Tag Archives: ex-boyfriend

Deliberate Drunk Dialing?

Sunday morning at 3:34am, while Santa was still under the influence, sitting in bed playing Scrabble on her gizmo with a stranger, the gizmo rang. Initally I thought perhaps Santa was calling but the number was from a 707 area code: Santa Rosa, CA. I was aware that there were SantaCons happening in other cities across America but decided to let the call go to voicemail. Then I could listen to the anonymous Santa and call back if I so desired.

I often receive “ass calls” or “purse calls,” since unless people have an Aaron in their contacts, I’m usually at the top of the list. An ass call is when the words aren’t fully discernible, you only hear the scritch-scritch of movement muffling the message’s voices. This call was definitely not an ass call. It was my ex, drunk off his ass, slurring to some girl at what sounded like a party. No one was directly speaking into the phone but I could understand every word. Well, almost every word, given how shitfaced he was.

What. The. Fuck. I was hesitant to post about this here. I haven’t yet written up a re-cap of my DPW work season because, frankly, although it was a struggle at some points, I didn’t want to feed his ego by expending any more energy on him or giving him additional column inches. I may record it anyway, since clean-up meant spending all day, every day in his presence, which made for some interesting dynamics. For now, I’m reluctantly addressing this phone call.

I lost my phone on Halloween so unless I’ve re-entered a number, I have no idea who’s calling me. However, I could tell this wasn’t from him because he has a New Mexico area code. (Had? I suppose he could’ve gotten a new phone.) But when I listened to the message I could most definitely recognize his voice. So I have to ask: why the hell would he be calling me? I won’t go into my theories, since I’m saving them for my “Sp****ck Redux,” as “E” has entitled it…even if she’s the only one I let read it. Any ideas? It’s been liberating putting distance — physical and chronological, as well as emotional — between us and finally being able to forget and get over. I won’t let this affect me or be a set-back. But I do find it a bit disturbing…

Ex’s Exes

Last night I met E, an effervescent young woman who had commented on a few of my blog posts. We share an ex-lover, E and I, and we compared notes over beers, much as another ex-lover of my ex-lover and I once did. It seems this ex-lover has a bit of a problem telling the truth and note-comparing shines a light on those lies that is simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking.

I’m not the first woman to be lied to. And I’m most definitely not the only woman this man has lied to. But meeting E made me doubt if there was ever any truth to my relationship with him at all, which is exactly how his previous ex felt when I met up with her. It causes me to reevaluate everything he said to me — daily! — to doubt myself and wonder how the hell I could’ve been so stupid. I have other exes and I can’t say that I feel the same way about them. Although our break-ups ended in varying degrees of disappointment, I never felt betrayed.

I am now faced with seeing this man every morning at breakfast and every evening at dinner. I’m doing my best to not direct any energy his way and he’s wearing a long face. In order for me to survive he simply must not exist in my world. Which is pretty fucking sad. His long face is a reminder of the lies he’s told about me — and the lies he told me about his previous ex — that paint him to be a victim. It seems that if he is able to elicit sympathy, love and affection soon follow. Again, sad. And there I am, in his trap.

Recently he betrayed yet another strong, confident and talented woman. He brought her on a group camping trip and left her stranded, ditching her for another fuck. [See here for sick story of said fuck.] In an extremely public manner. It pains me to know that there’s now one more woman out there wondering how the hell she could’ve been so stupid.

Yes, there are a multitude of broken heart stories — songs and soap operas, chick flicks and novels — and everyone has been hurt by someone. It’s life. And love. But I don’t know of any other men who have serially damaged each woman they’ve come into contact with the way this man has. It’s just fucking depressing.


Speaking of poetry, this non-sensical sentence that showed up in my spam filter struck me as oddly artistic: “When these pretzels eradicate one should tarnish what they steal or blink their wide nature.”

This past week was exhausting: a series of “customer disservice” frustrations, a day-long photo shoot with Alex Colby and The Mermaid Parade.

Last night was the sort of night that made me wish I could sleep outside.

The LED that I brought home from Coachella is still emitting light!

These random thought fragments are why I love blogging.

I began this exercise in extreme navel-gazing as a way to cultivate discipline, to get into the habit of writing every day. Friends recommended that I focus on one topic: Dating or Aging or Sex. But I’m too much of a Gemini to be that single-minded. I have lots to say about a lot of things. So the blog has become like a diary of sorts, self-reflection and self-help, an arena to air my concerns and neuroses, mull over my troubles and seek reassurance through the ether, as well a very public kind of therapy. It’s an opportunity to think aloud and, occasionally, receive a response.

