Sometimes a girl just needs to vent….

Tag Archives: Ex

English: Maldives Meeru island

Why am I not here? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If so I most definitely have a bad case of it. And I’m worried it may be contagious. Viral even. With a slight trace of an envious rash.

My Ex has recently been traumatising entertaining me on Facebook, with pictures of him on holiday with his new girlfriend. Yup, I know, I was supposed to delete him off Facebook weeks ago. But as we’ve already established, I have the willpower of a squirrel with a bag of nuts.

But it’s not just pictures of my Ex that cause mild vexation. According to Facebook the whole world is on holiday, drinking a cool glass of Pinot Grigio, whilst I’m stuck at work. (Admittedly I’m usually avoiding work by playing on social media sites, but still, I’m at work. It’s my location that counts. I obviously just need to explain this to my boss at some point.)

For example there’s an old friend from high school. Let’s call her Carol. She posts endless pictures on Facebook of her rather pretty Audi, and stunning villa holidays in the Maldives and Bali. (Although not at the same time, I don’t think even she earns enough to ship the car to the Indian Ocean.) She has an amazing job. And as we haven’t actually spoken in years I am convinced her life is movie star perfect.

Then there’s the endless pictures of friends’ children. Lots and lots of babies. Which makes me feel like I should have a baby. Not because I’m broody. But just because everyone else has one. And if you take too many photos of your cat…well, people think you’re mad. Which isn’t really fair when you think about it.

Plus thanks to the wonders of Instagram, people look distinctly more beautiful online. They should invent an Instagram mirror, to provide the same effect in your own home. I would buy one. I appreciate it would provide an overly flattering, and somewhat false reflection. But it would make me feel way more perky in the morning if my skin was a beautiful senna hue. Although, it would be a cheaper, and more realistic option, to see if B&Q sell light bulbs in a burnt brown colour.

I don’t think people are intentionally trying to brag. After all you can’t complain about your job on Facebook in case you get sacked. Or complain about your partner in case you get dumped. So people self censor by being terminally happy.

But according to the wonders of technology, I am constantly under achieving, under travelled, and under sun tanned.

It would be nice if they could invent a new social media site. “Ventbook” would work. Completely anonymous, personal photos banned. A grumble site. Just so whenever life isn’t going particularly your way, you can log on and realise that the rest of the world is perfectly imperfect too.

So for the rest of the day I intend to bypass Facebook for once. Instead I am going to look on holiday websites. Much more productive. My boss will be sooo pleased.

Big Love

Evie XXXXXXXXXX

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English: Taylor Swift at the 2010 Time 100.

Taylor Swift and I should get coffee!(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Did you know there are dedicated websites where you can actually sell your Ex’s stuff?!? Now I am assuming these sites are for people who have been left with something more valuable than a toothbrush and a Stone Roses CD, but I’m wary of delving too deeply into such things in case I get Ex envy. It’s bad enough having a significant Ex, without thinking that some other bastard could have bought you much nicer presents. For my last birthday Richard bought me a bra that was one size too small (I could never work out if that was a compliment or an insult) and a pair of knickers that were one size too large (which yes, I took as an insult). So I don’t really have anything of huge sentimental or monetary value to dispose of.

But seeing as I have almost/nearly/just about ish….got my head round the fact that we are potentially/ possibly/probably…. never ever getting back together (damn you Taylor Swift). I kinda need to work out what to do with/how to dispose of his stuff. My friend Gemma helpfully advised me that burning his things is probably out of the question, as I live in a smoke free zone, and I’ve missed bonfire night. And I’m not mental. But it’s been a few months now, and I think it’d make me feel better to shed his clutter.

I have enquired many times if he would like to collect these items, or have them delivered back to him by Fed Ex, but he does not seem inclined to coordinate schedules. Which is rather strange as I still had his favourite hat. And he loved that hat.

Anyhoo, I’ve separated his stuff into three piles, bin, keep, and charity shop.

BIN PILE: Toothbrush, Deodorant, Comb, Razor, 7 socks, 4 pair underpants, small bra & large pants gift set, football sticker books (yes that’s supposed to be plural), 2 t-shirts with suspicious looking holes in them.

