Fresh Butternutty Goodness

I love love love seeing 10 hits on my blog. I feel like celebrating.

Gone are those 1000+ days. Amen.

I deleted all the baggage and cut all my ties.

I’ve been watching Hoarders lately and felt the same way about my blog. It had piles of shit I didn’t like, recognize or want anymore. It was so infested with douche bags and liars that the clean up would have been exhausting and endless- so instead I just burnt the whole fucker down- like most of the people on that show should do with their houses!

🙂 Ahhh. Peace. Clean sheets, new socks and your favorite sweatpants, sort of cozy freshness.

I’d documented my midlife crisis and sad attempts at having faith in the worst of humanity and took the last, very necessary response… and threw it all into the fire.

When you don’t like the view in the rear-view mirror anymore, you need a change of scenery and a fresh perspective.

Now I don’t mind writing anymore, though I may bore everyone to death with recipes, teething woes and too much gardening…

but at the very least… you’ll get to eat great food because I’m a domestic whirlwind these days. Behold! The perfect butternut squash soup, in my not-so-humble opinion… to celebrate this nice clean house.

My Better Butternut soup

8 cups good chicken stock. I make mine- you can do the same easily or buy it pre-made. Buy the organic one, really… because commercial chickens are perhaps the least respected meat raised and you should do your part to stop it. Even if your part is lazy- it counts. Ish.

1/2 c. Butter

2 c. Shallots. They’re the Filet Mignon of onions- trust me- spend the extra $.

3 cloves Garlic, minced, and while you’re at it- plant some! Garlic goes in to the ground this week and it’s so delicious home grown!

3.5-4 lb Butternut squash. Peel, seed and chop it into cubes. It’s a smooth textured winter squash and its glorious if you’re type A like me and want to see perfect orange cubes in a big white bowl.

2 c. Pumpkin puree. Finally something to make with all those pumpkins from the garden or in a can from the store- it all tastes the same.

1 c. Half & half

Just typing this recipe up makes me want to go make some more, and I just finished the batch I made this week for breakfast this morning.

s1

Dice your shallots and garlic while the butter melts in your stock pot. Let them soften over low-medium heat until they’re translucent. Add your chicken broth and bring to a boil over medium heat. Add your butternut squash cubes and pumpkin puree.  Simmer until the cubes of squash are soft and use your stick blender (don’t tell me you don’t have one. Go buy one!) until roughly half the cubes of butternut squash are blended. It will be a creamy lumpy texture and smell like heaven. Salt & pepper to taste.

s2

Add your half & half and stir, stir, stir. I usually make some naan or croutons to go along with it, but it’s good all by itself too. Enjoy a fresh & happy fall!

mmm

Confession

I don’t have the answers.

Nor do I know all the questions or always ace the test. I get so many emails from women asking me to help them or tell them what they already know. I know just as little as all of you. I’ve just failed, publicly. I just admit when I’m wrong. I highly recommend trying it.

I don’t know everything.

In fact I know very little but do my best to fake it convincingly. Making a list of priorities helps, but I still get lost along the way when I’m not paying attention.

I fail regularly.

I make a huge effort to avoid the situation entirely, but I’ve been known to make the wrong choice, more times than I can count. (please don’t help) I accept it all because it’s brought to me to where I am today- staring my fairytale in the face. When you strive to be better, good things just happen. When I valued myself more, I ended up chin deep in love and appreciated down to my unattractive toes. When I took the sale sign off that I’d been wearing around my neck, I woke up in the middle of the best dream I’ve ever had, only to realize it was my life. I’m quite imperfect, and I’m loved for my imperfections. For all I’ve ranted and raved the past two years about what we all deserved and how badly I’d chosen… I never dreamed a man could be THIS good.

I don’t feel like an adult yet.

I still call my mom for help. I still wonder when I’ll have all the answers, like she does. She laughed the other day and said “Honey… I love you. What someone else thinks of you is none of your business.  Do you need eggs? Cucumbers? Flowers?” I’m still an asshole kid. I love hearing her messages but I’m a slacker about getting back to her. Sometimes her messages are just a comforting reminder that she loves me. As a mother I know she’s waiting for me to call back. I still don’t. Clearly, I’m still a child.

I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.

