What a semester this was. It began in August with the incoming college students and my yearly draw to find love (for clarification: I do not look for love among the college students. Their return is simply a changing of seasons like needy, beautiful 18 year old fall leaves). There is something about August that triggers the “I want a man” gene in me and leads me back to the dismal world of online dating.
August hit. I joined the sites. I was on the search for men who were husband material. It was ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Nothing makes a single, liberal, tall, fat, smart, independent, emotionally stable(ish), minister feel lonely like realizing that not many men are looking for just that. Or anything near that. I found myself scouring three different sites for a glimmer of hope. I prayed. I researched. I planned to totally clean my house. “God? Is there any chance for me to find love?”
A few weeks later, I got an answer. Christians who have sought God’s will for a long time have their various ways of feeling God speak. In my way, God spoke. Clearly and without a doubt, God told me:
Stop looking.
That is all I got. I knew it wasn’t the kind of “stop looking” that meant the man of my dreams was already in my life. It was the kind of “stop looking” that meant it was time to let this dream go.
“Stop looking” came to me in August. I didn’t want to hear it. It wasn’t until the end of October that I began going back to God with this issue and finally saying okay. I stopped looking and began to accept the strong possibility that a husband and babies in my stomach were not for my life.
I was heartbroken. I am heartbroken. Broken heart or not, I knew that God’s voice is not one to be ignored. I can leave ministry any day and find a husband within months who wants to marry a much less complicated woman who owns her own house. I can quit putting my faith and convictions so high on the list of priorities and marry a nice liberal boy who doesn’t really like Jesus but loves the gays.
No. I stopped looking and began grieving. In the back of my head, I thought that God had a wonderful blessing in the place of my lifelong dream.
Two days later, my parents finally sold their house. Hallelujah! What a blessing! Maybe this wiggle room will allow them to begin visiting me and become involved in my life in some small way! I can have my family back!
Dad tithed on every penny made from the house.
A day after he wrote the last check, my sister tried to kill herself. Fuuuuuuck.
That week she moved into my parents’ house with her 3 sons. They began plans to build her a house right behind theirs (goodbye money). Our family finally accepted that she will never be stable or independent. She will live with them and depend on them for the rest of their lives.
I am heartbroken for my sister’s broken self. I worry for my nephews. I hurt with my parents. My biggest feeling is purely selfish: my quickly aging parents have no more resources, time, or energy to actively be a part of my life. She gets it all. She needs it all.
Really, God? That is how you bless us? I give up on my dream of a husband and family and you take away the availability of my existing family as well? My parents follow you faithfully and finally catch a break by selling their home and you can’t even allow them a full week of peace before snatching it all away? They let go of their dream of a happy, peaceful retirement and now struggle with more mouths to feed than they can afford and the ever-changing actions of an addict.*
To say the least, I’ve been pissed. Until a week or so ago, God and I only spoke in the presence of God’s children, like the dysfunctional marriage I may never have. Yes, I’ll pray when I need to lead others in prayer, but when it comes to my one on one time, fuck you. You are not faithful.
*I am fully aware that an outsider can read this differently: God gave my parents a bit of extra money just in time for my sister's big need. God is preparing my heart for blahblahblahblahblah. Screw you, people who see this a different way. It sucks.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Saturday, December 17, 2011
beating the system
Tonight I decided to break out my Swiffer Wetjet and mop the kitchen floor (another baby step in my journey out of the funk). Two boxes of disposable mopheads? Check. Batteries? Check. Alas, I was out of the very expensive liquid cleaner.
What to do? I damned the man. That's right, I angered the Swiffer gods by beating their system of selling mops that eat up pricey cleaner that you must replace every third use.
I can refill my refill, damn it! I ALWAYS have bleach and dish soap!
I tried prying off the lid, but Swiffer apparently foresaw cheap bitches like me and made their lid unremovable.
Did I stop? No! I cut a hole in the bottom of the bottle that will now be my permenant Swiffer homemade formula holder.
This boring image represents my small triumph over capitalism.
Side note: My dog felt so confused about me cleaning that she followed me around the house and sat at my feet every time that I paused. She is now sitting right up next to me. When your dog is emotionally traumatized by 2 hours of quiet cleaning, it is time for a serious lifestyle change.
What to do? I damned the man. That's right, I angered the Swiffer gods by beating their system of selling mops that eat up pricey cleaner that you must replace every third use.
