My worst holiday horror story was last New Year's Eve. The love of my life, the girl I dated back when I was 23-25 (I'm 31 now) had gotten back in touch with me. This has been a pattern with us over the years: getting back in touch. Maybe see each other. Start talking about the future. Have a blow up fight. Don't speak for a year.Oh, man! That's the worst. This girl sounds flakier than a Southern biscuit. I did like how there was a moral of the story at the end. How very Danny Tanner of you. Well, Brady, thanks for sending this in and reminding us that flaky exes should get the boot!Sweet.Anyway, she proposed in the fall that we meet up in Brooklyn for New Year's. I was all for it, but leery of her flakiness. We kept talking about it, and after I made her a really cute birthday video she said, that yes, she really wanted to go through with it. Again, remember: this was her idea. Not mine. It was 100% her.So we move forward, trading emails about plans, etc. etc. Three days before New Year's, she emails me to say she's really excited to see me. Awesome.I went to New York and spent a couple days with my wonderful-but-quiet crew of married and pregnant friends in Queens. On December 30th, when I was already in town and waiting to meet up with her, she emailed me and said that she'd decided that things would just get too complicated if we saw each other and it would be "simpler" if we just did our own thing. Well, conveniently, most of the other options I had were back in Philadelphia, and I couldn't get back there. I'd left Philadelphia for her sake, after all. She, conveniently, had made a back-up plan for herself, and I hadn't picked up on it.So I spent New Year's at my friends' place in Queens, eating Hors D'oeurves and watching Robo-Dick-Clark with three married couples on a couch and stewing. When I checked out at 12:30, I could barely sleep I was so annoyed with myself. If not for a iPod full of Willie Nelson, I might have stared at the ceiling all night long.It was, of course, my own fault, and one that I'm definitely not going to make again. Beware of making traveling plans to see your exes, that's all I have to say. Even if they were, once upon a time, the very best ever.
Showing newest posts with label Holiday Horror Stories. Show older posts
Showing newest posts with label Holiday Horror Stories. Show older posts
January 14, 2009
Reader Submission: Holiday Horror Story, "Beware of the Flaky Ex"
We received this reader submission from our buddy, Brady. After reading his story, our New Year's resolution is now to give the finger to flaky exes once and for all.
December 23, 2008
This Week: Holiday Horror Stories
If you've stepped foot in any store since Halloween, you've probably noticed that the holidays are upon us. Anxiety-filled at every turn, the holidays are a minefield of awkwardness. Office parties, uneven gift exchanges, tense family dinners; these are all opportunities to make an ass out of yourself.Maybe you made out with that hot intern after three too many eggnogs. Maybe you got the love of your life an iPod and he gave you a coupon book he made himself that's good for "one free hug at anytime" and "one home cooked meal on a night of your choice." Yup, we've been there.
This week, we are going to recount our best (ahem, or worst) holiday horror stories. Do you have a holiday horror story that you still hang your head in shame over? Send 'em on in to us at hi@shmittenkitten.com and take comfort in the fact that the holidays only happen once a year.
Reader Submission for Holiday Horror Story: And, The Award For Minimal Effort Goes To...
Wow! If you thought your holiday present was weird or bad, check out this reader submitted story. Thanks, Marleen, for sharing:
If you have a holiday horror story, send 'em on in to us at hi@shmittenkitten.com. We're throwing ourselves a pity party over here (complete with eggnog!).
Whoa. So, let me get this straight. Homeboy got you a box of tampons and a stack of cash as a holiday present? What is he? A stand-up comedian's wet dream? I can hear it now: "What is the deal with buying presents for your girlfriend? Like, I'd rather just buy her some tampons and give her some cash and go back to watching the game. Who's with me?"I was living with my boyfriend at the time and the holidays were drawing near. I ran around and did all the shopping for my family and friends, leaving the shopping for his side of the family and--of course, me--up to him. One of the gifts I got for him was a coat, and since the weather was getting more wintry, I decided to give it him as an early present. He loved it, of course, since it was the coat he wanted. If memory serves, it was an Adidas jacket.
Afterwards he went out to run an errand and I asked him if on his way back he could pick me up a box of tampons. As this was our first real Christmas together, I went on with my evening, decorating our tree, wrapping presents and getting into the spirit. He came back later that night and said he had forgotten the tampons. I let that slide as I thought that I had a few more to tide me over. Then, he said that it was time for me to unwrap my Christmas present!!! Yay!
And what appeared before me? A box of tampons with a tiny red bow on them. Was this the only gift you ask? NO NO NO, he went and checked the price of the coat, which was a cool $100, and gave me the rest of the cash to make up the difference. He forked that over to me, with a bow on it as well.
If you have a holiday horror story, send 'em on in to us at hi@shmittenkitten.com. We're throwing ourselves a pity party over here (complete with eggnog!).
