I am going to refrain from going into too much detail and say that I, like most women, have one awful ex. I’ve dated lots of dudes in my years on the scene and there is no other man that compares to him in the badness department. I’ve lived with a low-level and persistent fear of running into him. I’m not afraid of him, but rather afraid of how I would behave if I saw him.
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Leonardo DiCaprio and Blake Lively are dating. And — at least according to The National Enquirer — Blake was none too pleased when she was at Leo’s New York apartment recently and discovered a suitcase full of lingerie belonging to his ex, model Bar Refaeli. Allegedly, she flipped out, and Leo—being the gentleman that he is—promptly marched down to the dumpster to destroy the evidence. A nice save, considering his first reaction probably went something like, “Don’t worry, she just hasn’t picked it up yet.” [CelebSlam]
We feel (insecure?) for Blake. We too have had unfortunate experiences with traces of exes past in guys’ homes. After the jump, some stories from Frisky staffers and friends. Cringe for us, please. Keep reading »
This weekend, I received a text from my good friend Cara, letting me know she’d run into my ex-boyfriend out front of a local bar. (The ex that broke up with me over IM and then moved four blocks away, because he’s a really cool guy.) Apparently the first thing he said to my friend was, “Julie hates me,” which I took as a half-hearted attempt to elicit sympathy and pity, and reassurance from Cara that I didn’t (no, no, I do.). Thankfully, she didn’t buy his act, and told him that, well, yes, he probably could have handled our breakup better (see aforementioned breakup-over-IM for reference). But did I really want to know my lady friend had run into my dumb ex?
Well… Keep reading »
This story begins with an answering machine. Which means that, yes, it happened a long time ago—I believe in 2003. I was at home in North Carolina visiting my parents, and on the second day of my stay, I plunged my key in the lock of the front door, dropped my bag on the table beside it, and hit the play button on the answering machine—autopilot reflexes I’d perfected years before when I’d actually lived in this house. The first message was obviously for my parents—skip. Ditto for message number two. But the third message contained a familiar baritone voice—Liam*, the guy I’d dated my senior year of high school through my junior year of college. We hadn’t spoken in the two years since we’d broken up.
Oh, that’s nice, I thought. I haven’t heard from him in forever. We should really meet for a cup of coffee while I’m here. Wait a second. How did he know I was home?
“It was wonderful seeing you two last week,” Liam said, his deep voice echoing through the foyer. “Thanks for the advice.”
And that’s when it hit me—this message wasn’t for me. It was for my parents. Keep reading »