jewish dating


I can’t say I’m upset.

I wish I had a little remorse.

Thank Goddess its over!

Can I get a whoop whoop?

For fucksake, Dick…drop that ball already will ya?

I have a NEW YEAR TO BEGIN! Omg. I am so happy this year is over. Actually, I have never been so happy in all my life. 2016 can kiss my fat ass! I am done. Done with people dying. Done with doors closing in my face. And done with unsupportive assholes. Buh-fucking-bye, you bitch-of-a-year. Yeesh. Should I tell you how I really feel? I hated this year. I did, and I can’t wait until Saturday night, when I can put it in the past, and move forward into the future. A future that is filled with all things happy, and exciting…and new.

2017 is my year.

Did you hear me 2017? I’m talking to you!!



I have lines on my upper lip.

I do.

I was looking in that stupid, blow-up mirror.

I saw them.

I can’t fucking believe it…

I have those little, tiny, vertical lines on my upper-flipping lip.

Like an effin’ Bubbie that’s been sucking on a cigarette while playing Mahjong on the beach in West Palm. No offense, Sadie. I’m sure you have a perfectly good reason for just sitting there all day. Shit, who am I to judge? I sit here all day…doing nothing but slurping on Starbucks, and blogging about dumb stuff no one could possibly give a fuck about. But yes, I have lines. Little, tiny fucking lines. And I seriously want to kill myself over them. When I noticed them at first, I did a double take, I did. I called Zac into the bathroom…and I made him look. My twelve year old. And he was pissy. He was like, “Mom, are you for real? You are so weird.”  And maybe I was a little embarrassed. But then, I wasn’t. Fuck him! I have done so much for that kid. He can get up off his lazy ass, and look at my lip. I wiped his ass until he was eight.

Confirmed. He saw them. Lines. Fuck.

So, I got on the internet.

And I ordered every God damn lip product on the market. I didn’t care if it plumped, or it de-aged. Or it makes my lips fall off, I ordered it. I am not going to go down gracefully, people. I will fight to the end. No way am I dying looking like crap. I wouldn’t even look at my Grandma last week, in her coffin. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to remember her pretty. And youthful. And well, how I pictured her. Is that bad? I swear, those bitches at the Esteé Lauder counter used to sell my Grandma wrinkle cream, and I couldn’t believe it! And she was 90. Come on, you assholes! You can not take advantage of a little old lady like that! But you know what? She wanted it. And she loved it. And it made her feel good to use it. And at 90 years old, if she wanted Esteé Lauder wrinkle cream…then she should have it. Jeez. It’s so hard being a woman.

Maybe it’s not…

Maybe it’s me?

Maybe I just make it hard? Rhetorical.

So, I joined this new site, OKCupid. Have you heard of it? You answer all these INSANELY personal questions. And I mean, personal. Let me give you an example: You walk into a room, and see your significant other licking red wine off of another person. Do you? And then they give you four choices. One of which is to join in the fun. HA! I shit you not. This site is legit. So, I just figured, if it’s a match…it’s got to be real! Wrong. I got verbally abused, berated…and I walked out of a restaurant. Oh, and those were three different dates. Solid guys. Not. The first asshole called me a “stupid bitch” for not wanting to date him, when I realized he lived 89 miles away. He asked me why I didn’t use the “distance filter” on the website. I explained I was new, and to cut me some slack. He told me I wasted 20 minutes of his time. I told him I dodged a major fucking bullet. The next guy accused me of flirting with another guy on our date. Can you say insecure much? Fuck I don’t have enough energy to flirt with one guy, let alone two. Kiss my ass, Mr. Asian Fusion. Needless to say, I left the bar in an über. Buh-bye.

This is my life.

OkCupid, you suck balls.

Who needs you anyway? Mr. Right will find me, when I’m not even looking. That’s just how this shit happens. It’s all about timing. And I’ve got nothing but time. But I do wonder sometimes if my Mr. Right will mind the fine lines on my upper lip. Or the scars on my tits. Or the cellulite on my ass. I wonder, if he will still love me when I’m 96, buying wrinkle cream. I had a date the other night, with this charmingly handsome man. And he had the sexiest wrinkles next to his eyes. I pointed them out. I actually said, “I just love these. They are my most favorite part of a guy.” And I touched them. I think I freaked him out. But wow. Sexy. Men get hotter with age, don’t they? Maybe I’ll leave the crow’s feet next to my eyes alone. I think my Mr. Right might just like them. ;)

xo j






Mask, check.

Tweezers,  check.

Gloves, check.

This cream, that cream…and oh, that blue stinky one…

Check, check. And check.

Great. I am ready for action. Let’s get this party started, shall we?

Its Saturday night, and it’s storming. Not just raining, but fucking hailing and pouring down chunks of the sky, and I’m freaking the fuck out. Wait, should I tell you how I really feel? I’m scared. I’m alone. And I am not happy. I don’t “do” lightning, or thunder. And I hate being alone when the shit comes down. I’m a pussy, and I’m proud of it. I usually have my kids here to hold onto. And Zac, my little guy is horrified of thunder. He was in therapy for three years, and it did absolutely nada. Like nothing. Zilch. The poor kid pissed his pants when he was three. Damn generator exploded after being hit by lightning in our backyard. And now, at eleven…he has yet to recover. Poor guy. What’s my point? I have no idea. But I am here, alone on a Saturday night, without my Thunder Buddies to calm my nerves. They are with their dad, dammit. So, I have to occupy myself with other things.

See list above. ^ (that’s a little arrow that points up, cute right?)

Now, when I get a free night to myself…which ALL ladies should have, not just divorced ones. I use it to my advantage. I pull out every fucking sample I’ve ever gotten from every place I have ever been in the free world. Every salon. Every spa. Every make-up counter. Whatever. And I line them all up…getting them ready for the Night About Me. Yes. This night, is all about me, y’all. I’m going to slather me up with every last thing I can find, and cook me in it. Starting with my hair, and working my way down. I’m going to primp, and pluck…exfoliate, and cleanse…every nook, cranny and pore of this body until I am so perfectly polished I sparkle. Wow. Doesn’t it just sound fab?

Ya, well. It does to me. The thunder is freaking me out. So, let’s blare the music. Look! My most fave exfoliator! I am not going to give the names of the products I’m using because I don’t want to make anyone jelly, but I’m obsessed with Rodan and Fields! Should I post pics of this? Ha, that would scare the shit out of everyone! Omg. I would never get a man. Some things are to be left, well…private! Coming from me, that is funny. But really, do you think a guy wants to see you pop your zits, or pluck your nipple hair? I think not. And no, I do not have nipple hair, do you? Forget the thunder. I’ve got all sorts of crap here to keep me busy. A moisture mask (I hate that word) to keep my skin hydrated. A funky smelling gel for my eyelids. Some cream for my ass. I wish I was kidding. Butt I’m not. haha!! I had to do it. Butt I’m not. Get it? Now, my exfoliating gloves for my Brown Sugar Body Soufflé. Holy shit I smell like a bakery. Who wants to taste me?

Oh, and I’m drinking. Girls do not try this sans alcohol. Why would you ever put yourself through all of this on a Saturday night without wine? This is so much better than a date. I mean, right? Who needs a man on a Saturday night, anywhoo? I have a stiff mask of shit on my face. Some goopy-slimy stuff in my hair, and I am so slippery I can barely stay above water in the tub. So much better than playing 20-questions with some fucker you met in the check out line at the grocery store. And do you really need to eat dinner anyway? Come on, I had pretzels and peanut butter. We could all stand to miss a meal. Just sayin’. Music, wine…a tub full of product. It’s all about me. A Night About Me. 

And who really cares, I have a date tomorrow night. ;)

xo j




He’s finally gone.

I have my life back.

Here one weekend, there the next.

The packing, the flying…

imagesThe constant goodbyes.

Do you know how hard it is to date long distance?

Not that I’m complaining. Ok, I am totally complaining. I’m bitching. As usual…I am yapping, and bitching…and complaining about the best thing that has ever happened to me. I have my nerve. My god to meet. I have met this amazing guy, and I here I am…crabbing about our situation.  Shit. What is wrong with me? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. I am sad. That’s right, you heard me, I am sad. He just left an hour ago, and my heart hurts. Sappy, I know. I mean we just spent an entire weekend together, like every fucking second. No space. No alone time. I couldn’t even take a crap by myself. But I loved it. Every single second of it. And now, he’s gone. And I’m back to my solo life, per usual. Which really isn’t that bad. I kinda dig it. Its good having my own time, to do my own thing. I guess. I like me. And my thing.

But when you finally find the person you want to spend your alone time with, shouldn’t you just be able to be with them? 

Why can’t it be our life, ya know…together? Like, in the same city! Or the same STATE for the love of all things holy. I would take that. Just the same State. “Geographically Undesirable” sucks the big one. And today, when it started to sleet…I was hoping, his flight would be cancelled. I pretended I wanted him be able to leave. Ya know, “Oh honey! I hope your flight gets out. I know you have to be at the office tomorrow!” But on the inside, I was dying. I wanted the Charlotte Winter Storm of 2015 to keep him here for all eternity! Form of an Ice City! ha. Get it? Mother Nature, do your thing! Ugh. I just want him here forever. Boo hoo. I know. Cry me a river. I’m obviously getting my period, ok? I wish I could have found the perfect guy in Charlotte. But I didn’t. I found him in D.C., and he is pretty dang perfect. He’s reading this, and laughing. And shaking his head. But he is, kinda close to perfection. Except for his location. Duh. And his love of the word, “moist”.

So, for now, or maybe forever…we will do this “long distance thing” until we just can’t do it anymore. We will plan little get-aways. We will make the most our time together. We won’t take it for granted, or fight. We will spend as much time as we can in bed, having amazing, mind-blowing sex. Yes. That’s it! Isn’t that just totally realistic? I mean, come on…isn’t that exactly how every long distance relationship is? It’s just like a fucking honeymoon every time you’re together?! OMG! NO! It’s not. Let’s just be real here, and tell it like it is! This thing is hard! We are not always as happy as pigs in shit. And we do fight. Mostly because I miss him. Shit. We miss each other horribly. I can’t talk to him every time I need him. We can’t kiss. We can’t touch. Or talk in person. We have to text, and hope what we are trying to say isn’t lost in translation. Our emotions lost in cyber-world. I can’t just swing over to his place for a quick hug when I’m having a shitty day. Fuck. It totally sucks. And when he’s here, my life stops for him. And when I’m in DC, his life stops for me. We are “guests” in each other’s lives. He’s meeting my friends, and still hasn’t even met Tammy! Or Sue. OMG! He hasn’t met Tammy!!! My best friend. And I haven’t met his best friends….or family. It’s just so hard. The logistics of everyday life.

But it’s so easy, too. So comfortable. So right. We just fit. He gets me, and knows me. And understands me. And still wants me. I love it. Ha. He still digs me. Wowza. And our time together is precious. We make a good team. We have a wicked connection. This can work, we just need to keep doing what we’re doing. Concentrating on the positive, and looking forward to the next time we will be together. I can do this! We can do it. So, whether he is in Charlotte, or D.C…or Timbuktu, I’m staying put. Well, you know what I mean. I’m staying put, with him. He is stuck with me!

I’m not going anywhere. And actually, I’m hoping I can convince this close-to-perfect-Jewish boy from DC, that he would do just fine here in Charlotte! I mean, wouldn’t that just be hilarious? Come on down, Mr. Big-ish…you’re the next contestant on The Truth Hurvitz! ha. ;) 


xo j