CHARITY SHOP PILE: 2 t-shirts without holes in them. Stone Roses CD. Call Of Duty game. Large toy dinosaur. Lego. (in case you are wondering he was 29)

KEEP PILE: Scrabble, Valentines day cards, and Birthday cards. (Not quite ready for that purge just yet.)

Big Love EvieXXX

PS I was wearing Richard’s favourite hat last week. It is a rather nice stripy wool bobble hat. And it was cold. Our nice local Big Issue seller guy looked chilly. He now owns Richard’s hat. This makes me happy.


Facebook logo

Facebook logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)  I really need to get out more.

Much like diamonds, fast cars, and hot men, dignified indifference is something I admire. And like most things I admire, I do not possess any.

And so, I fear I may have thrown myself head first off the New Year’s resolution wagon, and into a giant muddy puddle of angst. Not only did I have a drink. (Only one drink, but it’s amazing how much wine you can fit into one large glass. Try it!) But I also checked my Ex’s Facebook page. Drunk Facebook curiosity was expressly forbidden. And now I know why…….

Because my Ex now has a “Facebook official” girlfriend. Proudly announced to the world with the flick of a status update. Technologically rubber stamped with the introduction of a recently cropped profile photo, showing their conjoined twin, smiley happy faces. My Ex and his new lady.

The girl I saw him with on New Years Eve has been promoted, from random festive grope, to timeline approved partner.

Epic. Just when I think I’m about to turn a corner, I do a bloody U turn instead.

So now the merry little head dance commences……If I looked more like her (devastatingly pretty) would we still be together? Why her not me? (Ok so I’m slightly in denial about the devastatingly pretty thing.) If I bleached my hair, got extensions, manicured, pedicured, didn’t eat for six months, and had extensive plastic surgery to look more like her, would he take me back? Would the bank give me a loan for the surgery? Would plastic surgery hurt? Would I end up with identity issues after surgery? Will he ever want me back? Will I ever not want him back? How do bees fly?

Way too many pointless, futile questions. I would quite like to switch my head off, quieten it down from its pointless rambling. Frankly I probably need a slap, but I have a low pain threshold and I bruise easily. Like a peach.

Hope your New Year’s resolutions are panning out a tad more successfully.

Big Love Evie

XXXXXXXXXXX

Current January Resolutions points tally 195 points ish.


Midnight

Midnight New Year’s Eve (Photo credit: tim ellis)

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.

French Wedding Kiss at Le Salon des Miroirs - ...

The pub was more crowded than this, but you get the idea. Photo credit: ChrisGoldNY)

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.

Big Love,

Evie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


English: Bridesmaids

English: Bridesmaids (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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


111124-A-RT073-015

111124-A-RT073-015 (Photo credit: 1/25 Stryker Brigade Combat Team)

Am thinking that instead of mooning around like a love sick pony with a broken leg, I should concentrate on the things about my Ex that I genuinely hate.

Note the use of the present tense. These habits are going to stay with him for life. If I couldn’t stop him biting his toenails with his teeth, then his next girlfriend sure as hell doesn’t have a chance.

And what’s with the Xbox obsession? He’s a grown man. The shining eyes when he completed Call Of Duty? I’m a girl, I’m not impressed. Note to  my Ex – You are not a real soldier! And the carpet burn you got reaching for the Xbox controller, no, that does not count as a ‘battle scar’.

And why can he not wash up? Is he allergic to water? Frightened of detergent? Phobic of sinks?

And by the way, my bedroom carpet? IT’S A CARPET. NOT A WARDROBE.

And the constant losing things. Where’s my wallet? Cheque Book? Car Keys? I Pad? I Phone? T Shirt? Underpants?

The answer was always the same…………in that heap of your crap on my bedroom carpet!

As for romance. Lighting a candle in the living room does not make a romantic night. Not when you’ve just put boxing on the TV and ordered yourself a curry.

Slightly agitated now. Which is good. But I still miss that big pile of crap on my bedroom floor. The toenail thing? Not so much!

If you have any quirks about your Ex (or current!) that you hate please feel free to share.

Big Love Evie XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx



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