I've heard of this happening

Ex-boyfriends show back up. Just when you get good and comfortable in life....happy with who you are and happily forgetting your bad past decisions....the ex-boyfriend calls.

Felipe called on Christmas Day. I answered because I'd erased him from my phone, so I didn't know the number. Sitting in my parents' house in Texas, far from the worries of North Carolina, the ex-boyfriend called for the first time in 7 months. On Christmas Day.

S. H. I. T. I pulled a trick that I hadn't used since high school. Mom walks through the room and I motion to her to call my name. "Jenny! We need you in the kitchen!" Oh, damn. I've got to go. So sorry. Bye now!

Now I'm settled into January and no longer worried about the ex of 2010. All is well!

No. All is not well. Scott shows up to church. Scott, who I haven't seen in 2 years and who isn't even a blip on my emotional radar, walks into church and talks to everyone as if he never left. He came back 2 weeks later with his son, going to both Bible study and worship.

F. U. C. K. Actually, the most appropriate reaction is WTF??? This is what I've had whispered to me, texted to me, and mouthed across the room as all of my friends now have to make small talk with the ex. He now goes to community games and sits with my friends as if he'd never cheated on me, broken my heart, married his ex, and been gone for two years. While he is NOT my problem, he is now a thorn in my side. A thorn that must be in the middle of his second divorce to the same woman...the only reason that he would show back up to my church.

Why can't bad decisions stay in the past where they belong? I've moved on. Why can't they? Why should we bother to grow and learn with age if assholes from your past can just up and call on a major family holiday or walk into your church?

Um, hello! Leave my family and friends alone! I wasn't a great girlfriend! Find somewhere new to park your penises!


p.s. the only thing more tragic than my life right now is Pierce Brosnan singing on Mamma Mia. Who knew that music could suck the sexiness out of such a beautiful man?

the comfort of a good chain...

Today I found comfort in a girly drink and over-sugary grilled chicken in a chain restaurant. Sometimes it is wonderful to have mediocre food and a girly drink that tastes the same way it did 10 years ago!



I walked into TGI Fridays feeling sad and vulnerable in the unique way that you only feel after a bad pap smear. Bad results? No. Everything is healthy as far as I know. I just don't think that there is such thing as a GOOD pap smear.

Nurse:

Hello. Go to the room on your right. Okay, now if you can please take off EVERYTHING. This tiny blue piece of paper is for your chest...open in the front. This other white paper is for your lap. The doctor will be in shortly.

Now that I am in my 30's, I know that the doctor is never in "shortly." They leave you sitting on a table in a cold room wearing nothing but paper and your socks. I had my favorite childhood book in hand to keep me company while sitting naked in a tiny room that left my buttcrack exposed to the busy hall every time someone opened the door.

Today my previously kind and gentle doctor was having a bad day. He frowned a lot. Everything he did in the test department hurt. A lot. Apparently, the pain is worse when no one has been in your nether regions in almost a year.

After the gracefully short exam, I put on my clothes and went down the hall to meet with the doctor. It wasn't his normal big, warm office. We sat in a tiny space with a peanut shaped desk that had zebra-striped marble on the top. A huge painting of a swordfish filled the wall. It looked like it was a high school art project.

I sat clothed, but still aching inside where the doctor had his hands only minutes earlier. Awkward. He talked at me for a few minutes without looking away from my file.

"I recommend that you lose weight. Even just a pound a month will put you in a better place (no shit, Sherlock)."

"There are a lot of options out there for birth control...we really just have to keep experimenting randomly until we find something that solves your problems."

"Although there is contraversy, I don't think you need to be on this perscription for that ailment. I doesn't really help."



I finally talked a bit, forcing him to look at me. Even so, I left the tall medical complex wanting to find a cave where I could hid in the fetal position until the world faded away. I get that we all have bad days, but it seems wrong that an OBGYN's bad day occurs while their fingers are deep in your vagina.

