A million little pieces…

Blogging for the past 11 years has given me plenty of reason to feel a little exposed- but more than anything it’s given me a whole bunch of nameless, faceless friends and cheerleaders. The heartfelt emails I’ve received have gotten me through some epic nightmares, the gifts always blow my mind  (especially Candace’s magical granola) and I’ve made some lifelong friends out of complete strangers who happened to stumble on my stumblings..(Sarah of Silvi!! Girl, I’m looking at YOU!).

I still feel like a deer in the headlights anytime someone smiles at me whilst out and about and says…

E – I love your blog. I think I know who * is!

Gasp. Why are you people still reading this? That’s still so foreign to me, which could explain why I’m still too damn candid. At any rate- hi, and why on earth is any of this interesting enough to read? I write for my own cathartic pleasure and to deal with the ridiculous amount of things I juggle in a day. I never really think about people reading it, if that makes any sense at all. I wrote a book I’m too mortified to publish. I’m really shy, if I’m going to be completely honest. I hide it well, but the people closest to me know how incredibly out of character it is for me to be putting my personal life, in print.

I’m a lot better at investing my heart in the wrong place, than loving the men who really have my best interests at heart. I’m not really interested in happily ever after if it means wondering where he is when I’m not there. I had 6 cheating boyfriends in a row and realized that I was the one to blame for caring so little about myself in picking such sad excuses.

I did one thing differently this time in the pool. I only got involved with what, or whom, I’d deemed as my favorites. Absolutely NO chance of a douche bag. Cream of the crop men I’d sentenced to the friend zone. The best of my best.

lol…. Go ahead… laugh. I deserve it.

I think when it comes to my crafting skills, my ability to make even the nicest guy into a garden variety douchebag makes me more villain than superhero. I am incapable of choosing wisely and frankly, being celibate was A LOT less frustrating. Just as you can’t unring a bell… you can’t easily force Pandora back into her box. She’s loud and angry about the situation and I’m running myself into oblivion.

The stats stun me to silence sometimes. I get an occasional nasty comment or puritanical sexual judgement. I delete them. This is my world- and I have every intention of keeping it kind. Sidenote: You can’t make me feel worse about myself than I already have, save your breath. Luckily it’s one click of the “Trash” button and they’re gone. If only it were so easy in real life…

The people who approach me are incredibly sweet and complimentary. They relate to my worst moments and the constant struggle we all face every day. It isn’t easy for anyone and everyone wants more love in their lives. The only difference between you and I is that I put mine in print for a few hundred strangers to read every day. I recommend it, it’s incredibly liberating.

I used to worry so much about what people thought of me, then someone created an “I Hate Jenni” group on Facebook, complete with a profile picture of me kissing the guy I’d had a horrible relationship with, and a link to my blog. Decades of alumni from my high school were invited to like the page. Everyone I knew locally. It was ground zero. Several thousand hits that day, and 3 more days before Facebook would take the page down. January 2, 2011. You never forget those days.

It taught me how little someone’s opinion of me, actually mattered. Even more so, that I’m not that different than anyone else and most people wanted to tell me how much they related. I no longer care what anyone thinks, and if that’s all I walk away with from blogging, then it’s priceless in how that applies to the rest of my life.

You’re here by choice. Don’t like me? Well.. fuck off then.  If you’re here because you don’t like me and you’re enjoying my failures, buckle up. I outdo myself regularly and I have so little fucks to give that I’m going to arm you with my dirty little secrets.

One of the first people to start reading this has always emailed me to ask how I’m doing when I go silent… and I had an email from her this morning.

H- Hey lady, just wondering if the million little pieces of you are feeling loved? Hear a sad sound in you these days and wanted to check in and send some. Kisses. H

Here’s the gift of sharing your journal with strangers. She’s read my thoughts for so long that she’s a physical conscience who remembers how many times I’ve done the same stupid thing and been devastated by the same results. She attached a blog prompt that asks you to dissect yourself a little. I’m in a particularly sad headspace as our missing Uncle’s status has been changed to presumed dead and the search has added cadaver dogs. I adore true crime, but when it hits close to home, it’s different. So along those introspective lines, I’ve decided to overshare. Fun.

