SO Hungry

I stepped on the scale the day my eldest daughter graduated, and was horrified. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, it was that I had no reason to. Going through a devastating breakup when you’re 9 months pregnant has a way of leaving you gun shy. It wasn’t that I hated men, but I absolutely never wanted to see one naked, again.

I live in a very small town and her graduation was a walk down shitty memory lane, with a bakers dozen of my bad choices for good measure. All of whom are married. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no desire for captivity but when you’re the fat, single one… you feel it.

I came home and made myself get to it. I dug my stupid weights out, rolled the elliptical machine into my bedroom and pulled out my measuring tape to take stock of just how bad things were. It was dismal, but the beauty of being single is that I have ample time to change it. Something happens to me at a certain point, and I get obsessive about running, so I knew I just had to put one foot in front of the other until then.

It’s been 4 months, and we’re there. I’m running first thing in the morning and into the late hours at night. I’m squatting my ass into a prettier shape than it’s ever been and I have muscles in my back I didn’t even know I wanted.

But.

I. Am. Hungry.

I’m pretty sure it’s why I can’t shake the sexual frustration off. Chocolate is off the table, and that comforting bowl of carbs would only ruin the progress I’ve suffered to achieve. As much as I can physically taste the memory of buttered pasta, it doesn’t hold a candle to how much better I look in my panties.

My friends are the most amazing cheerleaders. I walked in to work yesterday and the Songbird beamed at me.

S- Dude. Your ass looks amazing in those jeans.

J- I love you. I’m fucking starving. I’d perform sexual favors for a Lunchable.

I’m not kidding. Thinking about food is just as bad as fantasizing about Incredicock. I could spend all day long thinking about eating the perfect steak, but its only going to make my salad taste worse. Along those same lines, once you do eat what you’ve been craving, you want it every day. Abstinence is never fun, but it has carved 55 pounds off of me.

I follow an amazing woman on Instagram who has inspired me to find my hot body again and I’m sharing my suffering with y’all to keep myself accountable.

Oh and…

because it really does look amazing in those jeans.

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Ghosting

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I was grateful for the radio silence from Mr. Grey yesterday. Sort of hoping he’d just fade away into the city like any other dismal date I’ve had.

I hate awkward silence though, and I’ve realized something in losing a very good friend recently.  This whole ghosting trend is some grade A bullshit. If you’re adult enough to interact with society, you can use your grown up words and tell someone when you’re not interested. Having been on the receiving end recently and feeling horrible about it, I have to be mature enough to tell him I’m not going to be around for date 5.

He started asking about my day, wondering if it’d been bad since he hadn’t heard from me all day.

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Look at me. Using my words and shit. I revoked his text-tone. No whistles for boring boys. He was quick to confirm I was right.

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Awwwww sweet relief. No hurt feelings and no more celibate dating. Thank GOD. I’m offended on my little lady’s honor but he was never going to meet her anyway, so it’s sort of a moot point. Definitely need to clear up one thing though.

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Ew. Ugh. Yuck. This is why I gave up men to begin with. No matter how nice you think they might be? They’re all thinking of fucking you.

Sidenote: WHY in the hell does smart= arrogant? Is it really so much to ask for a man that can spell AND be a decent human being? We had a tense conversation about homeless people the other night.

G- I never give homeless people money.

J- I always do.

G- So your money bought their overdose?

J- I’m ok with that. I’m not homeless and I can’t imagine how scary and cold that would be. If my $20 buys him a burger or drugs, at least life is a little better for a minute.

G- I donate my cars to the mission, which goes a lot further, and I don’t eat burgers..so…..

See? Arrogant and elitist. Something that also goes hand in hand with rich guys. Give me a dirt poor, genuine man, any day.

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Not really interested in diamonds though because that was my last bit of helpful advice. I don’t have a lot of faith in the shopping or selection abilities of a man determined to die without the nirvana of a cheeseburger. The funny thing about dating when you’re older and have more of your shit together, is that you’re absolutely going to weed out a few duds based on these sort of trivial details.

Cigarettes only get more disgusting as time goes by, and I’d hold my breath and walk away from something really beautiful if it came with a fog of nicotine.

