First date hesitation.


Since I gave Mr. Tinder my number, I’ve woken up to great stuff. Funny stories he thinks I might like, updates about the political debates and pictures of him out hiking somewhere wonderful. Daily good morning wishes, frosted with a compliment or three.

I never text him first…. or last for that matter. He responds instantly any time I do. I remember now how to play all these dumb games and am all too aware that I’m completely in control of this situation. I don’t love that, but I’m trying to.

He takes a walk every day just to enjoy the ability and beautiful view. He’s really, really nice. The kind of bone-deep nice that I am. The kind of nice that bores the hell out of me, if I’m going to be honest. I’m trying really hard to want this for myself, in hopes I’ve finally learned something from all the hard lessons I’ve waded through.


Part of me is sad at how attentive and interested he is, because it illuminates how little I’ve ever gotten in return from the man I’ve been pining for.

Mr. Tinder texts me early and often.

T- Any exciting plans this weekend?

J- Just a hot date on Saturday night.

T- I can’t wait…. but that’s it? That can’t be it. I’ve only “known” you a couple days and I know that can’t be right.

J- Well….I’m canning marinara and pears, too. Want to learn to can?

T- I’d love to actually. I’d may only be in your way but I’m a quick learner and I can reach all the stuff up high.

Yikes. I love a pretty face and he’s cute. I am particularly struck down by a certain man’s devastating smile… but intention slays me more than anything. I’ve spent a year begging for 5 minutes to spoil a man who could barely acknowledge me, so it’s refreshing as hell to be pursued intently by an interested charmer of a man with all of his shit together.

A man with a plan is the man for me. Not that I have a huge interest in teaching him to can vegetables, I’m more stunned by the realization that he wants to hang out with me. I’m embarrassed by how foreign that feels.

Tonight is our first date. He asked me if I’d be uncomfortable if he brought me flowers. I said no and he asked for a list of my favorites.

Now here’s where I decide if I’m going to be a spoiled brat or a doormat. I can tell him I love sterling roses. They’re lavender and $12 a dozen at the grocery store. I LOVE them. Or I can tell him the truth. I love tuberose and gardenias. They’re my favorites. They’d cost him over $100 if he could get them at all, and I have one blooming in my kitchen right now.

So I tell him roses… and make it easy.

Old habits die hard…

He pays attention to what I say and asked how the Dumpling was. She’s been sick all day and I’ve been unavailable, which can bring out the worst in men, too. He’s been cool.

Ignoring the similarities between him and he who shall not be named is impossible. It’s why I swiped right and impossible to ignore if you met them side by side. They look related, but the similarities stop there. Mr. Tinder is a checklist of what I want in a man. I may have chosen him because he looks like the man I can’t get over, but I think I may have stumbled across a boyfriend.

He’s already asked for dates #2 & #3.

T- Will you have ice cream with me on Sunday afternoon?

J- Uhh… that’s awfully brave? What if it goes terribly and we have another date to get through?

T- No worries, I like ice cream enough that it’s still worth it.

J- I do love their coffee ice cream.

T- It’s a date then. Forgive me if I’m being too forward. What I know of you so far is amazing and I’m not going to waste an opportunity to have you in my life.


He sent me a message on his way to bed.

T- I can’t wait to have dinner with you tomorrow.

J- See you then 🙂

I’m heavy hearted but determined to get over this enormous burden. Reluctant only because I’m loyal to a fault and far too hopeful when it comes to believing in happily ever after.

As much as I want to read my favorite book over and over again, I’d never have found it in the first place if I hadn’t had the courage to try new things and explore different pages.

Here’s to new stories with much happier endings.



Mr. Spoiled

There’s a little magic in dating the boys you’d never consider. I’m not sure why that is, it just IS. I lose that nervous chaos that threatens to drown me when I’m not excited to go on a date. I’m able to just be myself and experience it for what it is….


Internet dating is the definition of hell. It’s a sea of blind dates, not even selected by loving friends with your best intentions in mind. Oh no… these random weirdos that flood by inbox are all just inspired by a few words and a couple pictures of yours truly. My profile states two absolute things that I cannot negotiate anymore.

You have to hate Donald Trump and love tomatoes if you ever want to see me naked.