I feel bad for saying so, but I feel like I’ve really grown up and learned to swim in the happy details that feed me as a person, and not those that feed my insecurities. I’ve learned that alone doesn’t have to mean lonely and being in love with the right man makes you feel like a damn fool for ever discounting the woman he loves. I feel like I owe him an apology for every idiot I ever let take his place. He worries about my temperature, my smile and my soul. He makes me a nicer person and he qualifies me as the happiest women on earth… or at least puts me in running for the crown.  and I could only be happier if I had a crown on. Just sayin.

I love a man deeper than I ever knew possible.

He plans days designed around forcing me to play. He doesn’t let me politely decline to participate. He smiles a smile that sends shock waves through me and he makes me want to be nicer. He kisses me and I picture cloth diapers hanging on the line. It’s as biblical as I can get without making anyone uncomfortable. It’s a love that compels me to define it while I can’t even begin to throw every adjective I have at it. I love him more than I thought was possible and he safeguards the blessing. When I tell him I’m the luckiest girl, I’m not schmoozing him. I’m stating fact.

 

I really didn’t think nice men actually existed.

For all I rambled on and on about “real” men and ranted at the clearly pathetic examples… I had lost faith. I honestly thought they were all the same. Then I met my Superman… and ladies PLEASE… know he exists. My boyfriend is the greatest man I’ve ever known. He helps strangers in the grocery store parking lot. He plays with babies. He really is… super.

I have a huge ego… and my acre vegetable garden is testament to that fact.

In a week? I’ll be swimming in veg. My zucchini patch is just starting to produce. My 300 tomato plants are ripening, simultaneously. My 12 plum trees are just days away. I have knee high basil and 200′ of sweet corn setting ears. I have 15 heads of cabbage I have no idea what to do with. I have zinnias and sunflowers everywhere, and a million buds just beginning to open. I’m humbled by all of it… but damn if I don’t get carried away when it comes to planting this garden.

I love gas station food.

Especially the corn dogs, though I LOOOOVE those awfully unhealthy ham and cheese pocket thingies equally as much. I blame my hippie organic upbringing. I do my best to avoid it and this morning I was reminded of why I should. I bought a corn dog… and it was some sort of chili fan destruction of an already perfect food. I took a bite and it tasted like weird hot-dog laced chili and cornbread. Yuck. But yeah… I ate it anyway. A corndog is a corndog.

I survive on energy drinks.

I feel guilty buying them too- because I used to nag my son about drinking them. I humbly retract my preconceived notions regarding my Rockstar/Monster addiction. They get shit done.

I used to garden with music… now I garden in silence, because my thoughts are deafening.

I snack on peas, weed for hours and work out the worlds problems, in my head. I swear I got more done, faster, with martinis and Top 40, but whatever.

I’m bitter.

I’ve seen the worst of what mankind has to offer. I’ve been the victim of a sociopathic married liar and lived to tell the tale. I remain threatened by him and I’m bitter when I consider how stupid I”ve been and how reckless with my safety. I was destined to be special to someone amazing… how could I have been so stupid or held standards so low? I regret my mistakes.

I love the summer months where I spend little to nothing at the grocery store.

Toilet paper, pasta and pet food…. those are the grocery trips that dreams are made of. For all the friends I have that tell me I’m crazy… I laugh at them having to buy potatoes at the grocery store. I use it as my chance to get caught up on the bills I’m behind on.

I’m jealous.

I never wanted a wedding again until I met him. I never wanted to make an absolutely public statement about my undying love for someone, ever before. So when I see pictures of his first marriage… I go green, and not in a good way. I have my jealous moments and I fail best at those times.

I feel safe for the first time in my life.

I don’t worry about locking the windows and doors when he’s here. I love the smell of summertime at night but I’m a crazily overprotective single mother too. I realized it the other night when I was making my third round of window & door checks. He would protect us with his life, and I sleep easily beside him.

I’m a horrible bitch at times and you will rue the day if you fuck with me.

I’m a nasty little insect when inspired. I openly admit and apologize for it. I forever try harder to be nicer. I don’t always succeed.

