empowered women

imagesI have an addiction.

I try to hide it.

Convince myself it’s a non-issue.

But the first step is admitting…

So, I’m here to tell the world. I know y’all are assuming it’s Starbucks. Or online shopping! Smoking in my garage when I’m alone, or drinking too much wine? Fuck no. I wish. But my addiction is much bigger than all of those things combined. Hell, it’s bigger than ME. And it affects so many other women across our nation. I am not alone, others feel my pain; understand the demons I fight every, single day.

Other women between the ages of 32-55 to be exact. 

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I’m bored.

Not really.

I am never really bored.

But I am done with my pilot.

Kinda.

I’m actually done with MY part.

Just waiting on Russell to cross check, and recheck…and then, he will send it back to me. And then, I’ll do my changes. We will “discuss” and fight about what’s funny. And what’s stupid. We will go around and around…and finally meet in the middle, or some shit like that. And then, we will be finished. Russ and I will have the most perfect pilot ever. Ha. Well, we will be as close to perfect as perfect can get. We are a pretty good team, the two of us. He is brilliant, and poetic. Smart, and seasoned. And I am well…I am, me. I have a big-ass mouth, and a bad attitude which comes across in my writing. Duh. You read it, and I think you get it. So, Russ cleans me up. And makes me all pretty, and stuff. Wowza, he has quite the job don’t he? He is the potty-mouth-washer-outer. If I could give him a big-ole pump soap to just squirt all over the pages of our screenplay…I swear to Goddess I bet he would. But then, what fucking fun would that be to watch?

Every show needs a little sex. And smut. And every show needs a girl with a vulgar mouth and a big rack. Even if she paid for it. Anyway, here I am. You knew I wouldn’t stay away for long. And I finished kinda quickly! I’m like super-fast at writing, especially when it’s all up in my head. I just have to get it out. Like diarrhea …it just has to come pouring out of me. Can’t wait. Can’t hold it….so, I’m here. Hi! Hiiiiii. Hi. Whatever, hi guys. Whatcha been doing for the past 3 weeks? Anything good? I’ve been dating like a fiend. Bunch of Match.commers. And to be honest, I don’t even feel like talking about them. They don’t even deserve my ink. Text. Type. Fuck em. My sister and me, have been discussing it all, this dating shit…and we have come to a conclusion. Wanna hear it?

I need to get a thicker skin.

Yes, I do.

I need to grow a bigger set of balls if I’m going to survive dating in this Internet World. Chutzpah from the Hood just ain’t gonna cut it anymore, y’all! I”m going to need to really man-up, and grow a set. No more crying like a little bitch when I hear for the umpteenth time that I’ve been lied to AGAIN by the fucker that says he’s “off Match” when he’s not. Why do I care? Fuck him! I’m staying on, too! And no more whining like a wam-bulance when he says, “Oh, Jen…did you expect me to stop sleeping with other women?” No! I don’t care, loser! Fuck her, if you want. But you won’t be sleeping with me…EVER! This vagina is OFF LIMITS. But you won’t hear about it. I’m not going to even bring it up anymore. Nope, not me! I’m turning over a whole new “dating-leaf”.

It’s called, I’ll do what I want…when I want, and it’s none of your dang business.

No more crying. Or whining. Or bitching. And no more looking like a psycho when I’m only acting like any sane woman would act in this fucked up cyber-dating world. I mean, come on people! Be real.  Hey, I’m no saint. I actually accused a really great guy of lying, and hurt his feelings. Badly. He was exactly where he said he was, he was at work. He had to cancel a date, and I thought he was lying. Because I was burned so many fucking times…I didn’t trust him. And I lost a really, great thing. Fuck, I am embarrassed to admit it. I literally called him out. And he put me in my place. He told me we were done. And I knew I fucked up. He’s awesome, and deserves a killer chick. He’s geographically undesirable, yes. And he smokes, gross. But omg, he’s awesome. I will regret it for a long, long time. Dammit, Janet.

