TOOLBAG TUESDAY

Both sexes can be judgmental about where someone they’re dating lives.

In my experience, it can either be the best, most comforting place in the world with the most comfortable couch ever, or make your skin crawl with its black fuzz growing in the toilet and fossilized dog shit on the floor and I’ve been scared to walk around barefoot before.

But cleanliness isn’t the only thing people judge your habitat on:

They judge you on your living circumstances as well.

“Wait, you have SIX roommates???”

“I have to pay a dollar for the toll bridge every time I want to go over to your house?”

Or, the most common, yet most hated-on circumstance:

“You live with your parents??”

There are lots of reasons why people in their 20s and 30s still live with their parents.

They could be broke, or don’t want to be broke. They could be paying off their credit card(s) or be filming a public access show in the basement (Wayne Campbell.)

They could be living there temporarily because they were living with their significant other and that bitch kept the apartment.

Or escaping to their parents’ because their roommate turned out to be crazy and they’re waiting out their lease.

Or, maybe they live with their parents because they just moved back to New Orleans from South Carolina and still needed to pay mortgage on the house they own with their twin sister in South Carolina until she found a suitable roommate. (For example.)

This is why it’s important to ask someone you’re dating why they live with their parents, if that sort of thing bothers you.

Because while you may think they’re being a huge baby by raiding mom and dad’s fridge every night, you could be wrong.

Jonathan was wrong about my friend Elisa.

They dated for just a few weeks and despite the fact that he spent the night already, she wasn’t that into him.

Which made it even more annoying that HE ended things with HER.

But it wasn’t so much the fact that he ended things, it was his reasoning:

“Because you live with your mom.”

“WHAT?” Elisa said. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

If Jonathan had bothered to ask, Elisa would have told him that she was living with her mom and little brother because her mom couldn’t cover the mortgage by herself.

She would have explained that she paid her mom rent — not even a discounted rent — for her room and bathroom because if she didn’t, her mom would have to get a stranger/roommate to move in and that’s not something you put a high school boy through.

...that she put off dreams of having her own apartment and being closer to work because she’s committed to helping her family and is super effing selfless.

OK, ASSHOLE???

Yet, Elisa sat in silence on the phone and never explained her living situation. She was suddenly embarrassed and wanted to hang up immediately.

But Jonathan continued to talk.

“Yea, the other night when I spent the night I was TOTALLY freaked out knowing your MOM was upstairs...” he said.

If he had bothered to ask about that, too, Elisa would have told him how her mom was one of those young moms who doesn’t care that her gentlemen friends spend the night, gives her all the privacy in the world and is actually way cooler than most roommates. And he didn't even meet her!

But Jonathan continued on with his speech.

“Because, see, I need someone who has their own place...”

Elisa rolled her eyes.

Was he somehow better than she was with HIS own place, despite the fact that it was boy-scuzzy with whisker hairs on the sink, well-read magazines with curling pages on the bathroom floor and an oddball roommate who exclusively drank vodka and sprite while watching Braveheart on loop?

Who is this person that speaks to me as though I needed his advice?

But she didn’t say anything.

“Ok, well, sorry,” she said. And hung up.

But she wasn’t sorry about anything.

Sorry I’m a good person by helping my mom and brother out? Sorry my family is counting on me to pitch in during a shitty economy?

Perhaps it was a sorry to Jonathan.

Sorry your toilet is covered in black fuzz.

Enjoy your roommate.

-Jenny

Church changes

I don’t go to church, but I do have a number of Catholic prayers memorized.

This is what happens when your mom forces you to go to mass every Sunday for the first 18 years of your life, and also every month at Catholic High School.

As such, I not only know the prayers by heart, but I know which ones indicate that the mass is almost over.

(The “Our Father” = home stretch!!!!)

These memorization skills come in handy the times my mom still forces me to go to church or during Christmas, the only holiday where I worship on my own free will.

Because despite my lack of regular worship, no one can tell I haven't been to church since before Easter when they see me politely recite the Eucharistic prayer word for word.

And the Our Father
And all that business about Pontius Pilot.

But today, everything changed for me.
(No, I did not become enlightened.)

Today, I looked in horror at the brochures in everyone’s pew about the “new translation” for the Bible and our new, revised prayers.

WTF??

Isn’t the Bible a gagillion years old? And NOW we’re making changes???

This must be a mistake!

But no. I read both sides of the brochure. Entire words of well-memorized prayers have now been changed, effective immediately.

