The high cost of shitty women


Yeah you bitch, I’m coming for you today.

Tossing and turning in my big empty bed, railing at the world for the current mess I’ve made of my head and heart- I’m left shaking my head at how sensitive I’m being. Finally firing off “That” text to my Incredighost. The one we all sit on our hands to stop ourselves from sending. He responded instantly and I realize he isn’t just a basic man- he’s a broken one. It kills me because I know what an amazing man he really is and I really like him.

We love to sit around with our girlfriends and cackle about the depressing state of the common single man these days, but do we ever ask ourselves how they got that way? Do we ever take responsibility? I’m no saint and I’ve committed my fair share of transgressions. I always apologized and I’m on pretty good terms with most of my exes but I’m sure I left a few dents along my selfish way.

I’ve never outdone the douchebags I’ve loved so I took myself out of the pool for 5 years.

I’m now swimming in men who’ve been lied to, cheated on, let down and disrespected. It’s a murky puddle of brokenhearted good guys,gone wrong. Shitty, irresponsible women are absolutely the reason this pond is so stagnant and full of bottom-feeders.

That guy you strung along because you were lonely? Yeah he’s torturing the woman who loves him, now. Good job, asshole.

That man you cheated on? Yeah he’s bleeding internally and denying himself basic happiness while juggling women. You’re a real cunt.

That guy you nickled and dimed to death because you like to be “spoiled”? Yeah he only goes dutch now and he’s never going to find love again. You’re a fucking dick for leaving this guy with a quirk weird enough that it’s cockblocking him years later.

That guy you ghosted? Yeah he’s ghosting me now and I’d like to kick you squarely in the vagina. Would it have KILLED you to send him a damn text? No.

That guy you lied to has a repertoire to rival the best con men, now. You armed him with all the tools to mislead the masses and now he’s breaking hearts and promises at breakneck speed. The karmafairy will even this one out and I don’t envy you the bad man you’re going to end up with as a result.

It’s easy to get caught up in your own feelings but when you damage a person for life and future relationships, you fucking suck.

We are not innocent in the state of the manfolk these days. I was talking to my favorite lesbian last night and told her I was just going to start dating women exclusively and she laughed at me.

T- Oh babydoll, you’d find the same things in different packaging.

We are just as bad and in some cases, even worse. We made these bad men and as single women, now we get to try to rectify another woman’s bullshit behavior or clearcut through the scar tissue she left behind.

Is it terrible that I want to slip into my nurses costume from Halloween a few years ago and help him heal what hurts, while simultaneously smacking the woman that broke my favorite penis?


We aren’t all bad and neither are they, but we do have to take responsibility for the few we contributed to the murky depths of the swamp.

Eww… gross.

I recently made a new friend. Introduced by one of my favorite girlfriends, I liked her immediately! She’s a gorgeous mother of 6 of the most well behaved and wonderful children I’ve ever met. She’s my age, just moved here, and offered to watch my little one if I ever needed some help. I was incredibly grateful, especially since I knew my tiny girl would love to play in a house full of kids.

When my sitter canceled at the last minute and my standby sitters were all busy, I asked if they’d be willing to let her play for a few hours. My friend Supermom agreed enthusiastically. She wouldn’t be off work until 45 minutes after I did, but her husband and 5 kids would be happy to help and she’d be there right after. I dropped her off with a bit of hesitation, to be honest. I’m extremely selective about who I leave her with, and I’d only just met them. The kids rushed out to greet her and she didn’t mind me leaving. I knew she was going to have a great time, and they lived next door to my favorite Bearded Man and Beauty Queen.

I got to work and put my phone in the glove box, approving a Facebook friend request from Supermom’s husband, feeling relieved that they were a safe family for my precious girl to be with while I had to work, because I’ve had some less than fantastic sitters. A few people at work are cell phone addicts so they’re taking them from us in order to stop the problem. It’s created a lot of stress for me personally in regards to not being able to check in to the nanny cam in my home and just be immediately accessible in case something comes up. I went in to work feeling at ease for a change, which was fantastic.

I got to the car at 8:40, and checked my phone. Two Facebook messages from the husband. Odd.