Men who don’t walk women to their car in a dark parking lot after having invited them to said parking lot, are not good guys. If he isn’t concerned about your safety getting home, it’s because he thinks you’re a sportfish, not a trophy.

I urge you all to read Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man. By Steve Harvey. It’s the man bible. The cliff notes to the penis folk. Listen to Steve. Steve is preaching the gospel truth in those pages and you will THANK ME ETERNALLY. I bought a copy for my 68 year old coworker and she bought a bunch for all her friends, too.

“fishing, my philosophy is that men will treat women like one of these two things: a sports fish or a keeper. How we meet, how the conversation goes, how the relationship develops, and the demands you make on a man will all determine whether you’ll be treated like a sports fish—a throwback—or a keeper, the kind of woman a man can envision settling down with. And the way we separate the two is very simple, as I explain next. A SPORTS FISH . . . Doesn’t have any rules, requirements, respect for herself, or guidelines, and we men can pick up her scent a mile away. She’s the party girl who takes a sip of her Long Island iced tea or a shot of her Patrón, then announces to her suitor that she just wants to “date and see how it goes,” and she’s the conservatively dressed woman at the office who is a master at networking, but clueless about how to approach men. She has no plans for any ongoing relationships, is not expecting anything in particular from a man, and sets absolutely not nary one condition or restriction on anyone standing before her—she makes it very clear that she’s just along for whatever is getting ready to happen. For sure, as soon as she lets a man know through words and action that he can treat her just any old kind of way, he will do just” 
― Steve Harvey, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, Expanded Edition: What Men Really Think About Love, Relationships, Intimacy, and Commitment

Buy it. Actually, buy 2. You’ll want your best friend to read it too.

The weather is getting cold and I’m in no mood for fishing. I deleted my dating profiles, dug out my knitting & put the down comforters on all the beds. On this blissfully silent night, I’m not loathing my quiet phone, I’m celebrating it. Being single for 6 years has made me really content to make that 10, instead of working to change it.

Who knits? Wanna knit with me instead? I’m making something very special for a dear friend who lost her little boy and it’s slow going with tears in my eyes. If anyone wants to join me, let me know 🙂

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The One? Nah.

(I think I may be a lifer. I found this sitting in my drafts folder from 2011. The adorable Baby Chicken has since gotten married, so my apologies to the Mrs.)

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Someone asked me recently…

D- What are you looking for?

J- I don’t know? A normal, nice, hot, funny, sexy, smart, sharky…

D- Oh keep going, jeez, is that all?

J- One can hope, ya know. I’m aware most of us settle for two of the seven.

D- Then what. After you meet that guy.

J- Hopefully I like him.

D- and if you do…then what?

J- Date him? I don’t know- what are you getting at?

D- and then you’ll get married?

J- Oh god no! I’ll never ruin a perfectly good relationship with marriage, ever again.

I’ve been to a few weddings this year, and the same feeling always strikes me.

Dread.

Deep in the pit of my chest, dread. I never want that again. I really like my life belonging to myself. I suppose I’m actually dating for fun at this point. Cool.

In getting out of a lengthy situation, I’m gun shy. I’m not really ready to date anybody because I’m still busy whining about someone else.

I need to knit for a while, sew with my daughter for a while… make a few thousand marshmallows… plant a few thousand seeds.

Hearing the grumblings of friends wanting to introduce me to people, even meeting a great guy… My head isn’t in the game. I’m ridiculously hot & cold, and I have a crush on a certain chicken. Not a safe bet if you’re looking for a girlfriend or wife.

I’m a little disgusted with men in general actually, and enjoying hanging out with my guy friends, who only hit on me when they’re really really drunk.

On hiatus really- because the last time I jumped into dating headfirst after a breakup, I ended up with a stalker. I’m entirely too disinterested, and unfortunately everyone is susceptible to wanting something that eludes them. When you play by the same rules as the boys, they don’t know what hit them…

Some of us aren’t interested in finding “The One” and though I love being single, I do like hanging out with someone funny/sexy/sweet as well.

Hence my Baby Chicken habit.