A million pieces of me…

* I hate the act of getting up and getting ready for Mass, but after I’ve gone? I feel like God himself pressed the magic reset button on my life. I love being Catholic and am the only one in a huge extended Mormon family. Catholic with Mormon Roots, as my Grandpa loved to say. Also, I’m an atheist.

* I laugh at women who drink white wine. Especially if they mention not ruining their bleached teeth. Good Lord… if there were ever a sign that we won’t get along well, it’s watching a woman drink a beer or glass of wine with a straw. Definitely not my tribe.

* I have two blogs, and a book sitting in my laptop. My Puerto Rican nightmare might never see the light of day, because I feel like a damn idiot for flying 15 hours to be catfished, drugged and terrorized. That loser STILL reads my blog, and that is the ONE thing that will motivate me to publish.

*My children are fairly off topic. If they want to start writing about themselves, they have the right. I am very careful what I share, otherwise. Privacy: we all deserve it. ♥

* I vote- for every election, always. I am very liberal, and a huge fan of the death penalty. I have an adopted gay son and my favorite aunt is black. I have zero respect or time for racism, homophobia or ignorance. Also, if you own a red MAGA hat, you’re dead to me.

* I steal the covers but usually because I want him to be closer to me. Truth be told, I want him to wake up. If you poke me with it, it’s mine. If you’re exhausted and need to sleep, go home. I’m not being rude, but really…drive safely. Along those same lines, I dream about stabbing you in the eyes if you snore and keep me up all night. I’m not sad in the slightest if you leave and go home to sleep (or pollute the silence) in your own bed.

* I can’t watch scary movies. At ALL. I grew up without television and yes… I still have nightmares. I am the original movie virgin. If I told you all the movies I haven’t seen, you’d ask me the same thing a friend of mine always does…

F- Did your parents hate you, or what???

On the contrary… they wanted us to go outside and play. Live our childhood. Be kids and all that good stuff. I grow an acre of vegetables every year, so it all worked out.

*I LOVE true crime. I had front row tickets to My Favorite Murder this fall, and I am counting the seconds until I can go again. #Murderino

* I hate the noise of the television, but I turn it on if a football game is on. I love every single bit of football season. I was a cheerleader for as long as I could be.

* If you overcook my steak? I know you’re not the one. Try as I might to get past it, it’s just the kiss of death. I have yet to meet a man that can cook my steak and I dated several chefs. None of them could do it. How sad is that?

* Nothing makes me happier than seeing Pomegranates & Egg Nog show up in the grocery store each Fall. I buy at least a dozen pumpkins if I haven’t grown them myself. I make the best roasted pumpkin seeds and love the smell of roasting pumpkin in the house when it’s cold outside. Pumpkin spice cookies, pumpkin cream cheese everything… fall could only be better if it were warm outside. My Mormon roots come out swinging in the fall.

* I’m eerily psychic and generally know what you’re going to say to me before you say it. I resist the urge to finish sentences. It makes me uncomfortable.

* When I’m lonely I remind myself to listen to my mom & reread the Desiderata.

M- Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Take a nap, then come over for dinner.

I always feel better if I’ve had enough sleep and good company- so I know she’s right.

* I’m allergic to beer. I drink it anyway. Tanqueray is my poison of choice if I’m out- red wine at home. I gave up vodka entirely because it makes me act like an asshole and there are enough of those in the world. Grey Goose turns me into another person, entirely. I’ve issued a permanent ban.

* I took French for three years in high school… and barely remember much beyond Pamplemousse… (which means grapefruit.)

* I miss the Ocean every day. There’s something so much greater than yourself or your struggles when you feel the sea come to life beneath you, reminding you how very small and insignificant you actually are. The nearby lake is a stagnant sort of compromise. I miss seaweed, seashells and uncertainty. Someday soon.

* Loyalty = Love  and  Betrayal = Suffering when it comes to me… but then I suppose that’s not news if you’re reading my blog. I’m a huge fan of the truth because it never changes. With respect to the secrets I carry for my friends? I’ll take them to the grave with me, however…sell me out and I will lay your shit bare- to quote Adele. I’m a priceless friend and a dangerous adversary, which I happen to believe makes me well rounded and my friends, loyal: or at least quiet. Either one works for me.