But hey, we have to learn from our mistakes, right? I have to trust again. I just have to. I’m jaded, sure, but there is a man out there that will prove me wrong. Shit, I hate Match, and Tinder. Bumble. I hate all of it. But unfortunately, as a single mom…where else am I going to  meet guys? It’s not like I have a chance to hit the bars, and I don’t work at Wells Fargo. I’m not asking guys out at Starbucks. I’m just not. This is the world we live in. I’m shit out of luck. Or hey, maybe I’m in luck? Maybe I will find a great guy on one of these sites…

Or maybe, I won’t. Hell, maybe I am destined to just run into him at Harris Teeter in the frozen food section. While I’m buying my Chubby Hubby Ben and Jerry’s. He will reach in, to get his. And I’ll reach in to get mine…and our hands will touch. And we will both be freezing our fucking asses off. Oh, how cute. And my nipples will be hard…and he will say, “I love your stiff…”

Jesus, I need to get laid. ;)

xo j

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Get in line.

Take a number.

I’ve heard it all before…

You’re singin’ to the choir.

Blah, blah…and fucking blah.

You think I’ve been living under a fucking rock for the past two years? Give me a break. I’ve been here. Single. Solo. Alone. Out there. Doing this on-line-dating-dance that we are all doing. The Mambo-of-Mating Madness, I like to call it. And in seven days, my time is finally up. My Match .Com subscription is DONE. Over. And I swear to Goddess I am never rejoining again. EVER. It has been the absolute worst. And I don’t mean it’s been horrible meeting the men. No! It’s been nice, actually. Some of them have been quite lovely. And kind. But when they are not, wow. Do you guys ever think before you push “send”? I mean, really. And sure, I’m not saying that women aren’t fucking coo-coo. But there has got to be another way! It’s the constant lying. And the stalking. And the messages that keep coming, and coming….and coming. I had 13,874 men view me in the last 8 months. I feel dirty. Its like I have a peep-hole in my bathroom. And I actually paid for it. And wrote a profile to go with it. Gross, I need a shower.

And if you give a guy an inch…

Just one response. They take a fucking mile. And I’m that girl! I’m the one that says ,”Thank you!” I’m that one! Well, I always think, what if it was Jonah? Or Zac! I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to hurt a guy’s feelings. He’s putting himself out there, right? Wrong. I know…I have to be that MEAN GIRL! I just can’t return the “wink” or the “message” from the nice fella from Gastonia that says my smile is “bright like the sun”. Omg. But it’s so sweet! I just feel like I should say thanks. I have to learn to just shut up. I have to. Because next thing you know, you’ve got a live one laying across your kitchen counter… shirt off, posing like a Playgirl model. I shit you not. Literally jumped up, and laid across my island. Shirt off. Posing. Can’t make this shit up. I just can’t.

But this on-line-dating shit is the worst. You make a connection with a person before you even meet them. And you like them. And you even maybe really like them. And then what? I mean what happens, when you get to them in “real life” and it’s not there? The connection you had on the phone, or texting. Or Bumbling. Or Tindering. Fuck. It’s just gone. It’s all such a horrible, maddening mess. And its mean. And hurtful. And sad, really. We are receiving false impressions of each other, and setting ourselves up for failure. Especially, if you’re not completely honest about your expectations in a relationship. But it’s so easy over text, right? You let your guard down. I know I do. Ugh. And timing is everything.  You have to try, or you might not ever find the one. I mean, isn’t that what we all ultimately want? To find the one. THE ONE!

And that’s the worst fucking thing! We are doing this with more than one person! No one wants to commit until you meet for fucksake! It’s just how it’s played…keeping one on the back-burner, and one on Tinder, and one on Match. And one on Bumble. Have you heard of this Bumble bullshit? Ya, it’s newer, I guess. Fuck, one more thing to piss me off. Where the GIRLS have to make the first move. Really? Like we don’t do enough already?  So, you’ve got them all over the place. And I love the guy that says, “Oh, I’m off of Tinder, you should go off too.” So, I do. Cause I trust him. First mistake. And then my friend sends me a screen shot of his Tinder profile. Love it. Busted, asshole. But who’s the loser? Me for trusting him, or him for being an uber prick? I hope you say the latter. I am not the loser in this scenario. I trusted the fucker. Bitter, party of one?

