Running Hot

I’m up at 4, running. Up until 11, running again. I’m coping with the intense level of frustration I’m living with, but walking up the stairs to my office every day has gotten increasingly painful. My ass is looking amazing in my jeans and I have three months to go. Part of me really enjoys this epic remodel of the playground and I’ve started shopping for tiny things that lace up, unsnap or rip off easily.

I wake up to songs he wants me to hear as his text messages whistle their way into my phone, his gorgeous face pops up in a tie that I’ll be fantasizing about all day and the books he’s reading are showing up on my Kindle.

Plural. BookS. Be still my ever-loving geeky heart.

Also… let me just take a second to express my sheer gratitude  for a well spoken man, because he sent me a couple messages as I walked into work today, and I was stunned silent for 5 hours. I finally read them to my coworker.

H- You’re as lovely as ever, Ms. *******

H- Aging is never kind, but it’s gentler on some.

He’s a very brave man for giving me three months to think. He’s smart enough that I know it’s intentional and I adore being underestimated. He can hear the edge in my voice and teases me mercilessly.

H- I’m not inflicting this sentence on you. Stop running and make a call. You need some sleep.

J- Oh ye of little faith. It’s natural to be afraid… I’m in training mode. You better start running again.

Also my FWB is MIA, so I do have a little added assistance in this outrageously tantalizing situation. Burning daylight and moonlight with headphones and my elliptical machine.

Trying on all my favorite garter belts and “evening wear” really makes me shake my head at myself. I packed this whole part of myself away five years ago, and opening some of these boxes is like seeing an old friend. I love being a girl. I love all the sexy details we have available at our disposal. Silk stockings, lacy garter belts, corsets, whispy bits of satin and lace and a set of real handcuffs. I’ve always loved sex more than I was supposed to. I just don’t apologize for it anymore.

He’s confident in the way I can’t resist and respectfully sweet to the point I worry about my long-term independence. I’d love to unwrap him, but I’m going to lock him down first because I’m smart and I know what a unicorn he is.

If you really like him? Don’t fuck him. Play hard to get. Be slow to respond to his texts. Be busy. Activate that hunter-gatherer instinct if you want more than one night. Be a trophy, not a sport fish.

Pump those breaks and run that ass off with me. The best things in life are worth waiting for, right?


Second first date.

His text messages are scintillating. I’m at a complete loss, living with flushed cheeks and a smile I can barely contain. I am in so much trouble.

This is a call for an intervention. I am in wayyyyyy over my head. I’ve realized a whole lot in in the last week. I dated him casually eight years ago, but I’ve patterned A LOT around him, since.

  • That spelling penchant of mine? We know where that came from, now. I’ve learned two new words this week and have had to adjust to being in a constant state of arousal.
  • My predilection for menswear? Shit. Also here. I am barely clinging to my self control as he sends me a pic on his way to work. Dear God. I should write some of the ideas that he’s inspiring, down.
  • Library dates. Nobody has ever come close to comparing to the one he showed me.
  • Strip club dates, be still my heart. I became something of a legend when I took him for the first time. I may have capitalized on this one a few (dozen) times since then. It’s never been as fun as when I took him.
  • Rough sex. This is where all my behind-closed-door favorites, originated.

H- I always wanted to please a woman until she screamed.

J- I volunteer as tribute.

H- Do you mind if I try a few things I’ve always fantasized about?

J- Nooooo….Do I need a safe word?

H- I don’t think so? Just talk to me. I really like stealing the words out of your mouth with pleasure.

  • The good Daddy vice. I’m only attracted to the good ones, and he is THE BEST. Every date was always contingent on the little’s being safe, sound and out of earshot.


Three more months of his self-inflicted celibacy while drowning in the intoxicating details of a man whose left me smiling and picking out men who reminded me of him, since. I feel like I’m in high school again, with his texts whistling at me to test my resolve even further.


Doomed. I. AM. DOOMED. My walking Achilles is free balling it in court today on my behalf and I’m biting a hole in my lip just thinking about it. I’ve never been jealous of criminals before. This man. This incredibly intoxicating muse of mine is tying me in little bitty knots… and there’s a whole lot more of that to come.

I’ve been trying to think of a safe first date. Not dinner. NO MOVIE. No car rides, no dark rooms, no dancing.



What could possibly go wrong?