I can refill my refill, damn it! I ALWAYS have bleach and dish soap!
I tried prying off the lid, but Swiffer apparently foresaw cheap bitches like me and made their lid unremovable.
Did I stop? No! I cut a hole in the bottom of the bottle that will now be my permenant Swiffer homemade formula holder.
This boring image represents my small triumph over capitalism.Side note: My dog felt so confused about me cleaning that she followed me around the house and sat at my feet every time that I paused. She is now sitting right up next to me. When your dog is emotionally traumatized by 2 hours of quiet cleaning, it is time for a serious lifestyle change.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Revelations
My life has been in a funk lately. Let's correct that. My life is STILL in the funk that began, oh, let's say in April. Yes, it is December. The funkiness of my funk has grown over eight months to my present state of loneliness, bitterness, and general bitchyness.
I'm tired of the funk. This is why I began a war on my own misery by making changes:
1) Find a counselor and spiritual advisor. The counselor is for immediate issues with family and identity. The spiritual advisor is to keep me from walking away from ministry and/or burning down the youth building. I'm still looking for both. It is kinda like dating...it takes a while for someone to call you back and then you don't know if things will click.
2) Cancel cable.
3) Be pro-active to reverse my present lack of sexiness.
Two weeks into this change, I still pretty much resent the world but I have had two life-altering revelations.
Revelations According to Jenny
Chapter 1
I do not miss having cable. Mailing the DVR box and remote to Dish Network was surprisingly cathartic. I, a TV junkie, do not miss cable. Instead of sitting in front of the TV, I will clean, cook, organize my house, decorate, start swimming again, give away a lot of clutter, and otherwise become an awesome homeowner. So far, I just watch shows online but this is a journey, right? ("This is a journey" is what I tell myself while sitting in bed for 5 hours straight watching Dexter on a very sketchy website)
Chapter 2
Rich people are more beautiful because they can afford to be more beautiful. Okay, so this isn't exactly news to me, but I had it confirmed this week. The path to this revelation was painful and expensive...
I decided to use money I'm saving from cable to begin electrolysis. Electrolysis is a horrible, barbaric, expensive process that women pay for in order to get rid of unwanted hair. Someone shoves a needle into your hair follicle and electricutes you, killing the follicle. They do this for every individual hair. I have a lot more individual hairs than you might think. It is not as painful as I feared, but it turns out that your skin can only take so many stabs and shocks in one day.
After the first day (of many if I stick with it), my face looked like I'd been stung by 100 bees. I spent the rest of the day at home out of the public eye not watching cable. Most people wake up the next day with a fairly normal face. My ridiculously sensitive skin still looked like something out of a horror movie. I met with a new electrolysis lady to talk about my horrible disfigured face. I am not willing to spend a year looking like I tried to deep fry my chin. The woman said that mineral make-up will hide the redness and actually help my skin heal.
Mineral make-up? My mom raised me to stand in the drug store holding various shades of Covergirl up to my face and to buy the one that is on sale. Having the horrible skin that I do, I know that base just makes things worse. It settles into wrinkles, cakes up in dry spots, and creates more red zits that then need to be covered in base.
In the treatment center, this woman brushed powdered base on my face. I was adequately leary of the product simply because she was so enthusiastic. It took 10 seconds. Holy fuck. All of the spots were gone. The grotesque mess had disappeared with no sign of make-up. My face looked normal. It even looks good in the harsh sunlit reality of my car mirror! Rich girls grew up with this amazing kind of shit, but to me it was a 33 year-old's miracle.
So there you have it. I don't miss cable and I am now the owner of rich girl make-up. I'm sure that more revelations are to come. I hope that some have to do with my soul. This is, after all, a journey. I wonder if there is a new Dexter episode online yet.
I'm tired of the funk. This is why I began a war on my own misery by making changes:
1) Find a counselor and spiritual advisor. The counselor is for immediate issues with family and identity. The spiritual advisor is to keep me from walking away from ministry and/or burning down the youth building. I'm still looking for both. It is kinda like dating...it takes a while for someone to call you back and then you don't know if things will click.
2) Cancel cable.
3) Be pro-active to reverse my present lack of sexiness.
Two weeks into this change, I still pretty much resent the world but I have had two life-altering revelations.
Revelations According to Jenny
Chapter 1
I do not miss having cable. Mailing the DVR box and remote to Dish Network was surprisingly cathartic. I, a TV junkie, do not miss cable. Instead of sitting in front of the TV, I will clean, cook, organize my house, decorate, start swimming again, give away a lot of clutter, and otherwise become an awesome homeowner. So far, I just watch shows online but this is a journey, right? ("This is a journey" is what I tell myself while sitting in bed for 5 hours straight watching Dexter on a very sketchy website)
Chapter 2
Rich people are more beautiful because they can afford to be more beautiful. Okay, so this isn't exactly news to me, but I had it confirmed this week. The path to this revelation was painful and expensive...
I decided to use money I'm saving from cable to begin electrolysis. Electrolysis is a horrible, barbaric, expensive process that women pay for in order to get rid of unwanted hair. Someone shoves a needle into your hair follicle and electricutes you, killing the follicle. They do this for every individual hair. I have a lot more individual hairs than you might think. It is not as painful as I feared, but it turns out that your skin can only take so many stabs and shocks in one day.
After the first day (of many if I stick with it), my face looked like I'd been stung by 100 bees. I spent the rest of the day at home out of the public eye not watching cable. Most people wake up the next day with a fairly normal face. My ridiculously sensitive skin still looked like something out of a horror movie. I met with a new electrolysis lady to talk about my horrible disfigured face. I am not willing to spend a year looking like I tried to deep fry my chin. The woman said that mineral make-up will hide the redness and actually help my skin heal.
Mineral make-up? My mom raised me to stand in the drug store holding various shades of Covergirl up to my face and to buy the one that is on sale. Having the horrible skin that I do, I know that base just makes things worse. It settles into wrinkles, cakes up in dry spots, and creates more red zits that then need to be covered in base.
In the treatment center, this woman brushed powdered base on my face. I was adequately leary of the product simply because she was so enthusiastic. It took 10 seconds. Holy fuck. All of the spots were gone. The grotesque mess had disappeared with no sign of make-up. My face looked normal. It even looks good in the harsh sunlit reality of my car mirror! Rich girls grew up with this amazing kind of shit, but to me it was a 33 year-old's miracle.
So there you have it. I don't miss cable and I am now the owner of rich girl make-up. I'm sure that more revelations are to come. I hope that some have to do with my soul. This is, after all, a journey. I wonder if there is a new Dexter episode online yet.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
MY kind of porn (aka red boots)
Today I ordered a pair of red boots. A good question at this point would be: Jenny, how many pairs of boots do you already own?
I can think of five right now. To be fair, I really only wear 2 of those pairs and one really needs to be thrown out. I also fell and scuffed my good church boots last week.
Did I need red boots? No. These caught my attention from the tiny laptop screen and called to me. They are a very safe, simple design. I can order dark brown or black and wear them to church every week...but red. Red is what I need. $70 red boots are the only thing worthy of a 33 year-old who is trying to figure out who the hell she is supposed to be in life.
A simple red boot says, "Hey, I am grown and responsible but you don't know me. I am still a woman of mystery."
At least that is how it goes in my head.
These are not the boots I ordered, but this is how I expect to feel in them...without showing my panties to strangers.
p.s. The boots are already improving my life. I researched and learned the proper use of "pair" and "pairs" for this post.
I can think of five right now. To be fair, I really only wear 2 of those pairs and one really needs to be thrown out. I also fell and scuffed my good church boots last week.
Did I need red boots? No. These caught my attention from the tiny laptop screen and called to me. They are a very safe, simple design. I can order dark brown or black and wear them to church every week...but red. Red is what I need. $70 red boots are the only thing worthy of a 33 year-old who is trying to figure out who the hell she is supposed to be in life.
A simple red boot says, "Hey, I am grown and responsible but you don't know me. I am still a woman of mystery."
At least that is how it goes in my head.
These are not the boots I ordered, but this is how I expect to feel in them...without showing my panties to strangers.
p.s. The boots are already improving my life. I researched and learned the proper use of "pair" and "pairs" for this post.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
I do not like porn
Yes! It is official! I don't like porn.
What brought on this revelation? A three step process:
1) I have a friend who likes porn. She is a very healthy, godly, married Christian woman. I'd forgotten about porn (not about its existence but is possible existence in anything near me) until she told me she likes it. I haven't rented or seen porn in probably seven years.
