TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I bet there are a lot of guys excited about quarantine dating for the simple fact that they don’t have to pay for a first date.

LOL

(Baller move: Getting restaurant delivery to a girl’s house, and then having a zoom date.)

But let’s be real. No guy is doing that.

It’s hard enough to get a guy to pay for half your happy hour-priced tacos.

There are several ways guys justify this cheap dating behavior, many of which I’ve written about:

-“Girls just meet guys online to get a ‘free dinner’ and I just want to make sure you’re not one of them.”

-“I lost my debit card a week ago when I was drunk so I don’t have any money.” (Read more)

-“Don’t women want to be treated equal??” (Read more)

LOL

(The last one is my personal favorite.)

The thing about these excuses is that—while they are all hilariously bad—they reek of an element of “I would pay but…”

Like, I would pay but I want to make sure you’re not one of those gold-digging b*tches who is only in this for a free half a pizza!

Or, I would pay if I wasn’t a drunk mess.

I would pay, but feminism.

LOL

But there are other guys who don’t even pretend to have a reason to be cheap.

Full on honesty!

Take Anthony, this guy my friend Lacy met online and met up with pre-quarantine at a bowling alley.

(OMG I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I MISSED BOWLING ALLEYS UNTIL JUST NOW)

It was a seemingly adorable and creative first date.

It was at one of those hip bowling alley/bar combinations that was open really late and a fun scene.

So when Anthony asked Lacy if she wanted to meet him at 10 pm for their date, it didn’t seem unusual to meet up so late.

That’s when the alley started going!!! This guy was COOL.

Lacy arrived about 15 minutes early and saw Anthony at the bar. Brown hair, red shirt. Not as cute as his online picture, but cute enough.

They had their awkward hellos and Lacy was excited to get to bowling to break the ice.
Anthony hesitated.

“Well...let’s have a drink at the bar first,” Anthony said.

“Oh, we can drink while we bowl,” Lacy said, having been there before. “Servers come around, actually.”

Anthony hesitated again.

“Well...it’s ladies night at 10 pm so I’d like to wait until then, so you can bowl for free and I don’t have to pay for you,” he said.

SO I DON'T HAVE TO PAY FOR YOU!

“Seriously?” Lacy asked.

Anthony then laughed about being a “cheapskate.”

That’s why he wanted to meet up so late! Not to have a cool scene, but so he could get out of paying for her!

GUTTER BALL!

The bright side is, Lacy didn’t even have to remove her shoes before ending the date.

This is the kind of guy who makes you want to be in quarantine.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

All the hope and wonder and excitement of a first date can be ruined by several sentences:

Do you think the waitress would want to go out with me? (Read more)

I have a job interview, can I use your urine? (Read more)

I once dated my girlfriend's stepmom. (Read more)

These are all true stories.

I learned about one more gem this past weekend.

My friend, Julia, said it was the worst first date she had ever been on, ever. His name was Joel, he was 35, and they met online.

Joel was seemingly normal (they always seemingly are) over Bumble messages and texts on a real phone. He was in accounting and appeared to have it together. She agreed to meet him at this trendy tapas place that weekend.

She was already nervous. It was her first date following a very long relationship. 

Her first time getting out there, meeting someone new, all the feelings of anticipation: Will he look like his picture? Will he pay for the bill and not be annoying about it? Will they kiss at the end of the night?

It turns out, Joel also had questions.

Well, just one.

YA’LL. 

HIS OPENING LINE.

“So…am I going to have sex later?" he asked.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Julia assured me that Joel wasn’t joking. 

It was especially grotesque because it was her first date in a very long time and she hadn’t even entertained the possibility of anything other than a goodnight kiss. MAYBE.

Despite being mortified, she managed an amazing response: "Not unless you have another date later," she said.

LOL

ZING!

Julia said they just kind of sat there awkwardly in silence in the high-top table by the bar.

"I’m going to take off,” Julia said and got up. 

Joel didn’t try and stop her, didn’t say anything else.

Fifteen words total and the date was over!!

Just her luck to get this guy after a decade of being in a relationship!

Why couldn’t he have just been a guy who looked nothing like his picture?

Why couldn't he have asked her for her urine?

LOL

-Jenny

I'VE MOVED!!!

Hi.

Sorry I've been gone from here.