I’m in new territory. I’m not on my A game and I am flailing a little. It’s more than a little embarrassing. My i’s are not dotted. My t’s are not crossed.

I have been spelled into submission and I am flagrantly risking my hard-won freedom whilst I tie myself into aprons and slip into heels with the raw anticipation of seeing him for the first time in 8 years. I am woefully predictable when it comes to certain vices and he’s a walking list.

In a tie even, be still my heart.


He’s driving to work and voice texting me from his car. Apologizing for his grammar and punctuation. I’m so turned on that I feel flushed. This is the guy who created my penchant for smart men. Not just smart though… smarter than me. Eeeeek.

I text Miss Fancy the same screenshot.

J- I’m in danger. Humongous danger.

She agrees.

F- You’re in trouble.

He sends me his playlist and I love what he listens to. He wears a tie every day, y’all. Every DAY. He doesn’t love it, but I can work with that. I am nothing if not inspirational when inspired.

I’ve ghosted a few dozen men and deleted my Tinder account.

The poor pilot. He will not stop texting me. I’ve been sending him a few here and there because I can empathize with how much worse the silence is than disinterest, but I think maybe it might be easier if I just full Casper.

There is one factor…

He’s celibate. He took a year off and when my eyebrows bounced to my hairline, he laughed and quickly invited me to have sex with other people. Again. Instant shocked eyebrow face lift.

D- Is that a deal breaker?  I understand if it is. I’ve been in an open relationship for years and don’t have any problem with you having sex, but I’m not right now.

Chaste dates with a man that embodies nearly every last vice and craving, I possess?

What am I getting myself into?

Free Range Parenting


I’m trying not to be an old mom. Really, I am.

I remember crossing paths with “old” moms when I was a first-time mother at 18.

They weren’t any different when my second child was born, at 24.

The smug air around them rarely invites you in, so it was a rare occasion that I found myself with a group of “old” moms. One memorable occasion still sticks in my craw. A friend of mine had an accidental baby in her late forties, and we were all regularly tortured by their presence as a result. She loved to drop him off at my house with a satisfied smirk around my messy life. She patted me on the back one day and said “Oh honey… you’ll have so much more patience when you’re an older mother.”

My blood boiled.

Her little prince was more like a case of Shingles, and we’d had him for 8 hours that day… about 7 hours too long.


Because he didn’t have rules, he had “loving guidelines”. He didn’t have to share if he didn’t feel like it, even when the toys he was deciding whether or not to share, didn’t belong to him. He didn’t have to nap, didn’t have to eat his food, didn’t have to take a bath if he didn’t feel like it and didn’t have any sort of behavioral expectations, either.

He was a garden variety spoiled brat, in my book. All the touchy feel-y words in the world can’t make a spade anything but a spade.

I refused to accept her judgement, and moved on. We saw them less and less, thankfully.

Then I had a baby at 37 and realized that she was kind of, sort of, right about everything.

I feel bad for my older kids for having such a demanding mom with too many ideas in her head about how things had to be, and how it had to look and why we had to go to church and blah, blah, blah.

None of that shit was important, and I wasted so many precious moments, barking. That one last baby, has taught me how vitally important it is, to listen.

So if she only eats her noodles with butter and parmesan cheese, ignoring the homegrown veggie medley I harvested, washed and roasted for her… Oh well. Maybe next time. I even let her have the ice cream anyway. I’ve completely gone soft.

Childhood is so painfully short. You should eat all the ice cream you can.

I’ve learned which battles aren’t worth more than a giggle and which demand a firm resolve.

My eldest children are successful and beautiful members of society. They work hard and I am very proud. I hope their little sister follows in their impeccable example.

Being an old mom means you’ve learned that despite your best efforts, your children grow up to be who THEY are. The secret is learning to just enjoy it. To treasure each moment even if it looks nothing like you thought it would.

Days here are wild. I wake up to her screaming “MOMMMMMMMMMMMY!!!!!!”

After the adrenaline subsides and I explain to her (again) that I think she’s in danger when she screams my name when I’m sleeping, she wraps her tiny arms around my neck and says:

B-I love you SOOOOO much.

Which is totally worth the mild heart attack & reminds me again that the most important thing is this snugly time spent together because the rules sort themselves out. Life is too short to be a grouchy, demanding mom at ANY age.

