Is it too much to ask?

I wrote two whole paragraphs and then just deleted them.  I can tell there is a lot on my mind and my proverbial tongue when that happens. It’s like I want to write about everything, but unlike James Joyce I cannot pull off the stream of consciousness without proper punctuation.

So yeah, I can’t go 2-5 days without talking to someone I care about; I learned that this week. EVEN if we have nothing exciting to say. Connection is important to me. As is simple acknowledgement. Even if it’s a “Hey, I looked out the window and thought of you.” I especially like to speak to a new interest in my life fairly often. And cannot compute when that person does not want to do the same. It doesn’t necessarily equate to “He doesn’t like me,” but inside is surely equates to “He doesn’t really care enough.”  And new interests? Isn’t it supposed to be about NEW? New flirty emails or texts? New “Can’t wait to see you again. When are you free? Kiss me in the moonlight!” romantic last-minute type stuff. I don’t think it’s asking too much. I mean, the best love poems/sonnets/songs are not written about two people who never see each other, never talk to each other, feel ambivalent towards one another, don’t look into each others’ eyes, and don’t communicate for a week. I mean, I know I’m getting OLD, but cripes….I still like to be romanced and wanted. Like Cheap Trick sang: “I want you to want me.” (And I’m not saying that is a great love song. Not by any means.)

But then again, maybe the best times aren’t in the beginning? Although in a lot of my relationships the beginning was the best. So maybe if I put in the grunt work now, I’ll get rewarded with a super awesome relationship in the end? I’m not really sure. Doubtful. I feel a bit helpless. I’ve never been told I’m not a priority in someone’s life when they are a priority in mine. So then I think, when should I make someone a priority? How do I turn that switch off in my brain? I would love to switch shit off in my brain. Can someone make that happen ASAP?

And lastly, I don’t want a puppet. I don’t want a carbon copy of me. But I want someone who is invested and wants to surprise me and actively tries to get me to smile and giggle. I want that person to look at me when I’m talking to them, even though there is a TV in the room. I want him to hug me and tell me everything is going to be ok. And I want him to… oh well, what does it matter? Maybe I shouldn’t want so much. Is it too much to ask?





There was a time when I read a lot for fun.  Then there was a time when I read a lot for school.  Then there was a time where I tried to read for fun again.  But by now, I just could not concentrate on a page. I switched from fiction to non-fiction, which I enjoyed a lot, but it still could not keep my attention. I think I had read all the words I was meant to read in my lifetime.

Still longing for knowledge, I switched over to documentaries.  I wrote about one long ago but it still gets comments to this day. You should check it out! (I believe it’s still on HBO)

Where was I? Oh right: Documentaries.  It’s like reading for your brain, without the reading. Moving pictures and words spoken on-screen – it’s amazing. And now with things like Netflix and Hulu, I have access to many more documentaries. Although the ones on Hulu mostly contain aliens and 9/11 conspiracies. *shrug*

I’ve watched A LOT of documentaries on Netflix. And I kept passing one that Netflix recommended. It’s sort like, remember that scene in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure when he’s saving the animals from the fire but he keeps passing the snakes and making that face. Well, that is what I was doing when I saw the title: KINK.

First off, I’m not a prude. Second off, I can tell my the accompanying picture exactly what this is going to be about: the fetish of bondage. I’m NOT well versed in the fetish of bondage and God knows I’m NOT going to read a book about it. So on to KINK it is!

And before I dive into the world of BDSM, let me clear something up that no one is thinking about: I did NOT watch Fifty Shades of Gray on Netflix. So that’s not why the recommendation came up. In fact, I never even saw the movie. I’m not a middle-aged horny housewife. I’m just middle aged and horny! And I don’t need a movie studio spoon-feeding me soft core porn, thank you very much.

Ok BDSM, is uh….Bondage…uh…Hold on. Gotta go look it up.

“BDSM is short for bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadomasochism.”