Ok friends…. your turn. What makes you tick?


When I started writing, I was in the end stages of a long term relationship with a lazy hippie. I had spent nearly a decade trying to love him into being a better man. He really only wanted to smoke pot and day drink, while I had visions of white dresses and one last baby. It came to a fiery end, and I continued writing to keep myself company in my suddenly empty house. Being single was new to me. I’d had a boyfriend since I was 14 and really had no idea how it looked to not belong to someone. I’d lost myself entirely and didn’t even know what I liked or disliked anymore. I distinctly remember someone asking me what my favorite color was, and his favorite shade of blue instantly came to mind. I think it was the first time I had the chance to get to know myself. (For the record, I like purple.)

I collect skills when I’m bored. I learned how to rewire my garage when the old stuff started to short out. I taught myself to knit. Youtube and Google give me FAR too much confidence in not ever having to ask for help. I’ve made chicken wire bean tunnels, built furniture and retiled the kitchen. Currently, I’m trying to figure out how to cover the old brick fireplace in my living room with stone.   It sounds fun, but it’s more like haphazard crafting ADHD.

I did some hysterically funny dating. I was so uncomfortable with myself and in my own skin that I hand picked the weirdest weirdos I could find. I wasn’t uncomfortable if I wasn’t attracted to him, so I got my feet back under myself in the strangest of circumstances.

I learned that I definitely have a type.

Ok, maybe more than one.

I flew 15 hours to Puerto Rico for a first date with a fellow blogger who’d romanced me for a year. It turned out he was a married psychopath. Just because a vacation is free, doesn’t mean you should go. Also, con-men should avoid bloggers. I may be a little too adventurous for my own good, but I have no regrets because it ends up being a lesson either way.

I met the perfect guy. We fell in love instantly and made a beautiful baby together. We broke up just before she was born. We’re friends now, and share her peacefully. He got married right after she was born and they live in a different state.

I stopped writing. I’d had to look at a 4 inch tall stack of printed out blog entries in family court for an entire year. It’s all fine and good to be proud of your blowjob, but do you really want to have to discuss it when your baby’s life is on the line? No. Let me assure you. You do not.

One thing still silences me faster than anything, though. When the stats go shooting to the sky and WordPress chimes at me all day that traffic is booming. Yesterday was definitely one of  those days.

Once upon a time, nobody read this shit. For the first five years, I posted pictures of my children, my house… hell my naked ass is on one of the many that have been set to private. I refer to it as my journal and my friends laugh at me because they’re reading it too.

It still surprises me when the floodgates open and I make a thousand new friends in a day. Especially when new countries show up on the map. This morning it was Bosnia and  Herzegovina.

Hey there… nice to meet all of you! Feel free to introduce yourselves 🙂



It takes a special kind of man to sit comfortably in the crosshairs of my blog. I make a point to not get involved with anyone that knows me well enough to know about it. It puts me at too much of a disadvantage when they start reading. I’ve learned the hard way by thinking it wouldn’t matter. It always has.

The worst of the worst , work overtime to manipulate it. The absolute worst guy I ever dated, manipulated every syllable until I bleached him out of my life. He knew if he came to see me, I’d be word vomiting his ego back into the stratosphere before he got back to his office. He also was the only one who’s ever loved a solid hate blog. I wrote about his failed erections. He was furious, but he made a point to drive over to spank me, because he wanted to read about it.

The best one was determined to be a good guy in print. I wasn’t that into him and he was on overdrive. He sent me pretty shoes, cheeky panties, a pretty pink Coach bag… and on and on. He would have kept on buying, purely for how much he loved to read about how much I loved my new panties… until he read about me putting them on for a date he wasn’t taking me on. Nice guys turn crazy when they read how lukewarm you are about them. Disinterest hooks them just as deeply as it does us.

The hottest one, lived to outdo himself. He referred to my blog as personalized porn, and he did research on ways to stun, surprise and satisfy me. He counted my orgasms like goals and left me drowning in adjectives and shaking from the highlight reel running through my head. What began as a revenge fuck, ended up being a hell of a hard habit to break. Still the only man who has ever made me tap out. Bless his smoking hot soul.