It made me uneasy. I sent Supermom a message, thanking her and letting her know I was on my way, then flew to get her. Supermom greeted me with a friendly smile as my munchkin happily ate popcorn with her sweet kids in the background. We visited for a minute, I thanked her & left. I buckled my sleepy smiling girl, with two handfuls of popcorn, into her carseat. My phone flashed as I buckled my seatbelt. Another message from the husband.


She was rattling off all the fun stuff they’d done and laughing about the kids. She said she wanted to play with them again. I tried to shake off the weird feeling I was having, and attribute it to three years of celibacy going to my head. It’s easy to misread text messages. I began shaking my head at myself for feeling weird. We got home, I tucked her in with toddler babble about splashing and playing, still coming from her. I thanked him.


I walked away from my computer and emptied the dishwasher. I came back to texts to my personal number, from him. I hadn’t given him my number so I was confused, but knew immediately who it was. Still trying to quell the unease caused by how I was interpreting his tone. I tried to respond kindly, but there was still just something, making me feel… off.


I sent Supermom a message and got a emoticon back. I honestly wondered if maybe they were swingers, getting ready to make the pitch.


Phew. Normal dad comment. I’m overreacting. Thank GOD. My baby had a great time and couldn’t wait to go back. I was being ridiculous. I felt like a bit of a jerk for jumping to asshole conclusions.


Fuck. First things first, I’m WAY too old to ignore my inner barometer. When it feels wrong, it’s because something is fucking wrong. The hair rose on the back of my neck. My douche bag radar is unparalleled these days. I’m ashamed I forgot that. I was at a loss for words and didn’t respond. I was hoping he’d clarify, respectfully. No such luck.


Well if there ever were a gilded sign from God that I am, indeed, right about men… here it is.

8I no habla slutty husband. I walked away from my phone, sat down at my laptop to see if my friend was online so I could call her, and saw his creepy Facebook messages.



Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware that my little lady is the cutest and sweetest child ever born, but this crosses a line that I can’t even begin to describe. This is beyond creepy, and I wish my little girl’s incredibly defensive father was a few states closer, because this pervy husband would be gargling teeth. No exaggeration.

I was instantly afraid in my own house, and moved the baby to my bed. I think that’s what makes me the most mad.

We slept in and I woke up, tormented. Supermom is wonderful, and I had to say something to her before I called my babydaddy and her husband had to push his torso around on a skateboard for the rest of his life.

Worse yet… I had to tell my friend who’d introduced us.

Which is when I learned that he’s been texting her too. She’s happily married and pregnant and has been trying to kindly sidestep his propositions in the same way I have.

This guy is a full blown weasel, and when confronted, claims he was blackout drunk and does not remember sending any texts. I hate to use my least favorite word, but….

Aint nobody got time for that.

SO consider this is a good ol’ fashioned spanking…just not like he was hoping I’d be willing to give him.

Dear Mike,

I was going to send you an understanding message asking you if you were maybe blackout drunk. Then I realized something. That’s because I was raised to be polite, pleasant and demure. To accept even the most insincere apologies, because (to quote my mother) “To err is human, to forgive, divine.”

Only I’m a farmer, and I recognize a weasel when I see one.

You sir, prey on women. I’m sure you’ve successfully bagged a few. You’ve talked your way out of it, somehow, but not with me. I am mortally offended, on many levels.

I’m a single mother, and I have no choice but to rely on the kindness of my friends and neighbors to help me find someone safe & trustworthy to watch my precious baby, because work is not optional. Unlike you, who get to be a stay at home father, I have to work. Finding childcare is a burden I never understood, until now. How dare you use my daughter as a pickup line, and do you realize what a pedophile you sound like? How dare you humiliate both your wife and me, and put me in a position where I have to tell her something so awful.

How will you ever begin to apologize?

Oh… that’s right… by continuing to text me, during the day. SOBER.


You will never see my child again. Be glad I don’t call the police and report what a creeper you are, just in case. Incidentally, you were home alone with your own baby girl at the time you were having withdrawals for mine. Gross.

I screenshot your sketchy ass messages and sent them to your wife. She admitted you are “weak” and said it was “alcohol related and harmless” and that “it had happened before and you’d moved here for a fresh start”.

You’ve been here a month and you’ve propositioned the pregnant neighbor and your wife’s new friend. Things aren’t looking good for your fresh start. I was going to send you a text telling you what a douchebag I think you are, until I found out that, when confronted, you feigned ignorance and took no responsibility. Then I decided you needed a little public bashing, because a million guys would give a kidney to be as lucky as you.

