That little voice in my head — she’s such a bitch

You guys, I’m doomed.

The little voice in my head is already convincing me I’m not good enough for this guy. She’s putting ideas in my head that he is talking to someone else, or isn’t that into me or I don’t even know…

And today, that damn bitch convinced me to stay in bed until 11 a.m. thus accomplishing NOTHING —  not even the gym — before work at 12:30 p.m.

Above all else, Fuck Face is late in his monthly payment. He did get a job (after my voodoo doll got him laid off from his former).

I sent him yet another nagging text message last night to ask where the fuck the money was. And to tell him my name on my bank account has been changed back to my maiden name. I only told him this because he has my bank look up my account by my name.

His response?

“That’s good, are you happy about it?”

Um, excuse me?

Yes, I’m just delighted that I had the “privilege” of marrying you and being your wife for eight months, spending $15,000 on a wedding and changing my name all so you could throw it all away for that fucking whore Hillary.

Yes, I’m happy to not have to look at your stupid name on my bank account.

Seriously what the fuck dude?

I saw the text at 3 a.m. I didn’t write back, but the thought of him, the text, the question was enough to keep me up for a few hours. So maybe it’s OK I slept till 11 this morning.

Back to Coach. We saw each other four days in a row. One day was just lunch, another was a few hours on the beach with a bottle of wine to watch the meteor shower. (Sound familiar? I did the same thing with his roommate, Fisherman. God, what am I doing with my life??)

I like Coach a lot, but I’ve got this nagging voice that this is all going to blow up in my face and I am going to be alone. Forever.

He leaves town for almost three weeks on Thursday. So only time will tell what happens between us.

I’ve got some hope. I mentioned something about my best friend and he said “I want to be your best friend…” Cue the awwwwws (or cue the get your sneakers and RUN).

I won’t be seeing Mrs. Therapy until Jan. 5 so I am on my own to deal with all of this crap. What the hell? She’s off till Jan. 5? It’s like she’s human too with family or something. SMH

Thank goodness I have you guys!


Elevator doors


The elevator doors at Mrs. Therapy’s office make me look fabulous.

I’ve decided this is just an evil ego boost when you arrive because when I ride the elevator down to leave, I look like bloody hell — mostly because I’ve spent about 45 minutes crying — but clearly it’s the elevator’s fault.

And to answer your question, yes, I take photos of my reflection in said elevator doors.

Today at therapy, I immediately burst into tears when I sat down on the big comfy couch. I admitted that Thanksgiving was harder than I had planned.

And we decided that Christmas is going to be even worse. She said, “but this year will be different people in a different place.” I said, “No, it’ll be the same exact people in the same exact place just without Fuck Face. “

She knows I call him that.

We also discussed how very high my expectations are now; she says it’s a defense mechanism.

I say I’m doomed to become a crazy cat lady who is alone forever.

And then there is Coach. We’ve texted every day since our date. But nothing of substance. So I’m losing faith.

OK that’s a lie. As I’m writing this, we set up a date for Saturday.

Mrs. Therapy wants me to date – a lot. And she said to call it practice.

Oh yeah, I’m a bitchy PMSing mess today, too.

Happy Tuesday all (I need a fucking glass of wine.)

P.s. For your entertainment, here are my elevator photos




…. and first dates (an update)

Good news you guys, Coach and I have had TWO wonderful dates!

Here’s the update from my last post ‘Yoga, pot and first dates.

Coach is Fisherman‘s roommate.

And, everyone take a breath, fisherman knows. And is OK with it!

Date One: At the local watering hole. We were both nervous, had a few drinks and talked for about three hours. Hugged goodbye.

Date Two: He came over Saturday afternoon (my roommate was gone all day and night thank God). It was a little awkward at first, as to be expected. We were watching the TCU football game until we got distracted my each other’s mouths.  Yeah, there was a lot of kissing. There was also lunch, a lot of talking and finally we took a blanket, bottle of wine a deck or cards down to the harbor to watch the boat parade.

The setting was beautiful, we even watched a very large, orange moon rise over the water. He kicked my butt in gin.

The sun went down, the cards went away and we snuggled in the beautiful 65-degree clear night.

For a few moments I felt like a was in heaven. Then all the memories of fuck face flooded my brain. Fuck face used to kick my butt in gin.

I did as best I could to push those memories away and enjoy the beautiful, wonderful moment I was in. But in the back of my mind, I wonder if I should let myself potentially fall for someone again. Should I put myself out there again? Will I ever trust anyone again? (Thanks fuck face, you and your fucking whore have done some damage.)

And of course, humorous situations follow me — mid snuggle, Coach got a text from his roommate (fisherman) saying he would be home around 9 because HE WAS AT THE BOAT PARADE!!

Luckily, we never ran into fisherman and his mysterious new female friend.

I said fisherman was OK with Coach talking to me, I never said fisherman knew we were together the entire day sharing a bottle of wine and plenty of kisses.

The night ended with Coach taking me home, coming inside for more (OK a lot more) kissing before he finally left.

And today, I’m on cloud 9.


Yoga, pot and first dates

You guys, I’m going on my first non-online-dating-site date tonight!

Yes! It’s like I’ve graduated.

I’ll be honest with you, since I’ve moved here; I have been on approximately 10 dates.

Don’t judge me, that’s 10 dates in eight months.

OK I confess, there is a slight problem with this date. It’s fisherman’s roommate. I dated fisherman for about a month back in August. We still keep in touch occasionally. His roommate started chatting with me about two weeks ago.