My twin sister, Joy, bought me a domain name for Christmas (OMG it's almost this Christmas) and I've been posting Toolbag Tuesday there since February.

I haven't ghosted you!

Check me out at www.toolbagtuesday.com.

Also, how 2016 a gift was that??!?!?

XOXO

I'll post non-toolbag stories again soon. Maybe.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

It’s hard not to complain about everything lately. There’s just so much material. 

Trump’s Twitter feed. A five-foot-tall Christmas tree costing $40. 

…The fact that my health insurance refuses to cover a typhoid vaccine from when I went to Guatemala because reimbursing customers for preventative health care is as foreign a concept as…Guatemala.

(Also, complaining about having first-world problems.)

But, in these seemingly DARK and DISMAL times, you know what is virtually impossible to complain about? 

S-e-x.

Or…so you think.

!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!

Apparently, there are GUYS out there who complain about sex, and I don’t mean complain about NOT getting it.

!!!!!!!!!!!

I KNOW!!!!!!

My friend Margie told me this mortifying story about this guy she dated, Griffin, who was nothing but a critic. UGH.

They went out several years ago, when they both worked at a restaurant. 

Griffin didn’t exactly get a good life review himself, since we’re on the subject of assessments.

He was in his early 30s, lived at home, wasn’t in great shape and he struggled with getting customers’ orders right. 

He also spent all his free time at the restaurant bar.

But Margie thought he was fun and harmless, so they went out for a few months. 

One day, there was a throwback “drive in movie” playing somewhere and they decided to go. Margie said in typical 1950s fashion, they totally did the hanky panky, grab-ass or whatever the cool kids call it, all in the privacy of the car.

Margie said it was the first time they had ever been that physical before, and it was all very exciting as Indiana Jones played on the big screen.

And, well, she didn’t do anything that uhhhhh Monica Lewisky hasn’t done before.

No complaints from Griffin there.

Margie felt a little sheepish on the way home about it, as most teenagers in the 1950s did, I imagine.

But as she looked to Griffin for some sort of comfort about it—Griffin, the guy who had absolutely ZERO going for him—he politely told her, "thanks for going out with me tonight" and then added….

“That was the eighth best B.J. I’ve ever had in my life."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

EXCUSE ME?!??!?

THE WHAT-th BEST????

I don’t know what the bigger joke was, his B.S. line or pretending like he’s had eight B.J.s before.

Regardless, it was in poor taste, the worst of the worst in poor taste, and Margie ran out of his car mortified, 5000% regretting her decision.

WHO THE F SAYS THAT????

How about, "Baby, that was amazing, I'll never look at the Ark the same way!"?????

No, let's make up a rate system instead! Let's make the girl I'm dating feel **really good** about her life choices!!! 

Gross.

GROSS EIGHT TIMES OVER.

Now, how can we get him to contract typhoid…..

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I really don’t know why toolbags just arrive in my midst, in front of my face, sitting next to me. Even internationally!

You may remember the pure delight from the Netherlands who BERATED me in a tiny shuttle in Guatemala in front a lot of people about being a “dumb American” and not having international health insurance. (No one was discussing health insurance.)

That was toolbag #1.

There’s a toolbag #2 I encountered. The same day.

I must have blocked him from my memory because I just remembered him the other night. 

He was an American, a fellow Delta Airlines passenger in the Guatemala City airport. 

I got out of the shuttle and there he was, toolbag #2, waiting at the gate.

I was reading a book, or looking at my phone, when he sat in the seat next to me and said, “We were on the same flight from Atlanta here last Thursday! I remember your hair.”

I was confused by this stranger’s opening line. I rolled my eyes up the ceiling to try and remember what day I had flown in to confirm.

He was in his 60s and relatively attractive, given the decade in which he was born. 

It was a bit odd/creepy that he remembered my hair after spending an entire week in Guatemala, but I don’t know how other people’s minds work.

His name was Barry and he was from West Virginia and had a thick accent and was very interested in chatting. 

We talked about what we each did in the past week—many different options because Guatemala is a large, wild, gorgeous place. 

Barry said he went to Tikal, one of the largest Mayan ruins, like the Cadillac of Mayan ruins. 

I knew of it, and it was discussed among my friends as a potential destination, but was too far away. Plus I don't care about ruins.

Barry then pulled up his photos of Tikal on his iPhone and handed it to me to scroll through.