You’re raising husbands and fathers. They’re growing up to emulate the example you set. They’re going to treat their wives the way they’ve watched you treat their mother. Now you have a baby girl. She’s going to pick a man just like YOU. How’s that sit?

You had no right to disrespect me or cross that line. You ruined a friendship for your poor wife, who already carries & makes excuses for you, and lost a fun friend for your kids. Shame on you.

Dirtbag… you are a jerk and your wife (and children) deserve better.

To the woman I fucking hate, at table 2.

 (I haven’t been a server for two years now, and this is one of the ranty little treasures I found sitting in my drafts folder. This horrible woman is still frequenting businesses that employ my friends. I didn’t publish this when I wrote it, out of respect for my employer and the depressing knowledge that I’d inevitably have to serve her again. Thankfully, I made a career change and will never have to fetch her another beer. Also, I hope she reads it.)


There were two she-beasts, actually, and they were both horrible, but one was especially cunty.

She comes in all the time, and we all dread her. She breezes past the sign that asks our guests to please wait to be seated. She is the definition of resting bitch face. Nothing about her is pleasant, and I would say I was the unlucky lady in rotation tonight, but the bitch sat herself.

In my section.


We were on a half hour wait list, and I knew I had two tables waiting next door. My manager let me know she’d told them they were behind two other tables that were already waiting, and it would be 30 minutes before we’d get to them.

I was already getting nasty looks from Snatchzilla. She’s never been happy that I’ve seen, so I’m not as horrified as I’d usually be at the sight of a clearly unhappy face. She’s (unfortunately) been a regular and is like a rolling thundercloud crashing our threshold. She regularly seats herself in my section, so it’s not my first horrible experience.

Sadly enough, she seems to be in the medical field, because she storms past me in scrubs, a lot.

I hear that Snatchzilla used to be a server. Wtf? There’s a code. If you’ve had people snap their fingers, shake their ice or whistle for you… you spend your life devoted to being a kind experience for your fellow servers. You overtip. You understand the wait. You look around the dining room and SEE the 8 billion people.

If you’ve ever tied on the apron while memorizing the specials, you don’t have to buy yourself a clue. If once upon a damn time, you were the one praying you had one table that would be understanding in the bone crushing wait a Friday night can provide, then you damn well better know how to conduct yourself.

She gets up and gets menus with a snotty “I’ll be your server tonight” to her friend. The tone is set. I warn my manager that she’s mad. She tells me she’s already spoken to the women and let them know if they insist on sitting, they will have to wait until the people on the list ahead of them are sat and served.

They still insist on sitting.

I hear Snatchzilla tell a chef that she hasn’t been served in 10 minutes. The manager tells me she’s up for rotation and I can go to her next. She’s instantly a cuntface.

S- It’s about time, we’ve been waiting for 10 minutes

J- Well my manager explained to you when you came in that we were on a 30 minute wait and the two tables ahead of you would have to be served first.

S- She didn’t say anything like that.

J- Well I apologize, but it’s outside of our control when we have other tables waiting.

S-Shhh…Do you think you can get me a beer now?

J- I can’t wait. What’ll it be?

I groaned the whole way back to get her beer, shaking my head at the pain in the ass I was bending over to receive.

Just a little background to set up where I am personally today. My sweet baby girl turned 2 this week and her father was here for three 2 1/2 hour visits this week, for the summer. She misses him, and my heart breaks for her. He left today and her little heart is sad. She didn’t want me to go, and was sad while I was gone. We all have a reason to be a bitch- but if you’re any kind of decent human, you try to add to the world, not shit on it. This horrible troll should fold up her scrubs and grab a shovel. She’s a professional fertilizer.

I let the manager know she’s furious and she takes their drinks out and reiterates what she told them when they sat themselves. Snatchzilla is only spurned on.  The hate is knee deep and I’m determined to do what I can to make sure they want for nothing, while helping the people who’ve waited patiently.

Meanwhile… I’m getting the cold shoulder from Snatchzilla because she can’t understand the concept of a waiting list, or refuses to believe the rules apply to her. I kept her beer full, and the chef took care of her order. She stayed for hours and enjoyed herself.