The biggest monsters learned the largest lessons. Nathan still has to explain why he’s such a liar and I cock-blocked Virgin Islands with the truth until he begged me to stop. I set most of the content regarding both of them to private because I don’t want to be defined by my biggest mistakes any more than they do.

My friends will tell you that I’m one of the nicest people they know. They will also caution anyone not to overlook the flip side. I rise to the occasion and put in overtime to outdo my conquests. Same goes for when they’ve decided to be an asshole. When I hear them whine and complain about how they hate and want me simultaneously, I know that my work is done. I’m not a bitch, I’m just a big fan of Karma.

However they inspire me to feel, will be returned to them, tenfold. I’m the ultimate investment until he’s a douche bag, treating me poorly; whilst reading my journal.

At that point? He becomes a verbal target and I unpack my bag of his deepest insecurities for a few thousand friends and strangers to read and laugh about. It’s all fun and games until it hurts, huh boys?

Mr. Grey is not a subscriber and will not be reading. Something that absolutely delights me for a few old fashioned reasons. I don’t know what he’ll be wearing on our date Sunday, because he hasn’t read what I hope it’ll be. He’s attentive without knowing I want him to be, responding to my texts within minutes unless he’s in court. He actually apologizes if he’s away from his phone and doesn’t respond, promptly. That still surprises me. Confidence is one of the hottest things a man can show you and it’s the definition of masculinity for me. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t play stupid games and <gasp> even communicates. With words I occasionally have to look up…<quadruple swoon>.

For the most part though? It’s really fun to see what he does without reading the cliff notes…

The devastating effects of shitty men.


You didn’t really think I was going to blame the ladyfolk entirely, did you?

I’m equal opportunity when I feel like throwing verbal hammers. I took up for the gentlemen who’ve suffered at the hands of a shitty woman, and now I’m coming for rest of y’all. You are a bad bunch and you are creating your own hell.

I do believe you are worse than the worst women. I have dated some legendary bad men and a few crazy women. Nothing is worse than the uncertainty and self doubt a bad man can foster.

Men lacking integrity seem to be the fastest growing population. Do you remember the last time a man opened a door for you? I do. I remember the last 5 times. Four of those rare gems were over the age of 70 and I had a baby with the fifth. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a protective man with old school manners. Men just aren’t men like they used to be. My grandfather always walked closest to the street and kept my grandmother tucked safely beside him. He thanked Heavenly Father for her with every meal and we grew up knowing that his love for her was the kind that lit the stars. That kind of expression makes a family. Outside of the nursing home, I think that sort of magic has died.

Men who lie make you question every single thing you hear, forever. Even from the men who want to do better. Even when we know it’s insane. We never completely recover after a betrayal from the man we dreamed up baby names with. Our hearts heal, but we always worry about giving 100% again without a hell of a lot of reassurance. The first sign of dishonesty has us retreating into our shell like a terrified hermit crab. Lying men create lifelong holes in our armor.

My dial-a-dick satisfies my greatest weaknesses while teaching me some powerful lessons with the training wheels our friendship provides. In ways I didn’t know were possible, he manages to make me feel incredible and insignificant at the same time. I may as well have a number tattooed on my wrist. A lesson I needed to learn about casual sex. This is about supply and demand. Men can do that and women need to understand that men are completely capable of using their dick as frequently as a hammer, and with whomever is in current need of nailing.  I only know a few men who don’t share their tools.

Men who hit it and quit it. The ghost we all love to hate. That guy who blew you up until you literally blew him, and now doesn’t respond to a thing. You’ve told him it kills you. He continues to ghost you. You’ve used your big girl words, peacefully. Still silence. You’re left feeling like a cheap vessel within which he felt like venturing, and now he can’t even bother to send an emoji. You got played, girlfriend… and shame on you guys who do this. It changes the rules for us and that’s some grade A bullshit. We don’t get to fuck you when we want. We have to play hard to get and leave you hanging. We know the rules. We aren’t allowed to be excited and we aren’t allowed to ask for it. We have to ghost you first, if we ever want this to go in our favor. Games, gentlemen… you are the reason they exist.