Oh! Did I mention my Match.Com subscription is up? And perfect timing! Cause I just happened to find this kick-ass guy, that I met in real life. Ya know, we met in person?  And we spoke face-to-face. About all kinds of stuff.  And we touched each other. And I had my hair in a ponytail sans makeup when we met. I was wearing the stupidest outfit. I mean, I looked like shit. Ask Tammy. And I could barely speak, cause I’m so used to texting. But there was no stupid profile, no photoshopped pictures. Just me. And we are still talking! What the fuck? And I have no idea if it’s going anywhere. But I don’t care. I’m just excited that for once he doesn’t know me from a website. Wow. I feel so circa 1990. Is there an emoji for that? ;)

xo j

 

images-1The backpacks.

The kicks.

The fancy socks.

The supplies, and schedules…and locker assignments.

Omg. All of it.

Its back to school all y’all, and I am ready.

I have never been so fucking ready. It’s been the summer from hell, and I am just about done. All other kids in America go to camp. Ya know, sleepover camp? But not my boys, no sirree! My little darhlins love their momma! And they just want to be with me. They love to get all up in my shit. Oh, shut up. Don’t you start giving me crap. Making me feel guilty…and saying all that gooey stuff like, “You only have them for such a short time.” Puhlease. It’s been 8 weeks of hell. The fighting. The screaming. The arguing. I am ready to sell them to the Gypsies. Or better yet…take them ladies.

I am obviously at my wit’s end.

Two more weeks and school starts. Middle school for both my guys. The routine. Getting up at the crack of ass, and busting their balls to get them out the door. The new haircuts, which are already causing major issues. They spend more time primping than I do. And the homework, and sports. School is back in session, and my life will be back in full swing. I’ll be a slave to the calendar and the clock.

But what will I do with my free time?

Ya know? The 7 short hours I have between the time I drop of the guys….until the time I have to get back in carpool to pick them up? What am I going to do with my life? I can only get so many manicures, and do so much shopping. Shit. Taking a shower, and getting ready only uses up an hour tops…if I dry my hair, 90 minutes. I can do Jazzercise once a day, and get my hair colored once every 6 weeks. And sure, coffee-ing with a friend takes a whole hour! But I think, and it pains me to say this out loud…I am going to have to find a job. Did I just say that? Or something productive to do. I just can’t sit on my ass, and do nothing now that both my kids are out of Lower School, right? I have to get a life.

So, here it is. My big news. I am GOING BACK TO SCHOOL!

Yes, I am. I have decided that I too need to further my education! I am jealous. I want a schedule, and classes, and teachers. I want books, and new kicks. Oh, and I’m totally getting a backpack. I may look like a moron, but I want one. I have an interview with the Dean of Admissions tomorrow morning at Southeastern Institute (yes that is a real school) to enter their Medical Assisting Program! If you don’t already know this little secret about me, I am a doctor. You didn’t know? Yes, I am a doctor. Ok, not a doctor, really…but I think I’m a doctor. “Dr. Hurvitz, paging Dr. Hurvitz…come to the bathroom STAT one of your kids has sliced open a finger, and your husband has passed out again!”

Ya. The story of my life.

Actually, I am a Medical Assistant for real. I worked in many doctors offices in my life, I just need to get my recertification.  But I think I am a doctor. And truth be told, if I could have gotten higher than a fucking “C” in Organic Chemistry, I might have gotten into PA school. Whatever. I gave it all up to be a DJ, and I am proud of it. So, every morning, the boys will get dressed for Middle School. And I will get dressed for MA school. I’ll pack their lunches, and backpacks. And I will pack my blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. OMG, I am so excited! I remember when I first started dating Mark, I used to wear it around the house. The stethoscope. I wanted him to think I was smart. Ha. It was purple. And I begged him to let me practice drawing his blood. I have no clue why he said no.

A new beginning. A fresh start. I’m not a fan of change, but this one feels right. I am finally doing something for me, and in 8 months I’ll be a doctor! Ok, a medical assistant…but I won’t be offended if you want to call me Dr.Hurvitz. ;)

xo j