Then she snuck out after leaving me an asshole note on her pay stub. She wrote “Tip reflects service” and stiffed me. I feel like telling her I could qualify for sainthood for the amount of times I’ve managed to serve her without kicking the chair out from underneath her.

I’m absolutely not perfect, and I fail every day but this was not on me. If you’re the asshole that insists on sitting at a table when there are two tables ahead of you, with a half hour wait? Then you’re a fucking moron if you don’t expect to wait for a half hour.

It’s a verrrrrry small town, I went to school with her brother and we have a lot of mutual friends. It’s been a long time since I hate blogged and I’d already had a long painful day before I had to deal with her ungrateful ass. Please cut me a little slack while I pour some tea.

Yo Natalie, Fuck you.

You march your sour face into my happy place and shit your rain cloud bullshit all over any and everyone in reach. You made a little old lady apologize for your deplorable behavior. Shame on you. The lady gets one night out of the nursing home a month and she had to listen to you bitch and moan about waiting, when she’d waited patiently, for twice as long, only to watch you eat before her.  I am sad for your brother, who was a very dear friend of mine in high school. Poor Mike is every bit as nice as you are rude.

You need a little refresher course on restaurant etiquette.

See the 4′ sign staring you in your miserable face? The one that says “Wait to be seated”? That means you.

Wait list: The list made to manage people who come into a restaurant that has reached the capacity allowed to completely meet their customers expectations.

You: One who refuses to accept that the wait list applies to them. Also, you’re an impatient, thankless, rude, obnoxious, fucking cunt.

Me: Single parent of two beautiful girls, 2 & 15, with a happy heart full of gratitude for a job I do very well, that allows me to pay the bills (hopefully). Farmer. Friend. Server- NOT SERVANT.

You are staring at a spectacular view. They’re all friendly. They fed you first. They’re charming, handsome and attentive. For a salty troll, that’s like three winning lottery tickets in a week. You don’t deserve their kindness, but they’re professional in addition to being adorable. Tip them. That’s all that makes your returned appearance, tolerable.


Every server in this town that has the miserable, unfortunate job of serving you.

Listen to Mr. Man Card…

My favorite nice guy, the illustrious Mr. Man Card, came to hang out with us last night while I went on a Crown Royal sewing bender.

With the bags… not the booze.

A challenge to see if I could sew a hat. I looked for hours and couldn’t find a pattern. I looked at the pile of bags I had and decided to just go for it. Made myself a cocktail and started cutting.

It’s effing awesome, if I do say so myself… and lined in cashmere, thankyouverymuch.

We made him model them, and because he’s the nicest guy ever… he obliges us.

Behold… my Crown Royal… crown hat… and my apron…

Running out of things to sew leaves me with a few dozen internet dating emails to check, and my phone is blowing up with text messages from Mr. Bartender.

At which point, and mid-giggle trying to read him the latest email… he looks at me and shakes his head.

R- Jenni… Oh my god. You LIKE douche bags. Oh no. Aw hell.

J- Oh stop. He’s nice.

R- He’s whiny, and omg are you kidding me? A bartender? You know who he looks like?

J- Shut up Robby.

R- I’m not kidding. No more douche bags. You’re a nice girl, no more.

I’m reading the emails out loud and he’s reading my text messages and whining. lol… and I read the last one and he covers his face with his hands and shakes his head.

R- NO. NO. This is just wrong. No. I won’t let you anymore. This has to stop. No losers, and NO douche bags. Jeeez. What do you do in your spare time besides crush hearts and delude weirdos?

J- Um.

R- Right… and he’s just the same. Damn it. I’m helping you from here on out. No more of this.

Just a crazy sister-wife date, in ten minutes.

PRAY it’s funny, I’ve had a long day.

Tempered steel…

I hand picked my Achilles heel for my second date. I’m not the strongest Catholic girl in the rectory… let’s leave it at that. He’s chocolatey beautiful with abs that inspire a spontaneous set of sit ups. He has an extensive vocabulary and a tendency to bite his lip when he smiles at me. He’s like live porn. No joke.

WTF was I thinking… I’m at ease with the weirdos… this lovely young thing even has cuff links and a tie on. Uh oh.

Holy holy holy holy…..he’s hot… and with my hands over my eyes, shaking my head… I’m praying for mercy… praying… but also pausing to sing “shake your ass make your boyfriend mad” lol… he laughs and leans forward to kiss me on the chin. My breath catches in my throat.



