A Not So Perfect Ending


I knew this would end badly. I should say that right away because I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not fully responsible for the head and heartache plaguing me these days.

Years ago, he became the unwitting recipient of my wayward pregnancy dreams. I was horrified and my midwife assured me that my subconscious had a mind of it’s own whilst growing a human. My sweet baby was born, my whole world had imploded, and the craving only grew. He was never anything more than my Perfect friend. We worked together, and I could objectify him silently. He hung in the doorway with a whisk in his hand, asking me how the night had gone and I mentally undressed him, daily.

He met a horrible woman who moved him away. He continues to belong to her even though she’s moved away from him, too.

The first time he came to visit, I had no idea where he was coming from when he kissed me in the middle of the bar and we got a little too naked in the tent later that night. The hangover was intense, as he didn’t remember a thing and I erased him from my life with the horrified knee-jerk reaction of a broken heart.

Some people occupy space no matter the level of communication, or lack thereof.

Just the sight of kitchen utensils makes me fight back tears, and I love the kitchen.

So when I heard he was coming back this summer, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t do it, but I knew I should have avoided him, entirely. I offer fantastic advice that I never follow.

I knew it would be bad. I knew I shouldn’t see him and I knew I should leave well enough alone.

Shocker… I did it anyway.

One sight of him and I knew exactly how bad it would be when he left. I wasn’t wrong. I can’t cry about the state of affairs because I knew exactly what I was asking for, when he kissed me for the first time.

You can’t have casual sex with the man you’ve been in love with. Trust me. My retinas are burned with intimate images of me in his t-shirt, him under me, kissing him. I can’t get away from it and I can’t sleep. I packed the sheets away that he slept in because I can’t look at them without seeing him laying there. I had sensational sex with a friend in the hopes of changing how I feel about my bed. It hasn’t worked.

One text from him about the game he’s watching and I see his face on my pillow. He asks me how my day is and I can taste him. I’m torturing myself for anything of him.

Running. Trying to date. Doing my best to let go, then he’s back and I’m broken again.

Until today.

Today I quit him. I quit all of it.

If I wanted to feel shitty and insignificant, I’d date college boys. There would at least be some fringe benefits to THAT.

I wish I could say I felt better, but I’ll settle for smarter.


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.


Also it means I won’t lose my recipe again. 🙂




Enjoy ♥

Horrible Quitter


I’m the original glutton for punishment. It’s my worst quality. I have no choice but to take responsibility for it because it’s common knowledge amongst everyone who knows and loves me. Hell, even my enemies know I’m far better at hurting myself than they are.

I always see the writing on the wall… I just don’t read the words.

I was at work on Friday afternoon when a text came buzzing into the phone I’d tucked into my bra. His tone is different and my heart races and breaks at the same time. I miss him so much at this point that it’s a dull ache. I’m also irritated enough to snap because of the instant smile it puts on my face. It’s a horrible thing to be waiting for the message that destroys all the progress you’ve made in one split second.

Perfection- Why?

Why. Why, indeed. How? would also be an appropriate question; since our conversations revolve around the weather and football. I’ve been swallowing my broken heart for the most mundane of messages. Finally able to miss him without being upset about it.

And here he is. Back. Getting an eyeful because I’m just mad enough to say the things I’ve been doing my best to swallow.

J- Then tell me you miss me. I can’t be naked with you one second and talking about the weather in the next instance. 

Silence. He falls asleep when things get honest and I’m waiting for answers. My heart is back in my throat and he still isn’t saying the words I want him to. The only thing that’s changed is that he’s reading about how much it dented me.

For the record, it’s a really mixed blessing to have the man you crave, read your blog. I absolutely have exploited them with it, I have written a man into my sheets and I have burned a few at the stake when things ended poorly.  It takes a VERY brave man to roll with it, especially when I’m furious. The smartest men who were reading whilst seeing me, have exploited the fact that they could have personalized porn written about themselves if they played their cards right. I’m a lot of fun when you leave me inspired and wordy.

Ohhhh but when you break my heart, I’m pretty damn sad about it and they feel awfully guilty when they continue to read after things are over.

Newsflash, Perfection…

You’re reading my journal. 

If you hurt me, chances are good that I wont have you riding in on a white horse. When you take my favorite dick away? I’m not really going to ramble on and on about it anymore. 

You’re going to read about my hurt feelings and the regret I have for being so stupid to do something a second time that hurt like hell the first. 

You’re going to read about how disappointed I was to find out you had a girlfriend you didn’t mention. The girlfriend you still have. 

I can’t stop you from reading, but I can’t make you feel better about it either. 

We can text about weather and you can avoid my questions, but I suggest you read at your own risk. I love you, but I also wouldn’t feel bad if you felt as bad as I have. 

Frankly, nothing inspires me to have swing-from-the-chandeliers-sex more than knowing you’ll be reading about it, so maybe thanks are in order?

xoxo J

Running Hot

I’m up at 4, running. Up until 11, running again. I’m coping with the intense level of frustration I’m living with, but walking up the stairs to my office every day has gotten increasingly painful. My ass is looking amazing in my jeans and I have three months to go. Part of me really enjoys this epic remodel of the playground and I’ve started shopping for tiny things that lace up, unsnap or rip off easily.

I wake up to songs he wants me to hear as his text messages whistle their way into my phone, his gorgeous face pops up in a tie that I’ll be fantasizing about all day and the books he’s reading are showing up on my Kindle.