“Did you go with friends?” I asked.

“No, I met a woman there,” he said.

“Oh.”

Barry then unloaded his life on me—how for the past five years, he’s traveled to Central America every month to meet up with Guatemalan, Brazilian or Costa Rican women and pays for them all weekend long. 

He pays for hotels and meals, pays for their company and their attention.

Why he was telling me this was a mystery. 

Do I LOOK like someone who’d be interested in this information?!?!?

“I don’t even have to pay that much because of the dollar rate!!” he said, bragging. 

“I could spend as much on one nice meal in the states as I could for a whole weekend in Tikal!”

“Oh.”

So, they’re prostitutes?” I asked in a way that sounded less harsh than that.

“NO! I don’t sleep with all of them,” he said. “They’re just grateful to have a nice guy like me spend time with them, because all the men in Central America beat their women,” he said. 

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

“Plus they like my blue eyes.”

It was the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had with a stranger.

I was uncomfortably scrolling through his iPhone photos of Tikal when I saw his “woman companion,” in a photo with him at the Mayan ruins.

She was 20 years younger than him at least, an awkward photo of the two of them. She wasn’t smiling.

“Well, she’s… pretty,” I said, coming up with nothing else, handing him back his phone.

“Yea…she doesn’t have as many curves as I would have liked though,” he said, studying the photo. “You know, to feel something when you hug 'em. I like curves and a big ass.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(ED NOTE: WHY ME????)

“I find these women on Facebook,” he told me, unprompted. “I have a friend down there who tells them who I am, and the next thing I know, they message me on Facebook."

Then…OMG…HE OPENED UP FACEBOOK AND STARTED SHOWING ME PHOTOS AND ACCOUNTS OF THESE ‘ELIGIBLE’ WOMEN. 

All downward facing shots of boobs and asses and pouty lips and dark hair.

“Look at THOSE curves,” he pointed to one woman. 

OMG.

WTF 

“Once, I had two women fighting over me,” he laughed. “I’m telling you I’m the only nice guy they’ll ever meet.”

Barry was bragging about all this, with an air of authority like he was some sort of king. Picking out women as if they were chairs or a couch—this one is too big, this one just right. 

It was totally gross. 

And, why on Earth did he feel compelled to tell me, a female, about this operation? 

“Now this one, wow, she was so beautiful, her hair was so black it was almost blue,” he said. 

(Ew another hair reference)

“But then she showed up at the hotel with her kid. Her kid! What am I supposed to do with that?” 

I had no answer. I felt like I was being punk’d.

“And I tell you what, dental work down there is much cheaper too!” he said, ignoring my creeped-out face. 

“Look!” he pointed at his very straight, obnoxiously white teeth. “ALL CAPS. Only $600.”

Lol

(ED NOTE: WHY ME????)

“Well, that’s a very…interesting life,” I said. “I’d love to go to Central America once a month…maybe not to meet strangers though. Excuse me, I’m going to go get a bottle of water before the flight.”

I never returned and only saw Barry again when I walked through the plane to my seat. He was looking down at his phone again, no doubt trolling/scrolling/creeping.

In my mind, though, he was frantically researching how to replace his fake teeth after getting punched in the face. 

A gift from the Mayan gods.

-Jenny 

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I was reminiscing last night about writing term papers in college, bragging about how 18 pages was no big deal, when I remembered public speaking.

Public speaking was a really influential class for me, because it was the first time, ever, I found talking to be terrifying.

(And no, I’m not including all the terrifying conversations with bouncers RE: My fake ID, breakups, talking my way out of trouble, etc. that I experienced up to that point.)

This was just talking. About a boring, mundane topic. And it was terrifying.

I remember one poor girl in the class had a rash develop during her presentation that crept up her chest onto her face.

You could see its red, splotchy path moving up her upper body and taking over, like a storm cloud. 

I remember nothing of what she said. That’s how much the rash took over the spotlight.

“Perhaps…you can wear a turtleneck for your next presentation,” the professor concluded.

I must have completely erased my memory of that semester, because I can’t for the life of me remember what any of my three presentations were about.

All I remember is practicing my speech and being baffled by the fact that my 18 pages only accounted for SIX speaking minutes and I had another nine minutes to figure something out.

