geographically undesirable dating






Ok, it doesn’t matter if you say it any differently, or alter the punctuation mark on the end. Really, it’s just the same flipping word. It doesn’t change, it just stays, well...happy. Happiness. Happier. Happiest. In it’s true form, it is an adjective to describe a feeling. How person feels, right? Delighted, or pleased. Glad, or joyous. Ok, you get it. Happy. You can be happy, or your mood can be happy. Or an action can be happy. For example, I could be happy to see someone. Or in a happy frame of mind. Wow. I am just beating this “happy” thing to a bloody pulp, aren’t I? Well, fuck. I just want you all to know how happy I am. I am SO fucking happy.

Happy, happy….HAPPY.

I’m happy as a pig in shit.

Can’t you tell?



San Fran.

Washington, D.C.



The Big Apple.

Geographically Undesirable. 

And the further away they are…they more appealing they get. Jesus. I swear, its like I want these men to be out of reach. Actually, there is a little truth to that thought. I do actually like them out of my reach, and out of my way! Men are a royal pain in the ass. They bug me. And I bug them, obviously. Mark couldn’t stand me, always all up in his shit. When he traveled we got along so much better! And you know ladies, when your man is away on “business” how much better your life really is. Come on! Admit it. The house runs more smoothly, you have some space…you can do what you want. And he isn’t around to piss and moan. That’s right. The constant pissing and moaning.

Pissing and moaning…

“What did you do all day?” or “Did you happen to get my dry cleaning on the way home from lunch with the girls?” Or this one, the ultimate passive-aggressive-doozie, “Hey, honey…I know it was really hard fitting in all your stuff today between 8-3 while the kids were in school, but did you find an extra hour to change the oil in the car YOU drive?” I always wanted to smack in Mark’s face. But now, I’m divorced. And life is good. I can just do what I want, when I want…and I do my very own pissing and moaning. And there is no one around to hear it. Or listen to it. Or do a thing about it. Hmmm. I guess that sucks, too. I kinda wish someone could hear my p&m. (Taking apps.)

My shrink says that I like the far-away boys because they can never become real. Ya know, like really serious. They are just far enough away to be good for now, but never good forever. I think that is just the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard! I mean, I have tried to make these Geographically Undesirable men work over and over, haven’t I? I think I’ve done a bang-up job! Given it my all. I’ve gone back and forth, and back and forth…I’ve racked up my frequent flyer miles to prove it! I even had one guy actually moving here to Charlotte for fucksake! She said that there are millions of eligible men right here under my nose job. Dr. Know-it-all says that I am just not “looking hard enough”. Well, fuck you, Doc. I have been in every bar this side of Queens Road, and there ain’t shit. These Southern Men can’t handle me, and we all know why. I am bossy, and I have a bad attitude. Oh, and I guess I write this “male-bashing-blog”?

So, whatever. I am doomed to be single. Doomed to be alone. Doomed to be sitting here drinking wine, and writing about my purple vibrators. And doomed to date hot, smart, sexy men that I find “accidentally swiping in Charlotte” but living in Arizona. Doomed. I mean what are the odds? Another fucking long distance relationship? And this one isn’t a hop-skip and a jump, guys. This is Arizona. It’s so far… he might as well be in Australia! I mean, talk about GEOGRAPHICALLY UNDESIRABLE! Wait, I should get a map. I’m pretty sure Arizona is in a desert somewhere. Or it is a desert. Whatever, I know its super-far from me. And I don’t like dry heat. Or sweating. I’m actually getting sweaty thinking about the heat.


I’m a total dumb ass. But what if this one is “the one”? Ok, what if he’s not the one. I don’t care. But I’ll tell you this, I like him. He is fun and funny. Not just one of the two, but both. And at my age, I feel like you have to be both. And he is a whole lot of other things, but I don’t want to tell you yet. I don’t even want to think about telling you…because I’m not sure where we are. But I like him. And I’m pretty sure he feels the same. And that’s enough for me right now. So that means it has to be enough for you, too. It’s weird, for the first time in a long time…I’m okay with it being enough. I am usually wanting so much more. So fast, so quick…all at once.

But not this time. I like the slow, steady…climb we are on. Kinda like riding a bike up a hill, I think. I don’t ride a bike, because it seriously kills my vagina. But if I wanted to ride a bike, I could get one of those gel seat thingies…and then I would know if my analogy was correct. Or, I could just ask someone who rides one. Like a triathlete, for example. Calling all triathletes! Do any of you want to date me…to see if its like riding a bike? ;)

xo j








Drama-free. (my fave)

The list goes on, and on…and on. And I mean it just doesn’t stop. The list. THE LIST, people. The list of things that men want. Or what they say they want. I took it from websites, and dating sites, and right from the horses’ mouths. I made a list. And I am sharing it with all y’all right flipping now. And do you want to know why? Well, you know I’m gonna tell you, so just sit there and read. I have compiled this “list” off of Tinder, and…and JDate because it is just the biggest crock of bullshit I have ever read! That’s right. You heard me, and I am not leaving this blog entry until someone (and I mean a someone with a protruding body part) clears it up. Start messaging me, fellas. Hurvitz ain’t happy.

I just think when a guy says what they are looking for in a partner, they should be honest. I mean, is that so hard to do? Forget who you are as a person, for now. We all know, when you show up for your first meeting…and you are 20lbs heavier than your pix on JDate, you are fucked. Not my problem, it’s yours. If you say you don’t smoke, and then you whip out a cigarette, fucked again. You just can’t lie. Who wants to start off any kind of anything based on a lie? But this is not what I’m talking about here. I am talking about being real about what you want from the other person. What you are expecting the other person to bring to the table. The meat. The guts…the goods.

