Treat yourself to something today. Reminder: this doesn’t have to cost money. Nora’s favorite treat is sitting alone and reading because she is a very exciting person! It can be big or small, whatever works for you and works for today. Write about it! #TerribleWritingClub
I’m a textbook example of mothers who buy their children everything and spend nothing on themselves. I’ve been forced to lately because my clothes don’t fit anymore and I am suddenly very invested in what sort of panties I have on.
But I hate shopping. Loathe it. Can’t be forced at gunpoint because I’d rather be shot. I can be forced into a shopping mall once a year, for a fake Santa. Other than that, there’s nothing I want or need badly enough that I can’t buy it online and have it delivered right into my hands.
I am buying myself something pretty darn spectacular next week.
A brand new set of boobies. 610 cc Natrelle Cohesive Gel Implants, to be precise. Gummy Bears, as they’re nicknamed.
I breastfed for a collective total of 6 years and have had saline breast implants for the past 14 that should have been replaced 4 years ago. I’m going from a DD to an F or G. It’s really impossible to say until next Saturday when they measure me for bras.
The outcry from friends and family over me getting bigger titties, has been entertaining, to say the least. I understand that some of you don’t get it. To each her own, but if I’m buying them, I’m picking out a big ol’ set of gummy bears.
6 days, 22 hours & 35 minutes from now… I’ll be in recovery and packing some fabulous heat.
Oh and treating myself to a brand new arsenal of gigantic bras.
Quote from Nora, episode #49 “Sometimes I think the hidden key to empathy is just humility and curiosity. It’s just saying, hmm, I don’t get that… tell me more?” Write about your empathy. Where do you struggle to feel empathetic? To yourself? To someone who gets under your skin? What comes easy to you where empathy is concerned? #TerribleWritingClub
My beloved Grandma Elaine was the source of this overabundance of empathy. She cried at every commercial. She hugged every stranger. She taught us all to love every single person that crossed our path and celebrate every minute of the day. She gave us a shining example of the joy that comes from investing your heart in everything and everyone. Oh and the sorrow… because she grieved the loss of everything. From a dish that was a gift once upon a time, to her beloved mama, whose passing she grieved EVERY day. My Grandma was the best version of love I’ve ever seen and I’m quite a bit like her.
Some of my best friends have lost their furry children in the past week. Long-standing animal friends that have been part of every Easter party and camping trip since the beginning of time. I can hardly even think about Nikita Webster, my favorite pitbull… being gone. I had to call my dear Ruby and cry with her about it. I can feel her pain and I wish so much I could ease it. Same goes for Burton Newlove. My shih tzu nephew. I can’t remember a time he wasn’t around and my best friend became a mother when she adopted him. He was her first born and my heart is broken alongside hers. I had to hold my breath while the phone rang when I called her, because I didn’t even know where to begin to comfort her poor heart.
I take on every bit of pain from the people I love. It’s just my way. I’m absolutely the friend you want sitting beside you in a shitty situation, because I’ll cry the tears you can’t and fight the wars you won’t.
I’m the one that will help you bury the body. #sorrynotsorry
The same goes for the high points in life. New love, weddings, babies… I treasure that shit. I celebrate my friends’ good days as much as my own. Miss Lovely is swimming in new love and it’s fabulous! I can feel her nervous hesitation too, and do my part to talk her out of her brakes. It’s a safe place to hit the gas and I’m also the friend that talks you into having faith in love. Life is short and love is grand. Go for it. It’s worth the gamble and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll be there right beside her until it does.
Aside from a handful of assholes, I feel empathetic towards everyone. I treasure people who believe differently than me because they teach me new things. I’ve gotten comfortable making friends out of past enemies and I don’t hold many grudges anymore. Everyone has their own struggle and you can’t ever assume you know how hard it is by the smile on someone’s face. I’m really good at smiling through suffering and I recognize it in other people as well.
Tis the season to be a nice person and consider other people before yourself. Empathy doesn’t cost a thing. Gift that. Spread that shit around. ♥
Quote from Nora, episode #42 “The heart is where it’s at. It tells us so much about ourselves. It skips a beat when we’re falling in love. It races when we’re scared. It holds our secrets and our hopes.” What does your heart say about you? What is it racing or skipping a beat for? #terriblewritingclub
The Unicorn and I were talking about this yesterday. We’re just…different. She’s in the same boat, regularly enough that she can commiserate over anything I’m going through. We love out loud and hard. Neither of us have any concern over why we should be more cautious or restrictive with our feelings. We don’t speak that language and we’d be miserable if we did. Sure… at the end of the road her and I will arrive at the pearly gates with dents and dings, a few bruises and hearts that have been broken so many times they’ve been duct taped back together. Laughing. Having lived every last shred out of every second of every day. Loving every minute of it, because we don’t know how to love any other way. The high cost of a magical life, well lived.
