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







So I’m sad.

::::blows nose::::

And I want to die.

:::::loud ugly cry:::::

And I had this vision of how my life was going to be…

::::pulls covers over her head:::::

I’m in my bed, I stink like feet. My whole body stinks like feet. I haven’t brushed my teeth in like 24 hours, which for me is like 3 weeks, cause I brush my teeth every five minutes. I actually brush my teeth if I wake up to pee in the middle of the night. I do. I shit you not. There are snot-rags all over the bed, and on the floor…and I don’t flipping care. I am in my Tamakwa hoodie, and my Roots sweats, and it’s 90 degrees outside…and I haven’t eaten anything in Goddess knows how long, but so what. I drank a bottle of wine last night, and that will sustain me for all of eternity. I’m not answering my phone, or my texts and I don’t want to talk to anyone. I can’t stop crying. His picture is next to my bed, and everything is reminding me of him. I’m such a loser. Make it stop.

I am heartbroken.

Ok, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m a little melodramatic? I’m not heartbroken. Maybe I’m not dying of a broken heart. But I’m hurt. And mad. And I want to get over this, and fast. How do guys do it? How do men just turn it all off…you know, all of the emotions? All of the feelings they said they had for us. How can he not text me all day? He is over me already? OMG! I am fucking dying over here! How can I survive this breakup, without losing my mind? I think, this time…I’m just going to have to do it like they do it! Yes. I am going to get over this guy, like a guy! Hell to the YES! I need to think like a MAN.

WWHD What Would Hurvitz Do? (if I had a penis, or not)  

1) Eat. That’s right. Let’s eat. And I don’t mean gorge on strawberries and pine nut salad. I mean, pull out every carb you can find, and let’s inhale. My best friend called me up, and got my fat-ass out of my bed. She dragged me to my fave restaurant, and fed me. Made me order fries, and a Toll House Cookie with Ice Cream…and I was on the road to healing. My blood sugar went up, and so did my happiness. Fuck working out. That’s the last thing I needed. Namaste, my ass. This chick needed cheesy nachos, and wings.

2) Drink. Pour me a stiff one. That didn’t really come out the way I intended. But nothing says, “get over it” like a vodka tonic with two limes. And let me tell you, it’s 5’oclock somewhere. Yesterday, at 10:45am, it was 5:00 in Australia, I am sure of it. And after a couple white wine Sangrias, I thought I was in Australia. And I didn’t even remember why Mr. Big-ish and I broke up. Waiter, another round! And keep ’em coming. I think. What time is it in Rome?

3) Basketball. Nothing better to take your mind of a breakup than sports. Men in shorts, jumping around, sweating…and acting like morons. All for the love of the game. Perfect. And more men, in the bar, jumping around…acting like morons, watching the game. Damn. Does it get more perfect? As I was sitting there with Tammy, we were noticing it was quite the cock-fest. Just us, and a bunch of guys. Now if that doesn’t help get me over Mr. Big-ish, nothing will. Yo! Down in front, I’m trying to see the game! And get your attention, wanna buy me a drink? Thank you to Tammy, for taking one for the team. She is such a good sport. And the best wingman ever. Or is it wing-woman? Or wing person. Whatever, she is the best friend. How does she put up with me? Everyone should have a Tammy.

4) The Little Black iPhone Book. Not just for men anymore. I like to call it The Little Black iPhone Book. Or more frequently called, the “Contacts” on your phone. And it’s always so good to scroll through after a break up, isn’t it? Roll, roll…roll to see who might be fun to chat with. Or talk to. Maybe drop them a little text to say, “hi”. Keep your mind off of the ex guy, and keep your fingers busy. Ya know, just let them know you’re back on the market. Nothing makes the ego feel better after being dumped, than reaching out and touching someone. Pun intended. “Hi. Mr. Face Licker. It’s Jen. Remember me? I’m single! Wanna lick my face?” Fuck. I ain’t that desperate. Yet.

So, I’m out of bed. I’m eating, and drinking. Clearly hydrated. I pee all the time. My skin is looking good. I’m smiling, and laughing…and I went to the MSU game today. Wicked. And I flirted. Lots. Which made me happy. It felt really good, to smile. I didn’t think about Mr.B at all. Well, for a while. Don’t worry about me all y’all, I’m going to be just fine. No one died, I just broke up with a guy. But thank you, for worrying. I love your messages. My heart hurts, but it is what it is…the hardest part of all this is telling the kids. Which I have to do next week. Divorce sucks. It’s not easy. But it’s not the worst thing either…

I could have actually drunk-texted The Face Licker. Now that would have sucked the big one. ;) 

xo j