Tag Archives: annulment

Love, Unrequited

Last night, for the second time since my annulment, I went on a first date.

[this is the outfit I wore]

Leading up to the date, I was less than nervous. Probably because he kept sending me text messages telling me how amazing I was and how much he was looking forward to getting to know me. A normal lady might find this considerate and thoughtful, but it mildly induced my gag reflex.

An hour before the date, however, my suitor redeemed himself by prank calling me. He kept a stoic voice and accused me of already being late before cracking up and saying he’d see me soon. It was admittedly weird, but had me blushing with playful delight.

When the time came, I went to our designated meeting place by the plants in front of Whole Foods and waited for him to arrive. That’s when I spotted him. Not my date – Back Alley Way Lover. Yes, my first first date in Austin had the gall to purchase whatever bananas, eggs, and contraception he needed smack in front of the place I was meeting my new date. Plain rude if you asked me.

Being the dodger that I am, I instantly dropped about 3 feet attempting to duck behind the most robust bunch of thyme. I don’t think it worked, but my date managed to arrive before BAWL finished checking out and we walked away faster than you can say “awkward confrontation.”

[when all else fails, hide behind small foliage]

My first impression of new boy was: I should have worn flats. I know I had a lot to drink when we met, but could my depth perception have been that affected? Or had he possibly been wearing man heels? I mean we are not talking midget stature, but the man could use a lift.

About ten minutes into dinner, I had already decided things weren’t going to work out. He was a really nice guy, but just too outgoing and hyper. Look, buddy – that’s my job. There can only be one spotlight hog in a relationship, and it’s going to be the girl who blogs about her dates for attention.

That’s when he started rummaging in his pocket. “I almost forgot, I have something for you,” he said. “I couldn’t get you flowers because I knew we’d be walking around, but I know you like to cook so I got you these tomato seeds. Maybe you can give me one if you ever get around to planting them.”

[the actual tomato seeds. they can grow like our love.]

Oh Lord, I thought. This letting him down thing is going to be much more difficult than I thought.

I spent the rest of dinner sitting on my hands to prevent him from reaching for one. I don’t think he read the body language correctly. He didn’t want to end the night and I felt like a bitch telling him I was ready to go home, so we went down the street for a drink and some live music.

“I’m really glad I’m on this date with you,” he confessed.

“Thank you.” I replied.

“Aren’t you supposed to be glad, too?” he said with a wounded face, tomato seeds in hand.

Well, fuck. I’ve been caught.

Apparently that didn’t matter because he brushed off my faux pas in stride and went to get us drinks. Meanwhile, I crafted my exit strategy. Potential text messages with a firm, yet gentle let-down swirled through my head. And then a brilliant idea came to me.

I will scare him off, I thought. I will hit him with everything I’ve got, he will no longer be interested, and I don’t even have to send a break up message. How am I so fucking smart?

[muahaha, you’ll never want to date me now]

Suddenly, I was excited for his return. I couldn’t wait to share my secrets and go back to doing more interesting things, like folding laundry. It was every first date’s nightmare: not only would I bring up my ex, I would bring up my ex-husband.

I spilled the beans and waited. And then came the kicker.

Surprise! He was married before, too.

And now we’re bonding.

[they call that a backfire, folks.]

Things just went from “he’s way too into me” to “he thinks the fates have brought us together,” and I am in hell. He was so proud of me for how strong and brave I was for having the guts to tell him. We actually had a really nice conversation about our respective breakups and subsequent depression, but there was just still no spark for me.

When he finally walked me home, he gave me a hug goodnight, marveling at what an amazing time he had. Then he pulled me in for hug round two, because much like me, round one was just so special.

How do I let this sweet boy down gently? He even got a haircut just for the date.

Much like his poor little heart will soon be, I am at a loss.

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Chocolate-Dipped Potato Chips

Be still, my sweet and salty heart.

 If you’ve ever wondered what chocolate and potato chips taste like together, the answer is delicious. And if you can’t tell, this recipe is rather simple.

In fact, I’m not even going to post it. If you can’t figure it out from the pictures, you should seriously consider re-enrolling the first grade. Unless, of course, you’re blind – in which case it’s totally cool if you email me for the recipe. Sorry to offend you, and be careful crossing the street.

The primary reason I love making things with chocolate so much is that my ex-husband was disgusted by it. I know – what kind of a person does not appreciate the pure, divine bliss that is chocolate? An idiot, obviously.

That really should have tipped me off that there was something wrong with him. In my next personal ad, I will be sure to add a disclaimer: “Chocolate haters need not apply.” Best to put the important filters front and center.

For those of you wondering, this is what I did with my free time yesterday. I contemplated folding the laundry, but combining potato chips with chocolate just seemed more urgent. I hear wrinkles are coming in style, anyway. I’m just being avant-garde, people.

In a completely unrelated story, why don’t I have any dates lined up for this week?

In any case, you should all try these. Refrigerate them to let them set. Or just eat them as you dip. I won’t judge.


…and on a completely serious note, we are getting dangerously close to what would have been my one-year wedding anniversary. I hope that everyone is looking forward to reading a tearjerker in four days.

And if you’d like to send sympathy cards and mass quantities of chocolate, contact my people. We’ll get something set up.