But something happened recently that has stifled my self-expression, curbed my creativity and impacted my sanity. When I blogged about hearing some unappealing news that, quite frankly, didn’t involve or directly affect me, the post garnered my highest readership yet, probably because it involved drama: sex and intrigue and heartbreak. It inspired a few responses that also made for good reading. Unfortunately it provoked an unwanted comment from the subject of the post, the subject of more than one post, in fact: the ex-boyfriend. And it has left me feeling a bit paralyzed.

I’ve mentioned that I will soon be seeing this man at three meals a day, in an environment where there is, quite literally, no escape. We will have to co-exist for three months in as harmonious a fashion as possible. In the past, that hasn’t been easy. The times when we were in close proximity but not “together” brought drama on a level I had never before experienced. So I am apprehensive. And I have no interest in antagonizing him or escalating the drama in any way. Yet I do feel compelled to write about it because that is how I cope. (And in my self-involved imagination, I’ve felt like I’ve been letting my readers down lately, since my posts have lacked their usual depth. My candor and ability to tell my truth, unvarnished and “out there,” is what my readers tell me they find compelling.)

I was aware that he read my blog because of an email he sent me back in March that made reference to a post. My response to him included two sentences that informed him how I felt about it: “It seems you’re well aware how things are going for me.” and “I find communicating with you to be excruciatingly painful.” That was the last I heard from him, thankfully, and I assumed he had moved on.

Why he chose to read my blog again is beyond me. He has, in the past, complained bitterly about women who have “stalked” him and I found his interest in my day-to-day life to be somewhat stalker-like. We had severed all ties, as communicating with him in my few attempts at friendship had been disappointingly unsuccessful. And hurtful. Perhaps mutual friends pointed him in my direction because he was the subject of the post. In any event, his response rattled me. He essentially wanted to censor me.

Whatever his motivations were, this is my little corner of the web. Mine. To demand that I never mention him again is unreasonable. A great percentage of my readership is comprised of total strangers who’ve found me through mutual interests — or mutual tag clouds. Anyone reading who does know me is capable of making their own decisions on who — and what — to believe, as well as who to like or dislike. None of my words here are intended to inflict damage upon anyone. They’re not lies. Or “yarns,” as he qualified them. They are my experiences and my emotions, my ideas and my opinions. To which I am, unequivocally, entitled.

If he reads this, let’s hope he agrees.

Emotionally Trying Friday

I took the weekend off. I’ve been regarding this blog as my job, since I don’t really have one. And I needed a rest. It was a very peculiar and somewhat trying Friday, followed by a bunch of fun on Saturday. This is gonna be a long one…in fact, I’m gonna break it into two separate posts…I’ll start with my emotionally draining Friday the 13th.

I had lunch plans with The Poet. We’d been exchanging involved emails discussing complex issues that I thought would be best communicated about live, so I was looking forward to it. We dug into the deep stuff right away. I told him about my “date” the previous evening with another Ashley Madison man. Yeah, I’d “retired” from that but this guy was already “in the pipeline,” so I’d agreed to meet him. I shared with The Poet how this guy, still married, had already had a three-year relationship but remained with his wife. I was baffled. We covered a lot of difficult territory, most of which is so personal that there’s no point in sharing it here. We briefly touched on coincidences and the concept of “there are no accidents.” Strange… On our previous lunch date I was almost in tears a few times. This particular day it was The Poet whose eyes welled up. As we parted, he said I’d given him a lot to think about.

By the end of our lunch, and a conversation that continued in the park, I was pretty exhausted. But I had made plans to meet a DPW friend visiting NYC. I was a little leery about getting together with the guy because he works on the same crew as my ex. It makes me uncomfortable to let people into my life who might share information about me with him. Not that it matters, I suppose, since he’s let me know that he reads this blog. Which in itself is creepy. Anyway. You, dear readers, know what I’ve been going through, at least over these past few months I’ve been writing this…Bloggers don’t have too many secrets, I guess.

My friend Sandra came over around 6. “What does this ex-boyfriend of yours look like?” she asked, completely out of the blue. I have a few pix on my hard drive and showed those to her, then said, “Oh, there are some more recent ones on Facebook.” When I clicked on those I thought it odd that he was no longer “tagged” in the photos but figured he must’ve “un-tagged” himself. Whatever.