I’m an amazing friend

I remember your birthday, and I’ve done this pre-Facebook, for the record. I will fight right beside you, give you my last dollar and take your kids any time you need…but if you cross me I will remember every secret you ever told me, in detail… and I will use them against you if you should make the mistake of doing the same. Trust me- that’s a lose-lose situation. I only like the coolest women, and I have amazing friends. I love them all dearly and I treasure each moment spent laughing with my favorite ladies. Most of my enemies are anonymous.

I’m an even worse enemy.

I recently had an anonymous hater contact my sweet Superman’s brother to flirt with him, then warn him about me. Mmmm… push me and you’ll only see how strong I am. I am ridiculously protective and will make quick work of anyone who would go anywhere near my loved ones. Oh Lindsey Falcon, or whatever your fake name is now- perhaps you should have tried pretending to be a nurse and not a Hooters employee. <eyeroll> Two points for blocking me so I can’t link you to the blog you fear enough that you’re willing to put on your Shady Whore panties.  If I meet you- you should be prepared because…. hell hath NO fury like mine- and I will eviscerate you. Clearly you’re stupid so let me define that for you in English.

Eviscerate: e·vis·cer·ate

verb /iˈvisəˌrāt/
eviscerated, past participle; eviscerated, past tense; eviscerates, 3rd person singular present; eviscerating, present participle

  • Disembowel (a person or animal)
    • – the goat had been skinned and neatly eviscerated
  • Deprive (something) of its essential content
    • – myriad little concessions that would eviscerate the project
  • Remove the contents of (a body organ)

Get your shovel out and keep digging because I need more fertilizer this time of year. My tomatoes are hungry.

I’m human… and trying. I don’t always win and I sometimes cry about it when I lose.
I confess, to you- my brothers and sisters… that I have failed . In my thoughts and in my words. In what I have done and in what I have failed to do.
…..But I always keep trying….

Like there was any doubt…

It was bound to happen sooner or later… and finally, thank heavens… I’m at a place where I can hate him out loud.

You’re welcome…. pour yourself a drink first- some of this isn’t going to be easy to read.

Oh Thomas.

Perhaps you should buy the domain name… ya know… since you like to mimic other people.

I put my judgement aside for my heart, something I don’t regret because I know eventually it will result in my happily ever after. I bought new panties and flew across the globe with nothing but faith in my pockets. I lost a lot in this disaster, but I’ll never let you steal the hope you encouraged me to have. <eyeroll>

I let you know my flight was an hour late. You said you couldn’t wait to see me…. and I land… and ??? Bad form, dude… seriously. Even my 25 year old boy toy was always on time. Perhaps that’s a side effect of dating an older man? You need your beauty sleep? Clearly you’ve missed a lot of it.

I have dated disasters, rich boys, poor boys, hot boys, weirdos… hoarders and faithful gentleman. Nothing holds a candle to my four days with you, and that’s saying something. FYI… that’s not a compliment. Fucking you made me miss the Vagina Hoarder.

For all your criticisms and demands for perfection, you fall very short. You don’t qualify for a six foot anything, blonde or otherwise- and I’d love the number of one girl you’ve dated in her twenties. Oh and your wife’s number too so I can warn her you’re having unprotected sex.

The funniest detail that only a select few know? lol… I went to lunch with my girlfriends a month before I left to see you, and got tipsy on Cuervo Gold margaritas, and asked if you were married. It was a tipsy hunch, and they’re usually right. You FLIPPED out, and told me if I didn’t send you the headers from the email that told me you were, you’d never speak to me again. I was simply curious, looking for a little reassurance- and didn’t see your overreaction coming. I opened up my blog and sent you the headers from some “Penis Enlargement” spam comment that had come in… thinking that’d be the end of it. You emailed me and told me “SHE” was a fat brunette that lived near your ex. The mythical Cylie… if she even exists. It was the first very real, very red, flag. You brought her up while we were together and I changed the subject. I did my best to help you keep your red flags in your very full closet, but even I can’t hide THAT many women.

I should have known. I should have guessed… and it’s on me for being delusional. You wrote about me and exploited every single weakness I have in a few hundred words. You’re the original snake oil salesman, and you continue to manipulate me with my poor tattered heart. Fuck you. Fuck your bullshit words, fuck your lies and fuck your old ass attempts to be more than you are. You are as tragic as I am gullible.

I may be 20 pounds overweight, but Sugar you’re a con-artist and I can go on a diet.

