Jaded Jennifer

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a pervert. My favorite subject has always been sex. I enjoy talking about it with other people, and I’ve often been known to give WAY more details than some people want to hear. Part of that is because I don’t mind hearing details from other people so sometimes it doesn’t cross my mind that they might have an issue with it. Sometimes I really LOVE hearing the details of other people’s sex lives, to the point that I once considered being a sexologist. Yes, it’s a real profession. Go look it up.

I was never all talk either. I loved having sex, more than I loved almost anything. At some point in my relationship with Mark, though, I stopped wanting to have sex. It wasn’t that I lost interest in sex really, because I still loved talking about it and thinking about it. But it started to feel like such a hassle, like an obligation. I think this was when I really learned how easy it was to get myself off by masturbating and after that, my sex life was done for. After all, why go through the long hassle of foreplay and sex when I could get myself off in 2 minutes and then drift off to sleep in non-cuddling bliss?

Maybe that sounds weird. I mean, women are supposed to like romance and foreplay and long, slow sex and pillow talk and cuddling. But that just wasn’t me. Oh, sometimes it was, sure. But most of the time all of that felt like WORK when all I really wanted was the orgasm.

When me and Mark split up, I became insatiable. To the point that I realized recently any guy who has been with me laughs at the idea of me going for a week or more without sex. I admit, it kind of offended me. I started feeling like guys look at me like I’m a nympho or something, which I’m really not.

So maybe it’s my determination to not be what other people think I am. I know I have that stubborn, strong-willed streak that often refuses to conform to the ideas people have about me. All I know is that lately, I’ve become absolutely sexless. Not just that I don’t HAVE sex lately, although that much is true too. But I don’t even masturbate. And I don’t think about sex. Or talk about sex. Or drop sexual innuendos like they just sprout off of my tongue.

Maybe worse than not being sexual is the fact that I’m no longer even sensual. I hide my body in baggy pants and t-shirts. When I change my clothes, I do it as quickly as possible, and I don’t dare stand anywhere near a mirror where I might actually see myself. I no longer walk with the swagger of a woman who believes she’s beautiful and sexy (not that I ever TRULY believed it but a part of me could have been convinced). No, I walk with my hands in the pockets of my baggy hoodie, head down, shoulders hunched, not looking people in the eye.

I remember being this girl once upon a time. I didn’t like her. And you know what? I still don’t like her. I just wish I knew how to get rid of her for good, but she’s like good old Aunt Flo; she just keeps coming back. All it takes for me is a lack of guys (or guy, I suppose) showing me attention and flirting with me and letting me know that they find me sexy, and then BOOM! There’s shy, self-conscious Jennifer peeking her head around the corner.

Someday, maybe, I’ll find a way to get rid of her on my own and not have to rely on men. Because, really, we all know how unreliable they can be.

There’s a reason I don’t walk around my house naked. It’s the same reason that I change my clothes as quickly as possible, with no mirrors in sight. I sure as hell don’t wanna see me naked. Hard to believe anybody else does, but then, I always knew Wren was slightly crazy. Why do you think I started dating him? It takes crazy to handle living with me and my brood.

But, you know, I put my foot down when it comes to bathing and sex. Those are things that just require nudity. Also, golf lessons and driving to the gun range, but we won’t go there.

Tonight I laid in my bed afterward, disgustedly analyzing my naked flesh. I really felt the need to complain about what I saw, but I get no satisfaction when I bitch at Wren. Even when I took his hand and pushed his finger repeatedly down on my stomach saying “squish! squish! squish!” he just laughed and told me I’m a goober. Rude, right? I believe only another woman could truly understand my anguish.

So I’m writing this letter to my body. Does that mean you shouldn’t read it since you’re not my body? Nah, go ahead. My body and I have no secrets.

Dear Body,

What the fuck is wrong with you?! Ahem…I mean, hi, how are you doing? I apologize for interrupting your lovely evening and I am truly sorry I had to stop stuffing cheddar and sour cream potato chips (your favorite) inside of you long enough to write this letter. But your recent conduct must be addressed.

I realize that we just celebrated our 34th birthday, but that’s really no reason for you to throw in the towel and give up. I certainly haven’t. I mean, come on. What’s with the run-away boobs? Boobs are supposed to be cute and perky, or haven’t you heard that? When I lay flat on my back, they shouldn’t try to run away into my armpits. Get some damn control over them before I call the boob-catcher to come in and wrestle them back into place. And nevermind Wren’s whole “boobs don’t sit upright like that without silicone.” What does HE know? He’s not the one laying here with nipples who surely must have had a fight because they’re trying to get as far away from each other as they can.

