TOOLBAG TUESDAY

No. No girl wants to be friends with, or hang out with, someone her current boyfriend hooked up with.

More importantly: No girl wants to be friends with, or hang out with, someone her current boyfriend recently hooked up with.

Seth, this guy who dated my friend Elizabeth, added an even more ridiculous third element to this awkward social situation.

He asked Elizabeth if she wanted to hang out with Zoe, a girl he had recently hooked up WHILE HE AND ELIZABETH WERE DATING.

Yes, Seth asked his girlfriend if she would mind hanging out with the person he cheated on her with.

Dude.

N-o.

Seth and Elizabeth had gotten back together after his transgression and were starting things over. He was good-looking and creative and foreign (the hot kind). And he was very good at apologizing.

Seth was a musician and Zoe was a “fan” who Seth had hooked up with for about a month while he and Elizabeth were exclusively dating. Things only ended when Zoe moved to California to become an actress.

Now, Zoe was going to be visiting from out of town (again) and messaged Seth to see if she could come to his show.

“So, can I invite her?” Seth asked.

Dumbass.

 Elizabeth screamed and was very close to slapping him in the face.

“There is no way that a girl that he cheated on me with is going to come to his show while I am there,” Elizabeth fumed. 

I mean, it’s embarrassing enough getting cheated on (and finding out through Facebook). Standing shoulder to shoulder with this girl was not something Elizabeth could tolerate, and she was pissed Seth would even ask.

So she decided to break up with him. Again.

But, Seth talked Elizabeth into staying with him. (again).

He apologized (again) for what happened and said he didn’t mean it. He admitted that he was an idiot and Elizabeth gave him another, other second chance.

Elizabeth said the next few weeks were blissful. Seth spent every night at her house (he didn’t ever want to go home!) It was right around the holidays and Seth bought her an awesome Christmas present and even hosted a party at her house.

Yet, every girl should know (and this will be a separate Toolbag Tuesday due to its repeated-ness)....if an ex or someone similar is still being mentioned and talked about, there’s probably something going on.

Come January, Seth got really depressed and started sleeping at his own place. Alone. When asked what’s wrong, he said he’s just really upset that his band hasn’t taken off, he doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life and just wants to be alone, wah wah wah.

He also waxed on about how he "wants to go to Russia and speak Russian with Russian people," “take some time by himself to take baths and drink tea" and figure out what he wants. All of a sudden.

Hmmm.

Elizabeth told him no, he can not sulk by himself, especially after all they had gone through together. She gave him an ultimatum: work through this together as a team or break up.

He said break up.

!!!!!

After SHE took him back…TWICE.

Then he made a comment about how Elizabeth never “tips the band” at their gigs.

HAHAHAHAHAHA

Dude.

N-O.

Not surprisingly, Elizabeth checked out Seth’s Facebook page two weeks later and sees a post from Zoe about how it was SO GREAT to meet his friends the previous weekend.

GREAT, Elizabeth thought. He broke up with me so ZOE can come to town and slobber all over him. This wasn’t surprising.

What WAS surprising, though, was a phone call from the bass player in the band who called to ask Elizabeth out (uh, awkward…her word not mine haha).

Elizabeth said no, she really wasn’t over Seth and the break-up was so sudden

“What are you talking about? He’s been with that girl Zoe,” the bass player said. 

WHAT??

“Yea, she ended up winning a bunch of money on a game show in California and moved back to New Orleans. She’s been living here ever since the new year.”

To refresh, it was the same month Seth suddenly started feeling “depressed,” and became interested in drinking tea.

Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. 

The bass player then dropped another bomb: The weekend Seth asked Elizabeth if Zoe could come to their show, Seth didn’t mention that she was STAYING AT HIS APARTMENT WHILE LOOKING TO FIND HER OWN APARTMENT.

“So he was coming to my house every night, and hanging out with her during the day,” Elizabeth said.

Dude.

N-O.

There were no words to describe the enormous waste of time Seth was. Or how humiliated she felt that she actually took him back so many times.

Elizabeth tried to yell at him but he didn’t admit to nor deny anything, which was infuriating. So she told him never to call her again. 