2) This was my birthday weekend and everything awesome or busy or important that I had planned fell through. An awesome concert...cancelled. A blind date that I've been emailing daily for a month...cancelled. All of my friends? Busy. Lock-in with youth...cancelled. A pity party combined with too much time and a bit of pint up sexual needs all led me to rent a $13 movie through my TV. It was more expensive but sounded like the only one that wasn't just lesbians.
3) I watched 60 seconds of hard core porn. I probably would have been better off if there was some sort of storyline, like a pizza delivery driver. How was I supposed to know?
60 seconds is all it took to totally gross me out and confirm a life-long dislike for porn. $13 well spent? That is arguable.
I am already learning fun new things as a 33 year-old. What an exciting year this will be!
What brought on this revelation? A three step process:
1) I have a friend who likes porn. She is a very healthy, godly, married Christian woman. I'd forgotten about porn (not about its existence but is possible existence in anything near me) until she told me she likes it. I haven't rented or seen porn in probably seven years.
2) This was my birthday weekend and everything awesome or busy or important that I had planned fell through. An awesome concert...cancelled. A blind date that I've been emailing daily for a month...cancelled. All of my friends? Busy. Lock-in with youth...cancelled. A pity party combined with too much time and a bit of pint up sexual needs all led me to rent a $13 movie through my TV. It was more expensive but sounded like the only one that wasn't just lesbians.
3) I watched 60 seconds of hard core porn. I probably would have been better off if there was some sort of storyline, like a pizza delivery driver. How was I supposed to know?
60 seconds is all it took to totally gross me out and confirm a life-long dislike for porn. $13 well spent? That is arguable.
I am already learning fun new things as a 33 year-old. What an exciting year this will be!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Cake
I love cake. My favorite cake is a simple white (NOT yellow) cake with white icing. I'd call it "wedding cake" but somehow wedding cakes seem to be messed up. They are dry or have a strange ingredient like raspberry or almond extract.
When I am craving cake, however, it is always chocolate cake. Chocolate cake with fudge icing. There is nothing more satisfying than chocolate cake when I am hormonal.
(lust = chocolate)
Every now and then, I'll buy something different, like pineapple or cheesecake. If someone offers me a spice cake, I enjoy it but I'd never drive to the store looking for one.
When I was little, all of the women in my life told me that carrot cake and red velvet were the best. They always made a big deal out of it if someone had a carrot or red velvet cake. I've experienced too many bad, dry, nasty carrot and red velvet cakes to ever seek one out. When they are bad, they ruin the hope of ever finding a good version.
(Don't believe the hype. I will disappoint you)
There are a lot of people who claim to like cake, but really they just like something to hold the icing. Those people are not worthy of the awesomeness of cake. Icing should never overwhelm or try to hide a cake's quality. Really dry or bad cake with a lot of icing is not good cake. The distraction does not work for me. On the same note, a really good cake doesn't need icing at all. The icing is nice, but it is just an added bonus.
People who are distracted by pretty icing will buy the really cool looking cupcakes that sat in the baker's display for 2 weeks. Those will almost always be a really well decorated lump of dry crappiness. Children usually fall for this and really shallow adults.
(I am cute and utterly useless for anyone seeking real cake)
I was in the car with friends on Saturday and a man drove up next to us. I didn't notice, but my friend said that he looked over and pulled down his sunglasses to get a good look. They caught up so I could see (yes, just like in high school!). He was a really good looking black man.
In that moment, it hit me! My passions for baked goods and the opposite sex are profoundly parallel. I love my men. I love my cake. If I try too much of either, I eventually get sick and want to quit althoughter. The craving comes back eventually. Right now, I am looking for a good man:
There are different flavors that I seek for different reasons
None of the types of men my mom wanted for me when I was little are actually good for me
I go for substance over fluff any day. Give me a poor black man with a great heart, strong work ethic, and a loveable personality over a wealthy asshole any day!
I don't go looking for spice, but I'll probably take it if it is offered.
When I am craving cake, however, it is always chocolate cake. Chocolate cake with fudge icing. There is nothing more satisfying than chocolate cake when I am hormonal.
(lust = chocolate)
Every now and then, I'll buy something different, like pineapple or cheesecake. If someone offers me a spice cake, I enjoy it but I'd never drive to the store looking for one.
When I was little, all of the women in my life told me that carrot cake and red velvet were the best. They always made a big deal out of it if someone had a carrot or red velvet cake. I've experienced too many bad, dry, nasty carrot and red velvet cakes to ever seek one out. When they are bad, they ruin the hope of ever finding a good version.
