirting up a storm to find some random fella to take to the wedding, is not only mortifying but also a smidge unlikely. I have enquired among my male friends to see if they would be prepared to be a gentlemanly escort, but there’s football on Saturday. And apparently men don’t like weddings as much as girls. Who knew?
Now, the single table…..Even my interest was piqued by that. Until I found out that the average age on the ‘single table’ is 14. Yes I’m being relegated to the kids’ table. My abject humiliation is now complete.
Plus the only person that I really know at the wedding is the bride. And she might be a bit too busy to have a catch up. Don’t think babysitting the broken hearted, seating plan wrecker, is on her agenda for some reason.
On the plus side, I just have a horrifically expensive hotel room to pay for, train tickets to procure, and a non ironic thoughtful wedding present to buy.
Big love Evie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX