no sex

New Year’s Eve.

Who doesn’t love New Year’s Fuckin’ Eve?
Only like the best night of the year. Really.
Get all dolled up. Hot dress. Hair done. Get your sexy-on. Take a water pill to get the excess bloat off from the Christmas carbs.
You are ready to go!
And you have extra-special reservations at the newest, hippest joint in town. Paid an arm and a leg, but who cares?!
It’s New Year’s Fuckin’ Eve! 

You wanna know what I did last year?
I was getting roofied at a swanky hotel bar in West Hollywood. And passed out on the bathroom floor by eleven. For reals. I wish I was kidding. But I’m not. I was at the Rose Bowl, in Cali with the best group of MSU boys this side of the Mississippi…or that side, depending on which state you are reading this from. Or country for that matter. I mean, if you’re reading this from Australia, then I guess who cares where the flipping Mississippi is, right? Shit. Let’s just say, the greatest group of guys on the planet!! I had just gotten separated, and I decided to take a trip. FOR ME. A me trip. Do you know what a “me-trip” is, girls? It’s a trip that you take just for yourself. You actually wake up one morning, get out of bed, and say, “Hello, (insert husband’s name here), I am going to be leaving for (insert place here), and that is that. Goodbye!” A “me-trip”. You don’t ask permission. You don’t see if it’s ok, or if it fits into HIS schedule. You simply go. You get the fuck up, and you go Daddy on him. You know, Daddy? The Danielle Steele novel where the main character literally leaves the Dad with the kids, and like never comes back. Just fucking up and leaves….buh-bye. haha. How many times have all y’all thought of doing that? Come on. Admit it. Well, I have. I’ve thought to myself, what would Mark do if I just left? Like took the car keys…and just drove off into the night. Never to be seen, or heard from again. Ya know? “Go Daddy” on him. Ya well, never happened. But a “me-trip” is the closest thing to a “Go Daddy”.
So, anyways, I left last New Year’s for Cali, and went to meet my bestest guy friends from MSU…and we had the greatest time at the ROSE BOWL! Whoop Whoop! It was my separation gift to myself. I used my own money. And just went. Alone. No friends from Charlotte, just me. My “me trip”. Something I would have probably asked to do before, but didn’t even batt an eyelash at this time. I just looked at Mark and said, “see ya”! And on NYE, I was at the bar, and low and behold….I put my drink down for all of 5 seconds, and I am 100% sure that I got roofied. Well, at least that’s what I’m assuming happened as I was texting one minute, and the next minute I was falling face first onto the floor. All I could hear was my friend Jason saying…”Jen…Jen…Jen!”
Good times. Just like MSU circa 1990. I was so proud…
And I got all dolled up. Hot outfit. Hair done. Clearly had my sexy-on. And made a complete and total ass of my newly-separated self….as I face planted on the W Hotel’s floor. Oh, and the EMS shining their little lights in my eyes, and taking my pulse was just an added bonus. New Year’s Eve was the BEST night ever! Not. Good thing the guys were close by to wake my ass up the next day so I could make the game. Go Green….Go White! I wanted to puke. And crawl under the bleachers. And I was just so happy that my friends didn’t make too much fun of me. They all were just probably feeling so badly for me…I was like this loser. Pathetic, and a hot mess. Little did they know, I was so happy to be there, that weekend.  Like the little sister, they dragged around…it was like the best time ever. Kinda like my coming out party! Even if I did get drugged. lol. Thanks, guys…you rocked. And Mark was such a dick. I called him, to tell him not to worry. I was fine, but nearly died the night before. Ok, a bit dramatic, but I felt like I had died. He was all but surprised. And could really give a shit. He said, “Only you, Jen. This shit only happens to you.” Just the confirmation I needed that I was doing the right thing. Separation is a GO. We have lift off…
So, now…it’s a year later. And so much has happened! omg. So what am I going to be doing this New Year’s you ask? Hmmmmm.
Well, I have options.
A trip to Savannah. With this boy. He’s fun. And funny. Not the same. Fun and funny. Two different things. So, he is both. Fun and funny. And hot. But I’m not going. Then, there is this invite I got to go to Boston. This other fella. Smart. Successful. Handsome. Not fun. Or funny. Not going. Ok, are you following me? There’s always my best friend’s house party. She is totally fun and funny. And I don’t give a rat’s ass what she looks like. lol. But she is lovely. And very pretty. Who cares. She knows how to throw a party. And cook, and she always has awesome drinks. And stuff. But I am probably going to be the only single person there. So who would I kiss at midnight? How embarrassing. So I am not going. No I am not. Oh, and her dog hates me, and always tries to eat me. I’m not kidding. I have no idea why I taste so good to her puppy….but I think it’s only me. I’ve never seen the dog eat anyone else! I’m doing to have to have a conversation with her about this. My friend, not the dog. Talking to dogs is weird. If I start talking to dogs, please lock me up.
Ok, so there you have it. I am staying home. I’m going to drink wine, and blog. How great does that sound?! A drunken New Year’s Fuckin’ Eve Blog! ha. I think there will be nothing finer than a blog that I post at the stroke of midnight. Genius. Think it’s too much? I thought of that just now. I mean, what are the actual chances that I’m up at midnight? I will probably be sound asleep by nine. I’m such a lightweight. If I start drinking my wine at like, seven-ish…I will never make it! Shit. I better make some of those little hot dogs, and man up! Dammit. My sister will be in her pi’s too, I think…I need confirmation, Julie. But if that’s true…I won’t feel like that big of a loser. If Mother Sketcher (my sister’s company, shameless plug) is sitting in her hotel room in South Beach on NYE, then The Truth Hurvitz can be alone, too. Although, somehow being in South Beach…with her hubbie, and kids…sounds a little more glamorous than being in Charlotte, no? New Year’s Eve is over-frickin’-rated. I have never liked it. Never. It’s so much pressure. So much hoopla! So much….
Nonsense. And noise. And kissing. And happiness. And yuck. Just drop the damn ball, Dick! Why do you have to be sooooo dramatic? We all know it’s going to fall. Yeesh.
I would much rather be in my house. Alone. Drinking myself into a drunken stupor, and writing my inner most thoughts. Hey, at least if I stay locked-in, there is zero chance of me getting roofied. Just me, Ryan Seacrest…and my laptop. This year, I’m laying low. Which is quite abnormal, but I’m ok with it. My boys are with Mark….and I am not going to cry over it. I am going to take advantage of it, and just chill. Anyone wanna join me? ;)
xo j
Happy New Year, all y’all! And here’s to great things for all of us in 2015! 