Men who cheat leave a path of wreckage that takes years to clean up. We either turn the tables and make the rest of the innocent men unfortunate enough to cross our path, suffer…. or we are whiny and insecure every time you’re a second late. I had a boyfriend who was so painfully unfaithful that I was afraid to open the phone book in our hotel room after finding phone numbers he’d hidden in a travel planner on a romantic weekend away. I still avoid his phone calls and I still hate that he was able to change how I react in every relationship, since. Late? Why? Phone on silent? Why? Taking a call outside, privately? Why? People who aren’t hiding something don’t sneak around and once you’ve found yourself talking yourself out of listening to your inner voice… you can’t ever ignore that bitch again. We don’t want to be crazy. You created this when you made us feel bad for being right about your shady ass behavior. Crazy bitches are all a result of an unfaithful man making them feel bad for being right.

I love men. Love them. I love silky soft clean shaven man face and five o’clock shadow that leaves my skin tingling. I love tall men and short ones. I love good cologne and DIE for a dirty, hard-working man who smells like a long days work. I crave a man in a necktie and am equally as turned on by a man in a hard hat and coveralls. Bald men make my blood simmer and aggressive men make me forget my morals. I love them, one and all….


I’m a mean little hornet when I need to be, because some of y’all fucking suck.

That guy talking to multiple women at the same time…. or worse… fucking them all? Yeah you deserve the hammer I’m throwing in your direction. You’re damaging people to get your dick wet. Knock it the fuck off. Give a shit about your soul, have a little integrity and bag that dipstick up.

That guy with the faulty phone. Yeah, right. In the age of $800 phones, yours works. Answer the lady or use your big boy words and tell her you’re not interested. Leading someone on to let them twist in the wind is a bitch move and… well… stop being a bitch.

That guy who blames women for it all. Umm… no. I don’t hold anyone responsible for my epic bad experiences because I was the only one there. You can’t make your future pay for the bad choices you made in the past. Let it go. It’s holding you back and it’s stealing any chance you have at happiness. Worse? You’re hurting innocent people who haven’t done anything but want you. Get the fuck over yourself, c’est la vie. Baggage gets heavy and you can’t be holding me if you’re carrying your ex.

That guy who yells at women needs the rest of you bad boys to get his shit together. Real men treasure the opportunity to be in control of a woman’s body and if you’re abusing that privilege or worse… hurting her? You need a solid ass beating and a month in the clink. I have zero patience for men who put their hands on women.

It’s a wonder anyone finds love anymore in this big ol genital cesspool.



Candace, Queen of the magical granola.


You’re all so nice and I get the sweetest emails. ♥ I try to keep up on correspondence but I kind of suck at it. The nicest lady asked if she could send me a present and it came on the hardest of days. I was mystified opening it because I haven’t done any shopping in ages.

I have to preface this by saying that I am a HUGE granola snob. I make my own because I don’t like anybody else’s as much….

and Candace’s granola kicks my granola’s boring ass.


Beyond that, Candace saved my whole heart on the saddest of days when I lost someone incredibly special to me. I accidentally deleted the Facebook page for this blog, so I can’t thank her directly. I hope she sees this, because WOW. You all need some.

You can get some too, at http://www.colleycreek.com


I love you, sweet friend. This was an unbelievable surprise and my  heart is full of gratitude for your generosity ♥ Thank you, thank you, thank you!

xoxo J

Eww… gross.

I recently made a new friend. Introduced by one of my favorite girlfriends, I liked her immediately! She’s a gorgeous mother of 6 of the most well behaved and wonderful children I’ve ever met. She’s my age, just moved here, and offered to watch my little one if I ever needed some help. I was incredibly grateful, especially since I knew my tiny girl would love to play in a house full of kids.

When my sitter canceled at the last minute and my standby sitters were all busy, I asked if they’d be willing to let her play for a few hours. My friend Supermom agreed enthusiastically. She wouldn’t be off work until 45 minutes after I did, but her husband and 5 kids would be happy to help and she’d be there right after. I dropped her off with a bit of hesitation, to be honest. I’m extremely selective about who I leave her with, and I’d only just met them. The kids rushed out to greet her and she didn’t mind me leaving. I knew she was going to have a great time, and they lived next door to my favorite Bearded Man and Beauty Queen.