…And then when I was actually talking to the class, I spoke WAY slower than practiced, and 18 pages would have been perfect, but now I had 30 pages and therefore had too much information.

THAT SNEAKY BITCH SECOND HAND.

Anyway.

In conclusion, (haha get it) it wasn’t a class that needed any additional stress built in to it.

Which is why I remember how mortifying it was for my friend Aubry when she had to give HER speech to the class, which included the hottest college soccer player…

…who she had slept with the previous weekend after a few dates.

…Who had not called her back.

AWKWARD.

The assignment was a “persuasive” speech about any topic, and Aubry had decided to do her persuasive speech about taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

She outlined all her points about health, exercise, removing the possibility of getting stuck in a metal box and how in most cases, taking the stairs is actually faster.

And she never got a rash, so I’d say the speech was a success.

I remember walking to class, Aubry told me how embarrassed she was about the hot soccer player and how she had called and left him a message on his answering machine (haha awww) but he hadn’t called her back. And it’s been three days.

“This is the first time I’m going to see him since I left his apartment,” she said.

Aubry’s speech was the last of the class, and IN CONCLUSION, she said, there’s no reason NOT to take the stairs if you’re going less than five floors unless you are handicapped or incapacitated.

When the class filed out of the room, everyone realized that we were on the third floor.

HAHAHAHAHA

There was a visible pregnant pause as the class considered the elevator right in front of the classroom or the stairs down the hall.

And in a show of solidarity, every person in the 20-person class moved towards the stairs. Aubry beamed.

Except hot soccer player.

“OMG,” Aubry nudged me as we made our way down the corridor. “LOOK.”

I turned around. There he was: the only person from class to take the elevator. Waiting, as he pressed the button to go down three floors. LOL

DICK.

It would have been a rude move for anyone in the class who wasn't uhhhh handicapped or incapacitated, but this was especially glaring.

She dated a guy who took the elevator after her “persuasive” speech on taking the stairs.

Seriously.

Dick.

LOL

“Maybe he’ll get stuck,” I said. "Maybe he'll develop a claustrophobic rash."

And have to wear a turtleneck.
Terrifying.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

Of course I’d like to write post after post about how horrible I find it that Trump won, but I know my place in Web land: I write about douchebags my friends and I have dated, not douchebags who were elected.

But I honestly believe that if you voted for Trump, you need serious therapy (AND need to travel abroad).

Because you hate people you’ve never even met.

How is that possible?

Entire groups of people who have done nothing to you and have done nothing wrong.

(Insert peanut gallery: I DON’T HATE PEOPLE I’VE NEVER MET! I JUST DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM WITH MY WORLD LEADER HAVING THAT MINDSET!!! I’M ACTUALLY A GOOD PERSON!!!)

Sure.

You just told the world—and the next generation—that that is OK.

It’s heartbreaking.

Anyway. I’m exhausted.

Do you know who else is exhausted? People who have mono.

Remember mono? Is mono is still a thing???

All I remember about mono from college is that it was embarrassing to get because it was the “kissing disease” but also beneficial because if you got it, you would lose ten pounds. 

Because you’re too tired to eat and your throat is swollen.

According to WebMD, i.e. the hypochondriac’s bible, mono is mostly found in teens and young (college age) adults. 

Or very old people who have compromised immune systems.

But, it surfaced last week in a healthy 36-year-old man!!!

…From Tinder.

Lol kissing disease.

It was a very weird encounter between Greg, the guy from Tinder with Mono, and my friend Melissa.

Greg and Melissa met online and then in real life and had a fantastic (and healthy) night together. And then Greg dropped the news that he actually lives three hours away and was only in town on business.

LOL

He agreed that they had a great night and a great connection and that he’d come back to town the following weekend so they can recreate the magic. Melissa was excited.

But after texting for two days about how he was going to book a room at a posh new boutique hotel downtown, Melissa called Greg on Wednesday to talk about the weekend details and he told her some bad news.

“I can’t make it,” he said. “I think I have mono.”

(Uhhh random self-diagnosis.)

“Oh no!” Melissa said, wondering if now SHE had mono.

Then she added, playfully, “Who have you been kissing?”

That’s when Greg went off.

“NOBODY! I HAVEN’T BEEN KISSING ANYBODY, UNLESS YOU COUNT MY DOG!” he said.

“Or…except for me,” Melissa said.

