Ask & you shall receive…

We’ve had a bit of turnover in the office lately and I’ve been wracking my brain trying to find a solution that didn’t involve me trying to fit more into an already insanely busy day. Trying to find someone that is honest, reliable and has some amount of skill is akin to my finding a date.

Possible? Sure. Likely? No.

My job involves a lot of sewing and design work. Those are pretty specialized skills and I made up my mind with the last woman that we lost that I needed to find a man to balance the estrogen in the office. He’d have to be strong to offset the intense female hierarchy. Not only did I need to find a man who could sew… I needed to be comfortable teaching & correcting him.

I needed a confident unicorn who could start as soon as possible with little to no training. Awesome. I was actually laughing about it to myself when Sober One Kenobe called.

J- You don’t know anybody who sews, do you?

MSOK- Man Card.

J- What?

MSOK- Yep.

They’ve gotten divorced since we used to hang out and it’s the first relationship that’s gone wrong in my circle of friends that really hit home. I was sure I’d be baking a cake at their 50th, and my heart still aches a little that it didn’t work out. I love her, I love him and I treasured them. It’s really awful when your favorite couple breaks up.

But.

She’s happily committed and cohabitating with her new guy… and Man Card is the Holy Grail of single men. In a lake full of perch… he’s the Kokanee we’re all after.

She was the first excited ex wife to call me, hoping he was the man at the center of my scorching hot blog posts. I don’t know when the idea hit me (or the two glasses of wine) but I asked her for a green light. I’d break a dozen of my own rules in this situation, but not without her blessing. She laughed at me for asking and rolled out the welcome mat.

Is it a bad thing to hire someone you’re attracted to? He’s my favorite guy. I would leave the Dumpling with him and I don’t leave her with anyone. I learned to trust him almost a decade ago.

So, I asked if he’d be interested and he agreed. I made him sew a variety of things yesterday and put him on the spot.

and I am so goddamn proud.

Sometimes, creatively- you are able to just let someone find what works for them. This is that moment. He’s detail oriented and listens. He’s actually really good and I had to send a video to my boss.

Beyond that? (Sorry MSOK).

He’s so fucking hot I’m going to have to get up at dawn to get ready for work and I have no choice but to add red meat back into my diet or he’s going to catch me looking at him like he’s lunch.

Shit…

This is why we didn’t have any men before. I get it now. I opened the door this morning to him standing there in that same flannel shirt and boots I’d been craving, smelling like inspiration and a few thousand words.

Shit just got real…

 

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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Hungry

Something happens when I start running again. The first week is agony, the second gets a lot easier and by the third week? I’m running before bed and getting up early to squeeze in a half hour before I have to get the day started.

Obsessed? Sure.

However, I could spend a good half hour discussing the magic of ice cream and talking to me about pasta could turn you on because I have pornographic feelings for carbohydrates. I had half a peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwich for lunch yesterday and my Songbird laughed.

S- That is the saddest lunch I’ve ever seen.

Honestly? It’s so fucking delicious that I have to close my eyes to chew it. Peanut butter is contraband. Bread is off limits. Jelly is a complete waste of calories.

But MY GOD. I can still fantasize that sandwich back into my mouth. It was worth it. I’ve been eating kale and swiss chard for months. By some stroke of good luck, a deer got stuck INSIDE my garden fence last week and annihilated every last leaf. The blessed sandwich was a result of that & nerves over my date tonight.

I bagged up another size to take to the thrift store and zipped into my very favorite jeans. Aaaahhhh. There are huge rewards to starvation and pain. These jeans are worth a year of kale. The sight of my ass in these pants is more satisfying than food and I know from previous experience that the beautiful man I’m seeing is an ass man. I added two new squats this week and it feels like I got stung by a bee when I sit down. That means it’s working, right?

Reaching for my coffee feels like an aerobic move and I can feel my entire muscular structure when I type. To say I’m sore is quite the understatement. I’m a tightly wound bundle of nervous tension and my mind is wandering in places it shouldn’t. I sent Mr. Incredicock a picture, thanked him for putting my fingers back on the keys and fucking me so well I have the confidence to go on this date. Then deleted him out of my phone for my own good because I crave him in the worst way. Great sex is a mixed blessing when you can’t have it whenever you want, and fucking him is like experimenting with heroin.

Even the thought of him gets me back on the damn elliptical machine. Contrary to popular belief, you can actually run from your problems. It does amazing things for your ass.

