Why Facebook Stalking Your Ex Is A Bad Thing

We all do it, yet it’s a terrible pastime, let’s outline the reasons why.

  1. Your Ex is never fat enough

After I’ve dated someone, I prefer that they pile on the pounds like someone in a lifelong hotdog eating competition. Even if they’ve gained fifty kilos and are starting to look more spherical than person shaped, the preferable size for exes is along the lines of a Macy’s Thanksgiving parade balloon.

  1. No one ever takes pictures of themselves being waterboarded

There are approximately three trillion photos of food on Facebook and one hundred million photos of beach vacations. Yet the important moments that I don’t want to miss in my exes’ lives; being strapped to a rack or crying as drops roll down their face for the seventeenth hour in a row are never uploaded. How is it that tandoori chicken takes precedence over the moment when they close the iron maiden?

  1. Their new significant others are too attractive

My favourite types of people for exes to date come in two categories; fugly and bridge troll. If I click past a picture and my ex’s new partner doesn’t inspire images of goats and small children disappearing into gap toothed maws, I’m disappointed.

  1. They always look so damn happy

No one commands people to “Funnel your inner demons into a grimace” when they take a picture. Instead humanity is instructed to “Say cheese” and “Smile”. Any expression short of gut wrenching inner turmoil just doesn’t pass mustard with me.

  1. They have this pesky habit of still standing

Ideally after a break up, I would like my exes to say to themselves “Well there goes my reason for living” and then they should lie down where they are and wait for death. This has yet to happen thus images of my ex standing next to friends or family members always have a certain irritating, taunting quality.

My solution to this problem? That everyone in the world take photos of themselves in dire and painful straights; holding their heads in despair, struggling to swim against an over-powering rip current, etc. I volunteer the last three men I dated to go first


We Need To Talk About Bunnies

Not these bunnies.


They are cute though. (Photo Credit : yogadork.com)

This man’s bunnies.


(Photo Credit : montecito-realestate.com)

I have a long running history of, let’s call them intense interests. Normally my obsessions are understandable. For a while there I would only talk about a certain type of fuzzy collectible.


They’re like Pokemon- gotta catch’em all. (Photo Credit : live-av.info.com)

But I was twelve so that was developmentally appropriate. Although talking about Beanie Babies all day, every day for two years might have been a little much for my parents.

And of course there’s my long running fascination and love of anything to do with this celebrity.


Not being obsessed with Mickey and his empire is like hating unicorns and drinking their blood, so essentially not loving Disney transforms someone into a unicorn hunting mutant, that’s right Voldemort got that way because he didn’t worship all things Disney. Take heed my Unwashed public. (Photo Credit : en.wikipedia.org)

For a short period of time I watched this woman everyday while eating my steel cut oats.


This makes more sense in the context of learning French. (Photo Credit: http://www.renaud-bray.com)

But then, somewhere around 2010, something strange happened. When I say strange I mean strange for me, it wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill homeless man setting a fire in public, or threatening your upstairs neighbor, or starting a frog pond in your basement kind of above average occurrence.

In 2010 I became obsessed with these women.


This would be easier to explain if I were a dude. (Photo Credit flickr.com)

It started out innocuously, in the way that these things do; I began watching their television show “The Girls Next Door”. But then my interest took on a life of its own, first I bought the box set of their series. Then I watched the whole thing start to finish. When I was done I watched it again.


Down the Rabbit Hole indeed Holly. (Photo Credit : amazon.com)

And I kept watching it.

hef girls

I can’t tear my eyes away. (Photo Credit : janetcharltonhollywood.com)

And reading about them.


Have you ever seen a group of more interesting ladies? (Photo Credit : fanpop.com)

And acquiring Playboy related paraphernalia- come sleep on my red satin Playboy sheets; they’re super slippery!

I followed them on Twitter, which was quite remarkable considering that I barely know how to use Microsoft Word most days.

The obsession grew and I kept watching and re-watching their ditzy antics. My mother was ashamed, my father was amused, Sula was bewildered. I would proudly trot out my Playboy magazines at dinner parties. “Look at them” I’d exclaim, “Aren’t they beautiful?” My favourite part was when male guests would take the opportunity to spend twenty minutes perusing the magazine at the table.


The perfect addition to any social gathering. (Photo Credit : amazon.com)

This bizarre preoccupation with all things Playboy was still going strong when I met Tex. But somewhere around the time that I moved to live with Tex, my passionate, undying love of the bunnies began to diminish. Instead of watching them every day, it was once a week. And rather than discussing their latest exploits at length (Holly had a baby! Kendra is contemplating divorce!) I talked about work, or books I was reading. Gradually as my life became my own personal fairy tale, including a tall, dark handsome cowboy and adorable baby, my interest in these women’s laughable exploits shrank, and I put away the DVDs and their scrapbook, rather than sitting open on the table or couch moved to the book shelf.