I’m already disinterested but I’m sticking with the documentary because hey, why not? S&M didn’t scare me off, but James Franco as the producer almost did.

The documentary features behind-the-scenes footage of videos of both men and women tied up by ropes, drowned in bathtubs, being shocked in the genitals by an electric wand, and being penetrated by a plethora of DIY industrial-strength “fuck machines.”

I’m not going to get into all of it, but yeah it definitely had some porno stuff in it. So if that’s not your thing, don’t watch it. If it is your thing, too bad. This is a documentary, you perv!

What I liked about it:  The people who work at seems like nice people I could hang around with. And it comes across that they truly care about their … actors? Sure we’ll go with that.  Actors. They have safe words and all that jazz and ALWAYS talk up front about what is going to be in the scene so you aren’t like “Whoa hey! What the?” That was cool.

What I didn’t like: The actual BDSM stuff. I would do a check-in with my libido to see if anything was stirring and it was like “Nah, I’m good.”  Which made the movie even more interesting because I’m watching it like I was watching any documentary – very seriously.

There was one scene…this lady was hanging upside down with a leather collar and chain, chaining her to the floor, hands tied behind her back and her ankles were bound, apart on some bar/pole hanging from the ceiling. And she had a machine between her legs which was giving her pleasure.

At one point the director calls cut and informs her he did so because her eyes were rolling in the back of her head and she was moving her body too much so he wanted to give her rest. But at no point unchained her neck nor brought her down from that pole! She didn’t seem to mind though.

So that’s it… would I recommend it…Not really. Unless you were really curious about that type of thing…then go for it. Why not? You aren’t hurting anyone by watching it. And all parties involved in the movie had given permission. And no one died!

That would be a snuff film.



Working Title

I realize that life is hard for a lot of people.  I’m certainly not the 1%. Hell, I’m probably not even in the 60% (Don’t ask me. I’m bad at math).  But the LAST thing anyone should ever do is look at me and say that I have it easy.

I was once told I live a life of leisure and for the longest time I dug that. I would repeat it. Cherish it.  Of course, I was working two or three jobs at the time. See, I don’t live to work. I work to live. Otherwise I would be homeless.  And no, I wouldn’t be living back home. There is no back home.  I once asked my mother to be my roommate and she said NO. Can you fucking believe that? I even laid out WHY I would subject us to such horrors (Look at all the money I can save for my future) and she was still like, Nopeitynopenope.

I barely keep my head above the water, above the sand, above whatever is going to strangle me to death.  I’m so lucky to have the job that I have. Is it my life long passion? No. Do I still live paycheck to paycheck? Yes, but Jesus, the cost of living around here is pretty pretty pretty high. And I live alone. Which I prefer. So no roommates for me. Not even Mommy Dearest.

So I have a huge rent. A car payment (NOT a new car. Not even close). Cable/internet/phone bill. Which I tried to get them to bring the price down and they threatened to take away my favorite precious stations. Forget it. Cable TV is the only thing I live for anymore! And the internet! (Phone…eh. Just in case my cell stops working, which reminds me…) Cell phone. And yes I have an iPhone. My first iPhone. Not my first smartphone though. So that’s expensive. What else? Oh yeah … car insurance. Renters insurance. Health insurance through work. Doctor’s bills. Oh credit card bills. Can’t forget those.

So, explain to me again how my life isn’t harder than yours. See? If I lose my job, I can’t rely on my partner to bring home the bacon while I work at Bed, Bath and Beyond for spending money. If I lose my job and work at Bed, Bath and Beyond, I’m pretty much asking to be tossed on my ass.

Ok, you have kids. And how is that hard again? Aren’t they little minions that you can make wash the dishes and fold the laundry? They are called chores. And guess who does my chores? Not my fucking kids. Cuz I don’t have any. Which is fine with me. One almost bumped into me at the mall last week and I literally vocalized disgust.