I can’t even believe that I just sat down for the first time today. I mean really? I’m exhausted. And I’m drinking wine. Ma nishtana.  Or for all you non-Jews that’s a little Hebrew for “what else is new?” Just in time for Passover. Gettin’ my Jew on. I mean, since I moved to Charlotte five years ago.. I pretty much have a glass of wine every night. Glass. House. Stones. Go. Whatever. I don’t get drunk, or slam a bottle, for fucksake. I have a glass of wine. It’s a little weird to some of you, I’m sure. And to others,  it’s strange that I only have one glass. Ha. Anyways, I’m now in my sweats..curled up with my doggies, and drinking my glass of wine. Ahhhh. Life is good.

Life is good? Shit, after that last blog..I bet you’re thinking how could life get any worse? Life without sex. A sexless marriage, not being wanted by the only man in the world that is supposed to want you, come hell or high water!?  Stab my heart out why dontcha?! Ya, after that last blog.. it seems like anything would be better than that, right? Well, since we are being honest here, it really wasn’t that bad. I loved that guy to bits. He was my best friend. And I loved my family. We were the perfect TEAM. Just not the best partnership. So, the truth is…sexless doesn’t always mean loveless. Remember that, k? You never prepare for the future though, when you’re in it.. so as bad as it gets, it can get worse…

“I don’t care where my SCAR is, Dr. Sherbert. Like I’m ever getting naked for another man again? Unless I’m going to be a stripper in my next life, or Mark’s going to kick-it.. NO guy is ever seeing this body naked. Never. Ever. NEVER. Let’s do this thing. Just make sure I’m hot. And thin. And you wake my ass up. And put my tits where they used to be, UP. I don’t want them huge.. I just want them UP. I look like a cover of a National Geographic, and I have 50 more years to live. I deserve this. Right? Right”.