December 22, 2008
Holiday Horror Stories: Anxiety + Alcohol = Disaster
The holiday season is upon us and I can think of, literally, zero holiday parties that haven't ended in some horribly embarrassing scenario for me. I'm what my doctor delicately refers to as a "high strung lady" and thus am filled with nearly crippling anxiety every time a holiday function involving coworkers or employers is involved. I am also a drunk. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine that perhaps anxious drunks shouldn't attend holiday parties --and after last year, this one does not.
Last year, a coworker of mine hosted a holiday party at Devil's Alley. It was a benefit for needy kids or something, with cheap drink specials and elf costumes abound. I showed up in red spandex leggings and a black miniskirt ready to bro down with my fave office drones and threw back one--or 5--too many Mad Elf beers.
I had also stupidly invited a guy I had--for reals--met on the street That Day to drop by the party. [There's some back story to this, but I'm sure we'll get to it some other time, I'll just fill you in on this one crucial aspect: dude was in a wheelchair and our party was on the second floor of the bar. Ok, moving on.] I stumbled downstairs and charmed him with my drunken antics which included spilling things all over myself and bluntly asking him why he was in a wheelchair. Nice.
At this point in the evening, I decided it was time to head elsewhere for more drinks--why do drunks never know when to call it quits?--and I bounded upstairs for my jacket. On the way, I joined in the Drunken Spelling Bee, had a seriously ADD moment where I just Stopped Paying Attention to what was going on, and was told to, "Spell the word, Bitch!" by some drunk dude who was anxious to get to his turn. Of course, I don't let random dudes get away with calling me "bitch" as that's reserved for all my shitty ex-boyfriends, so I screamed, no lie, "Fuck you, dude! I'm on a date with a guy in a wheelchair!" Classy, I know.
To make a long story short, I left the bar, continued drinking elsewhere, and then suddenly found myself wandering around, alone, on Delaware Ave., in a mini skirt, drunk off my ass, frantically calling my ex and trying to convince him to let my drunk ass come over. Eventually, I put myself in a cab and passed out on my mattress on the floor.
The moral of the story? Don't invite me to your holiday party. Ever.
Last year, a coworker of mine hosted a holiday party at Devil's Alley. It was a benefit for needy kids or something, with cheap drink specials and elf costumes abound. I showed up in red spandex leggings and a black miniskirt ready to bro down with my fave office drones and threw back one--or 5--too many Mad Elf beers.I had also stupidly invited a guy I had--for reals--met on the street That Day to drop by the party. [There's some back story to this, but I'm sure we'll get to it some other time, I'll just fill you in on this one crucial aspect: dude was in a wheelchair and our party was on the second floor of the bar. Ok, moving on.] I stumbled downstairs and charmed him with my drunken antics which included spilling things all over myself and bluntly asking him why he was in a wheelchair. Nice.
At this point in the evening, I decided it was time to head elsewhere for more drinks--why do drunks never know when to call it quits?--and I bounded upstairs for my jacket. On the way, I joined in the Drunken Spelling Bee, had a seriously ADD moment where I just Stopped Paying Attention to what was going on, and was told to, "Spell the word, Bitch!" by some drunk dude who was anxious to get to his turn. Of course, I don't let random dudes get away with calling me "bitch" as that's reserved for all my shitty ex-boyfriends, so I screamed, no lie, "Fuck you, dude! I'm on a date with a guy in a wheelchair!" Classy, I know.To make a long story short, I left the bar, continued drinking elsewhere, and then suddenly found myself wandering around, alone, on Delaware Ave., in a mini skirt, drunk off my ass, frantically calling my ex and trying to convince him to let my drunk ass come over. Eventually, I put myself in a cab and passed out on my mattress on the floor.
The moral of the story? Don't invite me to your holiday party. Ever.
Holiday Horror Stories: I Put The Jerk in Beef Jerky
It was coming up on Christmas and I had no idea what to get my boyfriend of three years. I had been perusing eBay and craigslist for a wacky synthesizer that he didn’t already have, but I kept coming up short. To make matters worse, my life was a total stress mess. I was finishing my first semester of medical school and was snowed under with finals. On top of that, I was having surgery over winter break that would put me out of commission for at least three weeks.
I had my surgery a few days before Christmas. Through my Percocet-cushioned pain waves, I realized that I had nothing to give my sweetheart. My sister was out at the mall that night, so I began racking my brain for a gift that could be purchased at the mall. (Like me, he hates malls so this was a daunting task.)
Suddenly, it hit me. I remembered a few months back, my sweetheart had marveled at a perfume company that prided themselves on making scents that smelled exactly as they were named. They had all sorts of weird scents like “grass” and “tomato,” and each was apparently the exact replica of the scent. I knew they sold it at Sephora, so I called my sister to see if she could pick up a bottle for me.