It is, what it is, what it is. Perfect. Great company, no strings, funny & burn the house down. A little too burn the house down at times. It takes 3 days to recover from having Chicken for dinner…but I’m always tempted. I can’t lie, he’s my favorite bad habit.

I’m incredibly unavailable at this point- and I’d be lying if I claimed otherwise.

Single is kind of wonderful. Dating has been extremely unsuccessful and I’d like to refer to having a boyfriend in the same way I refer to the seven years I lost with a bad one. With contempt, because I think it’s been such an epic waste of time up to this point.

I like the idea… I love the idea of endless monogamous love, I just don’t know that I’m delusional enough to believe in it anymore… or even want it for myself.

Variety is the spice of life….

and I’d rather be single… with an occasional Chicken.

Monk

I’ll be sitting at the table across from him in two hours and thirty-five minutes. I sort of want to throw up. He’s celibate until January, so we’re arriving separately and I should probably not shave my legs.

Yeah right. I stopped just short of my arms. I exfoliated and threw on a fresh coat of spray tan. Plucked my eyebrows, painted my nails and sat down to unwrap the fishnet stockings I bought. His texts came whistling in and my nerves really started to sink in. Oh my god… what am I doing? I’ve been up since 4:30 and I’m sick to my stomach with nerves. I said a silent prayer that he was canceling.

G- Can we agree on jeans so this isn’t so stressful?

J- Absolutely.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that this works in my favor. I fit into my favorites today and my Songbird immediately noticed.

S- Are those the jeans?

J- Yeah.

S- Let me see. Turn around & lift up your shirt. Oh yeahhhhhhh. Nice! Get some.

J- Shut it, I’m already terrified.

So I’m dressed and ready… with too damn much time on my hands to obsess about the what-if’s. Also, I have a bad case of the lazies. I don’t want to drive 45 minutes for a date. That’s lame. Especially if I’m not getting laid. #sorrynotsorry  That’s the kind of driving time you invest for a threesome, not dinner. I realize I’m being an asshole. But still.

Texts from Incredicock have me hot and bothered. I would much rather have 30 orgasms delivered, than go in search of frustration. I worked all day and would rather not drive any further than home. Lazy? Maybe. So shoot me. All this pomp and circumstance is a pain in my frustrated ass.

I made the drive with my running playlist screaming in my ears. Not hearing a word because I hate this first date stuff more than anything. I’m not sure what happens to me. I’m confident in a big crowd. I can approach a group of strangers and make friends. I’m friendly, funny and not terrible to look at. This should NOT be this difficult.

It’s torture. If I hadn’t already had a wonderful first date with this beautiful creature, I’d be sorely tempted to turn around and go home. I was fifteen minutes early and ordered a dirty martini when I got to the table. The waiter started to babysit me when he was 15 minutes late. A text comes thumping into my phone and I can’t help but grin. It’s He-Who-I-Crave, asking me how the date is going. I tell him he’s late and he tells me to calm down. I’m exhausted and the martini is turning my joints to jelly, absolutely and completely ready to climb into bed. I was playing on my phone when he came walking in and he instantly looked horrified when he saw my empty martini glass.

G- Am I late or were you really early?

J- You’re about a half hour late.

G- Will you ever forgive me?

J- Maybe.

I stood up to side-hug him a chaste hello, and he tugged me out of the booth and into his arms. I’m thankful for the martini on board, because I am REALLY green when it comes to dating. I’ve had 2 in 5 years. I must have looked a little shocked because he laughed and kissed me all over my face like I do to my little one. Laughing, I pushed him away from me and we sat down. The waiter came rushing over to introduce himself.

G- Thank you Dave, for keeping my lovely date company while I so rudely kept her waiting.

D- It was my pleasure, sir. Can I bring you something to drink?

Mr. Grey looks at me and winks.

G- May I order for us? I remember you liking that.

Am I alone in this? Is this a weird thing? Nothing makes me happier than a man who takes charge and orders my dinner. My dad is a chef and always ordered for all of us. I suppose this is one of those golden Daddy issues. Seems harmless enough to me and I am quite pleased he remembers and rises to the occasion.