He’s delightfully 24….nearly 12 years younger than me and just goddamndelightful. Pretty. Smells good…..looks even better………………………

Legal….not to mention divine…. and scary sharky….

and I’m trying to think of a good excuse to leave. I’m exhausted after working all night and he’s just too….pretty. I’m in the mood for my favorite pajamas, a clean set of sheets on my bed and my latest bunny-on-the-needles. I’m sleepy…. and in crazy spring cleaning mode. I’ve been bleaching surfaces since 4 am this morning. I’m preoccupied… and still not sleeping well.

I miss him and it sucks. I’m getting used to it sucking- but I’m also knitting like a lunatic and eating too many french fries. I can admit it… I’m depressed about this whole dating situation.

And now I’m on a date with the equivalent of Taye Diggs, God love him. What the fuck was I thinking when I made this plan? Clearly I was temporarily insane.

He’s biting his lip at me again and I’m a little weirded out by it. He starts to lick his lips. They’re beautiful- he’s gorgeous… and don’t get me wrong… I’m picking up what he’s throwing down…

But it’s still a little weird. A little creepy… or a little off-putting… or at least I’m thinking so until he goes and takes it to a very strange place.

D- Daddy’s home, baby… Daddy’s home.

Um… I’m truly at a loss for words and all I can think about is my dad… ugh. Argh. Buzz kill… FML. I’m in real hell at this moment because I realize we’ve just ordered dinner and I have to somehow acknowledge his “Daddy” comment. What does one say to that?

J- My Daddy just died.

Told ya I was done being sweetness and light. Every boys greatest fantasy and biggest nightmare… all rolled into one.

Plus who on earth wants to think about their Dad, or even have that word mentioned in an intimate moment? Ew. No. Ew. Gag. Blech…

D- Sorry about your Dad.

J- Ahhh, he was kind of a douchebag, but thanks.

It’s so much more fun to go a little rogue in the dating world. I don’t really care anymore about meeting someone. I’m completely myself, with no effort to make anyone like me. I’m content single. I’ve seen both sides of the spectrum in the last year. I know how bad it can be, and I know how good it can be too.

I live in the Pacific Northwest… and we have a serious thug-shortage…. so you look a little odd if you try to pull that look off up here. I’m only now adjusting to my bitch panties…His wangster panties are painted on… he knows nothing else… oy…

He starts making duckface smiles at me… and I’m unsure how to respond. I’m awkward, and though I’m trying desperately to hang on to my bitch panties… my Oh-My-God-He’s-Crazy-RUN!!! panties are looking SO much more comfortable.

Our dinner arrives and I pick up my chopsticks, and he stabs at his sushi with a fork. To each his own, I really don’t care, as long as he likes sushi.

D- You like fish?

J- I am a fan of the creatures of the sea…. shellfish, crustaceans, fish, etc…. I love them all.

D- I like fish too. <wink, wink>

Oh goody… a creepy inappropriate sexual innuendo guy, and it’s not even my birthday.

I ate my dinner in record speed, took $20 out of my wallet and set it on the table.

J- Thank you so much, and take care.

and I left…. like I should have so many times before, and didn’t. I always thought that would be so rude. I was always concerned about being the perfect lady and not hurting anyone’s feelings. Even at the sacrifice of my own.

I’ve learned a lot about myself by internet dating. I used to be so afraid. I used to feel so broken and so terrified at not being enough…

Time and time again- I was mortified at the weirdos that I was supposed to “Like”. I had more fun with the crazy weirdos I hand picked.

I’ve been tempered… and I’m patient, but realistic. I know the grass isn’t greener. I know the clouds roll in on important days.

I know that perfect is as real as unicorns and the spaghetti monster. Perfect doesn’t happen outside of television because reality is so much better.

Wouldn’t you rather feel his feverish face on your back when he’s not feeling well and seeks you out for comfort? Aren’t you still just as in love with him when he’s not at the top of his game? Sometimes it’s better.

I’m happy making chicken noodle soup and kissing the inevitable bumps and bruises that go along with living life to the fullest. Scars are simply physical memories 🙂

Go on… get out there and go dent your spaceship a little. Make this whole crazy existence count, every single day.

and DON’T BE A DOUCHEBAG… we already have a surplus.