Sandra and I went to 2A, where my DPW friend joined us for drinks and popcorn. A few beers in, he flashed his phone at me: an email from my ex to their crew list. “Why are you showing me that?” I asked, puzzled. “I thought you guys were okay,” he said, quickly putting his phone back in his pocket when he saw the look on my face. “No, we aren’t okay,” I told him. He immediately apologized and generally felt lousy. Over the next few hours a rather ugly and disappointing story came out.

This man had been seeing a woman for over a year. She and my ex had been “hanging out” recently, but the ex assured my friend, “You’ve got nothing to worry about, dude,” and claiming, “There’s nothing going on.” A week before he left on this trip that brought him to NYC, he took this woman to a party attended by many of his crew friends, including my ex. She had spent the night before with my friend, at his place. Within an hour of arriving at the party, my friend wondered where his date had gone. The woman at whose house the party was being held said, “I’ll show you.” This guy followed her, along with a few other fellow crew members, as she opened a bedroom door to reveal my ex fucking this guy’s date. Apparently everyone found this to be most amusing, since they all laughed.

Okay. I know I’ve been asking this a lot lately, but WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH PEOPLE? How many horrible things are wrong with this picture? Aside from my personal feelings about it all — and, hey, I have NO claims on my ex….none — as one human to another, who would do such a shitty thing? Lie to a friend. Fuck his date. In the middle of a party. And the woman who led the guy to see this? What on earth was she thinking? Is humiliating a friend some new sort of sport? Everyone who laughed? Is the embarrassment of someone you care for funny? It all makes me ill.

Well, having received his news I was, surprisingly, not nearly as upset as I would’ve thought I’d be. I’m already staring down a summer where I’m assuming I’ll have to see this dreaded ex at three meals a day. It will now be easier. It made me wonder, though, about his photos being “un-tagged” so I checked Facebook. He is not only no longer my “friend,” he has “blocked” me. I feel like a 12-year-old even talking about this but Facebook seems to encourage junior high-like behavior. Blocking is a pretty aggressive move and, in this case, was totally unnecessary, as I began “hiding” his posts, so I wouldn’t see any of them, way back in November. I hadn’t looked at his page for months. Again, whatever.

My friends are in agreement that this news — and the ex’s rather douchebaggy behavior — was a gift, a first step down the road toward finally falling out of love with him. I’ve repeatedly tried to be his friend, only to be shown, sadly, how lousy he is at being a friend. This skeezy scenario only reinforces my opinion. It won’t be pretty having to see the guy but at least being able to hold that tableau in my mind any time I think I still have feelings for him will be a big help. Onward!

Ow! Those M&Ms Are Killing Me!

Last week, while I was laid out with the flu, I was watching a lot of television and one particular news story really grabbed my attention…by the heart strings: Researchers from the University of Michigan, Columbia University and the University of Colorado conducted a study that shows our brains register physical and emotional pain in almost identical ways. The results of their research were published last week in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.

The story aired on all the talk shows and TV  news outlets and appeared in print everywhere from the LA Times to the Daily News to The Brain Health, many with the headline “Love Hurts…No, it REALLY Hurts.” It proves what anyone who’s ever experienced a painful breakup already knows: rejection hurts.

In the study, the researchers scanned the brains of the recently brokenhearted and found that pain inflicted in the lab and looking at pictures of their exes registered almost identically in the brain, notably in an areas previously associated solely with physical pain. I don’t even need to see a photographic likeness! I can attest to wincing every time I see my ex’s screen name. In fact, here’s a whole list of things that give me the same heart-wrenching twinge:

Peanut M&Ms
Arizona Green Tea Iced Tea
Full Moons
“Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol
Miller Beer
Mexican Dresses
Sand Dollars
Ford F-450s
Old VW Bugs
“Do You Realize,” or just about anything by The Flaming Lips
Anything by Portishead
“Umbrella” by Rhianna
“I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry …”the taste of her cherry chapstick…”
“Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake …”take it to the bridge!” …
“New York” by Jay Z. and Alicia Keys
“Chasing Pavement” by Adele
“Paper Planes” by M.I.A.
(I’ll keep updating this as these occur to me…)

Sigh. This list could go on… Obviously, I’ll be looking forward to further findings, like drugs that might suppress those feelings of pain in the brain!