Yes, they published a scrapbook and yes I have spent hundreds of hours reading it. (Photo Credit : amazon.com)

I even contemplated selling my Playboys back to the used bookstore. (We won’t discuss how grossed out my mother was that I bought second hand nudie magazines.)  Now, the girls have returned to their rightful place in the world, I think of them as often as I ponder the Kardashians or string theory, which is to say rarely, although it must be said that I never turn down a trashy magazine or book which mentions the lovely trio.

Jesus Was A Bohemian Or A Dirty Hippie, One Of The Two, Regardless I’m Going To Hell Or Possibly Be Stoned To Death

There was sand in my hair. When I moved my head, grains fell onto my soiled clothes. The cupcake I had messily consumed two days ago in a fit of the drunken munchies was still smushed into my increasingly smelly tank top. I squinted through hung over eyes into the bright, morning sunlight of the church parking lot. In one hour and thirty minutes, I would be educating the handful of children who showed up on this beautiful July morning about God and Jesus.

A lesson plan would have been helpful that day, but during the summer I was responsible for my own curriculum. Ordinarily this lack of required content was a good thing. It allowed me the freedom to create fantastic lessons wherein I would construct a whale out of a giant blue tarp and a tent, teaching the story of Jonah from inside the structure. Or using costumes and an extensive set of props, the children would act out memorable stories from the Bible. My favourite project was the 8 x 6 foot multimedia mural recreating the genesis story which incorporated Styrofoam, fabric, beads, paint, cotton balls, feathers, sequins, anything and everything under the sun that could be glued to paper and two things which couldn’t. It was so heavy that staples couldn’t hold it up.

On the seventh day of every week, I would arrive bright and early at the church, with only the faintest wisp of an idea in my head that I would transform into a memorable hour long activity for my students. By contrast, on that day, slumped in the driver’s seat with not even a thought beyond my imminent need for water and sunglasses, I knew I was in trouble.

For the record, it wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. I had a plan; I was to drive from my home town, to my university to party, drink and carouse on Friday night, then return Saturday afternoon, leaving myself with enough time to recover. That clearly didn’t happen.

Instead, I arrived on Friday to a barbeque, then I drank, danced and wrestled.


I am gifted at wrestling and definitely won this match.

In essence, had a ripping good time and afterwards fell asleep on the floor. When I woke up, everyone decided to go to the beach. A sane person would have recognized that they had only packed enough clothing for one day, were operating on four hours of sleep and their nutritional content in the past twenty hours amounted to a hot dog and four cupcakes. But twenty-somethings are rarely sane, so off I went to the beach where I was sandblasted in an unexpected windstorm.

A responsible person might have headed home after this, or at least tried to rinse their sunscreen, sweat, sand and cupcake covered clothing, but I didn’t. Dancing, drinking and wrestling has been so much fun the previous night that I decided to go for round two, swearing to myself that getting up at six and driving the two and some hours home negated showing up to church looking and smelling like I spent the night in a dumpster behind a liquor store. At the time I was elbow deep in Laren Stover’s “Bohemian Manifesto” and was obsessed with the lackadaisical but determined logic of dandies which encouraged them to “seize the day” so this new plan somehow made sense.

I’m not sure what happened in that hour and a half that followed that pained, thirsty moment in the car, nothing productive for certain because when the children tramped down the stairs from the service they found me lying on my back, on the carpet, propped up on my elbows, basking in the sunlight. Sensing that something was awry, my pupils entered quietly and sat a distance away from my odiferous self.

I struggled to sit up, after an unsuccessful attempt, I stayed in my partially supine position. In lieu of the Lord’s Prayer, I looked at my expectant little charges and said “Boys and girls, repeat after me- “Carpe Diem”, “Crap-pay digem” the children obediently parroted back to me, while wondering when this was going to get good. I closed my eyes and felt the sun’s rays warm my cheeks. “You know” I pondered aloud to the small Christians “I think Jesus was a bohemian”. And with that I released the children back into the wild. Well not quite. They ran around the church basement and painted everything that stood still including themselves while I lolled about on the carpet.

When I arrived home, after being directed to the washing machine and then the shower, I informed my mother of the morning. She was understandably horrified. While Lauren Stover and I considered Bohemians to be restless, artistic souls who should be admired and praised for their lifestyle, to the rest of the world they were dirty hippies. And everything I had done that morning confirmed this fact. My mother sat chewing her mails while awaiting the reprimanding call from the United Church Women’s group. Happily it never came, and I stopped calling Jesus a dirty hippie after that.

Although, as evidenced by all the times I showed up partially clothed to church and the day I lost one of my students during a particularly excellent game of hide and go seek, I never did become a better Sunday school teacher.