Sidenote: This can really backfire if you’re on a date with someone you don’t know well. I ate a piece of salmon on a date once, while I watched him eat steak. It was our last date. Same goes if he eats his steak well done. I’m sorry, but I just can’t take that guy seriously.

G- We’ll both have the filet. Mid-rare with salad, vinaigrette on the side.

I’m pleased. He knows it. He grins at me and says the dirtiest thing I’ve heard in ages.

G- Do you want some mozzarella sticks? They’re really good here. Deep fried, melted cheese? Come on…

J- Don’t talk dirty to me in front of Dave. No thank you, but I appreciate the visual.

Dave left and we caught up about kids and life until our dinner came. Honestly I feel so bad for every poor vegetarian in the world, because cow is amazing. Eating a filet when you’ve been on a strict diet of what that filet ate, is nothing short of an out of body experience. I started considering how I could grow a cow and whether or not I could eat it if I raised it. That’s how good it was.

As far as my date goes. He’s pretty in that rich guy, manicured way. He definitely has his nails done. He smells like Nordstrom and I’d bet he bought what he’s wearing there. I’d be willing to bet a million dollars that his socks are bright white. Gone is the college guy I dated almost a decade ago and in his place is the grown up version of my original vice factory.  He’s recovering from a broken heart with a year of celibacy.

He’s hot and broken, like all my favorite things are.

J- Thank you for dinner, it was delicious and it is wonderful to see you.

G- You’d challenge a monk’s vows with that look in your eyes.

J- I’d never date a monk.

G- What about a feminist?

J- ? Explain?

G- I believe in the feminist movement. You’re still a legend in my psyche for taking me to Deja Vu but I don’t encourage misogynistic behavior.

J- No second date to the titty bar, huh?

G- No.

J- Never?

G- No.

Well, then. That’s a buzz kill.

A celibate feminist.

Isn’t that kind of the same as a monk?

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Hungry

Something happens when I start running again. The first week is agony, the second gets a lot easier and by the third week? I’m running before bed and getting up early to squeeze in a half hour before I have to get the day started.

Obsessed? Sure.

However, I could spend a good half hour discussing the magic of ice cream and talking to me about pasta could turn you on because I have pornographic feelings for carbohydrates. I had half a peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwich for lunch yesterday and my Songbird laughed.

S- That is the saddest lunch I’ve ever seen.

Honestly? It’s so fucking delicious that I have to close my eyes to chew it. Peanut butter is contraband. Bread is off limits. Jelly is a complete waste of calories.

But MY GOD. I can still fantasize that sandwich back into my mouth. It was worth it. I’ve been eating kale and swiss chard for months. By some stroke of good luck, a deer got stuck INSIDE my garden fence last week and annihilated every last leaf. The blessed sandwich was a result of that & nerves over my date tonight.

I bagged up another size to take to the thrift store and zipped into my very favorite jeans. Aaaahhhh. There are huge rewards to starvation and pain. These jeans are worth a year of kale. The sight of my ass in these pants is more satisfying than food and I know from previous experience that the beautiful man I’m seeing is an ass man. I added two new squats this week and it feels like I got stung by a bee when I sit down. That means it’s working, right?

Reaching for my coffee feels like an aerobic move and I can feel my entire muscular structure when I type. To say I’m sore is quite the understatement. I’m a tightly wound bundle of nervous tension and my mind is wandering in places it shouldn’t. I sent Mr. Incredicock a picture, thanked him for putting my fingers back on the keys and fucking me so well I have the confidence to go on this date. Then deleted him out of my phone for my own good because I crave him in the worst way. Great sex is a mixed blessing when you can’t have it whenever you want, and fucking him is like experimenting with heroin.

Even the thought of him gets me back on the damn elliptical machine. Contrary to popular belief, you can actually run from your problems. It does amazing things for your ass.

I’m mid run when Mr. Grey calls. I can’t talk so he’s telling me about his day and the cases he’s litigating in court tomorrow. I’m trying not to pant and he stops mid sentence.

G- Where are my manners? Hello Miss. How’s your day?

J- Great!

G- I can’t wait to see you.

Off the elliptical. Breathless, sweaty and a little sick to my stomach with nerves.