And swore off musicians, and foreigners, forever.

-Jenny

Moving on up

Every time I move into a new apartment, I measure things in firsts.

The first time I take a shower in the new place.

The first time I use the microwave. The first time I run the dishwasher (err...any day now).

Wait, let back up. MY ROOMMATE AND I MOVED INTO A NEW PLACE!! AHHHH EFFING FINALLY!!!

Which, funnily enough, is simply upstairs from our old basement apartment.

You may remember (here and here), I had a terrible time living in the basement thanks to an effing Clydesdale who lived above me.

In the midst of my apartment search, clomp b*itch announced she was moving out and my roommate and I jumped on it.

Now, WE’RE the clompers!!!

Well, we’re in the clomping position. We don’t clomp.

(Those basement dwellers have NO IDEA how lucky they are.)

But, back to firsts.

I don’t know if other people think about these things or if I’m alone in these “milestones.”

“I haven’t cried in this apartment yet,” I pointed out to my roommate the first day we moved in, which stood true for the first two weeks.

So, I guess I can check that “first” off the list.

But there are other less pathetic firsts.

The first time I use the oven. The first time I turn on the air conditioning. 

The first time I call a cab to pick me up from the new address.

The first time someone who doesn't live there sleeps over. Wink.

Two days ago was the first time I went grocery shopping in my new apartment which I understand is ridiculous since I’ve been living there for over half the month.

It was the first time I’ve filled the new fridge with my staple case of diet coke and string cheese! Won’t be the last.

  

Speaking of lasts, I’ve also been thinking about the last time I did things in the basement apartment. (It’s not nostalgia. It’s neurosis.)

The LAST time I took a shower there. The LAST meal I ate there. The last time I flipped the bird at the ceiling/clomper.

The LAST person who spent the night who didn’t live there. (Uh, kidding mom. That...never...happened).

And THEN, because I’m a classic overthinker, I began comparing my life from when I moved into the basement to when I moved out of the basement.

A year-and-a-half span.

Thank God that pretty much everything in my life is different, and better, from when I moved into the burrow hole.

When I first moved into that basement apartment, I had just moved back home to New Orleans from Charleston, SC, and I hated it. I really, really hated it. Massive depression.

(I know, right?? I did not blog about this. I simply burdened my friends with my misery.)

I had a job that didn’t fit, a boyfriend that didn’t fit even more and I missed Charleston so much it hurt.

And the clomper upstairs was stomping all over my happiness.

But now I have a life, a terribly fun one, great friends and a job that's rewarding and pays well.

I don’t cry every Sunday night anymore (my roommate LOVES me) and I’ve found people who make me laugh and make me feel good about myself. 

Now, I don’t mean to get all philosophical and shiz unless I’m drunk, but it’s totally fitting that I’ve moved "up" to a better place all-around.

MY HAPPINESS SHINES LIKE THE WOOD FLOORS!

MY DREAMS ARE AS HIGH AS THE 12-FOOT CEILINGS!

I have appropriately banished my sad, former self to the basement, buried beneath the non-sound barrier ceiling and obnoxious smoke detector that went off every time I made stir-fry.

  

Now, I spend my days looking forward for more "first" things.

The first day of summer in the new place. The first time someone picks me up for a date.

The first time I have more than three people over and not feel claustrophobic.  

Do you know someone who’s 6’5???

Invite them over!!!

  

I’ll open a bottle of vodka...one my first housewarming gifts.

-Jenny

A post about sharing on our 29th birthday

When my twin sister Joy and I were little, we hated when we'd have to “share” birthday presents.

We already shared every other possible thing in our lives.* 

Not to be gross, but it all started when we shared the same sperm.

Growing up, we shared a bedroom, a school, a best friend, parents, a brother, birthday parties and a Barbie doll house. 

We shared the same haircut, the same clothes (sometimes), the same boombox, the same toys and the same snoballs (why couldn’t we just get two separate snoballs??? WHY DID WE HAVE TO SHARE????).

I don’t know if people realize this about twins, but aside from just physical things, we also shared the completely same schedule.

Since we were the exact same age, we were always in the exact same grade in school, we did the exact same homework and we had the exact same bedtime.

In middle school, we were in all the same classes together all day every day, making it a straight 16 waking hours together. 

Our freshmen year of high school, Joy and I took the same public bus home and had to share who would pull the cord at our stop to make the “ding!” sound come on.

And, we both needed to take showers at the same time, before our shared bedtime.

Joy and I got into numerous fights over who was going to take a shower first. 

I don’t know why we were so particularly competitive over the shower, but it was a very big deal to call it first, and it was hands down the one thing we fought over the most.

There were several times when one of us would completely ignore the other’s calling-of-the-shower-first and would race upstairs after school, strip down and hop in and the other couldn’t do anything about it.

(Or so we thought.)

One time, I ran to the shower first, undeservingly, and Joy sneaked in and turned off the cold water as my back was turned. 

Three seconds later, I had scalding hot water all over me and screamed bloody murder as Joy cracked up laughing by the sink.

I did one better. 

The next time she was in the shower, I waited outside (creepily) with a bottle of baby powder. 

The second she pulled back the curtain, I blasted her with the baby powder up and down and all over, and laughed as it turned into a white paste when mixed with the water all over her. 

You couldn’t tell if the smoke rising was powder particles or steam. 

(She had to take another shower.)

Um, anyway.

When we got older, and wiser, we welcomed shared gifts for our birthday. 

Our senior year of high school, we shared a car. We shared a fake ID. We shared our older brother’s separate phone line when he went off to college. 

Shared gifts were especially useful when we bought a house together in South Carolina. We quickly found we could milk getting a big TV or an entire living room set from IKEA from our parents that we’d “split.”

And even today, even though we live 800 miles apart, the sharing never stops. 

We still share friends, Christmas oyster roast parties, a Gmail account (it’s really mine but she uses it), a bank account, a house and a phone plan. 

My name is also somehow on Joy’s car insurance.

We share memories and stories and experiences. At one point we shared a cat. This past Halloween, even, we shared the same costume.

Dolly 1 and Dolly 2 at your service.

What I wouldn’t give today to spend 16 waking hours with Joy instead of our usual thrice-daily phone calls (on our shared plan). 

Why today? Because TODAY IS OUR 29th BIRTHDAY!!!

What will we share today? Double-tagged Happy Birthday Facebook wall posts from our friends!!

Hahahaha. 

In addition to everything else listed above.

Happy birthday Joy!!! 

There’s no one else I’d rather share every single thing with!!!

But give me back my dress. That’s mine.

-Jenny

Same haircut

*No, we did not ever share the same boyfriend. Gross.

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

File this in the great dating debate: How do you let someone know that you don’t want to see them again after one or two dates?

Do you not call or text them ever again, letting your silence get the message across? 

Or do you call them to break the news that it’s not you...it’s them?

Bradley, this guy I went on exactly one date with, went with option three: Sending a text saying he was going to be BUSY FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE as a way to get his point across. 

...But then three days later picture messaged me a photo of how UN-busy he was. 

Upload that shit to Facebook, dude.

This blow-off was particularly annoying since at the end of our one and only date, Bradley was so into me that he begged me to sleep over at his place. 

Really. Begged.

I said no for a number of reasons, including the fact that we met online (ugh), he wasn’t my type or even that cute, and he made me pay for a round of drinks. (Lots of toolbag qualities here.)

But I actually waived these red flags and told myself to give him another chance. 

We had mutual friends, after all. 

We laughed a lot on our date. 

Also, he had a pool. 

Yet, four days had passed since I left him begging, and hadn’t heard from him. 

That’s odd, I thought. I had expected to hear from him immediately. 

After all, I’m so GOD DAMN IRRESISTIBLE that he begged me to sleep over, right? Shouldn’t he be setting up another date ASAP?

Instead, I ended up texting him, four days later, while frowning.

“Good weekend?” I wrote casually. 

He didn’t write back for a full 24 hours.  

“Hectic weekend.”

ReaIly? 