Basically, a whole bunch of bishops got together and decided to make changes in order to be relevant or something.

The priest said the change only affects English-speaking Roman Catholics.

“When you tell your Spanish and German friends about this change, they won’t have any idea what you’re talking about!” the priest said.

That’s funny, I thought. Who would bring that up to ANY friend, let alone a foreign one?

The problem with the old way, he said, is that the English translation from the original Latin was translated a few different ways depending on if you live in England or Australia or the United States or maybe Canada, too.

For example, the word “dead” in one version may be written as “passed away” in another version and obviously that’s super-confusing so now everything is being streamlined to be the same word no matter what English-speaking country you’re in.

It’s also supposed to give people better insight into exactly what the disciples and Jesus “really meant," the priest said.

(You know, big misinterpretations like instead of chanting the word “cup” we're now expected to say “chalice.” Because no one wants to confuse a "chalice" with the thing that protects guys’ junk when they play sports.)

And now, when the priest says “Peace be with you” instead of saying, “And also with you,” we’re now supposed to say, “and with your spirit.”

DO YOU SEE THE DISTINCTION?

Totally necessary.

Now, normally this would be as insignificant in my life as Google + , but it turns out this change is really going to screw up fly-by worshippers like me.

I have to memorize everything all over again!!!

I can no longer impress my former boyfriend’s family people with my vast knowledge of Catholic mass prayers!

I’M GOING TO BE EXPOSED!!!

Because while everyone today stumbled through the new changes, regular church-goers are going to memorize the new sayings with each passing week and I’ll be left out in the cold by Christmas.

I bet by then all the brochures will be removed and I’ll be nervously lip-syncing the Gloria hoping I won’t be accused of being a Baptist.

THE HORROR!

Thank God we still get to keep the wine.

-Jenny

Modern family

Every year our family takes a Christmas photo to properly document things like awkward adolescent phases, childhood pets and bad haircuts.

According to the photo collage on the wall in my parents’ house, this tradition started when my twin sister, Joy, and I were 8 months old, our first Christmas, and we’ve taken a family photo every year since.

(That first photo was the only year Joy and I were dressed alike, and we were not in khaki pants and white tops, nor were we on the beach. Ha.)

Our photos are far from professional.

(See: the year we decided to be snapped mid-jump on a trampoline in our backyard, the time Joy wouldn’t stay on her tricycle and her Britney Spears-inspired underwear shot made the photo or the year my brother, Franklin, cut my bangs right before the photo when he was five and I was three.)

...Or the many years we described our Great Dane as “wonder dog” in the inscribed holiday message.

It’s a funny thing, yearly traditions. A reference point where you can reflect on exactly what you were doing a year ago.

A year ago at this time, for example, I was at a job I am no longer at, dating someone I am no longer dating and had just moved back to New Orleans and hated it.

Ah, memories.
Ha.

Not to worry. I’m light years happier now.

Getting the five of us together each year has been a challenge the past few years, since Joy lives on the East Coast, Franklin lives on the West Coast and my parents and I are in the middle.

But it’s an unspoken rule that each year we all fly to one place and my mom will declare that we will be taking our Christmas picture.

Even if it’s in the middle of August.

Because we don’t need a professional photographer or a glorious backdrop. We all just need to get together wearing something "fairly appropriate" on top and someone to point and click a digital camera.

Well, point and click at least five different shots because someone always closes their eyes. MOM

And someone always feels like they look fat. (Related note: WHY AM I ALWAYS STUCK IN THE FRONT OF THE PHOTO?? THE PERSON IN THE FRONT OF THE PHOTO ALWAYS LOOKS THE FATTEST!!! THAT'S A FACT!)

If the complaints are severe enough, Joy, who’s a graphic designer, will edit out someone’s crow’s feet (HOW DOES SOMEONE HAVE CROW’S FEET AT AGE 28!?!?!)

Or fix someone’s eyes. FRANKLIN.

Or photoshop fix our broken shutters. Ha. Shhh don’t tell.

But the photo each year always turns out refrigerator-worthy and we add it to the wall of Christmas photos so when we’re 101 years old we can look at it and say, man, I didn’t look so fat after all.



And this is what I’m thankful for today.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

Some guys just don’t respect the sanctity of the B.F.F’S (.....+E +E!)

They don’t care how long girl friends have been best friends, even if it’s been a lifetime, and decide that it’s OK to sleep with both of them, ruining deep-rooted friendships forever.

How many discarded B.F.F. necklaces end up in the trash because of this????

This was exactly what Andrew did with my two best friends, who, lucky for me, were my roommates at the time.

It was the summer after college and Andrew was properly dating one roommate, Becca, and then sleeping with another roommate, Samantha, on the side.

WHAT COULD GO WRONG???

Yes, Samantha was also a toolbag here, but we were all 22 years old at the time. Wet behind the ears!
Andrew was 31 years old.

31. Like almost the same age as someone who can run for President of the United States.

He absolutely should have known better.

“YOU OLD EFFING MAN!!” I remember screaming at him one night when everyone’s friendship was ruined on his behalf. “WHY ARE YOU EFFING WITH 22-YEAR-OLD’S LIVES?”

Even before Becca CAUGHT Andrew and Samantha...together...doing it, his existence ruined the balance of peace in our apartment.

We had all been best friends for five years, and I had been best friends with Samantha for 15 years. It only took six months for Andrew to unravel it.

I used to roll my eyes whenever I heard his voice in the living room.
He would come over under the guise of being with Becca, yet flirt with Samantha incessantly.

It was done in a teasing way that makes a guy’s current girlfriend uncomfortable when witnessing it.

He laughed at all of Samantha’s jokes and paid 1000% attention to her, and then he’d suddenly have something to do and leave our apartment feeling smug.

This went on for months.

Becca would cry when he didn’t text her and crumble into the fetal position on the floor, like many 22-year-olds do when they think they’ve met the 31-year-old man of their dreams.

One night at a bar, I got pissed when Andrew and Samantha spent 20 minutes “listening to CDs” in her car, just the two of them.

It was something Becca would have LOVED to do with Andrew, but she wasn’t there, and I was stuck in the position of having to believe them when they said only music was on the agenda.

“Why don’t you just end things with Becca?” I snapped at Andrew when Samantha went inside the bar. (He and I never got along.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Well, you clearly like Samantha,” I said.

I thought he was the most pathetic person I’d ever met.

Here he was, 31-YEARS OLD, playing two 22-YEAR-OLD ROOMMATES, and he knew he was cracking the bonds of friendship among everyone in the apartment.

And he didn’t do anything to fix it. He didn't give a shit!

He still didn’t give a shit when Becca surprised him at his house one day and caught him and Samantha DOING IT, on his boat floating in the creek behind his house.

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THEM TOGETHER??!?!” Becca wailed at all of us other roommates when she came home.

And that’s when everyone took sides and severed their friendship with Samantha and I was forced to move out because I couldn’t take the in-fighting.

Until I moved, however, I still had to deal with Andrew being around, DRIVING OVER TO OUR APARTMENT TO PICK SAMANTHA UP.

Oh god.

Despite the fact that he was responsible for breaking up an entire clan of girl friends who were not talking to one another, he STILL CAME OVER TO SPEND THE NIGHT.

ONE ROOM AWAY FROM WHERE HE USED TO SLEEP.

Some people would call that balls.
I call them old, pathetic balls.

One for each piece of a B.F.F. necklace

...that should be jammed into his scrotum.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

NEWSFLASH GUYS: not all girls want you.

And ASSuming that makes an ass out of you and me.
Hey-ohhh!

No, but I’m serious. This has happened to me more than once, most recently this past weekend.

I was dancing at a bar and this very tall man was dancing in the front row (Toolbag!!! Height order dude) and since I’m very short, I couldn’t see the stage because his torso was blocking my view.

“Excuse me,” I tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you think I could get in front of you, because I’m shorter than you?” I asked him.

“Look, I’m here with my WIFE, OK?” he said, looking down on me, giving me a shitty look.

Um....does that make you SHORTER??? I wanted to yell at him.

Instead I gave HIM a shitty look.
But he didn’t see me way down there.

I’m sorry, but was I unknowingly hitting on him??
Did I mistakenly ask him if I could grind on him and take him home?

Definitely not.

I couldn’t believe it!

This guy was giving me a shitty look and making me feel like an A-hole when he was the sasquatch dancing front and center!!!

AND I WASN’T HITTING ON HIM!

This happened this past summer too, at a music festival, when I was standing in an insanely long beer line.

I looked at the guy standing in the long line next to me, and said “damn, this line suuuucks” and he immediately responded with, “Look, I have a girlfriend.”

“Um, OK,” I said.

WTF??

He continued to stare straight ahead and deliberately not look left anymore, making me feel so uncomfortable that I wanted to scream.

I was fuming that other people in line heard him say that, AS IF HE WAS TURNING ME DOWN OR SOMETHING.

Then I had an internal conflict over whether to go in another beer line, but I didn’t want to make his “rejection” true.

I mean, WTF?
I wasn’t hitting on him! He’s the ass here...and then he has to make me feel bad???

HELLO! It’s not that uncommon for people at music festivals to make small talk when they’re going to be standing in line together for the next 15 minutes.

I’ve met wonderful people in the bathroom line at Jazz Fest, for example.

But this jerk....I tell ya.

HEY, A-HOLE, IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOU WERE CAUGHT CHEATING. WITH A SHORT BLONDE.

Which must have been the case, because his girlfriend came over a few minutes later and he made an obvious and gratuitous display of making out with her and grabbing her ass. And I could swear she gave me a look.

LIKE I GIVE A SHIT!

I, for one, never ASSume anyone is trying to hit on me unless they say things that are, oh...I don’t know...SUGGESTIVE.

When I was at a Christmas party last year and a cute waiter tapped me on the shoulder to tell me I still had the tag on my dress, (d’oh!!!) I wasn’t like, LOOK I’M HERE WITH A DATE SIR. HOW DARE YOU!!

Or the time a guy pointed out at a bar that the bartender was taking a freaking MONTH to take people’s orders, I didn’t say, LOOK, I’M PUTTING THIS BEER ON MY BOYFRIEND'S TAB! DON’T LOOK AT ME!

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been caught cheating. With a short blonde.
And I’m not a toolbag.

-Jenny

How South Carolina makes ordering shots overly complicated

I ordered four shots at a bar in South Carolina recently and the bartender looked at me and said, “how many ways?”

I understand this is a confusing question to anyone who didn’t live in South Carolina prior to 2004.

How many ways? What the EFF is that supposed to mean??
How many bartenders does it take to screw in a lightbulb??

But, I knew the answer.

“Two, four ways,” I said.
“Got it,” he said and began pouring.

Then I rolled my eyes.

I didn’t want to get into it with him, but the clarification is no longer necessary. South Carolina has big liquor bottles now, people!!!

Let me explain.

When I went off to college in South Carolina in 2001, I shit you not, bars and restaurants were only allowed to serve liquor in mini bottles.

Mini bottles! Like the ones you get on airplanes.

This was a massive change for me, being from New Orleans, where bars actually serve pre-mixed drinks from an IGLOO cooler.

(Seriously, when a friend from New Orleans visited me in South Carolina, he bought a whole bunch of mini bottles to take home and lined them up on a shelf in his house. They were that cute.)

The mini-bottle decree was in effect because South Carolina was desperately holding on to a mandate following prohibition that liquor can only be served in pre-portioned, pre-sealed bottles.

Every state apparently had the law in effect so they could monitor bar patrons’ alcohol intake.

And every state quickly got rid of it IN THE 1930S, except South Carolina.

It was a total waste of plastic.

The thing that sucked the most about it (aside from, uh, hurting the environment) is that you had to pay for each mini bottle separately, which meant that ordering a double broke the bank. And you had to take out a small loan just to pay for a Long Island Iced Tea. ($16??!?!!)

Shots were also tricky with mini-bottles.

Because no one does an entire 1.7 shot of liquor when they do shots. (A shot is normally 1.5 ounces.)

As such, when ordering shots, you had to specify how many bottles you wanted to pay for (2, for example) and then how many shots you wanted out of those two bottles (4, for example.)

So, standard ordering with shots was, “two jaagerbombs, three ways” or “one lemon drop, two ways,” etc.

It was a total waste of plastic.

Thank God people voted to change the law in 2004. Seriously, it had to be done with a vote. And a ballot.

Question #1 : Who do you want to be president of the United States?

Question #2: Should bars be allowed to serve 'big people' drinks?

Both sides of the issue were really riled up about it.

Bar owners in favor of changing the law said it would be much cheaper to have big bottles, since they were taxed on each individual mini bottle.

Environmentalists wailed about how none of the bottles are recycled and some of the more popular bars must go through like 100 mini-bottles a day, at least.

Bar owners NOT in favor of changing the law said they didn’t have the money to re-arrange their liquor cabinets to accommodate big bottles and liked their mini-bottle cubby holes just fine, ThankYouVeryMuch.

