Baddie

It’s true.

When faced with a choice, I choose the bad one every time. It’s absolutely my fault that my love life is more of a tropical storm than a sunny day.

Financially secure or tattooed and moody? That’s no contest in my book. I pay my own bills, so I could care less about his bank account. I wanna hear about those tattoos…

Suit and tie or dirty with tools in his hands? This one is a HUGE change from the days of old. Smartypants created the worst kind of preference the night he took his tie off, tied it around my neck and led me out the door. I like them capable and dirty these days. I suppose it has something to do with forever learning something new because I have another broken something to fix. Men who iron instead of turn wrenches, just don’t do it for me anymore.

Attentive or unavailable? Sigh. I plead the 5th.

Take me out or cook for me? This is a forever Daddy issue because mine is a chef and I’d much rather be at home when food is involved. Men that can cook are my achilles.

I’m a bit of a hurricane and it takes a bit of a bad ass to keep up with me. I just need to  learn the difference between a badass and a bad man.

I’m tired of the lessons, so I’ve pulled out my knitting needles and ordered an intense workout program. I may as well have a new hat and a nice ass to show for all this shit.

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This pattern doesn’t allow you to waste your time worrying about where he is or who he’s doing. I”ll be counting stitches, bitches… not reasons why I shouldn’t love him. Who wants to knit a dozen with me? I could use a healthy distraction or twelve.

Manifest Destiny

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My beloved mother is a wee bit “woo”. Actually, she’s a lot woo. She smudges the house with sage, regularly, and reminds us all to remember our karma. We have never discussed Jesus beyond putting him in the nativity scenes at Christmas, but I can tell you a whole bunch about your chakras. I’ve had a psychic reading, my chart done, etc. When I was recovering from being raped, she sent me to a clairvoyant spiritual healer that completely changed how I viewed pain. My mother believes firmly that your emotional health is EVERYTHING. She says how she feels, cries and has taught us all that we need to be impeccable with our word and mindful of our effect on others, first and foremost.

This is my favorite line my mother says, repeatedly and regardless of the situation.

Mama- Manifest and ask the universe for what you want.

She gave me “The Secret” and I fell asleep three times trying to watch it. I wanna manifest… it just bores the shit out of me. She’s listened to me cry over a dumb boy so many times that it’s honestly pathetic at this point. There should be a limit. I’ve exceeded it.

She had some epic advice this time, too.

Mama- Awwww I love that guy too, no wonder you fell in love with him. That’s OK! That’s what love is for… to give it away. You just have to manifest someone who is ready and available to give that love back to you. This is not a reflection of you, he’s just not at a place in his life where he’s ready, and that would only make you sad. It’s ok to love him, but you have to love yourself more. I want more for you than this.

We’ve had this conversation regularly, since puberty hit. I’m discouraged and she’s full of loving truth while waving a burning bunch of sage around my poor broken heart.

I have grown up in the land of love and incense, with a detrimental craving for bad men. The two don’t really jive… as much as the cloud of nag champa does fill me with peace when I’m working overtime to undermine my own happiness, again.

I’m not one to talk to the “universe”. I feel just as ridiculous asking Jesus for new brakes on my car. It just isn’t me because I come from a very atheist place. I’m a big believer in doing things for yourself and figuring out a new skill if it’s something you don’t know how to do. I’ve rewired my entire garage and know how to replace a tire on anything. You are only as helpless as you allow yourself to be.

Working full time has made me a bit whiny, though. My dishwasher died at Christmas and I haven’t had time to shop for a new one… so I watch dishes pile up all week, knowing I’m facing a day of housekeeping on Saturday. Something I loathe. Same goes for the laundry, mopping, grocery shopping, ughhhh…..

J- I need a wife, so badly. To hell with a boyfriend… give me a happy domestic goddess to spoil. I want her to love laundry and be obsessive about dishes and clean sheets. Bonus points if she vacuums and mops while I’m at work. I will make her the happiest woman on earth. I will rub her feet every night and buy her anything her heart desires.

I’ve been manifesting a stay at home wife. One that cooks and cleans and shops. I want that… badly.

NotCalifornia invited me for a quick beer after work yesterday and I was a few minutes late. I walked in and he was making a grocery list. I looked. I’m a foodie and talking food to me is right up there with porn. It was a reallllllllllllllly good list.

NC- Sorry, I have to go shopping after this.

J- Don’t apologize. I have to fold laundry.

NC- I’m kind of tidy. I love a clean house. It makes me happy to get up early to make coffee in a clean kitchen. Clean sheets too. I’m weird like that.

I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning out loud.

NC- What? Does that make me a weirdo?

J- No…. I’m weighing my proposal options. 1. The thought of someone else making the coffee in the morning is right up there with winning the lottery and 2. I change my sheets weekly because I LIVE for clean sheets.

NC- Thread count?

Jesus almighty Christ… I may have an orgasm right at the table.

J- Yes.

NC- That’s a question.

J- 800-1500. Pima or egyptian.

NC- Perfect. Let’s hear this proposal.

I may have to call my mother and tell her that I finally did a little manifesting and it worked. He’s not a wife, but he’s retired and loves to clean. I don’t mate in captivity, but if my cage is spotless, I’ll consider it.

Dating in your 30’s and 40’s is like collecting broken toys. You have to figure out why the last lady donated him back to the pile. The hot one is lazy, the handsome one cheats and the cute ones are dumb as rocks. After you get past the questionable packaging, you have to find out where the real damage lies.

You also have to give credit where credit is due. I was a first wife. I taught my ex to buy incredible gifts, and a few other unmentionable things. You’re welcome, second wife. I hope he’s doing right by you.

Thankfully, marriage doesn’t always work out.

Dear ex-wife lady who taught this man to love cleaning,

May the universe kick out the perfect man for you, because you did a damn fine job making the ideal one for me. High five, girlfriend. I tip my crown to you. 

xoxo J