Ahhh. New Year’s Eve. The night when disappointments are crystallised. Hopes are crushed. Dreams shattered, and livers scarred. Or is that just me? And yet it all started out so well…….
Me and a small group of good friends, went to a local drinking establishment stuffed to the rafters with merrymakers. I had initiated damage control early. My mobile phone had been given to a sensible friend, so that I could not “accidentally” drink dial or text the Ex. A Christmas jumper was donned to keep me cheerful. And I kept off the wine, sensibly sticking to copious amounts of gin.
Then, just to make things unreasonably exciting, I spotted my Ex, Richard, on the other side of the room! Heart rate accelerated. Eyes shone. (Mine not his. But hey, it’s a start.) I was determined to sparkle my way through the evening, convinced that if he should look my way, on such a fateful night, he would realise we had to be back together.
Yep. Ok. I know better than this. I mean as soon as my brain goes into fairytale territory I should know to dive into the bunkers and take cover. Because romance like this only exists outside of my relationships. And normally only in rom-coms starring Drew Barrymore. He left me, I should hate him, I’m worth more than that…. Whatever…. But part of my brain is stubbornly optimistic, possibly something a lobotomy could resolve, but I digress.
Back to New Year…. so Richard and his friends had unfortunately moved out of my line of sight. I tried to coerce my friends to go stand nearer to his group. But I was met with a stone wall of common sense. They had my best interests at heart, they didn’t want me to look like a mental stalker, but I really didn’t care. My self esteem ran off with my self respect some time ago.
Five minutes to midnight, and I still hadn’t made any contact with my Ex. Which, I thought, was frankly ridiculous, I didn’t see why I couldn’t wish him Happy New Year in person. After all my phone had been unnecessarily confiscated.
I decided upon direct action. A walk by. Combined with a smile. I figured if I caught his eye and he smiled back then I could legitimately go say hi. And possibly spend midnight with my Ex. Perfect.
OK. So right now I didn’t need an emotional bunker. I needed someone to lock me in a bomb shelter. In a padded room. With a straight jacket. Unfortunately instead….
Using the time honoured excuse of heading to the ladies, I pushed my way through the buzzing crowded pub. As he came into view, my heart pounded and I felt dizzily warm. Probably the by-product of one too many dutch courage gin and tonics.
And then he kissed her. I don’t know who she was…… But she wasn’t me. And it was like taking a sucker punch to the Christmas jumper.
It may be fair to say, I then panicked somewhat. If he’d seen me, gawping at him, I would’ve looked like a right dick. I felt suddenly faint. The fire exit to my right was just in reach and I pushed against the door, escaping from Richard’s presence……and the warmth of the pub.
I needed to cry, drink excessive amounts of wine, and speak to a friend. Preferably simultaneously. But most of all….. I really, really, needed to get back in the pub. But the fire door was a one way kinda thing. I knocked pathetically on it for a couple of moments, until my remaining brain cells woke up my common sense and advised I’d be best off walking round to main entrance.
My watch said – midnight.
The bouncers said – no entry without a valid ticket.
I said – but my ticket is in my handbag inside the pub, along with my coat and confiscated phone.
It’s possible I may then have cried. A lot.
So I spent the arrival of 2013 trying to negotiate with a pair of humourless men, who had biceps the size of my head. Apparently the damsel in distress thing doesn’t work too effectively when you’re wearing runny mascara as blusher.
A very nice smoker person eventually went into the pub, and got one of my friends to come out and find me. My friends then sensibly barred me from going anywhere near Richard for the rest of the night. But I got so very very drunk that I ended up with a two day hangover. And I still have a grumpy knot in my stomach wondering how he could replace me so fast.
So…………..my new years resolution…….…..
I must find out who this new girl is. I must get over my Ex. And drink less.
On the plus side, I have been returned custody of my phone.
I hate January.
Hope you had a better New Year Eve. Here’s to a better 2013.
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
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
And now I look like a boy.
I told the hairdresser I wanted a new look. And that I trusted her. Why? What the hell possessed me. You should never trust anyone with scissors pointing at your head.
On the plus side today is the first day I genuinely do not want to bump into Richard. Not that he would recognise me post follicular massacre.
On the downside the haircut and some suspiciously ginger highlights has robbed me of £90. And then I tipped. Of course I tipped. Every girl tips after a shit haircut.
I’m going to buy a hat tomorrow. And a coat with a big hood. And possibly a wig. Thank God it’s winter.
Big Love, Evie XXXXX