I quit smoking for you, ya asshole. That was the longest four days of my life, especially given the stress level of babysitting an old man who acts like a spoiled frat boy with a few drinks. Honey, learn to handle your liquor or find yourself an AA meeting. ASAP.

Your racist bullshit views made me choke back the vomit they required. You wont waste another moment in my life, but you’ll serve as an example, forever.

Thou shalt not sell out for a ticket to paradise when you’re sick of the snow.

Thou shalt not date someone 15 years older than you’re used to, unless he rises to the occasion and is worth the sacrifice…. <cough>… keep talking about Anna Faris’s abs… it’s as close as you’ll ever get to them.

Your big daddy plan? To cut off your baby girl when she turns 18 because all she loves you for is the check you put in the mail? That’s just pathetic. You’re an idiot for not giving a shit and she’s a smart girl for knowing what you’re good for. PS… I have her Facebook page bookmarked- just in case you ever think twice about fucking with me. Tip of the iceberg, my dear… and you’re a fool for not paying attention to what happens to boys who shake the hive. There aren’t bees tattooed on me by accident, and you know what a nasty little insect I can be when inspired.

It’s sort of sad to have to tell a man what he falls so short in, but then I sort of appoint myself to do so when it’s necessary.

It’s incredibly bad form to walk in front of a woman. Seriously. I can hear my grandfather rolling over in his grave. Your whole fixation on Mormon girls is not going to ever play out because you are so not good enough for us. We’re raised to believe we’re women, ladies…and absolutely the greatest treasure, worth protecting and guarding. In all of Doucheville, you’re the first douche to walk with your back to me while other men smiled appreciatively. Oish.

Watching the people around us laugh at you and roll their eyes at me was the real moment that resonates. Watching you hit on a woman willing to buy her way out of your reach was priceless. I’m reminded <yet again> of my favorite quote.

Regardless of desire, life hands you who you are.

I don’t care how much money you make. I don’t care what you do for a living. I don’t care about you. I went with an open heart and the best of intentions and came home in a wheel chair. Suffice it to say, if you ever come to Idaho, you’d be really lucky to leave in the same condition.

Juggling bloggers, recycling words and capitalizing on the suffering of the women who are open enough to share it… aren’t you a prize. Does it make you feel better about your sad little life to create a fantasy for someone to fall prey to? I think so.

You made one fatal mistake. You ignored one detail that was staring you in the face the whole time you were calculating how to manipulate me.

I’m deadly when underestimated. There aren’t skeletons in my closet, there’s a case of body bags…. and when you fuck with me, you fuck with the whole trailer park. We may not be millionaires, but baby we’re real- and all the money in the world can’t buy you legitimacy. Notice who didn’t have to delete their blog…

Obsessive showers, cologne I didn’t like and watching people do a double take when they saw me sitting with you… yeah… no thanks. I don’t mind being a trophy… but only if I’m dating a thoroughbred.

The cost of shipping your shit back express mail? $60.

The drug test to determine whether you drugged me or left me vulnerable while you hit on other women on our LAST night together? $120

$300 for a weekend in Puerto Rico in February? Priceless.

I hope your wife wonders where you went and with whom. I hope she figures it out and I hope she kicks you out of the “compound” SHE owns. Google is a powerful creature, Liarpants2. Yeah… you get a pants name but yours is recycled, just like your words. You’re Nathan, part 2.

Realistically…It’ll be a cold day before I fuck Mr. Smithers for sunshine again…. and PS… I faked it.

xoxo J

Eleven lessons learned…

To say I’ve had a hard year is like saying Bernie Madoff only borrowed a few bucks.

I’ve spent enough money on water that I could have bought a new car. A nicer car than I drive… lol

I’ve dated King Douchebag…  and several of his minions. To be compared to Nathan Steinbauer means you’re worthless, for all the minions that read my blog, and yes, I mean you- if I haven’t told you to your face <yet>, you were a total waste of my time. ALL of you.

But…

In making mistakes you gain wisdom… and I’m sharing my favorite eleven lessons I learned this year….

1. Men don’t lie. Boys do… and generally because they’re compensating for <cough> failures in other areas. Especially the men with equipment failure. Dude… we notice- FIX it. In this day and age, it’s just sad not to. If it’s not a problem with your dick, just that you are one? You serve a purpose in teaching all of us how to avoid you. Way to be an anti-role model. Way to aim low.