I try to love more & yell less whilst doing my best to not raise a free range asshole. ♥

Over My Head


I’m trying to paddle my way out of the heartache that results from me loving too deeply, too freely and with no regard to the warning signs. I’m ok. I’m sad, frustrated and a little disillusioned. I’m faithful that a few bad apples can’t ruin my belief that it’s still a lovely orchard.

I don’t hurt people and I think that is the ultimate realization I walk away with. My love doesn’t hurt. I don’t make promises I can’t keep and I don’t take being entrusted with someone’s heart, lightly. I’m a safe place to be and I pride myself on being impeccable with my word. It matters to me that I’m a blessing in the lives of the people who make mine happy.

I cannot rage against a man for not respecting me, because ultimately, I feel sorry for him. I’ve put in the time it takes to be an immeasurable blessing in a deserving mans life and I’m worth the same. It’s all in what you expect and what you demand. I’ve learned some hard lessons this summer. Just because he’s your close friend, doesn’t mean he wont fuck & run.


I did not see that coming. Clearly I need to date outside of the pool of friends I thought I could prematurely trust.

Maybe trusting less is the lesson, but that’s just not me. I go all in and clean up the aftermath if necessary. If he’s a jerk? That’s on him. I don’t regret either difficult situation. I’m responsible for my choices and the consequences that inevitably follow. Defined by my behavior, not his.

Stranger dates only, from here on out. No habla friend zone. My heart can’t take losing a friend AND my sex life again, simultaneously.

I’m turning the page and have a hot chocolate date set up with a divinely well-spoken pilot. A really good man, making an amazing effort to be respectfully interesting. He’s hot on my tail, pursuing me relentlessly and has impeccable spelling. He wears a tie every day and that’s more motivation than I can shake a stick at. We all have our weaknesses and this is my #1, so when he sent me a picture from his closet this morning and let me pick? I’m awake. He’s on his way out the door to fly to Mexico (swoon) and I’m falling back to sleep when I hear my phone chirp at me again. It’s a picture of him sitting in the cockpit, wearing the tie I chose.

This hot chocolate date just got a lot hotter.

I arm them right away with my favorite vices and sit back to see how well they listen and how motivated they are. Likewise, I make a mental checklist of casually mentioned favorites. I remember how spicy he likes his food, what kind of beer he drinks, his favorite places and colors. I’m no longer that desperate doormat girlfriend with an undying need to please, but if he pays attention and makes an effort to impress me?          I will not be outdone.

Another picture comes chirping in. It’s him with full lights in the cockpit before takeoff, and my phone rings.

AM- Good morning, beautiful girl. Have a nice day & I’ll text you when I land.

Well played, Air Man.

A phoned in “good morning, beautiful” from the damn cockpit of an international flight. Proving my point in the most delicious way. A motivated man moves mountains to put a smile on your face and this man is taking no prisoners.

I’m even considering taking him out in public to my favorite restaurant so Miss Fancy can give him the once over and cast her vote.

This could be serious. This might be a boyfriend.

But first?

Hot chocolate. ♥

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


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

Sexually Transmitted Stupidity

My favorite Songbird called to cheer me up, and after two words she said:

S- Wait. You have to listen to this, then call me back.

*Sometimes the dude is thinking you want more and you’re thinking, I don’t want to know what your favorite movie is, I don’t care if you like dogs. I genuinely don’t care. I just want to collect you like a Pokemon. 

* He told me, we can’t give A1 dick to everyone. Not everyone can handle it. Listen… these dudes are on to us. They only hand out the A1 if they feel like you are removed enough that that they don’t have to handle your emotions.

*If this is someone that’s in your life, let them know how good that dick is. If they are just kind of like a fuckbuddy- y’all know what’s up. You don’t have to be verbose about the praise. A lot of times, you can’t even front. It doesn’t matter what you say, you said enough when it was all up in them guts. 

*What is the nutritional value of this penis. Twinkie dick is gonna taste great, but it’s not fulfilling. Then you have kale dick.  It doesn’t taste fantastic, but the nutrient level is incredible.  Then there’s the holy grail. the sweet potato dick, full of antioxidants, but also sweet and savory at the same damn time. Meaning you’re touching all the bases, which means its probably touching all your bases. 

*Do you know how dope it is to laugh with someone that’s gonna fuck the shit out of you? That right there is a gem of a time. 

Enjoy ♥