Big Dick Tom

It’s been another insanely high traffic day around here and I’m feeling a little naked. My email has been screaming at me with comments and pingbacks. I logged in this afternoon only to see that stupid Ok Cupid has charged me for another month.

ARGh. This is what they do. I should have checked… so I go in to delete it permanently, and see a message from the guy I’d been talking to & left hanging a few weeks ago…

I shoot him my number and tell him I’m deleting the dumb app, and get an instantaneous response.

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For the record. They all think their dick is amazing. Men are the quintessential opposite to women. Even the tiny fellas think their little peanut is stellar… and sometimes even more so the smaller it is. Tom just turned 30 and I would be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling guilty for being 12 years older than him.

The next text comes in like a baseball bat. Literally.

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No big deal. Just a red hot, armed assassin. I have so many questions. What do you even do with that? I know a few of my favorite things are completely out of the question. I’m dying to know if he gets light headed from the blood loss of getting an erection, because DAMN.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to admit that I’ve never really cared much about size. I can think of two that stand out as noteworthy in regards to size, and neither were there for my favorite orgasms.

From my experience:

Small is horrible. No amount of nice character traits make up for how utterly disappointing it is. Sorry, these are facts. Short and fat beats long and thin, any day. Pencil peen is a deal-breaker. The chance of an orgasm with this one is between slim & none, and Slim left town. For the record, Slim would never be invited TO my town.

Average is what we’re used to seeing 99% of the time. He’s learned to do whatever fun things he can to make his average member, exceptional. I’ll take an inspired average dick over a lazy large one, any day. I’m guaranteed to get there in 5-7 minutes if he’s lazy, but average guys rarely are.

Just like billion dollar lottery tickets, occasionally the heavens open up and God throws out a unicorn. Big dicks are the unicorns of the single world. Gay or straight, it’s a very nice surprise. It’s akin to winning the bonus round of the dating lottery. They aren’t usually attached to the nicest people though, because men learn really fast how much  power there is in a Unicorn. This is a guaranteed, instant orgasm on contact. If not 2 3 4?

There are some places only a Unicorn can take you to.

I looked at the picture of his massive member a half dozen times before calling the Songbird.

J- Hey. I have to send you something, but I want you to apologize to the boyfriend for me first, and I have to prepare you for it.

S- 😂😂😂🔥😂😂😂😂😂☠😂😂😂😂

S- ☠☠☠

S- Holy fucking dick.

J- Right?

S- Eeek. That would rearrange everything. You could only do that on a Friday so that you could be able to come to work on Monday.

She’s right. This is special occasion dick unless you’ve always wanted to know how those cheap, hollow chocolate bunnies feel. I’m really lucky when it comes to being easily satisfied, so I feel like I don’t need a sure thing.

But here we are, faced with the eighth wonder of the world and I have questions.

He’s quick with the dick pics and dialing. I’ve already saved him as “Big Dick Tom” in my phone and am struck by the fact that this is the first guy to actually call. I’m excited to ask him some of these things.

BDT- Hey doll. I’m Tom. How you doin?

Oh no. He’s east coast saucy and I have visions of violent ice hockey to add to the lengthy menu of fantasies this sweet boy brings to the table.

Confession: I have a soft spot for hockey players. Nothing inspires me more than a bunch of big, strong men, beating the shit out of each other for the puck. It’s the only sport I love more than football.

Same goes for that accent of his. He could just whisper “Boston” a few times and I’d be all set. There’s something about those princes of Maine, those kings of New England.

BDT- I wanna see you naked.

This new dating stuff is tough to work with. You see his dick five minutes in, and if you’re game- he could be at your house within the hour.

But I’m more Crock Pot than Instant Pot and I learned a valuable lesson from Incredicock. I’m ok with casual sex, HOWEVER; I am not content to be told when I can have it. This is a two way street and I need to be able to pick up the phone and order a half pound of cock when the mood strikes me. That’s the WHOLE reason you settle for casual.

I’ve learned some contemporary dating lessons with training wheels and now I just have to apply them to Big Dick Tom.

Pray that I live to tell the tale.

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When I started writing, I was in the end stages of a long term relationship with a lazy hippie. I had spent nearly a decade trying to love him into being a better man. He really only wanted to smoke pot and day drink, while I had visions of white dresses and one last baby. It came to a fiery end, and I continued writing to keep myself company in my suddenly empty house. Being single was new to me. I’d had a boyfriend since I was 14 and really had no idea how it looked to not belong to someone. I’d lost myself entirely and didn’t even know what I liked or disliked anymore. I distinctly remember someone asking me what my favorite color was, and his favorite shade of blue instantly came to mind. I think it was the first time I had the chance to get to know myself. (For the record, I like purple.)

