imagesI love you.

I miss you.

I want you.

I’m sorry.

I’m thinking about you…

I hear you, now show me.

Words. All just words. Words on a page, or in a text…or via email. Whatever, they are just words. Which is funny, coming from a writer. You would think words would be just fine in my book. You would think that when a person tells me how he or she is feeling, I would take it for face value, right? I mean, why wouldn’t I? After all, if you say it, you must actually in fact…mean it? But what happens when the words and the actions don’t match up? The words are saying, “You are important” but the actions are saying,”You mean nothing”. What is a girl to do?

Should actions always speak louder than words? 


You guys are gonna die.

For real.

I have a story that ends all stories.

Seriously, it does.

I have told it to a few of my peeps, and jaws have dropped.


It’s been a long, long time since I have had a dating story worthy of it’s very own blog. So tonight, in honor of National Kissing Day...I will relive the most fucked up thing that has happened to me since my face got licked back in October. Do y’all remember that? The Face Licker? When that dipshit licked the hell out of my face in the parking lot at Dean and Deluca. AND made me pay the bill! Yes. That was definitely blogable, but this my friends…this story might take the cyber cake. Damn this bat-shit crazy world. What is happening? Can’t a girl just get a normal date anymore?

So, I am talking to this guy. No, I’m lying. We are texting. Whatever, and he is a friend of a friend. And we have known each other for a long time, ok? This isn’t some freak from JDate, or some loon off of Tinder. This is a solid fella. I’m telling you, the boy is a stand-up citizen. And he’s charming, and good looking. He is a good man. So, we set up a time for the weekend, right? And we are chatting and talking…and it’s all good. And then, he asks me if I can please wear RED LIPSTICK on our first date. Ummmm. I started to laugh. And I reread the text. Red lipstick? What the fuck. He said, “Jen, can you please wear red lipstick.” He did. I guess he did say please, I mean that’s nice. So, I write back,”RED is not really my color. And I don’t even own red lipstick. I’m more of a pink-kinda-gal.” Now, why I’m even having this conversation, is fucking beyond me. But I am. So he then proceeds to tell me that I would look fabulous in RED and that no worries, he would take care of it.

Mr. Max Factor is going to take care of it, great!

Wait. What? What does that mean? I’m like, are you fucking kidding me? He’s going to “take care” of what? My lips, the gloss…get me a make-up artist? omg. I started to get all panicky and sweat a little. I’m thinking of Silence of the Lambs, I go there a lot…to the dog in the hole, and the girl with no skin. And I’m like,”how will you take care of it?” And he says, “I have a picture of you, and I’m going to go to Nordstrom’s, and pick out the perfect shade.” Wow. Wooooowwww. Ok. Is this a red flag at this point, or a really sweet gesture? I mean, in 14 years of marriage, Mark never picked out a lipstick for me. Fuck, I can actually remember putting on red lipstick at Ulta once, and him telling me to take it off that I looked like a hooker. Good times. Red is just not my color, Mr. Max Factor! And it would be different if we had dated for like, ummm…a year, and he wanted me to wear heels in bed. Or a cowboy hat when I’m on top. Or dress up like a french maid. Ok, never. But red lips on a first date? Yikes.

So, I end the conversation politely, hang up…and text my girlfriends. I tell them the story, with added emoji lips and lipsticks for effect. They all agree that he is a whacko. But a sweet, hot, nice whacko.  And I cancel the date. Yes I do. I tell him that I have the runs. And just can’t leave the house. Then I ignore him. And give him the coldest shoulder known to man. I felt bad, ok? I did. So, I decided to go to Nordstrom for a little retail therapy.  I went to the make-up counter feeling just a little guilty for canceling, after all he was just being sweet, right? And the girl looks at me and says,”Are you dating a guy named, Mr. Max Factor? Tall, good looking…nice? He was in here last night buying you RED LIPSTICK!! So nice! He had your picture so we could get the exact shade! How did it work out?”

I wanted to die.

