The Bad Boy Habit

My girlfriend said it best last night…

G- I told him if he wanted you to like him, he just needed to treat you like shit.

J- Hey at least my friends know the rules.

There you have it. I’m a glutton for punishment. The original nice girl that loves bad boys.

How tragic.

I have several nice guys begging to eat the crumbs out of the palms of my hands… and I could not be less interested. Actually if I’m going to be verrrrrry honest… I torture them a little.

I don’t return calls. I leave while they’re in the bathroom. I go straight from perfect girlfriend to your worst nightmare within the blink of an eye. I don’t play hard to get.

I’m impossible to capture.

With one very tragic exception….

Be evasive. Forget our plans. Lie to me. Exploit my weaknesses… but…. every once in a while… blow my mind. Surprise me. Shock and awe me with your lesser known skills. Keep me on my toes, guessing…

and you can absolutely disregard me and I’ll wait patiently until you remember I’m alive.

So so so sad. So pathetic… and so unbecoming an adult woman as capable as I happen to be.

He’s interested in too much… or too many. He could remember, he just refuses to make the effort. He’s silent when you wonder what he’s thinking. He calls when you least expect it. One smug knowing look and all is forgiven. You can’t get enough because you never do. He’s in the back of your mind all day because you never know what’s going on.

He’s me…. with a penis.

Perhaps I’m looking for a taste of my own karma. I certainly deserve it for the broken nice-boy hearts in my wake. I can’t handle sustained attention. Actually I’m quite good at handling it.

I’ve been trained by the best.

If it’s anything my bad boy habit has taught me, it’s how to wash my hands of something I don’t want.

Pacify them for a minute so they don’t hate you publicly. Smile at them, be so sweet… and ignore the fuck out of them until they pick up the poor broken pieces of their heart and move on.

At a certain point, out of sight, out of reach and out of your league is simply that….


Everyone gets to a point they can’t take it anymore. Everyone gives up eventually.

I need a 12 step program to kick this very bad habit of mine.

Or a really cute bad boy to remind me why it’s worth it.


Oh Daddy….

“Oh Jenni…”

It’s all he has to say to charm me. How totally hot is that?

It’s good to have a crush…. it keeps you young. Keeps you on your toes even. Helps keep you on top of your game.

I have a huge crush. I admit it.

Drunk texts and everything. Ouch. Those suck when you see them in the morning.

This one has Daddy written all over it.

My dad used to talk to me while he cooked. The reason I’m such a good cook is because it was drilled into my head from an early age.

D- Deglaze the pan with wine, add the flour and BE PATIENT. Let it brown… it will taste better. Wait to add anything until it doesn’t taste like flour. Taste it. Taste everything. Then add the fat back in a little at a time. Taste it. Salt it, pepper, etc… Gravy is like love, anything you pour it on, is better.

Food is sex, love & desire in my book. Huge Daddy issues, and I claim them all. He ruined me forever for any man who makes macaroni & cheese from a box. <eye roll> My macaroni and cheese can make any determined bachelor propose eternal love & devotion.

D- Perfect pastry is necessary. Be angry. Be cold. It’s quick and if you linger and love it, it will hate you. Frozen butter, food processor, chilled flour. It’s like flipping someone off. Do it well and do it quickly and you get exactly what you want. Satisfaction.

My tarts bring all the boys to the yard… I’m just sayin’…. The first recipe I created to make a man fall ass over teakettle in love with me? Worked. Gay men have proposed to me after eating one. They’re that good. Thanks Daddy.

D- Good cheese is like women. Sweet…sharp…sour…creamy…soft…hard and necessary for happiness. Only an idiot would eat a piece of cheese packaged in a plastic wrapper. Don’t offend your palate, sharpen it. If it hasn’t aged a little, don’t put it in your pretty little mouth.

I miss my dad. I ♥ him… but honestly? He’s the original out of sight-out of mind, guy. I know he loves me, I don’t have any Daddy hangups where that’s concerned….

Until we’re talking food. God damn it, Dad.

He-who-can-cook said “olive oil” and my mind started racing. “Gouda” fell from his beautiful mouth and my friend laughed at me.

H- Stop moaning.

Damn it Dad. Jeeez. This is freaky foreplay, and something not many men can do. That really narrows the playing field, and seriously increases my chances of having a fat ass. Thanks a lot.

Because watching my crush push a fork over to me makes me bite my lip. Hearing him cook distracts me to the point I have to shake my head to get the irrationally ridiculous sexual fantasies to stop.

D- Any man who can’t cook, can’t love. If he can’t make a perfect medium-rare steak you will never love him.

Famous last words, Dad… thanks.

To this day? Not a single man I’ve known has made me a perfect steak. How sad is that. I tolerate medium. I despise medium-well. Well done is worth feeding to the dog. In fact I’m annoyed that they call it well-done. It should be called fucking-ruined. Abusing the poor cow after it’s been killed to feed you is just wrong. Shame on all of you fucking-ruined fans.

and way to make it harder, Dad.

Thanks 🙂