Ya. That was smart. Good thinking, Jen. I mean, I just really wanted to look good in clothes. So when my plastic surgeon cut me from hip to hip 7 years ago, I didn’t really think twice. I never really imagined another man seeing my body. I’m like Heidi Montag on a good day. I’ve done it all. But no one would ever see it. Not my stomach. Or my breasts. Or my vagina. No guy would ever touch me other than Mark. (Dad, please..stop reading). I just thought I would always be married. And Mark wouldn’t mind that Frankenstein gash across my torso. Or the scars on my boobs. The thought of another man seeing me naked was enough to send me right to the…wait. I know you want me to say the gym. I should say the gym. Or the therapists office. Sure I went to see my shrink. She was SO helpful, she told me to just “get back on the horse”. To find myself, and then to just get back out there.. and get back on it. Not to rush into anything serious, duh. But that I should date. DATE. DATE. There’s that fucking word again. DATE. bleeeeccchhh. I didn’t want to date. I wanted to have sex. Glass. House. Stones. Go. Losers. Don’t judge. If I was a guy, you wouldn’t even think twice about that comment. You blame me? Give me a break. Can’t a girl just have sex with out being in a serious relationship? Such a double standard, but that’s another blog.
So no gym for me, I ate salsa. And did Weight Watchers. And I went directly to the tanning place. Yes, you heard me. SPRAY TAN. Thank you to my sweet friend Ginger, at Glow Charlotte. That woman saved my life. Fucking spray tan covered my scars, and made me look 10lbs thinner I swear to god. Forget the gym, girls. What a waste of time and money. Sugar-based spray tan. My ass looked better, my skin was glowing.. naked never looked so dang good. I might even have to post a pic. NO not of me naked, but of the glow tan. Pre-sex necessity, a glow tan. Even in the dead of winter, ladies. Spray tan your cellulite-ridden asses. I have no shame, and when something works, it works. I will scream it from the rooftops! And not to mention, a little thong line looks sexy as all get out. I even bought an extra Glow-on-the-Go bottle to spray at home. Love that shiz. And love my girl, Ginger. Laugh now, but I can lay naked and feel like Kate Upton. Notice, I didn’t say Brooklyn Decker. I’m not that naive.
I have my tan. And I shaved my legs. Wow. Remember when you actually were married, and could get away with not shaving your legs or vag? OMG. Did she just say that? Yes, I did. Now, I actually have to shave. Not only my legs, when I go out on a date, but just in case there’s a chance I might get laid.. I have to worry about my vagina. (whispering) va-giiiii-naaaaa. My pussy. Do I wax? Or laser. If I do shave it, and I hook up, does that mean that I thought I was gettin’ some? And then the guy thinks I’m a ho? Or do I not shave.. and then he’s like, “Omg, I can’t believe her puss isn’t shaved.. she didn’t think we were gonna hook up, what a nice girl’? UGH!!! You just can’t win. To shave, or not to shave: that is the question! I mean, really? I now have to think about this shit. Ugh.
And what about my thong choice? I once had a guy tell me that any woman who wears animal print panties (I hate the word panties, almost as much as the word moist. And “moist panties” I want to puke) is trying too hard. Yup. That’s what he said. He told me, that if he hooks up with a woman, and she is wearing ANY type of animal print.. cheetah, leopard, giraffe.. dog. Goat. Sheep. Bird. Anything, he leaves. He just gets up, and leaves her laying there. I will call him PETA BOY. Not to be confused with PITA boy. Which is the guy I went out with the other day for lunch, that ate pita bread off my plate, and almost lost a finger. Thank god he was hot, or he would be gone. No one touches my carbs. Ok, so PETA boy.. the dude that hates Animal Print. Ya, leaves women for wearing the print of an animal..
Weird. But makes you think, right? Like what the fuck. Shave, tan.. thong or boy shorts? Polka dots, or Zebra stripes. And what about the kissing. omg. How do you kiss someone after kissing the same man for 13 years? So crazy. But exciting..
Turn them on! Hurry up, I can’t do it. I am having major anxiety. I hate the dark. Dark is for kids. And insecure women. All these mixed emotions. And stemming from what? I want to make sure I know what I’m doing. And that he is who he says he is. Can I trust him? I wanted to cry. And it felt so weird. But nice, too. Like that first guy you kissed in 8th grade. Scott Ephraim. He had braces. And I had braces. And he was so dang cute. And I will never forget it. And I felt guilty. Like I was doing something wrong.. but it felt well, right. And my heart was all funky. And I wanted to tell the whole world all about him. So, I ran home..and told my Mom. And my Sister. And my closest friend. Which is exactly what I did this time. Funny, huh? Kinda like the same thing, minus the braces. Life is funny that way.
And so we kissed.. and kissed. And kissed.
And at forty-one, and separated.. I am more confident. And mature-ish. I like having control. I know what I’m doing. And what I want. I feel better about myself. And about who I am. And I like the lights on, even with my scars.. and cellulite. Who cares if I’m wearing animal print, or grandma panties. Ok, I care. No grandma panties. But you get my point. I can do this. Even though I am scared, and I don’t have a 20-year old body. I am not thin, or cellulite-free. I may not be young, and all that. But I have one thing going for me. Experience. And I don’t mean I’ve slept with the entire planet. Careful, all y’all. What I mean is at 40-something we all have LIFE experiences that make us stronger, and more self aware. And sexier. I feel sexy at forty-one. Fuck, I feel better about this Jennifer, than the one walking around 10 years ago.
I am so going to need to write a Part Three, and I am about to pour another glass of wine. And all this talking about kissing, and getting my sexy-back just reminded me it’s time for a spray tan. Oh, and a new pair of snakeskin panties. Holla.
xo j