2. Marriage isn’t captivity unless you marry the wrong guy, and then it’s a life sentence. I swore I’d never do it again- but I’ve learned precisely why people get married recently. When you love someone so much that you want to be the only one privy to their heart? You lock it up. I claimed wife status again tonight after a customer was being rude.

DB- Nice rock, did your sugardaddy give you that?

J- No, my husband did, but maybe I’ll call him that later and see how he likes it.

DB- Hey I’m sorry, no offense to you or your husband. He must really love you.

J- I’m the lucky one, thank you.

DB- It’s cool when it works out like that. I’m divorced.

Shocker… lol… he was actually really cool after that- and apologized again. All I needed for him to respect me, was a husband. <eyeroll>

3. Any bad day can be fixed. Drop your clothes at the door and dance in your heels & panties with me to a little Biggie Smalls Hypnotize… I promise you’ll feel better.

4. Tomorrow really is always a new day. I’ve juggled so many damn bills this year it’s scary- and if I can do it, anyone can. If you’re willing to make the effort, you can pull it off, some way, some how. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy… well… yeah I would… cause it sucks… and I got a brand new pair of bitch panties for Christmas. It’s never too late to learn to stand up for yourself- and it only pisses off the people accustomed to taking advantage of you.

5. Fleas are forever… these damn dogs will be the death of me, I swear- or at least the cost of the Advantix.

6. People who rent say “NO PETS” for a reason. If you thought you didn’t love anyone’s children as much as yours, try loving a dog who requires that you pick dog hair off the milk carton IN the refrigerator. I rest my case. Want me to love your dog? Vacuum up the fucking hair. Every day, like it needs to be, but I shouldn’t HAVE to do.

7. Wear repellent. Want to scare off the douche bags? Put your favorite diamond on. Now when they smile and say “Ohhh holy shit, she’s married and what a rock” … I can laugh and say… “No…. What. A. Man.” It doesn’t matter it’s not from him. It doesn’t matter that I’m not married. My boyfriend is so good, that no one else will do…now that’s a job well done.  What matters is that men do have a healthy respect for the fact I’ve gleefully taken myself off the menu, and clearly- I’m expensive. Bonus- I get to wear something sparkly & pretty. Two birds, one rock, Amen.

8. Don’t shit where you eat. Now you’d think I’d have already learned this one, but what can I say… he was charming and attentive and I fell for his hoarding bullshit game. I’m reminded what a mistake it was every single time I have to run into him again. What was I thinking…. ???? More importantly, wtf was he thinking? It takes a whole new level of stupid to disrespect the girl writing the words your friends are reading. Read ’em and weep, Hoarder- and hey… pick yourself up a tshirt while you’re at it.

9. Thou shalt not borrow without asking. Especially if it’s something of mine. I don’t share. I don’t have to, and I don’t want to. I’m nice enough that I’ll probably say yes if you ask, but I’d rather not. All bets are off if you make the decision for me and take something without asking… that’s right up there with pouring lighter fluid from the bottle into an open flame… you will get burned. I’m a huge fan of painful consequences.

10. Asking for help when you need it is the most grown up thing you can learn how to do. I die trying to do everything myself… and sometimes end up in a bigger mess as a result.  Help… my least favorite four letter word… is the one I need to learn most.

11. Real friends are priceless. These are the friends that don’t touch your things… regardless of whether we’re talking about men, makeup or your favorite sweater. Yes, as a matter of fact… I do expect them to hate the people I hate. Nobody’s  holding a gun to your head, but if you’re one of my true friends, you will know exactly how that sort of loyalty feels in return. I’m the one that helps you bury the body, but if you betray me? Brace yourself. It’s cold on the dark side of the moon, and you may as well move there because I do not forget and I do not forgive. I wont hate you- but if you were on fire and I was holding a glass of water? I’d drink it.

Rough year… holy shit… but it’s only getting better. I have amazing friends, amazing Love and a family that makes the chaos of it all, worthwhile. My family is still broken, but the details are falling into place and life is about to get easier. Hopefully at some point I’ll be able to say the same about the fracture in our family. Until then, we will strive to be happy.

My New Year started with a message of my favorite variety, and I’ve been smiling since.