So many things make my heart race or skip a beat, that I have to make a list:
My Children. First and foremost, nothing makes my heart skip a beat more than my babies. They are my sun, moon & stars.
Finding the perfect Christmas gift for someone special. 🙂 I am SO excited for Christmas this year because I have some HUGE surprises planned. My closest friends know that I don’t love opening presents. I kind of loathe wrapping paper and the awkward expectation of it all, but I LOVE shocking the hell out of someone by making a big dream come true.
The Yarn Store. Hmmmmm, somebody take my card away because I can spend some serious money on string. I think it’s close to a high when I walk into the merino and angora section. I. Want. It. All. Incidentally, I already have it all, so it’s really ok if someone takes my card away before I walk in the door.
Morning sex. There’s really nothing like being woken up by the man you want. Nothing. In this crazy, chaotic life of alarm clocks, traffic and stress… God or nature gave us perfect erections, every morning. Letting that treasure go to waste is a crime. Wake HIM up. Do it for me.
Thread count. Sorry, not sorry. I have a bedding collection that makes my heart skip a beat every time I do laundry. I love good sheets. Fluffy feather pillows and comforters make me happppppppppy. My boss gave me some sort of charcoal mattress topper thingy that feels like a cloud. My bed is heaven before you even add me into the equation. Amen.
Being in love. I think this is a given, considering the topic… but the only one I hesitated on. I am a little horrified at myself when I’m in love, and it’s somewhat uncomfortable to face the frustrating parts of yourself. I can’t explain what happens to me. My Mormon roots come out swinging, and I LITERALLY tie an apron on. I bake, spoil and fuck him into a dumbfounded coma. My jeans disappear and there are suddenly a dozen dresses and heels in the closet. I take the time to wear a garter belt and stockings. I wake him up with a blowjob. I AM that 50’s housewife we all shake our heads at. Sex on heels and grinning at everyone, everywhere. Baking a blue streak. Lemon tarts and marshmallows, and why not make a bunch of homemade gnocchi? It’s a lot. Kind of like your own private hurricane.
Traveling. So many things make my heart skip a beat when it comes to travel. I love Mexican libraries where I can’t read the pages in the books, and homemade tortillas from the lady I can’t have a conversation with. I realize that I sound like an asshole American, but honestly… not talking is ok. Smile and shake their hands. Hug them. Words aren’t always necessary and some of my greatest adventures have been with people who didn’t speak the same language. I think it’s important to see how the rest of the world lives and loves. It makes you a better person and more grateful for the blessings we tend to take for granted.
Gardening. This is a hard pill to swallow after such a terrible season, but it truly makes me happy to play in the dirt. Homegrown garlic is unparallelled as are ripe heirloom tomatoes. I can’t live without either and nothing quite compares to the release of my favorite porn every year.
Blowjobs. This is the unsung hero of so many women’s sexual repertoire. Seriously ladies, step it up, because this tops the list of why I am struggling with an Incredicock addiction. He indulges me and I can’t look at his belt without my heart racing.
Rough sex. Give me all the spankings. Choke me, bite me, and tell me all about it. I apologize for the hearing loss. Feel free to put your hand over my mouth. That does it for me too.
My Fab Fit Fun box. Call me Basic Becky, because I LOVE this shit. It’s the only stupid thing I do for myself and it ships out four times a year. Buy it for yourself, your wife, your mom… anyone. It’s a wonderful surprise that shows up when you expect it the least and need it the most. Anything I don’t love or use, I give to my lovely daughter and friends. It’s win-win, all the way around.
Masculine men. Sigh. This should be second only to my children. The only smell on a man that’s sexier to me than cologne, is sawdust. Hot and dirty with tools in his hands, he can have anything from me. Name it, take it… it’s yours.
Tattoos. It’s been way too long since I got a new one. Nothing compares to needle therapy and I can’t be attracted to a man without them, either. All that plain skin is a sign of a boring soul and uneventful life.
Elderly couples. We visit the nursing home frequently, and have adopted a few families who don’t have children/grandchildren nearby. They think we belong to them and that’s enough for me. John and Edna are my favorites. He walks with help and she’s quite a bit younger than him. He pinches her on the ass, every single chance he gets. She took his motorized cart away because he kept running into her heels, but he figured out how to roll after her equally as fast with his new self-propelled wheels. She laughs every time, even when he runs into her. He jokes constantly that he told her he’d chase her around the nursing home and now she believes him. They’re good for everyone who has the pleasure of being around them. Edna does squats with me now and John is threatening to start pinching mine, too. 🙂
Old books. The older the better. This beats any porn I’ve ever seen, including my favorite seed catalog. I could sit in an old library for a hundred hours and smile for a month straight, afterwards. Reading is a luxury I don’t make enough time for, but when I am really feeling sad or lonely, a good book is always just what the doctor ordered.