Anyway. A girly drink and 1/4 of a bad meal later, I drove home feeling slightly better. Thank you, TGI Fridays. You medicated my aching soul with alcohol, starches, and sugar.

pickle jars and weakness

This morning I had a good cry because I have no strength in my hands. Of course, the cry was helped by a lack of sleep and a very stressful 24 hours.

You see, the tire on my car has been going flat. I re-filled it with air as the weekend unfolded, hoping to make it to Monday morning. It got worse as time passed...duh.

I really didn't want to call AAA. The local guy (the ONLY AAA guy in the area) is a creepy old man who ran his hand across my ass the first time he came to my house. I try to hold off on calling unless I am really desperate.

So I took my car at 1am in 25 degree weather to the sketchy gas station near my house. I refilled the air. When I got home, I could hear hissing out of the hole made by a nail. Thank you, construction crew near my work.

I tried to do a quick cover with a hot glue gun. It just blew bubbles in the glue. I tried to cover THAT with packing tape...no slowing of the air. Tried to find my fix-a-flat. No luck.

At 3 am, I realized that I have a new car! All of the parts are there to change the tire myself! Yay! I am saved!

But no. At 8 am, I enthusiastically went out to solve my own problem only to be reminded that I am a weak woman. I can't open the lid of a pickle jar.

My weak hands were unable to snap open the cover that held the jack to the car. I tried for 10 minutes. I cried. Tried again. Cried again.

While on hold with AAA, I kept trying to snap off that damned lid. Two hands, one hand, with a towel, with just thumbs. No luck.

So, because I am a weak woman with weak hands, I had to call Mr. Creepy to my house.

Wait 1 1/2 hours.

Try to avoid physical contact.

Watch helplessly as he changed my tire. (He didn't use my jack...no need to remove the stupid lid)

4 hours later, Wal-mart had my car all fixed up. Unfortunately, my soul and ego are still feeling victimized. Creepy old men in overalls can do that to you.

Ode to 32

I haven't posted much lately. It is sad. Why do I have little to say when I am not dating? In order to break this sadness, here is my ode to 32...

Why I like being 32:

I have a lot more fun being me. At some point in the last year, I became comfortable being silly, sad, happy, somber or however I want to be without feeling awkward. I enjoy kids a lot more because I'm not busy thinking about myself and my need to be cool while interacting with them.

Why I don't like being 32:

I am now painfully aware that if I want babies to come out of my stomach, I have to find the love of my life in the next 3-5 years. That is a lot of pressure. I'm not interested in dating right now. Even when I date like a whore, no relationship lasts longer than 3 weeks. Tick, tick, tick.

Why I like being 32:

I have a house full of stuff and it is all mine. I know where the nice china is, what groceries I need every week, where my messes are hidden (like behind every cabinet and door), and which sheets are best for winter. It is my home. And I own it...or at least 1/100th of it.

Why I don't like being 32:

I live alone, which means that there is no one else that I should clean for, cook for, or put my jeans back in the closet for. I am not old enough to be motivated to do these things on my own. I am old enough to be annoyed by it.

Why I like being 32:

I have recipes which are now "mine" and I can cook my own comfort food. All the spices are waiting in my cabinet and I can grab them without thinking. My freezer is full of frozen leftover soups and sauces for future dinners. People now ask me for recipes!

Why I don't like being 32:

I actually feel like crap when I eat crap. While it would be easy to eat pizza and fast food all the time, I pay the price if I do. If I eat too much sodium, fried food, grease, or starch I feel achy and tired. Damn.

Why I like being 32:

I know what looks good on me and what doesn't. Shopping is a much faster process because I can spot what won't work for my body type from yards away! This is also a golden age when you can get away with all kinds of style from funky to prudish. Half the world thinks you are ancient and the other half thinks you are a baby. Wear what the hell you want to wear!

Why I don't like being 32:

At this very minute, I have a lot of zits, gray hair, crazy hormones, newly found spider veins, and the beginning of wrinkles. That is wrong. We should have one or the other...not everything at once.