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A Letter to Future Ex-Wives

For the last six months, I have been an official member of the ex-wives club. And by that I mean I made my own club, which really just consists of me having a weekly meeting with my good friends ice cream and self-pity.

Divorce ain’t like summer camp, my friends. You don’t get a welcome letter into your new life or a mentor with a high-pitched voice (unless there is something I am being seriously left out of). And you know what? Those things would have actually been very helpful.

I’d love to have my own ex-wives club. It would be like the First Wives Club, only without the horrifying white pant suits and karaoke version of “You Don’t Own Me.”

So for all of the ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers out there –  here is a welcome letter, from me to you.


I am sorry to snatch you into my club under such terrible circumstances, but glad that you are here.

From this moment on, please expect that everyone you have ever met will act fucking crazy around you. Do not be alarmed. This is normal.

Most of them have heard your news indirectly, and will feel the need to text and let you know they are here for you. Especially if you haven’t spoken for three or more years. During this time, I ask that you refrain from punching any babies or purchasing knives.

You will then experience a brief blackout period lasting anywhere from two to twelve months. You will likely never remember what happened in these months because if you are smart, you will be heavily sedated.

At all stages, be sure to stay away from social media. You don’t need to know that your ex got laser hair removal and a nose job to feel better about himself post-breakup. It will only leave you thinking how you would have rather waxed his chest yourself and performed surgery on his testicles instead of his nose.

Follow these tips, and when you’re ready to stop crying embarrassingly in public, I will be so very glad to meet you and help you scout out new prospects. Assuming, of course, we don’t share similar taste in men.

Until then, do all the venting you want to your diary. Because in all likelihood, your mom stopped listening weeks ago.

Very sincerely yours,

Fellow Ex-Wife


**Editor’s Announcement: Go look at my new “Favorite Recipes” tab. I put a lot of hard work into making those damned links work and you guys are going to click them whether you like it or not. Kthanks.

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Men Who Suck: Do They Deserve a Second Chance?

In the six months since my annulment, I’ve gone through men like water. Or more accurately (based on my beverage consumption), like wine. Some love interests lasted only hours, while others’ facebook profile made my list of top ten most visited websites.  But so far, all of them have one common attribute: they kind of suck.

Yes, it’s true. Each suitor has come with his very own fuck-up that I chose to overlook.

Twenty minutes late for our date?
That’s okay, you tried really hard to get here on time. You even sent me a picture of your speedometer.

Let me pay for dinner?
Sure, that makes sense. This is the twenty-first century, after all. In fact, let me get that door for you while I’m at it.

Refuse to help me find my clothes because you’re too fucking tired?
Why not. It is pretty early.

The explanation for my behavior is simple: I love men, sex and attention. Coming out of a marriage where I was cheated on with upwards of twenty lucky ladies, I was in desperate need of the latter. I hang on to dead-end men until they turn me loose, simply because it’s difficult for me to let go for fear that I can’t do any better.

A lot of women feel this way. And guess what? It’s fucking ridiculous. If you have to wonder whether you can do better, the answer is yes. I am finally at a point where I understand that I can blow a guy off when he screws up. Because there are a million douchebag clones just like him I can go find in the unlikely event that I ever want him back.

At this point, I still want to be single… but I’d like to be single with standards.

You know what? I don’t want the penis that makes me forget I have a gag reflex or the one that hardly fits. I deserve a proper-sized one, damn-it. And a man who will rub my back and make me breakfast attached to it.

In this post, you found my first attempt at a blow-off. And boy, did that blow up. Not only did the guy call me after I bitched him out at 4:30am, he has called me at least five times. He has texted me asking to hang out, asking to let him apologize, asking for just a phone call. I have never had someone pursue me this persistently, and it is kind of freaking me out.

I told him that I have wasted enough time not being treated how I would like to be, and I am just not interested for that reason. He insists that he knows how to treat a lady (track record says otherwise), and is begging me to give him one dinner date to prove it.

So, my loyal readers, what should I do? Do I go on the date? It will surely involve excessive chivalry and a free fancy dinner, which I always enjoy. It would also make a pretty good blog post. Then again, this guy already struck out with me. Does douchebaggery deserve a second chance?

Help me here, folks. I’m torn.

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Sometimes you have to forget what’s gone, appreciate what remains, and look forward to what’s next

-my coathangers, looking beautiful and ready to move downtown-

It is amazing how deeply entwined your life can become with another’s in such a short time. Even more so how long it can take to untangle the mess when your time together ends.

 –from the guestbook at our wedding-

In less than 24 hours, I will be as close to free as I imagine is possible at this point. I’ll take my boxes, all of the china, and our two furbabies to a new home where my ex-husband can’t find us anymore. A place with no memories, no expectations, and no regrets.

-from our favorite photos together-

I will be strong enough to leave behind the artifacts of our life together that I still secretly cherish when no one is around. The love notes I shouldn’t read, the cards I shouldn’t save – they will all stay here with a piece of my life that it’s time to walk away from.

-the letter he wrote me the first night I left him-

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. It’s the first day of yours, too. Remember to cherish what you have rather than dwelling on what you do not. It is never too late to begin again.

The Big Move-On

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