It’s a good sign.

It’s going to be a good year…

Happy New Year, y’all… I hope you all have the same love in your life that I woke up to, on the first day of the new year. I already like this year better.

Oh She of so much faith…

I woke up to silence… a tiny furry Yorkie dog sleeping as close as he can get to me without being actually ON me. Kicking the covers off, knowing as soon as my naked foot landed on top of the fluffy cloud of down comforters heaped on my bed, my little Tucker Max would be running for my sparkly red toenails. He loves feet. Especially mine.

Giggling & fighting him from licking my toes as he tunnels under the sheets to follow them, I’m forced out of bed to let him out.

On a soft dusky rainy morning in a sleepy silent house. It’s 65* with a latte and the hot tub beckoning me. In nothing but my new Halloween pumpkin panties that say “Trick me”  and the candy necklace my darling friend brought me last night as a gesture of “I told you so” love. Goosebumps spreading from my neck to my knees reminding me that fall is in the air. Smiling at the seasons. Happy with the perennial details.

I love the little things that mean so much. I love the tiny details that make me happy. The perfect imperfection of my life that keeps me going.

I put a million things away today, I folded laundry for hours. I swept, mopped, dusted and ran for a while. I focused on the one foot in front of the other approach, knowing what peace there is in the details. Clean floors make me smile. A clean refrigerator makes life beautiful. A nail appointment where he takes one look at me and frowns.

N- How’s the love life- uh oh.

J- No bueno. He died a quick death just like the rest of them. Lying, cheating, you name it… same old story.

N- No. You need one nice man. Not bad boy. You are very nice, you are a good woman. You will be happy, not sad.

J- Aww, thanks… but I’m inclined to think it doesn’t exist. I’m more than a little jaded these days.

N- I’m a good husband. A good father. I love my family. You will find that too.

This is just awesome, even my favorite nail guy is feeling sorry for me. Awesome…. he replaces them completely, makes them sparkly and talks me into an eyebrow wax.

So I look like a blonde girl with Asian skinny eyebrows… lesson learned. In fact I think I was born with thicker eyebrows than I have right now.

Still, I left feeling a million times better. Prettier… not so completely offended. Reaffirmed and readjusting to silence between us where he’d been so present before. For the record, the silence sucks most of all. It’s the biggest downside to breaking the addiction.

As a comfort eater from the word GO, I have pizza on the brain, combined with not wanting to cook in my lovely sparkly new pink nails… Gourmet Vegetarian pizza from Papa Murpy’s Take & Bake. With Canadian bacon… because it’s better like that 🙂

A fifth of Goose from the liquor store… because it’s that sort of week. Ohhhh and olives from the olive bar… ever the olive junkie.

I miss him as a diversion. Plain and simple. The reality of him is far different. He’s a snake in a polo. A shark in argyle. An asshole in a nice guy’s costume.

Who knows what or who he is, I don’t think he even knows… and I know precisely the woman I am.

I’m a dirty princess. I weed in designer jeans. I wear gloves to cover my beautiful nails and I get dirty. I garden, I can veggies and jam. I knit. I sew. I paint. I write. I smile you into smiling with me. I dance my feet to hell and gone. I work my ass off. I do more in a day than most people in a week. I juggle more right now than anyone else I know.

I’m fucking exhausted, and gawd dammit I deserve a man that isn’t a douche bag.

I deserve someone worth spoiling equally as much as I deserve to be spoiled. It all seems to be such an imbalance.

So I did what any self respecting faithful princess does…

and I bought myself a pumpkin…. a Cinderella pumpkin to be specific.

My $6 says it’s ok to have faith… and it’s ok to believe in fairytales and pumpkins.

My $6 says it’s ok to continually roll the dice, even though I’m equipped with a douche bag magnet and the odds are stacked against me.

At some point? I’m going to roll the dice and win.

At some point? They can’t all be frogs.

He doesn’t need to be a prince. Just good. Just honest… and worthy of the ridiculously delightful feminine hurricane I am. Capable of keeping up with the tornado of yarn & fabric. In love with my pickled asparagus. Sincere in his words and actions… and inspirational enough to leave me torn between curling up in his arms to fall asleep and getting up to write about him.