Why I like being 32:

I have excellent credit. This means that I've been a grown-up long enough to be a respectable member of society. I got a used car loan at 2.5%! Used! (this also means that I have a lot of debt, but we don't need to dwell on that)

I also have a great dog. I've had her for years now, so we live comfortably together. She isn't new and exciting like a college kid getting their first dog. She also isn't old and pitiful like our childhood dogs. We are equally wounded, still learning, and loveable. A good dog is a wonderful help while figuring out your 30's!

The end!

sigh

Dear God,

Please deliver me from dating. I've walked away for now. I only had one man left still emailing after abandoning all searches. Now he, my last hope, started writing in detail about his therapy sessions. Therapy sessions, God! I haven't even met this man and he is telling me about emotional turmoil that doesn't have to do with sports!

God, if you are a woman (which I think you are), please give me the strength to be happy alone. You know how wonderful men are. You also know how many bad, bad, bad, bad, badbadbad matches I've met this year. Okay, two years. Three years.

I wanted to go on a date with this last guy, God. The emails before this week were so funny and thoughtful! He is a professional poker player! What a great story that would make! "Yes, once I actually dated a professional poker player."

I now know that you are punishing me for objectifying someone based on their strange profession. I should know better after talking to so many men with dirty nun fantasies.

Yes, God. I hear your rebuke. It was clear to me when this man began detailing his tears and emotional state during therapy. He has been crying for 2 days now because someone lied to him. And he told me about it. I have to walk away from the crazy man. Goodbye, poker player. All doors to possible dates are now closed.

God, give me strength. Please let me be happy and healthy until you bring a liberal Christian man who is not too good looking but has a stable job to my door. May he also be funny and have a respectable penis.

Love, your lonely and tired child,
Jenny

my new lover

I've recently taken a new lover. His name is Sleep. This week, I've been fighting a cold and my new lover has hit the spot. I haven't slept a lot, but the separation from sleep just makes me want him more.

I look forward to going home and spending time in sleep. My body yearns for it. As soon as I'm done with it, I think about when and how I can do it again. I look at my bed with clean sheets and think how satisfying it will be to place myself in its embrace and just surrender to the ecstasy.

Today is Friday. This means that I have an entire night, morning, afternoon, and evening to do nothing but touch sleep, embrace sleep, enter sleep, and then do it all again.

I'm drooling just thinking about it.

I'm full, thank you.

I had a moment tonight while looking at my reflection in the mirror of the women's bathroom at On the Border. First, I realized that I am pretty. I am dateable pretty. People smile at me when I walk by because my face is pleasant and pretty.

Second, I realized that I have had my fill of dating for a while. You see, I was in the bathroom taking a break from my date with Will.

Will is a nice man with a great personality. He is cute in that teddy-bear kind of way and he fits my criteria for a date (educated Christian with a full-time job)!

As of 7:56pm tonight, I've had all that I can handle for now. It is time to let the shittiness of looking for love digest and just chill being alone.

What did Will do? Nothing. I was his FIRST date after the end of a 14 year marriage. Very first date. He is a very nice man in crisis. I'm pretty sure that Will recently dyed his hair blonde. He had it cut short and spikey. Trying to look younger? I don't know. I've already sent him a "not gonna be your rebound" email and offered to hang out as just friends.

He really was nice. In that recently-divorced-proving-that-he-can-move-on kind of way. No thank you, Will.

In the last month my dating included:

museum man who was uncomfortable in museums
the man who left me crushed and confused
the man whose IQ was that of a 10 year-old
caroler figurine man (I count him, even if I cancelled the date)
the man who just ended a marriage of 14 years

This was a rough re-entry month after my sabbatical. I can't take any more. I'm not going back to the sabbatical. I am just not going to look for love anymore. If Mr. Right wants to come into my life, he has to drive out to the Boone Docks and knock on my door. Probably twice because I am usually naked when people knock the first time.