Self Control

It’s an amazing feeling to be content. I’ve spent my entire life worried about what people thought of me, going where they expected me to go and doing what I was told to do.

You know what I do now? Whatever the fuck I want.

It’s just as liberating as I imagined it would be.

Instead of dreading work and always being in a desperate battle to get back to the home I drown under financially; I get up early. I take some time to myself before my little Dumpling wakes up.

Making coffee in the morning doesn’t feel like an irritation anymore. I kind of love the ritual of it, and filling the house with the warm smell of fresh ground espresso. One cup only, or my hands shake, which may be the result of the soft silty coffee bean sludge at the bottom of my cup. It’s more like legalized rocket fuel than a morning beverage.  I can’t ever stop at one cup.

I run for a half hour in the morning, and it’s not my favorite. I try to talk myself off the machine for the first five minutes, every morning. I’m watching my arms change shape and the pile of clothes that are too big, continues to grow. It’s working, and more importantly, it’s silencing my screaming sex drive. An hour a day keeps the fantasies at bay?

The funniest thing about being single is that when you actually want to date, it’s difficult to meet someone. When you’re over it and not interested? They come at you from every direction. Two dads in the last week have made the awkward first attempt.

D1- Hey so I didn’t know you were single? Would you want to hang out sometime?

As in fuck you? No. Also no to everything else that “hang out” may include. 

D2- Jen! Hey we should get the kids together to play sometime. Do you like Italian?

Leather, men or salad dressing? Also no, my kid doesn’t like your kid so that’s a hard pass from me too. 

It was fun for a minute, until it wasn’t. I love men, but I’m fresh out of patience for boys and games. I’m at a cool point in my life where I’m completely comfortable being open and honest and I don’t have any desire to side step the truth anymore. I can think of Perfection and not cry about him anymore. If I’m going to be honest, I had the sense fucked back into me and I feel a million times better.

Better to get out of the pool on a high note, so I deleted Incredicock… even out of the iPad (which means I’m serious, lol). It pains me, but you have to realize as a lady when he’s just not that into you, and those late night text messages can say anything platonic you want, because the message you’re sending is loud and clear. If he doesn’t answer, that’s also a very loud response.

Sometimes you just have to save yourself, from yourself. I have to look at him like he’s the cake I cannot have. He’s not on my diet, he’s bad for my heart and the amount of running I have to do to get him out of my system, is obscene.

Having self control is important to me, and he’s done amazing things for my ass as a result of all this so there’s a lovely silver lining.

It was time, but I’m sure gonna miss him…

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Forgiveness

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Sorry for throwing out some heartbreaking stuff without warning. I opened my jewelry box the other day and my eldest daughter picked up the fake ID from my week in hell. It knocked the wind out of me a little and she looked up at me with confused eyes.

LR- It says you’re born in 1969. WTF? Why would you ever want that?

I didn’t want to tell her the gory details and she had fresh malice and joy dancing in her face. I told her it was a fake ID, cost $50 and worked. She was scandalized enough to gasp and shake her head at me. Her life is so different than mine and I’m so proud that we’ve been able to protect and shelter her from growing up too fast or being left at risk.

We all make mistakes. Something terrible happened to me, yes… but I’ve done plenty of terrible shit with intention. It all comes out in the wash. Ultimately, some of the worst things have given me the best sense of humor. The dark, horrible shit has made me quite a resilient little lady.

My sister the Unicorn is the same way. We simply were born with too much faith, an overabundance of love to give and faulty brakes. We jump in head first and worry about the depth of the water, afterwards. It usually works out and of all the people I know, her and I are living big and out loud; leaving nothing on the table. A few scars, sure… but I’d rather have a dozen than a single regret.

You only get one life. Who are you trying to impress? Why spend it whiny, bitter or sad? No matter how badly you think you have it, someone out there would give anything for your problems. Life is short. Eat the chocolate & buy the jeans. Wear the red lipstick and kiss that boy. Work accounts for so much of your life that I can’t recommend having a job you love, more. I am really blessed in that area and it trickles down into everything else.

I could count my heartaches instead of my blessings but if I’m going to be honest I’m a little concerned which side would outweigh the other. So why open the door? I’m living a life that I did not expect when I was a starcrossed teenager, but I honestly don’t know how I ever would have imagined such an amazing adventure.

Putting my rape down in words is uncomfortable. I can still smell him. I don’t enjoy the physical memories and I wish I could pack those away with the regrets I so easily decline. It’s a little difficult to forgive someone who’s never apologized.

I did find a silver lining… as is my way.

I’ve gotten over the facial hair hangup. It took me 27 years, but I can say with absolute lecherous joy that I’d give a very healthy kidney for a certain beard on any part of my body.

Forgiveness sets me free & Incredicock sets me on fire. Consider me cured.

Bad things happen to unsuspecting people every day and you can either let it be a moment in who who are, or you can let it define your whole life. I choose to file it away with the rest of the bad shit that I don’t want taking up space that I could fill with joy.

Or beards.

Thank U, Next.

I haven’t always been so careless about the men I love.