I’m mid run when Mr. Grey calls. I can’t talk so he’s telling me about his day and the cases he’s litigating in court tomorrow. I’m trying not to pant and he stops mid sentence.

G- Where are my manners? Hello Miss. How’s your day?

J- Great!

G- I can’t wait to see you.

Off the elliptical. Breathless, sweaty and a little sick to my stomach with nerves.

G- Bring your appetite. They’re known for steak and I know you’re hungry.

Someone should warn him just how right he is.

Buy, buy, Baby.

The people closest to me know I am something of a bedding snob.

I worship at the altar of thread count and Egyptian cotton. Deep pocket sheets, silky soft duvets with oversize mother of pearl buttons, down comforters, fluffy soft pillows… I love it all. I don’t spend much time in bed, but when I do? It’s paradise.

I would rather have 800 beautiful threads per inch from the Goodwill, than brand new percale from Walmart. I’d honestly rather sleep in a chair. If you don’t believe there’s a difference, email me. I’ll lead you to the promised land.

Mr. Grey just bought a house and is shopping for the necessary and desired things to fill it. It’s somewhat painful to watch a man shop for necessities with all the effort of a Craigslist search.

Anything will NOT do. I’m ridiculously frugal whilst being an enormous snob. It’s a challenge to find the very best at the lowest price, but I’m a savvy shopper. This is that one place in my life where my stubborn nature, actually helps out.

I canceled our date. I’m not in the mood for visual foreplay that’s 80 days out. I’m already having a hard week and I have enough sense to tap out when I know I need to. He was delightfully sweet about it.

G- Where would you recommend I buy bedding online?

Oh.

My.

Here we go.

He’s a shark. I’m absentmindedly biting a hole in my lip while his texts whistle in on top of each other like a digital orgasm.

G- Sheets, a duvet, a down comforter and pillows.

This stealthy man belongs in slate grey and Hungarian Goose down. Also if I’m sleeping in that bed, I’m buying my favorites.

Or he is. I filled up the shopping cart at my very favorite place to outfit my bed and hesitated. The one I want to put in the cart is $800.

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Of course I picked out my favorite. Sheets yesterday. Feathers today. Be still my heart.

$1,320.29 later… it’s shaping up to be a spectacular slumber party.

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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 ♥

Game Changer

My Songbird came over last night to play and work. I’m stupid tired on this 4:00 AM workout schedule. I want my body back as much as the next girl, but I am SO tired. My everything hurts and not in any way I can smile about. I’m pretty sure I feel muscles that are attached to my soul when I cough.

Hello Tinder, my new broken-heart babysitter. I can no longer turn the sounds on. It’s a symphony of dick-pic wielding men that I am marginally attracted to. My inbox looks like a who’s-who of every vice and bad habit I’ve had since adolescence. How bad could it be, right? Yeah, they’re all strangers, but at this point, I don’t know a man who isn’t. What do I have to lose?

Faith, that’s what.

I’m already short on it and this cesspool of backwards hats, naked chests and instant messages from guys who want to show me just how exciting their little fella is, makes me wantonly homosexual. Girls are so much hotter when they’re thirsty.

Which is when my exceeeeeeeedingly hot Gonzaga law school date from the past, now lawyer, popped up on my Tinder feed.

Yaaaaaassssssssss!!!! I definitely danced around the kitchen. The Songbird laughed.

See what I mean about thirsty girls being hotter?

When I met him, he was 24 and in the midst of divorcing his Mormon high school sweetheart. I was in my thirties and enjoying the hell out of exploring my sexuality. He didn’t know what hit him. Neither did I, to be honest. All I had to do was turn the lights on and he was out of his mind with inspiration. It was an incredibly satisfying situation, but he lived too far away and was buried in law school.

He’d never been to a strip club. I took him all sorts of places and showed him all sorts of things and we saw each other frequently until he got a girlfriend who locked him down.

I saw him a few times over the years when the dates lined up and we were both single & free. It was a beautiful sexual friendship, and he always insisted on taking me to dinner, watching a movie, etc- all the trappings of a real date that you knew was going to end successfully. To put it mildly.

Treat me like a lady and I will fuck you with the inspiration of a thousand whores. I have a few specific weaknesses and my favorite men are smart enough to exploit them. I love a man with manners, impeccable grammar and more neckties than I can count. The guy that pushes your mama’s chair in at dinner, then ties you to the bed when you get home.  This is that man.