And then Big Brother politicians warned that giving up the mini-bottles meant giving up control over how much people were drinking.

This was as much of an abomination as removing the confederate flag from the state capitol!!!

(Well, maybe they said that).

Voters overwhelmingly decided to allow big bottles to be served, WELCOME TO THIS CENTURY SOUTH CAROLINA, and now the mini-bottles have been banished to the 2-for-$1 bin at the local liquor stores.
(Not a bad deal if I do say so myself.)

Anyone visiting South Carolina today would have no idea that less than 10 years ago, bartenders had to open teeny tiny bottles every time liquor was ordered.

South Carolina now looks like any other bar in the U.S.A.!
But now they need to act like it.

Really, they gotta get this shot thing under control. Why do we still have to specify how many “ways” we want our shots dispersed?

It doesn’t matter anymore!!! I want four shots! Regular ones!!!

Ok, ok, let me be more clear.

I want 1/16 of the bottle. One way.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

In a communication class in college, the professor had a book on a shelf near my desk entitled, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!” about “relationship conversational styles.”

I never read it, but when I’d get bored, I’d stare at that book and others on the shelf, and that title always intrigued me.

I mean, how many ways can that phrase apply? That’s not what I meant literally? Not what I meant by my tone?

Not what I meant when I made a joke after you told me you loved me for the first time????

Um, moving on.

Jon, the guy my friend Jennifer married, found his own way to use the “that’s not what I meant” phrase.

Instead of saying, “That’s not what I meant; HERE’S what I meant,” with a comforting clarification, he chose the “That’s not what I meant; I’m actually a huge asshole” – route.

Jennifer and Jon were both young and got married after a year of dating. Jennifer followed him around the country for his job and tried to make the best of her new surroundings.

They had their problems, like most marriages do (um....so I’m told), and when another move presented itself, a move to one of the coldest states in the entire United States (that also doubles as most number of hay bales per capita), Jennifer wasn’t 100 percent on board.

Jon was fuming when Jennifer wasn’t jumping up and down and taking off all her clothes about the opportunity.

How could she be so unsupportive??? GAW!
What was this, a “partnership?”

“Well, let’s just get a divorce then,” Jon said matter-of-factly.

This was the second time he threatened divorce in as many years, which is not something you just wave around in the air like a drunk girl with a cigarette. (um...so I’m told.)

Jennifer didn’t talk to Jon for the rest of the night and slept in the guest room. The next morning, Jon came in to talk.

“Look, that’s not what I meant,” Jon said. “I was just really angry and wanted to say something that I knew would hurt your feelings the most.”

TALK ABOUT A PRINCE CHARMING!

“Well you succeeded,” Jennifer said, still in the guest bed.

A pause. And then he left to go to work.
The conversation was over.

WTF??? Was that supposed to be an apology?? Was he supposed to get brownie points for being self-aware of his shittiness??

Perhaps an “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Let’s go to counseling,” would have been better.

(Or even better, I need to go to counseling.)

Because no one wants to be married to someone so childish that their brain goes to a place where they deliberately 100 percent on purpose say things to be hurtful.

And then ACKNOWLEDGE IT with seemingly no remorse.

They ended up getting a divorce – Jennifer’s call – and it was done as matter-of-factly as Jon’s tone when he dropped the D word.

Wait, maybe I’m not being fair. Maybe that’s not the tone he meant.

Pssh.

-Jenny

That's what she said!! (Surprise party edition)

I was so nervous I was gonna blow it.

Uh, the surprise party that is.

Have you ever been a part of throwing someone a surprise party?
Where you have to, uh, KEEP the surprise??

...And the person you have to keep the surprise from is someone you hang out with almost everyday???

Let me tell you, NOT blowing it is hard.

Especially if you’re tasked with BRINGING the person you’re surprising to the party.

Wait…

Tasked with bringing TWO people who were getting a JOINT surprise birthday party to the party!!!

KEEPIN SECRETS TIMES TWO!!!

This was me last Friday night: trying to act all casual and NOT spill the beans to TWO people that…OMG there are 50 people — including your parents — in a room with the lights off waiting to yell SURPRISE!!! the second we all walk into the local rum distillery for a "tour."

When the birthday girls said that everyone was going on a distillery tour and did I want to come? I was all nonchalant about it.