I collect skills when I’m bored. I learned how to rewire my garage when the old stuff started to short out. I taught myself to knit. Youtube and Google give me FAR too much confidence in not ever having to ask for help. I’ve made chicken wire bean tunnels, built furniture and retiled the kitchen. Currently, I’m trying to figure out how to cover the old brick fireplace in my living room with stone.   It sounds fun, but it’s more like haphazard crafting ADHD.

I did some hysterically funny dating. I was so uncomfortable with myself and in my own skin that I hand picked the weirdest weirdos I could find. I wasn’t uncomfortable if I wasn’t attracted to him, so I got my feet back under myself in the strangest of circumstances.

I learned that I definitely have a type.

Ok, maybe more than one.

I flew 15 hours to Puerto Rico for a first date with a fellow blogger who’d romanced me for a year. It turned out he was a married psychopath. Just because a vacation is free, doesn’t mean you should go. Also, con-men should avoid bloggers. I may be a little too adventurous for my own good, but I have no regrets because it ends up being a lesson either way.

I met the perfect guy. We fell in love instantly and made a beautiful baby together. We broke up just before she was born. We’re friends now, and share her peacefully. He got married right after she was born and they live in a different state.

I stopped writing. I’d had to look at a 4 inch tall stack of printed out blog entries in family court for an entire year. It’s all fine and good to be proud of your blowjob, but do you really want to have to discuss it when your baby’s life is on the line? No. Let me assure you. You do not.

One thing still silences me faster than anything, though. When the stats go shooting to the sky and WordPress chimes at me all day that traffic is booming. Yesterday was definitely one of  those days.

Once upon a time, nobody read this shit. For the first five years, I posted pictures of my children, my house… hell my naked ass is on one of the many that have been set to private. I refer to it as my journal and my friends laugh at me because they’re reading it too.

It still surprises me when the floodgates open and I make a thousand new friends in a day. Especially when new countries show up on the map. This morning it was Bosnia and  Herzegovina.

Hey there… nice to meet all of you! Feel free to introduce yourselves 🙂

Thirsty

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Well no, Jesus, I haven’t.

I’ve drunk from the water that makes me want more fucking water.

It’s a difficult thing to navigate as a lady, because I’m inclined to just ask. I want what I want, when I want it, and I’d rather accept defeat than entertain drama or guilt. I don’t feel bad for being comfortable with my sexuality. I never will.

But.

When you’ve been celibate for 5 years and you make some whim decision to let Pandora out of her box?

The hangover is intense.

I crave him so much physically that the willpower I possess  for food is far beyond the threshold I have for resisting the urge to beg him like I’m inclined to.

My phone shouts YUMMY every time he texts me and it cracks me up. The Dumpling thinks it’s hilarious too..

D- I like it when your phone says YUMMY! YUMMY! YUMMY!

Mommy does too.

I’ve run myself into a smaller size as a result of all this frustration, and my best friend is scheduling an intervention to help do a clean sweep of him out of my phone and off of the iPad, which is an unfortunate necessity. The temptation is intoxicating enough, but after two glasses of wine, I start to drown in it and reason is the first to escape me.

Goddamn Pandora. I’ve crammed her back into the box and I’m duck taping it shut. It’s too distracting to listen to her whine and as much as I celebrate my sexuality, I refuse to be controlled by it. If I could snap my fingers and he’d be in my sheets? I’d be snapping my fingers all damn day and I have shit to do.

Some men know too much and it fucks you up a little when he reads your mind while giving you a whole new list of favorites.

Inspired men are dangerous.

and Yummy…

 

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 🙂

foxy

 

RIP: Mr. Grey

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There’s a reason Cliff Notes have been so popular. They work. Don’t fuck with what works. Don’t fix what isn’t broken.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if the man I’m involved with has a cheat sheet to follow.

I had an epic weekend… smoky, tipsy-fabulous in fishnets and stilettos, sporting the same smile that’s gotten me into trouble since I first discovered it could turn the tide my way. It was a perfect night with a girlfriend of mine and I didn’t fall into bed until 3 in the morning.

I woke up at 6 because I’m a mommy and I’m usually up at 4:30 to run.. I forced myself to go back to sleep in anticipation of my hot date later that night. I fought my way through every 15 minutes until 8.

My coffee was less than exciting.

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My flight was delayed. Every single flight on my airline was delayed. I’d cockblocked myself by not shaving my legs before I left and was DYING that I was approaching this date without the grooming I demand of myself. Whatevs. This is celibate dating. I don’t have to worry about shaving in the way I do when inspired.

But I’m so inspired I’m ready to let La Perla work it’s magic and everyone knows you can’t wear fancy panties with hairy legs.