What I do have is a lot of time on my hands (now that I stopped working more than one job. For now). And I guess people mistake that for … I don’t know…carefree and fancy life. I don’t think so. I don’t have anyone to rely on. I must do everything myself. Including being my own shoulder to lean on. My own sounding board (bad idea since I’m a pessimist). My own everything.

I am NOT saying I want a husband (did that. done that.) or kids (I really don’t. At my age? Oh dear God. I’d be able to get a senior citizen discount at the movies while my kids got a junior price.)  It’s just not my bag. The only reason to want a husband is so he can pay some of these monthly bills that won’t stop! That would be nice. Otherwise, I’m all set. For now.

Not that long ago I was at the Boston Pops (look at me being fancy again!). I sat next to a girl, jeez, a woman at our age, that grew up in the same neighborhood at me and now lives in the same city as me. Except, I grew up in a fancier part of the childhood neighborhood and now live in a fancier part of the city.  And while that is true, my family was never fancy, that’s just where we ended up – when I grew up. And I ended up in this neighborhood now because YES it’s very nice and YES I drop a hefty dime to live here.  The funny thing was, the chick turned to her friend and called me out on the place I grew up and the place I live now. And for like, a second, I felt like I was some rich kid or something. And no matter how many times I said, “It’s totally not like that,” I guess it kind of is like that. Because where that chick lives now…I would not be caught dead in. No thank you.

Everyday my life is a struggle. And it sucks. Everything I do puts me further into debt. But I’m here now, at the party called life. I don’t remember RSVP’ing, and I can’t leave. So I’m trying to make the best of it.

As for my signoff, I’ve got two shows waiting for me on my DVR. I spellchecked this shit but I refuse to go back and deal with grammar. So…suck it.




I’ve been overweight my whole life.  I was forced to go to Weight Watchers, alone, at 14 years old.  And this wasn’t “count your points/real life scenario” Weight Watchers. It was measure your food into ounces/weigh your food Weight Watchers.  I was 14! I didn’t do the food shopping in my house, nor did I prepare dinner.

I’ve never been bulimic or anorexic but honestly wish I had the willpower to do it.  I still remember the very special episode of Different Strokes where Kimberly would binge eat and then some how regurgitate in the bathroom. I was only ten. I didn’t really understand it all, except I knew it kept her skinny and pretty.

I was called terrible names growing up, mostly by my own mother. I look back at pictures of me in high school and college and while I was bigger than most girls, I was by no means huge. But I was told I was. And every day of my life I thought about my weight and how other people looked at me.

I’ve lost weight. I’ve gained weight back. I’ve gained more weight. Recently, within the last year or so, I decided to stop obsessing over it. To stop caring SO FUCKING MUCH,  if you will. Listen, I know better than anyone that society and, Europeans apparently, HATES fat people.  I get the message loud and clear.  I try not to be a gross fat person. I bathe, and groom and wear makeup and make an effort not to wear mid-drift shirts at Walmart. You’re welcome.

I promise not to look like Chet from Weird Science when you see me in public. I'm not trying to gross anyone out.

I promise not to look like Chet from Weird Science when you see me in public. I’m not trying to gross anyone out.

My dream is to just fit in. Or become invisible. I honestly do not care what anyone thinks about me anymore. I’m divorced and almost 40.  Even when I was a hundred pounds lighter, I was never asked on dates. I never had a boyfriend after my divorce.

I’m on three medications whose side effects cause weight gain. Two of which are for my mental health. So if I stopped taking them to lose weight, I would be a basket case. Is that what society would rather? A non-fat crazy person walking around?

I’m not trying to offend anyone by being overweight. I’m sorry you all care so much.  The person who cares the most is my mother. But she is also the rudest about it. It’s all she talks about. I even stopped talking to her a few weeks ago, and holy shit, it’s been the best few weeks of my life. No one judging me all the time. Criticizing me all the time. Asking me over and over again, “Don’t you care?”