I got to work and put my phone in the glove box, approving a Facebook friend request from Supermom’s husband, feeling relieved that they were a safe family for my precious girl to be with while I had to work, because I’ve had some less than fantastic sitters. A few people at work are cell phone addicts so they’re taking them from us in order to stop the problem. It’s created a lot of stress for me personally in regards to not being able to check in to the nanny cam in my home and just be immediately accessible in case something comes up. I went in to work feeling at ease for a change, which was fantastic.

I got to the car at 8:40, and checked my phone. Two Facebook messages from the husband. Odd.


It made me uneasy. I sent Supermom a message, thanking her and letting her know I was on my way, then flew to get her. Supermom greeted me with a friendly smile as my munchkin happily ate popcorn with her sweet kids in the background. We visited for a minute, I thanked her & left. I buckled my sleepy smiling girl, with two handfuls of popcorn, into her carseat. My phone flashed as I buckled my seatbelt. Another message from the husband.


She was rattling off all the fun stuff they’d done and laughing about the kids. She said she wanted to play with them again. I tried to shake off the weird feeling I was having, and attribute it to three years of celibacy going to my head. It’s easy to misread text messages. I began shaking my head at myself for feeling weird. We got home, I tucked her in with toddler babble about splashing and playing, still coming from her. I thanked him.


I walked away from my computer and emptied the dishwasher. I came back to texts to my personal number, from him. I hadn’t given him my number so I was confused, but knew immediately who it was. Still trying to quell the unease caused by how I was interpreting his tone. I tried to respond kindly, but there was still just something, making me feel… off.


I sent Supermom a message and got a emoticon back. I honestly wondered if maybe they were swingers, getting ready to make the pitch.


Phew. Normal dad comment. I’m overreacting. Thank GOD. My baby had a great time and couldn’t wait to go back. I was being ridiculous. I felt like a bit of a jerk for jumping to asshole conclusions.


Fuck. First things first, I’m WAY too old to ignore my inner barometer. When it feels wrong, it’s because something is fucking wrong. The hair rose on the back of my neck. My douche bag radar is unparalleled these days. I’m ashamed I forgot that. I was at a loss for words and didn’t respond. I was hoping he’d clarify, respectfully. No such luck.


Well if there ever were a gilded sign from God that I am, indeed, right about men… here it is.

8I no habla slutty husband. I walked away from my phone, sat down at my laptop to see if my friend was online so I could call her, and saw his creepy Facebook messages.



Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware that my little lady is the cutest and sweetest child ever born, but this crosses a line that I can’t even begin to describe. This is beyond creepy, and I wish my little girl’s incredibly defensive father was a few states closer, because this pervy husband would be gargling teeth. No exaggeration.

I was instantly afraid in my own house, and moved the baby to my bed. I think that’s what makes me the most mad.

We slept in and I woke up, tormented. Supermom is wonderful, and I had to say something to her before I called my babydaddy and her husband had to push his torso around on a skateboard for the rest of his life.

Worse yet… I had to tell my friend who’d introduced us.

Which is when I learned that he’s been texting her too. She’s happily married and pregnant and has been trying to kindly sidestep his propositions in the same way I have.

This guy is a full blown weasel, and when confronted, claims he was blackout drunk and does not remember sending any texts. I hate to use my least favorite word, but….

Aint nobody got time for that.

SO consider this is a good ol’ fashioned spanking…just not like he was hoping I’d be willing to give him.

Dear Mike,

I was going to send you an understanding message asking you if you were maybe blackout drunk. Then I realized something. That’s because I was raised to be polite, pleasant and demure. To accept even the most insincere apologies, because (to quote my mother) “To err is human, to forgive, divine.”

Only I’m a farmer, and I recognize a weasel when I see one.

You sir, prey on women. I’m sure you’ve successfully bagged a few. You’ve talked your way out of it, somehow, but not with me. I am mortally offended, on many levels.