(Don't believe the hype. I will disappoint you)
There are a lot of people who claim to like cake, but really they just like something to hold the icing. Those people are not worthy of the awesomeness of cake. Icing should never overwhelm or try to hide a cake's quality. Really dry or bad cake with a lot of icing is not good cake. The distraction does not work for me. On the same note, a really good cake doesn't need icing at all. The icing is nice, but it is just an added bonus.
People who are distracted by pretty icing will buy the really cool looking cupcakes that sat in the baker's display for 2 weeks. Those will almost always be a really well decorated lump of dry crappiness. Children usually fall for this and really shallow adults.
(I am cute and utterly useless for anyone seeking real cake)
I was in the car with friends on Saturday and a man drove up next to us. I didn't notice, but my friend said that he looked over and pulled down his sunglasses to get a good look. They caught up so I could see (yes, just like in high school!). He was a really good looking black man.
In that moment, it hit me! My passions for baked goods and the opposite sex are profoundly parallel. I love my men. I love my cake. If I try too much of either, I eventually get sick and want to quit althoughter. The craving comes back eventually. Right now, I am looking for a good man:
There are different flavors that I seek for different reasons
None of the types of men my mom wanted for me when I was little are actually good for me
I go for substance over fluff any day. Give me a poor black man with a great heart, strong work ethic, and a loveable personality over a wealthy asshole any day!
I don't go looking for spice, but I'll probably take it if it is offered.
Monday, October 17, 2011
oh, so that's how you want to play?
I have to admit that I am on the short path to burnout. I need to find some quality spiritual restoration. That being said, here is my attitude tonight:
A dad emailed this to me:
Hey jenny. Thanks for taking Hannah out tonight. I do wish you had waited until a weekend night. Hannah was so tired when she got home that she did not do her math homework. We usually try and keep her in on school nights.
My thought? Fuck you very much, asshole. I took your daughter and her friends out because they texted me at 3:30 on a Friday wanting me to give up my evening to be their entertainment because you wouldn't take them anywhere. A Monday dinner was my way of saying "I love and value you" while keeping my boundaries. I was exhausted when I picked up your daughter and her friends. After dinner her quote was, "Let's do something else! We can't just go home! I don't want to go do homework yet!"
So? I let them come along to Kroger for 10 minutes while I bought Crystal Light. I dropped your daughter off at 8pm. YOU weren't home. Neither was your wife. Or your 8 year-old daughter. Where were you with your younger daughter on a Monday night?
What time did you finally get home? What time did your 15 year-old say that I dropped her off? Did you know that 15 year-old girls are lying bitches? They are. And yours wants to get pregnant by 18....
But I'll honor your wishes and try to invest in her less. Obviously math was impossible for her after 8pm. BTW- she was on Facebook at 10pm. Go fuck yourself.
Of course, I didn't say any of this to the clueless bastard of a dad. What did I do instead? I emailed the woman in charge of my denomination's reference and referral and asked her to send out my resume across the nation. Agressively.
Yes, I think I might be burnt out.
A dad emailed this to me:
Hey jenny. Thanks for taking Hannah out tonight. I do wish you had waited until a weekend night. Hannah was so tired when she got home that she did not do her math homework. We usually try and keep her in on school nights.
My thought? Fuck you very much, asshole. I took your daughter and her friends out because they texted me at 3:30 on a Friday wanting me to give up my evening to be their entertainment because you wouldn't take them anywhere. A Monday dinner was my way of saying "I love and value you" while keeping my boundaries. I was exhausted when I picked up your daughter and her friends. After dinner her quote was, "Let's do something else! We can't just go home! I don't want to go do homework yet!"
So? I let them come along to Kroger for 10 minutes while I bought Crystal Light. I dropped your daughter off at 8pm. YOU weren't home. Neither was your wife. Or your 8 year-old daughter. Where were you with your younger daughter on a Monday night?
What time did you finally get home? What time did your 15 year-old say that I dropped her off? Did you know that 15 year-old girls are lying bitches? They are. And yours wants to get pregnant by 18....
But I'll honor your wishes and try to invest in her less. Obviously math was impossible for her after 8pm. BTW- she was on Facebook at 10pm. Go fuck yourself.
Of course, I didn't say any of this to the clueless bastard of a dad. What did I do instead? I emailed the woman in charge of my denomination's reference and referral and asked her to send out my resume across the nation. Agressively.
Yes, I think I might be burnt out.
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