Greg didn’t respond.

“Hey, woah, I was just joking…” Melissa said. “Because it’s called the ‘kissing disease…’”

(UHHH, also he’s on Tinder; let’s not pretend he’s not kissing people, possibly college girls.)

“Well I don’t think it’s very funny!” Greg said. 

Then...OMG...Melissa said he started YELLING. 

“I DON'T APPRECIATE YOU NOT BELIEVING ME!" he said. "So I’m NOT going to come in town this weekend. I’m CANCELLING THE HOTEL ROOM!”

LOLOLOLOL

"I don't appreciate you not believing me."

Umm. Believing what? That he got mono from his dog or that he wasn't kissing other people?

Now Melissa felt sick.

Who was this angry person who went off on a joke??? 

Was this how he acted when he was sick?

Wait...was there even a hotel room booked?

Melissa froze. “Ok, well, feel better…” she said, truly disappointed. 

She texted him a few times over the weekend with the soup emoji and everything but got no response.

Now, a month later, she hasn’t heard from Greg since.

LOL

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Maybe he died from mono-related spleen-bursting complications!!! (thanks WebMD)

No. Of course, his Tinder profile has been active since then.

Melissa’s feelings were pretty hurt when she noticed. 

WTF did she do??

Why couldn’t he have been honest??

Why couldn’t Greg have said, “Look, I’m basically a sleaze, I have no idea what I'm talking about, I yell at people for doing nothing wrong and make them feel really bad about themselves.”

I don’t know, in today’s world, that type of honesty would get him elected.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

I normally hate making blanket statements, but do you know what 30-something females DON’T miss??

The Michael Jackson crotch grab.

You know, the one where a guy puts his hand over his pants crotch, cupping what is most likely a micro-penis??

…It’s not a good look.

I’m sorry that I’m making you remember MJ’s douche dance move, but that’s what a 50-something year-old guy did to me last week, when I was hosting bar trivia.

And there was no music playing.

Paul, a complete stranger, had been bothering me while I hosted bar trivia for about a month.

He was always at the bar by himself—a creepy sign—and he kept trying to start conversation with me while I was speaking into a microphone or trying to sort through and log teams’ answers on my laptop.

Week after week, he thought it was OK to come up to me and personally tell me the answers to the questions I asked, engaging me in conversation.

And week after week, I threw a pad of paper and pencil at him and said, “If you want to play, you’re going to have to write down your answer on a piece of paper. You can’t just tell me what you think the answer is.”

It took him a few weeks to finally tell me that he “liked me” excusing the fact that he was 20 years older than I was, at least, and excusing the fact that I told him I have a boyfriend, ThankYouVeryMuch.

But Paul continued to bother me and run up to my table every time I asked a question to whisper the answer in my ear.

But last week, he graduated to Michael Jackson CREEP.

The question I asked was, “what body part do you examine if you use an 'otoscope?'”

Answer: The ear.

Paul, who was outside on the patio at the time, came running back into the bar, a man on a mission.

“I know I know!!!!” he said to me, as usual. Then he suddenly grabbed his crotch, four feet from where I was sitting.

“YOU EXAMINE THIS!” he said, laughing.

I believe my face contorted into the look of someone who was hungover and about to puke, and who had just smelled rotten eggs.

I hated that he made me look at his crotch. 

What kind of man are you to have to trick a woman into paying attention to that part of your body????

Oh and P.S. I could have had him arrested, I'm sure.

I stopped speaking to him instead, complete cold shoulder that I learned from a police officer in fifth grade as a tactic to ignore someone who would offer you drugs, as he stood there next to my table and chair.

“The correct answer is…EAR,” I said slowly and loudly on the microphone to the 50 or so people playing bar trivia.

Then, I added, “NOT YOUR DICK, PAUL.”

And then I stared at him with my rotten egg smell face as the room got silent and he turned red and got embarrassed.

…And that’s how I got rid of Paul.

(Drops mic.)

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

There are a few teeny tiny things wrong with taking up 90 percent of your first online date with someone talking about your “bitch ex-wife.”

The obvious being, you’re not over it.

The second being, you clearly aren’t a very good judge of character.

The third being, it makes you look bad that your wife had to go out and cheat with lots of people because she wasn’t getting what she needed from you.

(Hey-ooo)

The fourth being, I DON’T CARE.