My first serious boyfriend Mike got my name tattooed ala tramp stamp. He spelled my name wrong and was less than thrilled when I told him that Jenny meant female donkey. My Grandpa had passed that bit of logic along in hopes that I’d remain a Jennifer. I simply changed the Y to a I. Mike wasn’t so lucky. I still wonder if he’s married and named his firstborn Jenny, just to save face…Or ass?

My first love… Eddie. Sigh. Some crushes never die, and when his wife sent him out one-night-stand shopping a few years ago, I had the misfortune of being the unwitting target. Bless his beautiful heart, I hope he divorces her and makes a more honest attempt someday.  I don’t share my toys… and if I’m going to be really honest- we only share what we don’t want anymore.

My taste in men is my most self-destructive trait. I adore being hunted and thoroughly enjoy the thrill of swimming with a shark. I don’t worry about teeth, biting is kind of my thing. I’m intrigued when I see one I want, get all sorts of wordy when I touch one, and have to change the rating on my blog if I want to unwrap him again. When I’m silent and stuck… it’s because I’m not getting laid and I hate that more than anything. How completely basic could I possibly be.

I was in the midst of my third run of the day, contemplating ankle weights and that god-awful baby shark ab workout that had me feeling like a battered blowfish for three days… when Big Dick Tom reappeared. The unfortunate truth to holding a man’s attention these days, is to blow them off and forget they’re alive. Don’t text him. Don’t answer his calls. He’ll be hounding you in no time. I guarantee. I’ve ghosted this poor penis with legs, three times. I’m never available, don’t return his calls and can’t make an hour to meet him for a beer after he’s driven 45 minutes to “conveniently happen to be in my town for the night”. If I don’t want you? All the dick in the world can’t help you.

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And they say romance is dead. Bye Tom.

Bye, boys in general. I am so disappointed in the current state of the manfolk. Did I miss the memo on aiming low? What happened to caring about the quality of person you are? I certainly have my less than stellar moments, but for the most part… I’m trying really hard to be an incredible woman.

I mean what I say. I’m funny. I cook, clean and fuck like good girls aren’t supposed to. I’m a good friend, working hard to have an incredible ass and make a perfect dirty martini. I can grow his dinner, blow his mind and knit the blanket he falls asleep under.

Just sayin…

I’m beyond a fuckboy and it takes so much more to interest me than a giant dick. GTFOH Tom and friends.

Mr. Perfection taught me that I still have to be careful when I’m falling in love with my best friends because even the longest friendship wont stand in the way of him breaking your heart. He taught me that some men take their respect for you off, along with their clothes. I learned some incredibly painful lessons that I probably should have learned a long time ago.  Ultimately I lost him over some particularly bad sex, and he created a need where my previously dormant sex drive had been.

Ahhhh which is when that completely unexpected Mr. Incredicock, lit my damn sheets on fire. Just when you think you know what’s up and you’re grown enough to play fast and loose with friendship and casual sex… you get your mind unexpectedly blown. I learned some amazing things from him, some of which still make me blush. More importantly, he reminded me that there are still good men in the world…and unassisted rock-hard erections. God bless him. Had I known then what I know now, I would have dealt with the fallout and made him a boyfriend so I could unwrap him every day. He reminded me of that age old double standard. If you want to keep him, you can’t touch him for a while. It’s a hunter-gatherer thing and you cannot get around it.

I’m not dating anymore. It’s just too depressing to have awful conversations with bland, unattractive men. I would honestly rather do anything else. After my week on OKCupid and the bottom feeder that is Big Dick Tom, I’m really quite content to put my fine ass back on the shelf until I have a good reason not to stay there.

Being single doesn’t suck. I’m fun to hang out with, dinner is always amazing and I can have as many orgasms as I’m willing to put the work in for. I like me,  I think it’s going to work out. 🙂

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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Smart.

Every now and then, you have to check in with yourself. You need to take stock. Do inventory. Get your shit together, if you will.

I had to do that this morning when I saw the horrifyingly confusing messages I sent Incredicock, along with his equally confused responses.

One thing is very clear, and it takes zero sobriety to comprehend. I would like him to take his clothes off, post haste. All the days in all the lands, I prefer him naked; and fucking me. That’s all. This is the guy you can justify working 90 hours a week for. No baby… you stay home and sleep in. I will support us, and you can support me. Later.

Sadly, he’s a forever soft no and it’s pathetic that I’m even asking. I’m trying my best to avoid a boyfriend and my FWB is the biggest cockblocker in my life. If I end up in captivity, I’m going to blame him, publicly.

Mr. Grey is descending on my pond and the lake around here has never seen a shark like him before. I’m concerned. I see the stats on my blog spike and know I have some rabid local readers. I’m worried one of you will mention our poly-amorous date. I’m taking him to my best friend’s restaurant on Sunday.

I’m kinda making him my boyfriend. I’m fucking panicking at the thought.

I text the one that can satisfy my needs and he’d rather chop firewood and do chores.

#motherfuckingpause

If he would rather do housework or laundry than fuck you? He never wanted to, to begin with. You weren’t a booty call, you were a hit and run. He fucked his ex-wife’s best friend because he could and you were willing, and just because you knew him to be a good guy with her, does not mean he will be with you. As much as you love someone, they can become someone else entirely when you begin fucking them. It’s painfully true.