“Really?? There? OK, I guess it could be fun” I said, as if I didn’t know for weeks that this was happening. I suggested we get happy hour drinks beforehand (as planned).

And then, once we got there (after ferociously updating via text, “on the way” “one minute away” “parking now bitches!!!”)

...I had to deliberately walk uh, slower than I normally walk into the distillery so that both birthday girls would walk up ahead.

I didn’t want them to waste the good surprise on me. Ha.

Another one of my tasks?

Make a six-foot long banner!

This thing was money, y’all

But, really, my job was easy in comparison to everyone else.

While I was busy succeeding at being super nonchalant, other friends had to pick up kegs of beer, make rum punch, make all the food, bring all the food to the distillery and set up the food warmers under the pans.

And bring costumes for us so we could change into them once the surprise was revealed.

And hang my bomb-ass banner.

And hang a piñata.

Oh and set up sound equipment for our friends' band to play. Because what surprise party wouldn’t be complete without a band???

And it was totally worth it.

I didn’t realize during the logistical planning of the whole thing that I would be able to see it from the birthday girls’ point of view.

It was almost like it was a surprise party for me too!!!

And DAMN... It was awesome. The most gratifying surprise party ever.

Thrown for two of the best people I’ve ever met, one who had just gone through a rough patch and really needed a room full of loving faces screaming SURPRISE!!!

There were actual tears.

Thank GOD I didn’t blow it.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

This one seems appropriate for today, All Saints Day.

(...or “Day of the Dead” depending on which country you live in or whether you’re currently enrolled in a Spanish class.)

Ryan, who dated my friend Kim, used his grandmother’s funeral as an excuse for why he couldn’t hang out with her.
When really, he was being consoled by the other girl he was seeing on the side.

This situation was only possible because Kim and Ryan were in a long-distance relationship (Don’t do it kids!!) and, therefore, it was easy for Ryan to date someone in his own area code while still calling Kim on the side.

Things were great for Ryan – getting his fill of both ladies and all...TOOLBAG... – until Kim flew to town for St. Patrick’s Day to go to a wedding.

It was a last-minute decision to attend, and Ryan had obviously not cleared this unexpected visit with his in-town girlfriend, Sarah, who Kim knew because she was his ex right before Kim came into the picture.

Three days before Kim flew to town, Ryan’s grandmother died.

Her death wasn’t a surprise exactly, but it was too soon.
She was very sweet and she and Ryan were very close.

When Ryan texted Kim the news, she wrote back messages of love and prayers, blah blah, blah.

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to hang out much this weekend,” Ryan texted.
“I totally understand.” Kim wrote back.

Thinking back, Kim should have wondered more about why she wasn’t invited to any of Ryan’s family’s gatherings surrounding the funeral.

She had met his family after all - more than once - and had even eaten dinner at that grandmother’s house.
And she was his girlfriend!

But she figured people deal with grief in different ways and boys don’t like it when you see them cry so she gave him space.

Kim went to the wedding and a St. Patrick’s Day parade, and texted Ryan non-stop.

He sent her back vague texts not really saying where he was, always ending it with “Too sad to do anything.”

Kim flew back home without seeing Ryan for even a minute that weekend.

But where Ryan couldn’t tell the truth, MySpace could.
Oh yea. 2006 baby.

Not even a week later, Kim logged on to MySpace and saw pictures tagged of Ryan and Sarah doing all sorts of things that weekend.

(How did she know it was that same weekend? Because everyone was wearing green. And beads.)

In horror, Kim clicked on picture after picture that Sarah, HIS OTHER GIRLFRIEND, had uploaded of them.

Ryan did not mention in any of his texts that he and Sarah were hanging out.

Oh, there were lots of pictures. Pictures of them dressed in green, pictures of them dressed in green with his arm around her, pictures of them dressed in green attending a St. Patrick’s Day parade.

And then...

PICTURES OF THEM DRESSED NICE... IN ALL BLACK.

And then....

PICTURES OF THEM OUTSIDE THE CHURCH WHERE THE FUNERAL WAS HELD.

‘Too sad to do anything’ MY ASS!

So, not only was he two-timing both of them, but Ryan actually used his grandmother’s death to say that’s the reason why he couldn’t hang out.

He was off the hook.

Clearly, he wasn’t too sad to go to a parade. Or put his arm around HIS OTHER GIRLFRIEND.

Kim broke up with him immediately.
And she didn’t mourn the relationship for even a second.

-Jenny