I called in some epic favors and flew home by 5. I made an unrealistic drive home, in an hour and change. I probably averaged 85 mph, I flew in the front door and ran to the shower, throwing off clothes as I went. Clip, clip, stockings. Swish, panties. Clip, bra. Into heaven with a brand new razor. I may actually be on time.

His messages whistling at me only make me shave faster.

Out and dry, I ripped open the new stockings I bought on vacation. Panties can either be functional or fucktional and I prefer the latter if I’m buying them for recreation. These fit the bill.. There are rose gold rings tying corsets across the ass I’m working hard to perfect, and I am quite happy with the visual.

I’m bait, in heels. It’s our 4th date and my house is empty. It’s take no prisoners at this point and I’m a formidable opponent.

Driving to meet him was surreal, as I DO NOT TAKE DATES ANYWHERE I KNOW ANYONE. I take them to the worst restaurant in town so I’m not sad if I can’t go back.

Until Miss Fancy spoke up.

F- Uh. No. If it sucks, you should at least have a nice meal.

(I’m actually eating that same delicious dinner right now, and she is %100 correct.)

When faced with the choice of who to find first, I went in search of Miss Fancy. He found me, chatting with her and I had to bite my teeth together to keep my jaw from dropping.

He’s wearing tennis shoes. Jeans. Nondescript button down shirt. To my best friend’s restaurant. I look lovely, if I do say so myself, and he looks like he studied for the SAT’s last night. No tie. After enough interest, if he ignores your shameless objectification and the easy opportunity to capitalize on it, throw him out with last week’s news.

But, it all really comes down to one last detail that has me annoyed.

He didn’t shave.

I risked life and limb to deliver silky parts to him and he couldn’t navigate his face.

Our server greets us and asks for our drink order. He announces that he’s having whatever I’m having. I ordered a dirty Bombay Sapphire martini. I don’t think he’s had one before because he’s gingerly sipping it and not enjoying it in the slightest. I’m silently pleased.

She returns for our order and he says he read the menu on the way up and orders the only boring thing on it. Pasta and chicken. Ok. I order steak and he stuns me.

G- I haven’t eaten a bite of steak since I was 8. I don’t want to develop a taste for it and I had a really bloody, gross steak then so it’s easy to think of it as gross.

J- Ok that’s insane. Taste this. I can’t even order anything else on the menu because this is so good.

He wont even taste it. He ordered us steak on our first date and I realize it was just because he knew it was what I like. While I appreciate that, I just don’t think I can love a man who can’t appreciate a good steak. I’ve said for years that I’ll know it’s the right one when he can cook my steak properly. Every single man I have ever loved has overcooked them, and I have a penchant for men who can cook, so that’s saying something.

G- I’ve never had a cheeseburger and won’t try that either. I guess I like being able to say that, so why try one now?

WTF? I happen to know the Cheeseburger Queen and I instantly argue against this stupid idea of his.

J- Oh no, friend. I draw the line at cheeseburgers. That’s just wrong.

G- Nope. Not even a taste.

Ok. I’ve heard enough. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. Time to wrap this insanity up.

He held the door for me and stopped at his car in the parking lot. It’s late, dark and I’m parked on the other side of the lot. I gave him an unimpressed half-smile and he hugged me.

G- Let’s do this again soon!

J- Thank you for dinner.

I walked to my car and waited until his headlights took a right turn on the highway and blew him a kiss as he drove out of my life again.

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I can do a lot of things with a little bit of a man. I am the queen of making the most of a bad situation and I do not expect enough…..

But I draw the line at cheeseburgers and I demand a certain amount of effort if my ass is literally in a corset.

I crave a dirty, hard working man, not a rich guy who brags about working 25 hours a week and can’t find the time to iron, shave or tie himself into what he knows I love.

No thank you.

I went back in and laughed over a glass of wine with my best girl. Bemoaning the terrible quality of available men and my silky single legs only reminds me how stupid this stuff all is. I’d rather have dinner with her than any guy and this dumpster fire situation with Mr. Grey isn’t worth sacrificing all my free time to.

I’m over it. It’s knitting season and I’d rather whip up a few chastity belts than suffer through another dumb date.

Bible Study

Let me preface this by saying that I never imagined I’d be going to heaven. Good thing too, because this could land me in purgatory forever.

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I realize I’m far too adventurous for my own good, but I have never resisted temptation before and I don’t intend to start now. I’m an amused atheist at best, so I’m afraid this is too tempting to resist, even for me.

I was so tickled by the idea that I told my coworkers yesterday. The songbird laughed.

S- I know this is happening soon, because of your big date this weekend. What are you wearing?

Reason #5076 I’m going to hell.

I flew home, made dinner, read bedtime stories and jumped in the shower as the sitter walked in. The Dumpling is overjoyed and I’m running 25 minutes late.