I’m just as sorry to be wrong. Probably twice as sorry, today.

Glasses

My little Dumpling is reading and we spend many hours sounding out words. Many. So when her teacher pulled me aside, I didn’t expect what she said.

C- I think she needs glasses. She strains to see and rubs her eyes a lot.

I looked over where she was playing and began to worry. It’s funny how you can completely miss something until someone points it out. My mind started to mull over every detail of the last 5 years. How in the hell did I not know?

I picked her up that afternoon and started questioning her.

J- Do your eyes hurt? Can you see my face?

D- What are you talking about? I can see your head but my seat is behind yours, mama.

I tend to panic a little when something is potentially wrong with one of my babies. My son was born with a rare eye condition and we spent his first year in scary pediatric ophthalmologist hell. I’m aware this is routine for people who wear glasses.

I’m just one of those lucky assholes with perfect vision. It breaks my heart that I have it and she doesn’t.

She does not share my sorrow. She counted down the days to her appointment and marched in with glee. Her initial exam was difficult to watch. The Dumpling is blind as a bat. She could pick out one or two letters correctly, but even at 2″ tall, she struggled. I fought back tears, feeling like the worst mother in the world that my poor blind child has just been stumbling around in a blurry world.

That glee she rode in on turned to horror with a few well placed eye drops to dilate her eyes for the exam.  She climbed into my lap, buried her face in my chest and sobbed.

D- I don’t want glasses anymore.

Out of nowhere, the Long Island Medium of eye wear appeared.

LIM- OH HONEY!!! DON’T CRY! LET’S PICK OUT SOME GLASSES!!!!

Dr.- Full time. She’s nearsighted with pretty serious astigmatism. If she were just nearsighted then she’d see clearly up close, but with her degree of astigmatism, everything is blurry.

Thanks doc. I didn’t feel horrible enough yet. I do now.

The spikey haired screamer is handing my Dumpling a pile of pink frames. Oh no.

LIM- OHH LOOK!!! PURPLE?

D- No thank you.

LIM- HERE! TRY THEM ON?

D- No.

She’s specific. She’s half shielding her eyes and frowning quietly at anything less than shocking pink. She will not even try another color on. Her patience is running low with the excited saleswoman.

D- Can we be done?

I love kids. I wish I had the balls to say the same.

LIM- I SAVED THE BEST FOR LAST!!!!

Fuck.

VB Ada

She runs over and grabs a sparkling pink pair of frames from the top row of kids glasses. I know to stay away from the top row in the store. Regardless of where you are. It’s just as deadly at the liquor store as it is shopping for glasses. I see the tiny one sit up straight and grin.

Fuuuuuck.

She slips them on and flashes my own naughty grin back at me.

D- I want theeeeeeeeeeeeeeese.

Of course she does. She’s my daughter. Her father is equally as bad. We are absolutely doomed when she’s a teenager. I shoot a murderous eyebrow at the Long Island Medium.

J- Do I even want to know? Let me guess. They’re the very most expensive, aren’t they?

She smiles, guiltily and nods her head yes. Fucking awful lady. My patience is draining from my already strained face.

LIM- They’d run around $400 with lenses.

J- Absolutely not. We’ll take the $150 version and call it good. Thank  you.

I picked the Dumpling up and carried her back to the waiting room, where she gave me hell.

D- But I don’t want those. I want the ‘spensive pink ones.

J- Sorry love, we’ll find them somewhere else for less. That’s wayyyyy too much money for glasses. That lady is a jerk for showing them to you.

Yeah. I hope she heard me.

We went back for her exam after her eyes had time to dilate and I honestly can’t even put it into words. Seeing her take the test again after he’d fine tuned the lenses to correct her vision, was amazing.

The letters started to get smaller and she started to guess faster. I watched them shrink on the screen, heard a giggle catch in her throat… and I bawled. I can hardly wait for her glasses to come in. It’s going to be really amazing to see her see everything again for the first time.

That damn woman followed us out, shouting at the Dumpling that she had  14 sleeps until they were in. I could see the confusion on her face as I pulled her out the door.

D- 14 sleeps? I want to go to school.

J- Don’t listen to that woman. Two weeks and your glasses will be in.

D- WHAT?? That’s the whole reason we came here.

J- They have to make them for your eyes. Patience is a virtue.

D- I’m patient for those pink ones.

J- Damn that woman.

D- POTTY TALK!

Life with a five year old co-pilot is hilarious. I’m awfully excited to see what she thinks when she finally gets to see the world around her. ♥

Jenni’s Heirloom Marinara

The funny thing about being a gardener is that the vegetables don’t care how you feel. When they’re ripe, it’s time to can them or throw all your hard work away. It was a horrible year for my garden, so I am a slave to canning any and everything as soon as it’s ripe.

Yesterday, it was the marinara I’ve perfected after 20 years and I’m going to share the recipe with you in the hopes you will enjoy it as much as we do.

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Also it means I won’t lose my recipe again. 🙂

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Enjoy ♥