Plural. BookS. Be still my ever-loving geeky heart.

Also… let me just take a second to express my sheer gratitude  for a well spoken man, because he sent me a couple messages as I walked into work today, and I was stunned silent for 5 hours. I finally read them to my coworker.

H- You’re as lovely as ever, Ms. *******

H- Aging is never kind, but it’s gentler on some.

He’s a very brave man for giving me three months to think. He’s smart enough that I know it’s intentional and I adore being underestimated. He can hear the edge in my voice and teases me mercilessly.

H- I’m not inflicting this sentence on you. Stop running and make a call. You need some sleep.

J- Oh ye of little faith. It’s natural to be afraid… I’m in training mode. You better start running again.

Also my FWB is MIA, so I do have a little added assistance in this outrageously tantalizing situation. Burning daylight and moonlight with headphones and my elliptical machine.

Trying on all my favorite garter belts and “evening wear” really makes me shake my head at myself. I packed this whole part of myself away five years ago, and opening some of these boxes is like seeing an old friend. I love being a girl. I love all the sexy details we have available at our disposal. Silk stockings, lacy garter belts, corsets, whispy bits of satin and lace and a set of real handcuffs. I’ve always loved sex more than I was supposed to. I just don’t apologize for it anymore.

He’s confident in the way I can’t resist and respectfully sweet to the point I worry about my long-term independence. I’d love to unwrap him, but I’m going to lock him down first because I’m smart and I know what a unicorn he is.

If you really like him? Don’t fuck him. Play hard to get. Be slow to respond to his texts. Be busy. Activate that hunter-gatherer instinct if you want more than one night. Be a trophy, not a sport fish.

Pump those breaks and run that ass off with me. The best things in life are worth waiting for, right?


Second first date.

His text messages are scintillating. I’m at a complete loss, living with flushed cheeks and a smile I can barely contain. I am in so much trouble.

This is a call for an intervention. I am in wayyyyyy over my head. I’ve realized a whole lot in in the last week. I dated him casually eight years ago, but I’ve patterned A LOT around him, since.

  • That spelling penchant of mine? We know where that came from, now. I’ve learned two new words this week and have had to adjust to being in a constant state of arousal.
  • My predilection for menswear? Shit. Also here. I am barely clinging to my self control as he sends me a pic on his way to work. Dear God. I should write some of the ideas that he’s inspiring, down.
  • Library dates. Nobody has ever come close to comparing to the one he showed me.
  • Strip club dates, be still my heart. I became something of a legend when I took him for the first time. I may have capitalized on this one a few (dozen) times since then. It’s never been as fun as when I took him.
  • Rough sex. This is where all my behind-closed-door favorites, originated.

H- I always wanted to please a woman until she screamed.

J- I volunteer as tribute.

H- Do you mind if I try a few things I’ve always fantasized about?

J- Nooooo….Do I need a safe word?

H- I don’t think so? Just talk to me. I really like stealing the words out of your mouth with pleasure.

  • The good Daddy vice. I’m only attracted to the good ones, and he is THE BEST. Every date was always contingent on the little’s being safe, sound and out of earshot.


Three more months of his self-inflicted celibacy while drowning in the intoxicating details of a man whose left me smiling and picking out men who reminded me of him, since. I feel like I’m in high school again, with his texts whistling at me to test my resolve even further.


Doomed. I. AM. DOOMED. My walking Achilles is free balling it in court today on my behalf and I’m biting a hole in my lip just thinking about it. I’ve never been jealous of criminals before. This man. This incredibly intoxicating muse of mine is tying me in little bitty knots… and there’s a whole lot more of that to come.

I’ve been trying to think of a safe first date. Not dinner. NO MOVIE. No car rides, no dark rooms, no dancing.



What could possibly go wrong?




I’m in new territory. I’m not on my A game and I am flailing a little. It’s more than a little embarrassing. My i’s are not dotted. My t’s are not crossed.

I have been spelled into submission and I am flagrantly risking my hard-won freedom whilst I tie myself into aprons and slip into heels with the raw anticipation of seeing him for the first time in 8 years. I am woefully predictable when it comes to certain vices and he’s a walking list.

In a tie even, be still my heart.


He’s driving to work and voice texting me from his car. Apologizing for his grammar and punctuation. I’m so turned on that I feel flushed. This is the guy who created my penchant for smart men. Not just smart though… smarter than me. Eeeeek.

I text Miss Fancy the same screenshot.

J- I’m in danger. Humongous danger.

She agrees.

F- You’re in trouble.

He sends me his playlist and I love what he listens to. He wears a tie every day, y’all. Every DAY. He doesn’t love it, but I can work with that. I am nothing if not inspirational when inspired.

I’ve ghosted a few dozen men and deleted my Tinder account.

The poor pilot. He will not stop texting me. I’ve been sending him a few here and there because I can empathize with how much worse the silence is than disinterest, but I think maybe it might be easier if I just full Casper.

There is one factor…

He’s celibate. He took a year off and when my eyebrows bounced to my hairline, he laughed and quickly invited me to have sex with other people. Again. Instant shocked eyebrow face lift.

D- Is that a deal breaker?  I understand if it is. I’ve been in an open relationship for years and don’t have any problem with you having sex, but I’m not right now.

Chaste dates with a man that embodies nearly every last vice and craving, I possess?

What am I getting myself into?

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.