24 hours to write back two words? 

What happened to the begging??

But, I still had hope. 

And he had a pool.

“Yea, I’m busy too. April is crazy,” I wrote.

Another 24 hours passed until he responded. Curtly.

“Maybe we can grab another drink sometime but it will honestly be a while before I’m free."

Hahahaha
Seriously. 

He wrote the word “honestly.” 

Now, that text is annoying enough with its obvious, “yea...I won’t be making time to see you again,” tone.

I cut my losses and thanked God I didn’t sleep over. 

Yet, three days later, THREE DAYS LATER, I get a picture text message from him. 

OF HIS POOL. 

“Chillin by the pool!!” he wrote, with two exclamation points, underneath the sunny photo of pool toys floating by the steps.

WHAT!!

So he’s NOT TOO BUSY to chill by the POOL, huh?? 

C-O-O-L.

I noted that his text didn’t include an invite to his pool. 

He just - what?- wanted to let me know how he was spending his Saturday afternoon? 

....BEING UN-BUSY?!?

Did he forget what he wrote me three days earlier? 

What was I supposed to write back? 

“Oh, you’re by the pool??? Honestly??"

I mean, come on. Don’t tell someone you’re “busy” and then three days later go out of your way to actually show them how not busy you are. 

Honestly. 

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

Every good American dreams about winning the lottery.

What would you do if you won? How would you spend it? Obviously, you’d take the payout. Duh.

But what if...what IF...your significant other won the lottery???

AHHHH!!! 

Would you get a nice, big fat rock on your finger? Would you travel together for months visiting exotic places?? 

Would he, uh, pay off your credit card bill???

I’ll tell you what Ben did. He broke up with my friend Rachel, moved out of their apartment and out-of-state, leaving her to pay rent by herself.

GAW.

Ben didn’t exactly win the lottery. But his grandfather passed away when they were together and he inherited a BUTT LOAD of money and a HUGE farmhouse in Colorado. (They have farms in Colorado???)

By BUTT LOAD, I mean upwards of half a million dollars. 

Enough so that he didn’t have to do the 9-5 daily grind for a few years. Enough so that he could TRAVEL TO EXOTIC PLACES.

Enough so that he could pretty much do whatever the EFF he wanted.

Ben and Rachel met in college and dated for years. He was good-looking and nice they were really good together. 

He was so (seemingly) into her that he even moved from South Carolina to Florida with her so she could take a job. 

They got an apartment together and were just getting adjusted to the north Florida culture (haha oxymoron!!!) when Ben’s grandfather passed away. 

A week later, Ben moved out. 

Rachel said he picked a fight about something really dumb, declared they were broken up and abruptly moved to the farmhouse in Colorado. 

Like, ABRUPTLY.

This was not the fantasy Rachel had played out in her head. Where was the freaking plane ticket to Bali???? Where were the fancy dinners??

WHY WASN’T SHE INVITED TO THE FARMHOUSE IN COLORADO???

“WHAT THE HELL??!” Rachel called him, furious, not only because he ditched her, but because the first of the month was coming up and she couldn’t afford the entire rent by herself.

“Look, obviously we’ve been having problems for awhile,” Ben said.

This was news to Rachel. Three months earlier, he had moved with her to another state. 

He told her he loved her. They had discussed marriage.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about these ‘problems’??” Rachel asked. “You didn’t have to just leave.”

“NO! It was too late!” Ben said dramatically. “There was nothing we could do to fix them!”

“WHAT PROBLEMS?!?!” Rachel kept screaming.

I think the problem was that he now had half a million dollars and a farmhouse. 

MO MONEY, MO PROBLEMS!

I mean, even if his concerns were valid, it was convenient timing, no? 

Their "problems" suddenly: 

a.) existed and 

b.) were too big to even discuss...now that he’s in a higher tax bracket??

I think the polite thing to do would be to at least give her a consolation prize on his way outta dodge.

Like pay off her credit card bill. 

Or pay to get her out of their lease on the apartment.

Perhaps there’s a nice pig on the farm he could leave to her, so she could always remember him.

-Jenny