G- Bring your appetite. They’re known for steak and I know you’re hungry.

Someone should warn him just how right he is.

Buy, buy, Baby.

The people closest to me know I am something of a bedding snob.

I worship at the altar of thread count and Egyptian cotton. Deep pocket sheets, silky soft duvets with oversize mother of pearl buttons, down comforters, fluffy soft pillows… I love it all. I don’t spend much time in bed, but when I do? It’s paradise.

I would rather have 800 beautiful threads per inch from the Goodwill, than brand new percale from Walmart. I’d honestly rather sleep in a chair. If you don’t believe there’s a difference, email me. I’ll lead you to the promised land.

Mr. Grey just bought a house and is shopping for the necessary and desired things to fill it. It’s somewhat painful to watch a man shop for necessities with all the effort of a Craigslist search.

Anything will NOT do. I’m ridiculously frugal whilst being an enormous snob. It’s a challenge to find the very best at the lowest price, but I’m a savvy shopper. This is that one place in my life where my stubborn nature, actually helps out.

I canceled our date. I’m not in the mood for visual foreplay that’s 80 days out. I’m already having a hard week and I have enough sense to tap out when I know I need to. He was delightfully sweet about it.

G- Where would you recommend I buy bedding online?

Oh.

My.

Here we go.

He’s a shark. I’m absentmindedly biting a hole in my lip while his texts whistle in on top of each other like a digital orgasm.

G- Sheets, a duvet, a down comforter and pillows.

This stealthy man belongs in slate grey and Hungarian Goose down. Also if I’m sleeping in that bed, I’m buying my favorites.

Or he is. I filled up the shopping cart at my very favorite place to outfit my bed and hesitated. The one I want to put in the cart is $800.

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Of course I picked out my favorite. Sheets yesterday. Feathers today. Be still my heart.

$1,320.29 later… it’s shaping up to be a spectacular slumber party.

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A Not So Perfect Ending

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I knew this would end badly. I should say that right away because I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not fully responsible for the head and heartache plaguing me these days.

Years ago, he became the unwitting recipient of my wayward pregnancy dreams. I was horrified and my midwife assured me that my subconscious had a mind of it’s own whilst growing a human. My sweet baby was born, my whole world had imploded, and the craving only grew. He was never anything more than my Perfect friend. We worked together, and I could objectify him silently. He hung in the doorway with a whisk in his hand, asking me how the night had gone and I mentally undressed him, daily.

He met a horrible woman who moved him away. He continues to belong to her even though she’s moved away from him, too.

The first time he came to visit, I had no idea where he was coming from when he kissed me in the middle of the bar and we got a little too naked in the tent later that night. The hangover was intense, as he didn’t remember a thing and I erased him from my life with the horrified knee-jerk reaction of a broken heart.

Some people occupy space no matter the level of communication, or lack thereof.

Just the sight of kitchen utensils makes me fight back tears, and I love the kitchen.

So when I heard he was coming back this summer, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t do it, but I knew I should have avoided him, entirely. I offer fantastic advice that I never follow.

I knew it would be bad. I knew I shouldn’t see him and I knew I should leave well enough alone.

Shocker… I did it anyway.

One sight of him and I knew exactly how bad it would be when he left. I wasn’t wrong. I can’t cry about the state of affairs because I knew exactly what I was asking for, when he kissed me for the first time.

You can’t have casual sex with the man you’ve been in love with. Trust me. My retinas are burned with intimate images of me in his t-shirt, him under me, kissing him. I can’t get away from it and I can’t sleep. I packed the sheets away that he slept in because I can’t look at them without seeing him laying there. I had sensational sex with a friend in the hopes of changing how I feel about my bed. It hasn’t worked.

One text from him about the game he’s watching and I see his face on my pillow. He asks me how my day is and I can taste him. I’m torturing myself for anything of him.

Running. Trying to date. Doing my best to let go, then he’s back and I’m broken again.

Until today.

Today I quit him. I quit all of it.

If I wanted to feel shitty and insignificant, I’d date college boys. There would at least be some fringe benefits to THAT.

I wish I could say I felt better, but I’ll settle for smarter.

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