The Foreplay King is taking me to this bizarre date and I am rising to the occasion in every way I can. Shaved, waxed, painted and flying out the door in a fog of expensive perfume and fear.

I have an hour drive and I am second guessing everything I’ve done since the last time I went to confession, which was in 2011. I catch sight of my fishnet stockings and laugh for the first time in days. A full belly laugh that has me wiping tears out of the corners of my heavily made up eyes. Straight to hell, ha ha ha.

I’m fading and so tired. I worked all weekend and am in desperate need of a nap. I pulled into the next gas station I saw and ran in. Two hot pink Monsters in my hand, beef jerky, because I’m starving, and the cashier raises an eyebrow at me. It’s five and I’m dressed for ten. I grinned and paid the confused man.

We don’t have hookers in North Idaho. I’m sure I’ve given the man quite a story.

Because?

I unearthed my black leather miniskirt from the box of skinny clothes in the garage, and laced myself into my favorite black corset for good measure. Clipping into those fishnet stockings was merely the icing on the ass cake.

My little cardigan isn’t fooling anyone, all I’m missing is a riding crop.

I called him as I got in the car.

J- You better dress up. The gas station guy just gave me wide eyes.

G- I am SO excited. Also dressed. Hurry, I can’t wait to see what you picked.

I’ll stop right here and say that I knew full well that he was in a suit because I’ve given him plenty of motivation to do what I want. He was in Armani and I bit my lip so hard it bled. Something not allowed in his new car. He tugged me in through the kitchen door and the grey hit me in the chest.

Uhh.hhh…hh… This poor man likes me because I bring color to his life. Everything in his house is a shade of slate. I’m disappointed that my panties are black because I’d love to wander around this house half clad in red.

I wander into his closet and my mouth goes dry. Dear God. I understand a man’s proclivity for a garter belt after seeing his ties, hanging around me. I look up to see him standing in the doorway, smiling knowingly.

G- Sit.

I do.

G- You love purple, yes?

He pulls a grape satin tie off the hanger and wraps it around my neck. I can’t speak. My teeth are permanently embedded in my lip.

G- We need to go.

His hands are tying it instinctively and I’m doing my best to control my breathing. If he thinks I’m taking it off, he’s insane. It looks like I’m wearing a tie now, too.

He pulls me to the car by the tie he’s tied around my neck and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to cancel the whole adventure then and there. He drives a Tesla like my brother just bought and it hardly needs his attention to get us there.

J- These people are going to know we’re here with ill intentions..

G- Babydoll, everybody is here with ill intentions.

J- Let’s do this. I’m tired.

We got out of the car and walked into the restaurant, with his arm hanging protectively around my shoulders.

The second the door swung open, I was stunned. These are beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful people. A pretty blonde woman smiles at me as she eyes me from the ankles up.

Whoa. I wasn’t ready to be so popular. Suddenly we’re surrounded by our new friends and I’m being vetted as the new vag. My date is smiling at me, smugly and I feel uneasy.

S- Who are you? What makes you different?

Her question took me by surprise, because I actually feel compelled to answer it honestly.

J- I’m a mommy, first. I’m a designer, a seamstress, a farmer, a daughter, sister and best friend. I’m the worst enemy, the best cook, umm…. I don’t know?

I hear someone else say “I’m an accountant” and laugh at myself. What the fuck am I even doing in such a weird situation. I ordered a double Goose on the rocks and told Mr. Grey he was driving me home.

Grey is looking at me like I’m a t-bone and I’m inclined to volunteer as dinner. This is fucking weird and I’m not sure what to do next…. when the man beside me takes out a bible.

I stuck my hand out towards Mr. Grey in a desperate attempt to escape. He did not help. Alrighty then. Here we go.

M- Isaiah 4:1 And seven women shall take hold of one man in that day, saying, “We will eat our own bread and wear our own clothes, only let us be called by your name; take away our reproach.”

I saw Mr. Grey frown at my left eyebrow, which has a mind of it’s own.

J- and here I was feeling so guilty about having two. I need five more?

Yep. You could have heard a pin drop. My fishnets burned a little if I’m going to be honest. I’m also tired, pissed off and sick of foreplay. I shot a text to the man I’d like to have waiting for me when I get home. Don’t hate.

My biggest fear going into this crazy date was that I’d walk in and recognize someone and I’m really happy that I walked in and recognized myself for a change.

Stepping outside of your comfort zone is critical and I’ll continue to give into temptation at breakneck speed, but knowing your worth is everything. I will not be patronized and shamed by a bunch of freaky swingers. Absolutely not. We left shortly afterwards.

He drove me home, I drank three more glasses of wine and sent text messages I regret…

but at least I didn’t wake up with Polly and Dave.

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.)

………………………………………….

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.