I’m a single mother, and I have no choice but to rely on the kindness of my friends and neighbors to help me find someone safe & trustworthy to watch my precious baby, because work is not optional. Unlike you, who get to be a stay at home father, I have to work. Finding childcare is a burden I never understood, until now. How dare you use my daughter as a pickup line, and do you realize what a pedophile you sound like? How dare you humiliate both your wife and me, and put me in a position where I have to tell her something so awful.

How will you ever begin to apologize?

Oh… that’s right… by continuing to text me, during the day. SOBER.


You will never see my child again. Be glad I don’t call the police and report what a creeper you are, just in case. Incidentally, you were home alone with your own baby girl at the time you were having withdrawals for mine. Gross.

I screenshot your sketchy ass messages and sent them to your wife. She admitted you are “weak” and said it was “alcohol related and harmless” and that “it had happened before and you’d moved here for a fresh start”.

You’ve been here a month and you’ve propositioned the pregnant neighbor and your wife’s new friend. Things aren’t looking good for your fresh start. I was going to send you a text telling you what a douchebag I think you are, until I found out that, when confronted, you feigned ignorance and took no responsibility. Then I decided you needed a little public bashing, because a million guys would give a kidney to be as lucky as you.

You’re raising husbands and fathers. They’re growing up to emulate the example you set. They’re going to treat their wives the way they’ve watched you treat their mother. Now you have a baby girl. She’s going to pick a man just like YOU. How’s that sit?

You had no right to disrespect me or cross that line. You ruined a friendship for your poor wife, who already carries & makes excuses for you, and lost a fun friend for your kids. Shame on you.

Dirtbag… you are a jerk and your wife (and children) deserve better.

Along the way…


I’ve been silent… and just plain exhausted, for two years. Somewhere along the way, I got lost in my own head and stopped writing. Having my words held against me during my custody battle, stole the joy out of blogging.

I’m really sad that I’m missing those two precious years from my journal. Regardless of the very public nature of my blog, it keeps the significant moments in my life that run together in the daily chaos, somewhere I can find them. The struggle of single parenthood means you spend twice as much time doing, and half as much time reminiscing. Blogging has allowed me to do both.

I burn the candle from both ends at an Olympic level. Last week, it caught up with me. I’d been up for 3 solid days and nights with a sick toddler, and our entire world was peppered with vomit, diarrhea and snot. Hers and my own. We were a hot mess, literally. Flu, my ass… I’m pretty sure we had the plague.

And I needed to wash diapers. FML.

Sneezing, coughing and struggling to throw the wet bag full of ungodly-smelling diapers into the washer… whilst sterilizing jars in preparation to can chili and black beans, because I STILL have tomatoes from the garden this summer.

Oy vey… I had to sit down and laugh/cry… because this was certainly not the Happy Ever After I envisioned when I fell in love with her father.

I wasn’t all wrong about her Dad. He helps in the ways he can from a few states away. He lets her live the life of a normal kid, and not one forever split between two parents that wanted her more than they ended up wanting each other. It’s not her fault that we aren’t together, and I’m thankful her life isn’t fractured on a weekly basis. He got engaged this fall, to a woman that suits him perfectly. They’re a happy couple and he’s a father to her three kids. All is well that ends well… aka: I work hard to bite my tongue. I lose my temper and text war breaks out every now and then, because while his not being here allows her to live a normal life and I’m grateful, she also deserves to have her dad around.

After the most recent argument, I spent a little time cleaning up my blog and deleting random mindless crap from the past few years. Reading back through the blogs I wrote is always good for a healthy reminder of why things are the way they are. I don’t always like to read back, but it always reminds me that once upon a time, I thought he was the one. I’m glad I wrote about it because it reminds me not to be a bitch to him, now most of the time.

I do believe my ten days two years of puke, mucous and shit entitle me to a little righteous indignation, but my 39 years should also grace me with enough maturity to be kind. I’m grateful that I gushed embarrassingly then, so that I can remember now to not say what does not NEED to be said.

I’ve learned a lot by being quiet. Leaving something unsaid is far more powerful than having the last word, and given how short life is, I sincerely hope that the words I leave with people on a daily basis, are kind.

Except Thomas. That guy can still go fuck himself.