Period. Everything else is negotiable.

If I were going to be completely honest though, I definitely have a type. I’m not height specific… because at 5’4″ I can comfortably wear heels with even the shortest of men, the one bonus of having short legs myself. No offense to the scrawny guys of the world but the only lean thing I enjoy is my diet, and even that’s a stretch. Gym rats are douchebags, full stop. I want a man who can appreciate my cooking as much as he does me. I’m not eye color or hair color specific either, I just crave a real man. One who can teach me something and stand up to me. It’s more holy grail than garden variety, which is why I’ve been single for most of my adult life. I’m content creating my own entertainment, paying my own way and taking responsibility for my own happiness.

I’m really good at being happy alone.

I’m also really great at being the perfect girlfriend… something I don’t always appreciate about myself. I tend to get lost in being happy and its been really nice finding pleasure in my own company and taking care of myself instead of the object of my desire. I started dating in the 7th grade and didn’t stop until I turned 37. Thirty years of constant attention and I was over it all. 6 years later, I’ve realized how much peace there is in NOT being part of a couple. I want to be a blessing, not a facilitator and I need to be considered in return. Until I get comfortable asking for that, I’m out of the pool.

But I’m going to date the ABSOLUTELY NOT’S in the meantime, so that I can laugh a little and write a lot.

Mr. Spoiled is a Californian lawyer. He flies in every weekend to spend his off time at his family “cabin” on the lake where I live. I’ve seen pictures. This is NOT a cabin.

My grandmother used to say ” You can love a rich man just as easily as you can love a poor man”… but I don’t find that to be true. I don’t like rich boys, at all. Ever. I find a display of wealth, nauseating. So when I got his email, I agreed and he insisted on taking me to a “cozy little Italian place he found that he knew I’d love.”

Y’all. I live in a small town. There aren’t many new restaurants and if there are, none of them are a secret from anyone. With that same small town in mind, I don’t love city folk that flock here and junk up my life every weekend.

This man is realllllly not my type but it is my favorite Italian restaurant and I’ve got a mean case of writer’s block.

So I agreed to meet him for dinner on Saturday night and went on about my life. Not stressing the impending date because he was weird and I wasn’t attracted to him at all. He started texting me picture of him flying his plane, out for expensive meals, on big boats… etc. I get that it’s a thing for some girls but for me, it’s somewhat insulting.

I don’t have a price tag and all the money in the world can’t buy your way in to any part of me or my life. Period. Hearing a man talk about his wealth, makes me dry and annoyed.

I intentionally arrived late after a dozen whiny text messages from him about the full parking lot. Whiners wait… it’s a rule of mine that I enjoy inflicting.

He was visibly perturbed when I got to the table and met my gaze with a long look at my chest.

Charming. Also just as I expected.

J- William, nice to meet you.

I held my hand out and he half-heartedly shook mine with a limp grip. Oy vey… I didn’t expect it to be that bad.

W- I brought a bottle from my cellar. I figured we should celebrate the night we started to live happily ever after.

(eyeroll) I know some people would be loving every minute of this, but I’m struggling to keep the oyster mushroom risotto I made for lunch, down.


Bubbles do delight me, though… and one sip told me I was drinking farrrrrr outside my price range. Mmmmm…. I wished my best girl were there to share a glass with because I already knew this would not be resulting in a second date.

Our server arrived and smiled pleasantly, when my atrocious date began ordering an imaginary item from the nonexistent menu. I must have looked as horrified as I felt, because he glared and half-snapped at me.

W- What. They have all those things.

J- It’s called a menu because that’s what they make. Can we please have a few minutes to decide?

The server hurried away and he glared at me again.

J- Yeah, no. You need to read that menu and find something you like. My friends work here, shame on you. If you want to design your own dinner, cook it your damn self. They print menus for a reason and pains in the ass like you drive everyone stark raving mad every summer.

Ooops. I can see by the look on his face that he’s not thrilled. Fun. We haven’t even gotten drinks yet.

I ordered a salad and he ordered the same while complaining that they didn’t have deep dish pizza and asking for a comment card. The server smiled apologetically at me and we sunk into the big wait to eat and run. Our salads came out in seconds and that same server winked as she walked away. We both practically inhaled our dinners and were out the door in under an hour. He smiled provocatively at me on our way out the door.