And yeah, he doesn’t understand the problems with the squishy tummy. Why is it that when HE gains belly fat, it’s all hard and firm so that when he lays flat it could almost appear to be a firm, toned stomach, but the fat around OUR middle is all soft and squishy like a big old girdle made of marshmallow? Really Body. You can do better than that, can’t you? You’re not made out of JELLO for God’s sake.

But I think the worst of it, really, is the stretch marks on the top of our thighs. Where the hell did you even GET those from? The stretch marks on our stomach I can understand. I mean, those 6 kids sleeping downstairs are clear evidence of those tummy stretch marks. But last time I checked babies were carried in the ABDOMEN, not in the THIGHS. I sure as hell don’t remember getting kicked in the femur when we were pregnant, do you? No, I’m pretty sure that was the bladder and kidneys, which are in our STOMACH, not our legs. Did the stretch marks migrate when I wasn’t looking? Do we have run-away stretch marks too? Did they just slide down and take up residence there? Am I going to wake up tomorrow with them on my kneecaps?

I’m sorry to be so abrupt about this, Body, but I’m a little bit fed up. How about we make a deal? I promise to continue to provide you with your Mountain Dew, Hostess cupcakes and Cheetos, if you promise to make some effort to pull yourself together. Just a little effort. Please?

Are my pleas falling on deaf ears? Are you currently laughing at my desperate attempts to bribe you into submission? Fine. How about a threat then?

Get yourself in shape soon or I’ll FORCE you to get in shape and trust me, neither one of us wants that.

No? How about blackmail then? Ummm…oh! If you don’t do as I ask, I’ll distribute photos of your flaws all over the internet and…oh wait. Nevermind. I don’t want that either.

Fine. Whatever. Hand me the freaking bag of chips.

Forever (unfortunately) yours,
Jennifer

For a few years now, I’ve known I needed to get a small car. That need has become more apparent now with my kids being older and capable of staying home on their own. The majority of the time, it’s only me and Wren in the car, and maybe a kid or two. It seems silly driving a mini-van around for only two or three people.

So in February, I paid off the van and I was planning to put a down payment on a car. But something held me back. I wasn’t excited about the idea and I wanted to revel in having no car payment for awhile.

So April came around and school started back up and I figured I should probably set some money aside for a down payment on a car. I sat here for a month with that money in a box by my bed, in no big hurry to get a new car.

Until last Sunday when my ex showed up with his new car. Well, not NEW, but it was a CONVERTIBLE. I was annoyed. And jealous. He knows how much I’ve always wanted a convertible, and he never really cared about getting one. Not to mention, he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for a car for ME and instead he got it for himself.

It made me realize that for the first time in my life, I could go find a FUN car. Not a car that would seat more children. I already have the practical car. So off me and Wren went to the car lot on Tuesday and I bought my car. You know you love it:

Ok, maybe YOU don’t love it because it’s not yours. And yes, yes, I know it’s not a convertible. But it’s a t-top, which is better in many ways. Less wind to deal with. In the past, I’d look at a car like that and think “Yeah, it’s a nice car.” It’s different when it belongs to you, though. All day I keep looking out the back window and admiring it. I told Wren I’m just so shocked that I have a car like that. So then he begins telling everybody on WoW that I’m surprised to have such a nice car, and I looked at him in shock. How dare he? He was ruining my illusion of glamour!!

How can I be this glamourous woman who drives a purple Firebird if he’s walking around telling people how surprised I am that I own it? I mean, come on. I can’t walk around with my head in the air and pretend it’s normal for me to have a sleek, sporty car if everybody is whispering “That car is SO not her and she knows it!” behind my back.

But I admit it. I’m in love with my car. I’d totally have sex with it if I could. In fact, I’m thinking about turning those photos into posters that I can hang on my ceiling so I can masterbate to my car every night. Hell, I even had to go outside and do the sexy poses:

That would probably be MUCH more effective if I got somebody sexy to pose for them, huh? lol

Oh well. I love my car! I love my car! I love my car!

See my cute little diseases.

I still want Herpies and HIV. If you want your own diseases, go visit http://www.giantmicrobes.com