Now that I think about it, there really is nothing I care about LESS than hearing about the bitch ex-wife of a total stranger I met online. On a first date.

But somehow, there I was, in early 2015, eating at an Italian restaurant with Henry, who spent 40 minutes explaining to me in great detail about the time he found out that his “bitch ex wife” sold her wedding dress and engagement ring on eBay.

Who uses eBay anymore? I wondered to myself.

Henry added that “bitch” was “crazy” (aren’t ex-wives always crazy??) and even though SHE cheated on HIM, which he knew for a fact because he had her phone traced (ohhh…boyfriend material!!! JK, LOL), she's been making his life a legal hell and he needs all kinds of lawyers.

Plus she shattered his car window with a beer bottle.

I don’t really know what Henry was expecting from divulging all this information, or if he knew that I was uncomfortably darting my eyes to the door to see if there was a similarly short, blonde female pointing a gun at us.

(You know, between checking her eBay bids.)

Ha

I suppose he thought that I’d feel bad for him or something.

I hate to say it, but it wasn’t the first time a guy had unloaded to me about a messy, baggage, unattractive EX on a first date.

At least this time the ex wasn’t a legit crack whore.

(I wish I was kidding.)

But no.

At least with Henry, I didn’t need to confirm that his ex who he had been reminiscing about for the past 20 minutes, who he had lived with and SLEPT with, was actually a crack addict, and also a prostitute.

“Only a prostitute to pay for more crack!!”

Oh, well, that’s way better.

WHY LEAD OFF WITH THIS INFORMATION???!?!?

HOW IS THIS A GOOD IDEA?

WHO'S GOING TO GET EXCITED ABOUT EITHER ONE OF THESE GUYS???

Ugh.

No bidding.

-Jenny

TOOLBAG TUESDAY

It started off as a typical conversation you’d overhear on any honeymoon.

“Babe, you need to delete photos off your phone so we can take pictures of Hawaii!”

Peter was driving at the time, in their rented car, in Hawaii, so he asked his wife of two days, Greta, to delete his phone pictures.

After a minute of looking through his camera roll in silence, Greta spoke.

“Do you want to keep pictures you have of text message screenshots?” Greta asked.

“No,” Peter said. “Those are probably from work, when I had to reference an order number.”

Greta paused.

“Ok, well what about the screen shot of texts between you and someone named ‘Jessica’ about wanting to know what color panties she’s wearing?” Greta asked.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“DO YOU WANT TO KEEP THAT ONE??” she asked.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OMG. Nightmare.

It was amazing that Peter didn’t crash the car into a volcano after that.

“What?” he played dumb. “Who?”

And then all he could manage was, “What, you don’t trust me?

Um.

No.

Then, “You really don’t trust me? I’m your HUSBAND.”

LOL

LOL

(Like he takes that role seriously.)

Greta then looked in horror as she pulled up “Jessica” in his phone and saw MANY, MANY texts to her, the most recent one about her panties that was sent TWO DAYS BEFORE THEIR WEDDING.

OMG.

Nightmare.

“Pull the car over!” Greta shouted. “PULL THE CAR OVER NOW!”

He did, at the closest restaurant, repeating himself, while she jumped out and instructed him to leave.

“You don’t understand, it was nothing…” he said.

LOL

But Greta had seen the rest of the texts and they weren’t as PG as asking about her panties. (If you don’t think asking someone about her panties is "PG," then you definitely don’t want to see the rest of this douche movie.)

It was a complete shock. They had dated for EIGHT years and Peter had given no indication that he was a cheater, or dumb.

DUMB in that he couldn’t even cover his tracks correctly…who saves a screen shot of their affair?!?!?

Greta would never have married someone that unintelligent, had she known.

VOMIT.

VOMIT ALL OVER EVERYTHING!!!!

PINEAPPLE HULA VOMIT!!!

Peter eventually admitted that “Jessica” was a co-worker, but insisted that it was “nothing,” despite what MONTHS of sexting revealed. 

And then Peter decided to go ahead and remind her again that he was her husband, as if that wasn’t adding insult to injury.

"I know I'm an asshole cheater and liar, but I'm your HUSBAND!"

LOL

I hope her divorce lawyer works the line, “take a picture, it’ll last longer...than your marriage,” into the proceedings.

-Jenny