Exercise. Hard to believe, but so incredibly true. I love the muscle screaming, sweat dripping, ass perfecting grind that is my daily workout(s). It saves me when my sex drive threatens to steal every last minute of the limited hours of sleep I have available to me as it is. My arms are changing shape, my jeans are looking goooood and my panic attacks are gone. That’s everything.
What makes your heart race or skip a beat? Do you share any of mine?
My goodness, this has been a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be. I’m a big fan of checking in with myself and being honest about my struggle, because life is hard for everyone and I know plenty of people who are not comfortable sharing difficult feelings.
I volunteer as tribute. lol….I’ve actually sent something out like this before, so my family wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest. 🙂
This is a heartbreaker podcast, but you should stop what you’re doing and listen.
It’s been a busy year in our household! Little Red graduated and moved into her own place. She’s running a tight ship and has threatened her boyfriend into putting the seat down and bringing home flowers, regularly. I’m so relieved she didn’t inherit the doormat gene. She’s a gorgeous hammer, and I have no doubt that she will do and have anything she wants. Heaven help the man who stands in her way. I’ve realized just how many dishes she actually washed, and desperately hope she moves back home.
The Dumpling has stopped having screaming temper tantrums, no longer runs to the calming tent and has stopped shouting at the other children. It only took 8000 conversations and an extensive loss of popsicle privileges. Single parenthood from birth has proven to be the most exciting adventure I never imagined. We are a team and I treasure even the most trying moments, of which there are many. It’s a darn good thing she’s so cute and thoughtful. She’s a whole lot of heaven and a smidgen of hell… just like her mama.
Speaking of yours truly, it’s been a fantastic year. Ish. My garden officially died this year, as in: never-happening-again, died. $900 in water for a handful of potatoes, a couple tomatoes and a shitload of beets and gourds. It provided ample exercise, which helped carve 60 pounds off of me, prompting some terrible dates and a freshly broken heart. Though the garden changed, my love for unavailable men, has not. The longer I’m single, the more inclined I am to believe that it’s intentional and more a form of self preservation than masochism. My professional life has never been better and it’s hard for me to be anything but happy when I consider all the amazing parts that make up my life. I’m a very lucky lady with an amazing bunch of friends and family. I love you, one and all.
xoxo Jenni & the girls. (my boy still isn’t speaking to me.)
My Grandpa used to send out an offensive holiday letter. It wasn’t funny and rude, he just only included his second round of kids. My mother’s blood would boil and so I began making it a tradition of reading it aloud with a twist. We miss those shitty, inconsiderate letters.
When I got divorced, I sent one out that was awkwardly honest and everyone loved it. One of my sisters still talks about it. I think we all want to show the world (and more importantly, our loved ones) the rosy side of our lives. We don’t want to “burden” anyone with the sad stuff, even though Christmas really is the saddest time of year for MANY people. Myself included. When you share the real stuff, it lets someone know they are not alone in not giving a fuck about singing carols and hanging up lights. They’re just trying to make it through to January, too.
Life isn’t perfect, but it’s always worth it and changing. Even the worst times don’t last forever.
How in the world do I let myself get talked into this shit. Of all days, when I’m not feeling fantastic… along comes a big old opportunity to be honest. Which is kind of my favorite drug. So few people are honest anymore, that I relish being described as being painfully so.
I joined the #terriblewritingclub because I am completely in love with the podcast.
The question for today is: HOW ARE YOU, REALLY?????
How am I?
It’s a funny thing to consider answering that, honestly. So I’m going to.
I’m writing a victim impact statement for my rapists release from prison. How’s your day going?
In the midst of smiling pretty and playing nice, I’ve been rehashing horror and reconciling some of my hang-ups in how they relate to being violated. I love rough sex. It only gets difficult to admit when people attribute it to my being raped.
It isn’t fair to steal my vices because he stole my innocence and I shouldn’t have to apologize for being healthy in spite of being handed every reason not to be. I shouldn’t have to feel guilt in any sexual moment because he stole those moments from me.
Every single syllable is being picked apart and I’m ready to throw in the towel and refuse to participate. I want to wear a Burka. I don’t want to see him and I don’t want him to ever get to see pain on my face, again. I haven’t seen him in over a decade and I don’t want him to be able to recognize me. Part of it is always the fear that he’ll come find me again.
Part of me will forever be carrying that poor, broken 15 year old girl.
I’m waking up to anxiety attacks and the temptation to sign up for shooting lessons. Re-reading the notice that he has family in the area and will be free to visit them. Shopping for Bullmastiffs and a gate for my driveway in the hopes of refusing to be afraid.
So I don’t know if I’m going to finish it or not, because I’ve spent enough years on one horrific week and it’s taking a toll on me.
I think if I had to describe how I am though? I’d say… healthy. I communicate well. I always choose kindness, first. I’m a blessing in the lives of the people I love, including my own. I’m definitely running low on faith these days. I don’t believe in anything much anymore, beyond what I’m personally capable of delivering.
Which is probably why I’m still plugging away at this godforsaken letter…