What do you really want from this woman? 

Is it sex? Chemistry. Is it a nice pair of tits, and a firm ass? Do you want to go to the bar every Thursday night, drink beer…and never talk to me other than that? Are you hoping for a blow job in your car, and dinner on every third Monday of the month? Maybe you want to get married? Who cares! Just lay it all out there, because otherwise I’m just left guessing. And I hate trying to read your mind. You are like a sad puppy, and I want to smack the shit out of you. Dating is like trying to read brail. Or a treasure map, in Japanese. It shouldn’t be this hard. And most of the time, I end up thinking you don’t like me, and I dump your ass. But really, you do…like me, that is. Why didn’t you just say it? Use your words. YOUR WORDS. Cause fucking me, and staying the night… just doesn’t cut it.

Wanna know what I really think?

I think that technology has made it impossible for men and women to interact face-to-face. It’s making it hard for us to “use our words”. We have become so used to this immediate gratification-thing with our fingers, popping out an emoji to express a feeling. So sad. :(  I think we need to start going old school, and date like we did before we could text. Pull the plug on all the cyber shit. Just stop all the Pre-Dating Cyber Foreplay. Do you know what I’m talking about? Instead of spending hours, and days…sometimes weeks texting, ask her out! This “cyber-foreplay” that comes before the date, is fun… but it has to stop! It’s creating these false feelings, and fake visions of what is to come. It’s not real. And we say things in text we might not say so early on in person. I mean it! There is safety behind the screen. And then, we meet this person…at a Starbucks, and we can’t have a normal conversation. It’s all weird, and funky. And strained. I mean you already know my favorite ice cream, my middle name…and my favorite sexual position. Sweet, look me in the eye now, Mr. Hookah.

That’s it, don’t text me anymore. If you want to talk to me, call me. No, better yet…come over and knock on my front door. I will be giving numbers like at the Harris Teeter Deli Counter. When I call yours,  you may enter. And then you will be given a 12 minute talk session. Make sure you bring your list of “wants” in a relationship. Oh, I have a pit-bull, and a large black man that lives with me. So no funny stuff, got it? ;)

xo j






It’s just a ring.

My only real bling.

My rock.

The shiniest, prettiest…most beautiful thing I have ever owned.

But really, it’s just a that…

A thing.

Today, Mark texted me…and said, “You should sell your engagement ring.”  Ya know, I’m buying a new house. So, I could use the cash. I get it. He was being so nice. Reminding me I have it, and all. But for some reason, hearing that out of Mark’s mouth, well fingers…made me sad. Ok, not sad, I guess. It’s just a fucking ring. Come on! But it is the finality of it all. I took it off two years ago, sure…but selling it? Wow. What if Jonah or Zac want it for their little sluts? Or what if I want to give it to my niece for a gift one day? Or use the diamond for a necklace. ha. I mean, sell it…for good? It’s just so, final.

I wasn’t sad, I actually felt kinda guilty. Like, it wasn’t really mine to sell. In fact, I asked Mark if he wanted to split the profit with me. We should go half-sies. He did buy it after all, right? It’s only fair. Or maybe I should sell it, and put the money into the boy’s college fund! Ya. Or go on a trip to Israel, or back to Italy with them. That would be cool. But for some really weird reason, it just didn’t  seem right. Maybe if we hated each other, it would be easier. Ya know, to take the money and run for the hills. Go on a shopping spree, or get my tits redone. Goddess knows, its time for a new pair! Even the fake ones start to sag after gravity gets ahold of them.

I just sat there in my car, looking at the text from Mark.

He said,”Nope it’s yours. Take the money, and go back to school.”

So, I texted him back, “Ok.” And continued texting like it was all good. I asked him where I should go to get the most money for it. Blah, blah..blah. Little did he know I was sobbing. I could barely see the fucking screen. It didn’t help that my face was numb from the dentist this morning either. I mean even my nose was frozen, so the snot was dripping down into my mouth… and I couldn’t even feel it. And some asshole was in the car next to me feeding his fat face with a burrito from Taco Hell. And he was looking at me, like I was some kind of freak show. MYOB, dickhead! What, you’ve never seen a woman freeze-cry before?

Whatever. Mark doesn’t read my blog anymore, so it’s not like he will find out that I lost my guts. But I did. This divorce thing ain’t easy all y’all. Its like a roller coaster, and anyone who tells you it’s a walk in the park is a liar. Or on a really high dose of Prozac. Much higher than me. I think most of the time, I am really good. I like where I am. But then…out of nowhere, something gets me. Just pulls the rug out from under me, and knocks me on my ass. And it doesn’t mean I’m not over my ex. Or that I’m not ready to date, or have a new boyfriend. Please. Don’t be a dumb bunny. It just means that at that exact moment, I’m hurting. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t read into it, or get your panties in a bunch. It just comes with the territory. Falling on my ass, that is.

But I get back up, and I brush myself off…and I wipe my snotty frozen face. Then I remember, I got this. I am where I am meant to be. Fuck it. I’m going to sell my engagement ring, and put myself through school! I deserve it.

Oh, and who knows, maybe I’ll get another ring one day. Actually, I’d even take a Ring Pop. Remember those? I loved those dang things…Strawberry flavored, or the Purple Craze. You lick them, and they get all sticky. And your tongue gets all red, or purple. Those things last forever. And they only cost a buck. Life was so much easier then…when all I wanted was a Ring Pop. ;)

xo j