Category: divorce

You don’t phone me, anymore…

Oh my God!  My phone has been doing this really weird thing today. It’s been like shaking, jumping around, and mostly, it’s been making a helluva noise.

Kinda like an insane ringing noise

Like those old days. When people used to call each other.

Oh. Dammit. Dammit. That’s exactly what it was.

Someone has been trying to call me!

WHAT THE FUCK?   Who could this person be?  Don’t they know the rules? No-one uses the phone to actually phone anymore.

Unless it’s the Receiver of Revenue, my dad or my ex-husband.

Anyway, it kept doing this crazy ringing thing so I figured it must be an emergency.

I put my anxiety aside, did some yogic breathing and picked it up.

‘H e l l o.’

There was that kind of awkward death moment between saying nothing and saying hello and then not knowing what to say at all.

It was an old friend. He was phoning to say he was pissed of with me. That he was sick and tired of us not connecting in real life.

That he wanted the real deal.

I panicked.  What kind of monsters use the phone?

I mean. I love him. I love chatting to him. On my blog. On Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. But – for real? On the phone. Voice to voice.

It’s kinda asking too much these days, isn’t it?

No-one talks on the phone anymore. But he was insistent and so for the sake of friendship I agreed to pop a few xanax over the next coupla days and call him. It would be a big step for me.

I absolutely hate phone calls.


Unless it’s one of those phone calls. A late night phone call with a new lover. When you lean back against the pillows and chat dreamily for hours and hours, and your voice is seductive and his is sexy and you smile dreamily and chat and slowly your eyes close and the phone falls out of your hand onto the pillow, and you’re radiant and dreaming and oh my gosh delicious while you’re falling, falling…

I absolutely love those phone calls. Everyone does!

Chance meetings

This morning I bumped into a guy. Okay, I didn’t really bump into him. I was sitting in a coffee shop, he walked in and across the cappuccinos he yelled:-


So much for a pseudonym.

He’s eccentric.  He was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt, weird sunglasses and hadn’t shaved.

We hugged hello even though I had no idea who he was.

I loved the brush of his stubble against my cheek.

Before anything he told me he hates dogs, is clinically depressed, anti-social, twice divorced and has the second lowest libido in town.

It made me curious as to who has the lowest libido in town, but I realise I don’t care. I’ve never been competitive.

I hope this guy ditches the t-shirt.  Gets a new pair of shorts. Maybe brushes his hair.

But I also hope he calls me.

For some odd reason, I am madly wildly attracted to him.


Men and the Art of Communication

It’s quite hard when a man you like, and have a few very nice evenings with, suddenly never calls again. On my last date with X, which I thought had gone well, with loads of laughter and some intensity, he’d kissed me goodbye, passionately, and then said: – ‘I’ll call you tomorrow’.

He never called. It’s been two weeks, and he still hasn’t called. I’ve stopped checking my phone for messages, and I’ve stopped checking the obituaries. I’ve stopped myself from calling him, or texting him, because it was complicated to start off with and I’ve stopped feeling hopeful that it was all just a giant mistake.

But I don’t get it. He’d gone after me, pursued me with some persistence, had swept me off my feet, dumped me, then came back unashamedly saying:- ‘I made a mistake. I do want to see you. I’m sorry. Give me a second chance, please.’

I was the girl who even though I knew I shouldn’t, I let him back into my life, because he was interesting and different and I saw possibility. But he did it again. After another few fabulous dinners, champagne, gifts, compliments, and intimate conversation, he disappeared. Second time round.

I’m trying to get my head around this. Was I played? Was he married? Was he a liar? The stories he told me, the ones that were so revealing, did he make them up?

On our last date, he’d asked me a question. ‘If I could do anything better, what would it be?’ I’d thought for a while before answering.

My answer eventually was ‘Communication’.

If there is one thing I want in life, it is the ability to talk. To say how I feel. To express what I want. To be honest.

He liked my answer. Hugely. He said he would’ve given the same answer. Which made me smile, because I had thought he could communicate. I liked his honesty. But then. He vanished. Again. In a puff of smoke. Gone. Without a word. Definitely not communicative.

And I do not understand it. And it is why I keep putting my head in my hands, thinking ‘What the bejesus was that all about?’ Whatever it was, I do have to think it was not about me. He had the issues. But it was selfish, mean, nasty and most of all, uncommunicative and cowardly. And it’s also over. I shall never mention the dumpling man again.


Ex husbands and new girlfriends.

In a moment of emotional fragility, I signed up at the gym. 

The staff, all super enthusiastic with tight bottoms and huge white smiles, weighed me, rolled their eyes at my body mass index, and then with great joy and jubilation, they recognised my surname.

‘Ah, your husband comes here too, lekker to have you as well’ said Ivo, a huge man, the personal trainer I’d just met.

‘No, no, we’re divorced, I just haven’t changed my name yet, you know….’

‘Eish. Oh kay.  Well then.  We have work to do. I’m going to make you look so frigging good, your ex husband will regret the day he left you.’

I raised my left eyebrow.

‘Actually, I left him.’ I said, in a very even keeled tone.

Dead silence. And then the big guy, the very strong one, the one with all the enthusiasm, left the room.  Never to be seen again.

Clearly, women should not leave men. And clearly now, I did not need to look fabulous.

Anyway, I called my ex to tell him I was joining the same gym and checked he was okay with it.

‘Sure’ he said.  ‘Just don’t come on Saturday mornings between 7 and 10, when I train with my girlfriend’.

We were both very mature about it. 

Until, on Day One, I bumped into him in the sauna. I love the idea of unisex saunas, although I find it ridiculous that we have to stay covered up.  It’s 2014 for God’s sake.

But I digress.

There, in the sauna, sweat dripping into his paunch, was my ex husband. And next to him, his girlfriend.  

Not a single drop of sweat dripping into her paunch.  Because she doesn’t have one. As I sucked in my stomach, I remember thinking ‘Dear sweet Jesus, I should’ve brought my hip flask’.  

As well as – ‘Who is her personal trainer and how can she look so fucking good in a sauna?’

Anyway. I sat down. Gracefully.  Elegantly. Quickly. After slipping in their sweat, burning myself on the coals and stumbling up the step.

I am never at my most attractive in a sauna. My face goes bright red, my hair stands up on end, and if I wasn’t wearing a full bloody stupid swimming costume, sweat would pool into my paunch too.

 But I am also never at a loss for words, even in a 300 degree hot sauna.

‘Don’t either of you work?’ I said. ‘It isn’t Saturday. You’re not meant to be here. I think you should leave.’

As my ex husband was about to get snippy, something he was always good at doing, there was an intervention.

Ivo. The big trainer, the one with no sense of humour, walked in. He beckoned the girlfriend. ‘Ten minutes up’ he boomed. ‘Time for your lengths.


She wasn’t leaving without my ex, who according to Ivo, had another five minutes to go. I wasn’t leaving either, it would’ve seemed petty.

 So we all stayed. Ivo too. And sweated, and sweated. Until we slowly started talking. And it was all pretty good and grown up and groov.


We agreed to meet at the gym again, but in the steam room next time. Ivo won’t be there.  He has a new job as a Mediator with divorce attorneys. 

I’ll be there. But wearing a bikini. Because I’m going to the gym every single day, five times a day, until the next time. No sweat is going to pool in my stomach in front of her again!