What do women want? 

Ya, ya. What do women want? This is where I lose all my girlfriends. All my female readers. And my poor father crawls under his desk, and hides for all eternity. Who gives a rat’s ass what women want?  Is it always about us? Is it always about the women? Sure, women want to be listened to, and loved..and wanted. Blah, blah. blah. But after much thought, I am super convinced that I just might have been the reason my marriage failed. Yup. Me. Not all me, but I played a big part. And here is why…

This is The Truth Hurvitz, right? So.. let me give you the truth. 

Women, read this, listen to it.. and maybe I can save you a lot of heartache, and lawyers fees. It takes two to tango, so stop your whining.. and drop to your knees. Stop bitching. And crabbing. Pretend you like having sex, and start putting out. Or as one of my close friends says it, “play dead starfish”. Ya know, lay on your back, and stare at the ceiling..naked. Who cares. Just do something. Anything to let your man know you want him. I recall one of my dear friends making “sex appointments” with her hubby every Sunday night. Still married! Shit. Sounds dumb, but sex is the way to a man’s heart. Forget the cooking. Just fuck him. It’s the only way to stay married. Or in a relationship. Or happy. There. I said it. And it’s only going to get worse, (my poor father) so buckle up.

I got married. I wanted a house. I wanted kids. I wanted it all. I want. I want.. I want. I wanted everything, but sex. Well, I had sex to get pregnant. FUN! No, it was work. And I would call my mom for advice. Like NASA, for fucksake. Charts, and planning. Legs up, legs down. Wait 20 minutes after we do it, ha. Mark was such a trooper. We got preggers in a minute. And I swear, I cut him off.  I wanted Mark to give and give and give. And I wanted to put out, like.. um.. never. I was too tired. I was too fat. I was too fucking bitchy. I had diarrhea. Whatever. I was a tired, angry, nasty-ass biatch. So, he worked his ass off to provide a great life for me. And our kids. And I had it all. And sure, he was crabby. And maybe wasn’t home all the time, cause he traveled for work. But shit, wouldn’t you? I was so fun to be around! not. I complained about everything. And the minute he walked in the door, I would throw the kids at him. Instead of being nice, or kind.. or the girl he married. I saved “fun Jen” for everyone else.

And then, when I did want to have sex.. he didn’t want me! Well, WHOOOOAAAAAAA!!!

He didn’t want me? But why? Why didn’t he want ME? I was like, ME! And I was so hot! In my sweat pants, and ponytail…with barf and shit all over me. I was like.. a pornstar! Ya. Well. He wasn’t “emotionally attached” to me. That’s what he said. What he told the therapist. Ouch. Sound familiar, ladies. Are you pickin’ up the shiz I’m laying down? Sad, right? But hey, it’s the truth. And the strong survive. And the insecure, weak, lonely ones.. head to Facebook to flirt with old high school boyfriends. Or sext with college ex’s late at night. Or maybe start losing weight. Or even get new tits. And realize, they better get some fucking attention from somewhere, or they might shrivel up and die. And they have mid-life crises, and get their balls back. And want “more”. And they decide they deserve “better”.

So, the truth hurts. And egos get hurt. And feelings get hurt. But it happens. And you start to fight. And resent each other. And grow apart. And the kids pick up on it. And then.. you don’t have sex for a month. Or six. Or a year….

But hey! Who’s counting? All your friends are having AMAZING sex! You go out to dinner with other couples, and they are all telling stories about how fucking great their sex is.. and how they fuck every single night! And how they are just SO close. And you are holding back the puke in your mouth, while you know how full of shit they are, and they are divorced a year later. Life gets in the way of life. It just happens. I actually sat with a group of my girlfriends once, and listened to one tell me she gets paid to give her husband blow jobs. Yup. Pick your mouth off the floor, y’all. A fifty dollar bill is left on the nightstand the next morning.. and she loves it! I mean, if it works, it works! I’m not judging. They are still happily married, and she has a wicked shoe collection! ha.

So, you stay. I mean, right? You stay in your marriage. No one would ever get divorced because of sex? Or lack thereof. You stay for the kids. They are all that’s important. Even though you aren’t so happy. And you are having sex like, never. And you basically hate each other.. because neither of you are getting the attention you need, or deserve. Or getting LAID. For the love of all things holy.. everyone is happier when you’re getting LAID! COME ON, PEOPLE! It’s just a scientific fact. Your endorphins are up. You release amazing sex hormones. You live longer, and healthier lives. Everyone is loving it up! And wow, you just feel better. It’s a fact. No BS from me. No Jen-isms. Just the truth. So you are miserable, not having sex. But you stay, and you become best friends. Best friends that really hate each other, because you resent each other for not wanting one another. When really, you do. I did. I really did. Want him. Sigh. I just didn’t know how to get back there. He was so far away.

How do you stop this from happening? The distance, the space…the resentment? The truth is, girls.. and boys, to never let it start in the first place. Keep it real. Make it happen. And have SEX!  

This Part One was just for Mark…to say, I’m sorry, for being so nasty and angry. And to thank him,  for giving me our boys. Oh, and for putting up with this blogging stuff. I would probably kill me. And for all the women out there, still in their marriages…think about what your man wants for a change. Maybe 13 years ago, I should have. Not to say, it was all me. We both made mistakes.  Sometimes I wish I had a blog like this to read, some crazy lady slapping me with a dose of reality. Ha. Well, at least now, my new relationships will only be better. And filled with lots and lots of SEX…sans the bitchy, crabby and hopefully the diarrhea. ;)

xo j