Chats on Facebook progressed to a lot of texting. And tonight, we have a date. Fisherman doesn’t know yet. But his roommate (my date), let’s call him coach, is going to tell him soon (as long as tonight goes well.)

In other news:

I tried hot yoga, loved it, signed up for 10 weeks and $150 worth. Went this morning, almost died, regretting that decision.

My roommate has lived with me for three weeks now. It’s going great, he only had to “talk to me” once about how I don’t rinse my dishes well enough before they go in the dishwasher. Smh.

I’ve decided pot is great thing. I can only focus on one thing when I’m under the influence. A nice change from normal brain that has at least 5 tabs open at all times.

I’m feeling a little better about the holidays. I’ve got a few parties to attend. (More parties than the number of parties I attended the last three years with my ex-husband combined).

Fuck face )ex-husband) owes me money in a week. Shall we take bets on if he actually pays without me having to ask? I hear he is still jobless. And his home-wrecking whore is STILL with him. He’s such a winner.

Is skipping holidays an option?

Christmas trees are going up.

White twinkle lights, snowmen (OK fake ones here in Florida), hot chocolate and Christmas music.

I love all of these things. But this year, I want to crawl in a hole and stay there until February.

This is it, the home stretch. I’m almost to the one-year mark since my cheating husband left me for another woman.

And the pain is really kicking in now.

I had a lovely collection of Christmas decorations. Lighthouses draped in wreaths. A jolly Santa that would sit on my shelf.  And a large collection of ornaments – from every trip fuck face and I went on.

They are all gone.

When I moved out, (my choice) I left behind everything in a fit of rage.

I dumped the large storage tubs on the floor on that cold January day in Colorado and said “You fucking deal with it.”

I miss my decorations.

I’ve decided to not decorate at all this year. Instead I’m going to pretend like Christmas isn’t happening.

New Year’s Eve either. Fuck that shit.

D-Day is Jan. 17 so let’s bypass that too.

My therapist says I need to get through one year and every holiday without him. I’m so close; I can almost taste the freedom.


I really thought I’d be just fine.

I was excited to spend a quiet Thanksgiving with my grandparents. And I did. But now it’s too quiet.

The bed is big and empty. It’s cold. And I’m sad.

This is my first Thanksgiving without fuck face. This is also the first holiday I’ve spent at my grandparent’s Florida home without him.

I didn’t think about him much. Mostly because my brain doesn’t allow me to. It knows I’ll go bad shit crazy if I let too many thoughts run through my head.

I did think about him though. I imagine he was at his dad’s for dinner. I imagine she was there. Sitting in the seat I’ve sat in for almost five years.

I’m sure everyone pretended like it was normal. That’s what his family does. It’s all swept under the fucking rug. It’s like I never existed.

I thought about him again when I was shopping. I saw hoodies on sale. He loved his hoodies. I almost picked one up. Then I remembered I no longer have a husband.

So I spent my money on myself (insert evil grin).

So that’s twice. I let him get to me twice.

My therapist said this would be hard.

But it’s just another day.

Things could be worse.

Here’s to tomorrow and not letting him get to me at all.

(Pre-dinner walk with my grandmother. The absolute most amazing woman I know.)


About last night …

This morning I realized that I’ve regressed back to my college days.

After forcing my half-dressed self out of bed at 7:45 a.m., I consumed about half the medicine cabinet then tried to piece together what happened last night while I headed to volleyball.

On a side note, I’ve yet to go to volleyball without a hangover.

Here’s what happened:

I had plans to meet a doctor for drinks Friday evening. My roommate decided he should be called Grey’s Anatomy for obvious reasons.

Meanwhile I was also chatting with a guy who is in sports management for the local minor league baseball team.

We didn’t have concrete plans to meet so I focused on my doctor date.

He chose a restaurant on the water with a great view. He was handsome though quite full of himself. He was no McDreamy so I’m not sure his ego was justified.

We talked for two hours — well he did most of the talking — . Out of nowhere he asked for the check. He walked me to the car, gave me a hug and said he would “text” me.

And I was home by 9 p.m.

So what’s a girl to do when she actually has eyeliner, tight jeans and a bra on? We if it’s 9 p.m. on a Friday, she goes out with guy No. 2 .

Let’s call him baseball.

Here’s where it gets messy. I couldn’t drive because I was drinking my “home by 9 p.m.” sorrows with my roommate.

And it was my roommate’s bright idea to invite baseball to our place.

Flash forward 30 minutes, baseball is here and I’m another glass of Merlot down.

The two of them proceeded to talk baseball while I sat in a corner and drank.

Finally, roommate went to his room so baseball and I could chat. This was our first face-to-face meeting after all.

We were both a few drinks in so talking quickly turned to making out.

And eh, why not? I’m young and single. Why not make out with an almost complete stranger in my living room.

Then he stayed the night.

I warned you guys.

I’m officially back in college. And I have the messy house and empty bank account to prove it.

So baseball. We didn’t have sex (surprisingly). But there was a lot of kissing and touching then he left at 6 a.m. to go ref youth soccer.

It’s now Saturday. I’m curing my hangover and trying to figure out when on earth I became this person.

A year ago I was at home with my husband, in bed by 10. Now I spend my days frolicking on the beach and coming up with clever names for all the men in my phone. And by all I mean two. Doctor and baseball.

What do you guys think? My guess is I will never hear from Grey’s Anatomy. Which is OK, you can only listen to someone talk about themselves for so long.

And my other guess is baseball and I will be able to salvage nothing out of our slutty first meeting. Which we both agreed was not our best decision or first impression. He said “he just really wanted to meet me.”

When did I become a player.