While on the phone with my sister, she relayed the choices that Sephora carried. Out of my choices, I selected “leather.” My man was the handsome rugged type; he looked just like Jude Law in Cold Mountain, you know, when he’s all scruffy and good-looking. I figured hot men such as these should smell like leather so I told my sister to go ahead and buy it.
When she returned home, my sister presented the perfume to me saying, “Shannon, I don’t know if you’re gonna like this…” This leather perfume had two crucial things wrong with it:
Needless to say, I was horrified as he opened his terrible, bogus gift from me. He had been so good, standing by me through my toils at school and sticking with me through my painful surgery; I couldn’t believe that all I had to thank him with was this liquid beef jerky perfume. I watched his face fall as he took a whiff.
I guess he was as unenthusiastic about “snapping into a Slim Jim” as I was. I apologized profusely, saying that as soon as I was better from the surgery, I would get him something better. We ended up laughing about the perfume and all was good, but I still feel like such a douche for being so self-absorbed.
I had my surgery a few days before Christmas. Through my Percocet-cushioned pain waves, I realized that I had nothing to give my sweetheart. My sister was out at the mall that night, so I began racking my brain for a gift that could be purchased at the mall. (Like me, he hates malls so this was a daunting task.)Suddenly, it hit me. I remembered a few months back, my sweetheart had marveled at a perfume company that prided themselves on making scents that smelled exactly as they were named. They had all sorts of weird scents like “grass” and “tomato,” and each was apparently the exact replica of the scent. I knew they sold it at Sephora, so I called my sister to see if she could pick up a bottle for me.
While on the phone with my sister, she relayed the choices that Sephora carried. Out of my choices, I selected “leather.” My man was the handsome rugged type; he looked just like Jude Law in Cold Mountain, you know, when he’s all scruffy and good-looking. I figured hot men such as these should smell like leather so I told my sister to go ahead and buy it.When she returned home, my sister presented the perfume to me saying, “Shannon, I don’t know if you’re gonna like this…” This leather perfume had two crucial things wrong with it:
- It cost a mere 15 dollars. I figured men’s cologne was more expensive than that and I had assumed this was gonna run me at least 60 bucks. I know it’s supposed to be the thought that counts, but after three years of dating, you really gotta break the twenty-dollar mark.
- The leather perfume smelled like beef jerky. It was horrid and I knew it. To make matters worse, my sweetie was on his way over and he was bringing my gift so we could exchange. There was no time to rectify the situation!
Needless to say, I was horrified as he opened his terrible, bogus gift from me. He had been so good, standing by me through my toils at school and sticking with me through my painful surgery; I couldn’t believe that all I had to thank him with was this liquid beef jerky perfume. I watched his face fall as he took a whiff.I guess he was as unenthusiastic about “snapping into a Slim Jim” as I was. I apologized profusely, saying that as soon as I was better from the surgery, I would get him something better. We ended up laughing about the perfume and all was good, but I still feel like such a douche for being so self-absorbed.
December 21, 2008
Holiday Horror Sories: Last Christmas, I Gave You My Heart...
Let me tell all of you about last Christmas. I had been dating a guy for a few months when Christmas rolled around, so I decided to get some gifts but not go tooo crazy. I headed over to his house with a neatly wrapped book and a new down comforter. We sat down on the couch and 
I prompted him to open his gifts. He seemed like he appreciated the gesture. We giggled, hugged, and he gave me a big thank you.
I prompted him to open his gifts. He seemed like he appreciated the gesture. We giggled, hugged, and he gave me a big thank you.So, what did he get me, you ask? A pink bunny suit? Nooooope. He handed me a homemade card. Inside the card he wrote that what he had gotten me, "hadn't come in the mail yet," but he had reserved a cabin up for us in the Poconos for a nice little weekend getaway.
Little did I know that by New Years Eve--a mere five days later--he broke up with me! No gift in the mail, no weekend getaway; all evidence pointed to the fact that I was DUPED! He clearly had no intention of getting me a gift. And, no, I didn't ask him to return the gifts I gave him, although I could've used a new comforter. I'm a classy girl. I figure it will all work out one day in a mad case of Christmas karma, but it's been an on-going joke now for a while that I'm gonna give my friends a "weekend in the Poconos."
Little did I know that by New Years Eve--a mere five days later--he broke up with me! No gift in the mail, no weekend getaway; all evidence pointed to the fact that I was DUPED! He clearly had no intention of getting me a gift. And, no, I didn't ask him to return the gifts I gave him, although I could've used a new comforter. I'm a classy girl. I figure it will all work out one day in a mad case of Christmas karma, but it's been an on-going joke now for a while that I'm gonna give my friends a "weekend in the Poconos."
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