He just needs to make me think, make me feel and make me laugh… at myself…

But never at my princess pumpkin, or the heart that believes in the magic of it.

I’m canning ginger peach jam tomorrow… along with white plum vanilla bean… all before work.

More importantly? I’m smiling every time I see my pumpkin, blissful with a side of smug.

What a stupid foolish boy with horrible taste and what a ridiculous crybaby to waste a minute crying over someone who wasn’t even worthy.

Sparkly pink nails are wonderful…but my Cinderella pumpkin fixed everything.

Here’s to the best $6 I’ve ever spent.

You give me fever…

When you touch me… fever when you hold me tight…

But when you lie to me and sleep with someone else the ENTIRE time we’re together?

I throw a party.

The First Annual Nathan Roast. Yep, first…because this guy is such a parasite I’ll have this party until the day I die purely to provide a warning to the other women unfortunate enough to cross his path. Thank GOD for Google.

Public on Facebook. Pictures public too. I’ll acknowledge my stupidity in a second to save someone from being his next victim.

He targets ladies. Pretty girls. Women. Good ones… the kind of girl you need to immediately take home to your mama, just so she knows she did a good job raising you.

THAT girl. The one you marry. The one you treasure because she makes your life resemble “Leave It To Beaver”.

We’re a dying breed, y’all… this guy has to be stopped for the sake of domestic goddess civilization. We’re endangered, and he’s a noxious weed… choking all us lovely little flowers out…

His cryptonite? He’s attracted to amazing women… but this time?

He shook the wrong hive.

Darling Mrs. First bought him these socks and had one request.

F- Spit on those for me before you throw them in.

I picked them up, and realized something about all of us. I handed one to Ms. Babymama and told her we had to spit on them before we threw them in. We both froze.

I’m a lady. I don’t spit on anything. Ever. I can tell by the look on Babymama’s face that she’s having the same thought.

J- I’m a lady… I don’t know how to spit.

B- Me either.

If there were ever a time to learn, it’s now. They burned quickly in spite of being spat on.

We started the fire with wood from the Dirty Boat Stealing Asshole. We burned old love letters, etc… it was fantastic.

Then the real stuff came into play…. the gift he bought for poor sweet Babymama…

Second edition, indeed.

The dog toy… which made me so sad at first. Until I talked to Marissa, or Ms. Other White Meat. He told her the dog lost it and they bought a new one, together. I hope she thinks of the truth she knows every time she looks at it. I swear… women can be so fucking stupid sometimes.

Sorry Remington… some people are just cursed with a douche bag for a dad.

I emailed his mom to apologize. I feel horrible for the drama hitting a few weeks before his brother’s wedding. Nothing back. Why? Because they’ve created this monster by financing the lies. It’s one thing to be successful. It’s one thing to share that success with your children. It’s another thing to facilitate someone ruining other people.

I happily volunteer to help undo the damage they’ve enabled.

We burned his bullshit. We burned the stupid Cornhuskers shit he buys everyone. The crotchless panties he gave us all…what an unoriginal piece of trash…

Speaking of trash… it was time to burn his uniform. Who impersonates a soldier? Who claims to be a Ranger who’s never enlisted?  His reason is that he’s special forces, he’s a big shot. You have to have General clearance to get his records.

You shouldn’t cheat on a General’s niece… should you? You definitely shouldn’t mess with a girl who has a fleet of  Special Forces & Pararescuemen as best friends.

Because it only took two calls… to establish finally- that Nathan has NEVER enlisted. He’s NEVER been a soldier and even more so? He couldn’t hack it in military school. Had to beg his mommy to get him out early.

So the next item up? His bullshit Army t-shirt he had the audacity to wear on the 4th of July. He had the balls to salute back when the veterans walked by. Someone bought him a beer because of the shirt. This guy deserves to burn just as quickly as his favorite went up.

Good thing he knows where to order this shit online. He’ll have a new one in days. It’s his thing.

Creepy, huh?

But not as creepy as the ultimate kindling. His favorite blanket. The blanket he’s wrapped around a lot of us. The blanket he then wrapped his baby in…

This man is past Jesus…

We reclaimed our pride last night, and the faith we all have in our own judgement. We all deserve better. We all deserve the truth.

Everyone deserves better than Nathan.

Even the stupid girls. Even Marissa. Even if they don’t know it yet.