I was going to slap the bitch, drop to the floor…and crawl out of the mall.

The next day, I got a text from him. He said,”Ok, ok. You WIN! I’ll exchange the red for PINK!! Let’s go out for dinner!” I thought it was funny. And cute. And he was trying so hard, which is more than any other man had done for me in a long, long time. So, in honor of National Kissing Day I think I just might give Mr.Max Factor a shot. Maybe we will be friends. Friends that go shopping together. Or travel together, or hang out and laugh. So pucker up, all y’all…and get yourself some red lipstick. Or pink. Hell, just pucker up and kiss someone. Oh, and give a nice guy a second chance, you never know when you will make a good friend. Or get a new tube of lipstick! ;)

xo j



Great ass.

Nice face.

All his hair, omg…there is no way.

And he is Jewish? Come on. In Charlotte?

No ring. He’s single!

Call the Rabbi, and book the Temple.


He’s all mine, bitches. All mine. And I will fight you for him, I swear to Goddess, I will. I’ve tried to date the non-jews, and it just didn’t work out so well. Those nice goyem men just can’t handle a Jap like me. I talk to fast, and I bitch to much…and I order my food to damn dry. I swear, I went on, and the fishy site…and Hi-HO-Tinder. I did them all. The sites, not the men. And failed miserably, but this single-sexy-yid I will piss on if I have to. Just to mark my territory. Like a dog on a freshly mowed patch of grass…I will cop a squat, and take a nice warm, pee-pee on this man. Gross. I am not pissing on anyone, ok? But you get my point. This yummy boy is not to be shared. No can do. And you can’t do, him. Get it?


Hmmm. I am going to have to get his attention. He is looking at me, looking at him. Wait for it, Jen. Don’t be a loser…pretend you are texting. Ya. Or, I could actually text. Duh, I text like all the time. Omg. He’s totally looking at me!! No, he is looking at the woman sitting next to me. Fuck her. What does she have that I don’t have? If she is smarter, he can’t tell by looking at us. Phew! And I clearly have better Botox. Do I have something on my face? Shit. Hey, have y’all ever used your iPhone camera as a mirror? OMG how smart is that? Ya know, you flip the camera around…so you are actually taking a selfie, but you’re not really gonna take a pic! And then you can see yourself. Genius. Hold on, stop reading. Try it! Go on..flip the camera around. See! Nothing on my face. And look how adorable he thinks I am… I’m watching my boys play basketball! I am such a hot-sports-mom. He is thinking, “Wow. What a MILF. And she is an athletic supporter.” That’s right. I am quite the fan of all things athletically supported. But I am not a MILF, anymore. Boo. Cougar, maybe? ha.


So, here I am, totally cute and sweet. And I am interacting in a basketballish kind of way with my boys. I mean what could be sexier than that? And I’m playing all shy, and making eye contact from across the JCC gym. And he’s shooting hoops with his little boy, awwww. (not really, the kid is dirty. I hate dirty kids) And I can feel the energy, the chemistry. I know this is it. He is wanting me, yearning for me. OMG. He is totally coming towards me!!! Holy shit balls. Suck in your fat Jen, and stick out your tits. Sit up straight, asshole! This is it! It’s probably the only hot Jew in all of Charlotte! This could be, your next ex-husband….


“Ummm…Hi, I know this is a funny question. But are you the girl that writes that crazy male-bashing blog?” It’s so funny, as the words were coming out of his mouth…I noticed there was this white, gooey build up in the corners. And I think he had this greenish booger attached to one of his nostril hairs, too. And I could barely listen to what he was saying, because I was so distracted by his nasty-ass breath. “Male-bashing blog? Oh, no. Not me! You must be thinking of someone else. I’m the girl that writes the blog about all the fucking losers I’ve been out with since my divorce. Why, did you want to try your luck, and take me to dinner?”

And such a pretty face, why do they have to go and ruin it by opening their big, fat fucking mouths? Oh, I’m sorry. Is this that crazy male-bashing blog? ha. ;)
xo j