W- My place or yours?

J- Both. I’ll see you later, thanks for dinner!

W- Dessert?

J- Not tonight.

I was home in time to read to the Dumpling and watch a few episodes of The Handmaid’s Tale.

Just what the doctor ordered after an awful date with an entitled brat. ♥



I’m a very strong woman. I do damn near everything, by myself. I don’t ask for help and I don’t wait for any. If there’s a posibility I can do something, I try. Nothing intimidates me.

But when it comes to mice, I lose my fucking mind.

That’s an understatement. I am actually the lady that jumps up on the furniture and screams bloody murder.

I was talking to my beloved Little Red last night, when the first sign of horror, appeared. It ran out from underneath my greenhouse shelves and deadass looked me in the eye. I leaped on to the chair behind me, screaming. The dog and cat began chasing it around, which only inspires me to scream more.

Meanwhile, my daughter is howling in laughter and I can’t catch my breath.

LR- Oh fuck. It’s a mouse. It has to be. That’s a real scream.

Don’t mind me, I’m just losing my shit over a half ounce of vermin, when another one runs out.


It’s time to move.

And scream, which I cannot stop and do spontaneously if the damn thing moves. I can’t go inside because the Dumpling is asleep and I’ll scare her to death if I scream her awake. So I’m on the chair, howling like a spider monkey…. when my neighbor comes running up the driveway.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy someone comes running when I’m screaming, but I’m also stuck on a chair in the middle of my greenhouse as the dog and cat chase a mouse around me.

Still screaming.

Also apologizing and explaining the mouse situation as he retreats back down the driveway, laughing.

The mouse finally escaped and I was able to run for the house. I tossed a half dozen sticky traps into the greenhouse and went to bed, destined for a restless night of mouse nightmares.

and woke up to all of the traps, full. With live mice. Dear God. Now what? All I can think of is using my kitchen tongs to pick them up and throw them away? Uck, I did not think this through.

I’m also terribly troubled at the thought of how many there must be if I caught 6 in one night.

Christ on the cross, I need a realtor.

Truth or Drink

The last question delivers the best response I think I’ve ever heard in my life.

Q: Are you happy for me now?

A: No. You’re not with me. Why would I be happy for you??

Q: Does that mean you’re not happy for me, for real?

A: As far as your business and your professional career, I am extremely happy for you. Fuck your romantic life if it aint got nothin to do with me.

Ladies and gentlemen, that’s some GOLDEN honesty right there.

I think I need this game. I’m all about asking the hard questions and swallowing the answers I wasn’t prepared for. I wanna play this. I am a little worried that I’d end up sober and pissed off though. The truth doesn’t scare me and being honest about my feelings is kind of one of my superpowers.

I could drink someone into a coma with a little painful truth, though. I guess somewhere along the way, I learned how valuable it is to be honest and forthcoming about feelings.

Drunk people are deliciously honest, can you imagine how badly this could go?

I ordered it. We’ll see.

30 Days of Truth, Day 13

Day 13 — A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)

Dear Taylor Swift,

I hate country music. Bone deep, hate it. I work with someone who likes it and I’ve recently been subjected to him singing it, out loud. I’m positive my ears are bleeding while he laughs and makes the most atrocious music, worse.


Once upon a super dark time, I had another coworker/friend that loved you. My home life was in shambles, I was pregnant with the Dumpling, waiting tables at night and farming all day. It wasn’t the easiest times, to say the least.

Never in a million years did I think I’d look back and remember a few of your songs, fondly.

I’d walk in a half hour early to work, to hear him screeching and you screaming alongside him. It put a smile on my face, something I wasn’t able to do myself.

He’d turn it up until we got in trouble for you shaking the walls with the latest heartbreak we all could relate to. I hated him for my being able to silently sing along… but when the shit hit the fan and I was left holding the broken pieces of the bright future I thought I was building…

There you were.

With those same sad songs that tortured me into laughing during some of the scariest, darkest hours of my life.

Thank you… for the late nights I cried over and the early mornings you sang us both awake and laughing. I never thought I’d say it… but I adore you and appreciate the many times you reminded me to sing instead of cry..

xoxo J