50 shades of yes please and thank you.

The last time I saw him, he called and asked if I was free. I was.

Confession: nothing makes my heart race faster than unbuttoning a man in a starched dress shirt. Ok, maybe cuff links. <swoon> He walked in like my wet dream come to life, bit my bottom lip when he kissed me and pulled me by the hand out the door and off to dinner. It was a great night to end on.

He’s incredibly intelligent and had researched a few languages to talk to me in after he found out that was a serious weakness of mine. Educated inspiration, y’all… it’s a great thing. No request too great or questionable. He was my very own human sex toy, for lack of a more graceful way to put it. Smart men have always been my downfall and he’s my favorite, to date. It never got messy, he was just too far away and life was too busy. I’m not sure when we lost touch, but it’s been at least 7 years?

Until today, when yours truly got one hell of a hot text message after I sent him my number on Tinder.

L- Can I take you to dinner?

I might have to wife him up this time.

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Reality Check

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My phone has a life of its own. Tinder is a whole new experience for me and I am quite popular, it seems. It’s less than exciting, but whatever works.

A booty call incinerates me from the ground up, but it’s difficult to walk around smoldering all the time. Don’t judge…I’m coping and it’s working. It’s been invaluable in helping me melt myself back together. I got my heart broken falling in love with Mr. Perfection, again.

Old habits die hard, my friends and I am a huge glutton for punishment when it comes to he who wields the whisk.

Being stupid in love with someone you know is not in love with you, is an act of insanity. I knew he was coming to visit this summer and I promised myself I would close my eyes and head back out to the garden to pull weeds. It was hell the last time I’d seen him and we were finally friends again so a huge part of me wanted to avoid him, altogether.

The same way I don’t casually smoke anymore… I wanted to abstain from my love affair with Perfection.

I just couldn’t.

Miss Lovely and Mrs. Gorgeous talked me into going to a show where he’d be. I tried to decline. I really did. I had long talks with myself about the state of my heart where he was concerned. The juice was not worth the squeeze, and I knew it. That didn’t stop me either. Five years had left me vulnerable and he’d been the center of my fantasies for a very long time. Both intentionally and otherwise.

I wanted to see him. I didn’t care about the cost and I knew it would be steep. I put the right panties on that evening, knowing he’d be the one taking them off. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

Just seeing him gives me butterflies and makes my mouth dry. I knew I should leave as soon as he said hello and touched my hand. I smiled at him and his cologne hit me as he moved close to hug me. I held my breath. It didn’t help. I hate beards and he is looking quite Amish… but the truth about women is that we hold no standards or restrictions for the men we love most. He could look like he’s part of the Duck Dynasty family and I would still adore him. He’s my Perfection. All my filters are disabled and I’m throwing every single standard and rule I have, out the window.

I knew I was welcoming suffering when I felt him grab my fingertips and pull me over to take a shot with the rest of them. The lines were getting blurry and he was morphing into the version of him that I love most. Unfortunately, that guy only shows up when he’s drunk.

P- You look really good. I’ve missed you. Sorry I haven’t been in touch.

J- I’m sorry you’re going to wind up in my bed tonight.

It’s different when you are emotionally intimate with someone and he’s been there for me as a friend through some of the most horrible times. He is my walking-talking-dream guy when he’s 6 inches away, but he’s a few thousand miles away and he quickly becomes my football pal and the reason I cry over mimosas with my best friend, Miss Fancy.

Back in the friend zone… bleeding from the heart and drowning in regret. He’s gone in the wind from the moment his flight takes off.

I’m ashamed of myself for immediately throwing all my lessons out the window and forgetting that the past repeats itself if you forget the lessons you were supposed to learn the first time.

I will love again, I can still be and feel sexy and someday, hopefully in the not too distant future, I’ll stop thinking about him every time a sad song comes on. I deleted him out of my phone, off the iPad and just away.

I gave his text tone to the man who curls my toes and I set myself free from waiting. It’s the only grown thing to do because happiness begets happiness, and he only makes my heart ache. In a perfect world, it’d be completely different, but here we are and here it is.

It’s finally behind me and I can look at my bed again without feeling hollow. Say what you will, but I do believe the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and a friend did for me what I could not do for myself. He erased the touch that was haunting me by blowing my mind, kissed me blind so I could forget and reminded me that I want far more than to be a vacation highlight.

Sometimes it’s heartache that heals the most.

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