So we wore that blanket in style… one last time. With our arms wrapped around each other, bonded by a heartache neither of us ever deserved, from a douchebag that was NEVER worthy.

Who’s laughing now, Nathan?

My pretty purple orchid smiling up at me. Surrounded by friends old and new. In love with the fact that I’m finally not the stupid girl still sitting next to him, convinced that those “other jealous bitches” just can’t handle that “he only wants me”.

Please… <eyeroll>

I’ve been looking forward to this all week… since I first had the idea.

All this time I thought this thing was going to put the fire out. I was sure polyester was a bonfire buzz kill…

Nope.

It went right up in seconds…

and he was gone as fast as he came into my beautiful life… and finally providing something helpful.

I made the perfect toasted coconut smore over the flames of his favorites.

Sweet, delicious closure… with a mouthful of something that tastes better than he’ll ever be able to cook, surrounded by a bunch of amazing new girlfriends.

♥ – ♥ – ♥

Thanks Nathan… now go contract AIDS and die alone like you deserve.

James Beard Wannabe

Oh Liarpants… my daddy laughed out loud at you. I didn’t even have to Google it for him to tell me you were full of shit.

D- Babydoll… that is seriously pathological…. but wait… you never even told me he was a chef? If this guy is the James Beard Rising Star then I should have heard about his cooking…and I happen to know that Gabriel Rucker won this year.

J- Well….. he makes torchon. It’s his big deal. Ewww. He made me dinner once… but it was pretty bad. Too salty… with some sort of sausage, broccoli, crayfish soupy stuff under a steak… with a bone.

D- Oh. My. HA HA HA. You hate meat on the bone.

J- I know, but he had already bought it… and you know me… what was I going to say?

D- I don’t like meat on the bone?

J- Yeah right.

But… and I only know this because I am an absolute brat…

He’s not a very good cook… and I couldn’t finish it because it was so salty and so… well… overcooked. Dude if I want to eat broccoli paste? I’ll have my 11 year old boil some for me.

The steak was perfect… after you fought your way around all that nasty fatty disgustingness. Blech, gag… wretch.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach….  but it’s not. It’s through his balls and we all know it. The way to a woman’s heart is a man that knows how to be domestic in order to delight her.

Feed me.

Tell me about it.

Talk to me while you cook and tell me what you’re doing.

It’s the highest form of foreplay you can achieve with me and if it’s done well? I’m sold. I’ll buy the farm. I’ve already picked out china patterns in my head after the second course if it’s really good.

I do not leave food on my plate…. hence the chunk-tastic thighs.

I also only send one thing back when I don’t like it…. and that’s steak….

and how on earth do you send the steak back if it’s your boyfriend cooking it? You don’t. That’s what. You suck it up and eat it…

Even when you don’t like it…. and you pray he doesn’t notice that you hardly touched it…

Even though you know he did.

You make excuses. You’re tired. You’re feet hurt. You want to take his clothes off and really thank him appropriately.

lol… or you’d rather get laid than eat another bite.

Either way- it worked… and I was pushing away my plate in minutes. Wondering how long it’d take him to pass out before I could eat a bowl of Lucky Charms.

Annoyed enough at how bad it was to be a brat about it… dice some onions and garlic and REALLY cook dinner.

Show him how it’s done… Mr. I-wish-I-could-be-talented Steinbauer.

Dude… put down the salt and walk away slowly so that people can eat your food without three glasses of water.

Or vodka…

Which improved the taste exponentially- thank you.

Watching him shake like a crazy person while trying to cut his steak sort of takes my mind off the taste in my mouth. I’m grinning at him, thanking him for the amazing dinner… lying through my teeth.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

No.

When it comes to food? It’s the taste that counts. Sheesh. Buy a clue, Liarpants.

But the James Beard?

Give me a fucking break. Do I look like an idiot? Or just play one convincingly?

The James Beard Rising Star award is the epitome of chef-dom. It’s what they all pray for when they close their eyes at night. They all want it.

None of them get it.

Least of all, Liarpants with his nasty ass too salty overcooked broccoli.

Dude… please… you have to get up very very very early to fool a foodie…

and the closest you’re getting to a James Beard? Is to Google it.

🙂

BTW…. it’s his birthday…