I used to care. I used to care a lot. But I just stopped caring. And I don’t mean for that to come off in a bad way. Listen, there are lazy skinny people. I just happen to be a lazy fat person.  I would’ve lasted longer than you skinny people in the ice age! It’s just in my genes.

I don’t have a significant other. I don’t have children. Who do I have to be thin for? Society? Oh fuck that. I go to get a physical every year. I prepare myself for my doctor to chastise me about my weight, but I ask her about my blood tests and such and guess what? I’m healthy! Can I walk up a hill without wanting to die? Nope! But my cholesterol is fine, my blood pressure is fine and I don’t have diabetes. Can it happen later in life? Sure, but so can being hit by a bus or shot at the local movie theater.

And if food makes me happy… so what? If you knew the life I had and the loneliness I’ve experienced, you would understand why I eat to comfort myself. People comfort themselves all the time… booze, drugs, sex. My drug is cake. I’m not hurting anyone.

I have ZERO desire to drink a kale shake for breakfast. I have NO desire to cut out bread and all things white in my diet. I’m happy for you if you do. But I honestly don’t care what you look like or what you do. I happily look at your P90X and Tough Mudder pictures on Facebook while I’m eating potato chips.

Earlier today, my mother told me she would rather my be a drunk than fat.  Remember that part where I told you I was healthy? Yup. It’s true. But drunks…don’t they like, have liver problems and stuff? Or even skinny people who smoke cigarettes get cancer…but it’s okay because they aren’t FAT?  Oh dear lord.

I just had to stop beating myself up over it. I’m gonna be fucking forty. I’m divorced and that whole thing sucked big time and then …like why do I have to live to make others happy?

Shouldn’t I live to make myself happy?  I’ve traveled to Europe twice. I’ve bought my own car twice. I enjoying writing and watching movies and Netflix and visiting Disney World (which I know adds a lot of jokes because I’m fat). So, why can’t I just be a happy fat person? Because you find me offensive to look at?

Sorry, but I find your open carry gun offensive to look at, mostly because it can kill me. My fat can’t kill you. It could kill me, but I don’t really care. But that’s a whole other issue…

Thanks for letting me rant. I’ve missed this,


Oh, No She Did…Didn’t? Should I Not Have Said That? And Should I Care?

Dude, longest title ever!

Anyway, it’s 2015.  I am planning on writing more. I haven’t been inspired recently.  But maybe I hadn’t been looking. So, let’s get into it straight away!  (Now I think I want to speak more Britishy from now on.)

Recently, a story, or rather, a picture showed up online of Malia Obama.  She appears to be a cool, normal looking teenager.

Of course it got a lot of press.  At least she wasn’t standing on her dog! Sidetrack, sorry. Anyway, caught a story on Facebook about exactly what I thought…cool, normal looking teenager.

So I immediately shared it and wanted to write: “Of course, she’s part white.” Or, “That’s the white girl in her!” To be funny.  As a joke.  Like how someone finding out that a half black/half white man had an above average sized penis, he would say “Yeah, that’s cuz he’s half black.”  C’mon! You know they would.

But I didn’t write that. Because I froze.  I actually texted a friend for her opinion but haven’t heard back. So that’s why I’m here. I had to share. (I’m also mortified that I care so much.)

Why didn’t I write that? I was afraid that I would hurt someone’s feelings or worse…be thought of as racist! I don’t really care because I’m not. But then again I just saw an article about how we are 3 times more racist than we think we are.

Oh crap. Really?  I honestly cannot claim to be 0% racist.  No one ever could. But let’s say I’m 1% racist. I think I’m 1% racist, ergo, I’m really 3% racist.

I think I can live with that. Live together in perfect harmony stuff… yeah.

But I get censored around Facebook.  A woman once unfriended me because when the photos of the Boston Marathon bombers came out, people were shouting about Muslim, but to me, I said, they looked Eastern European, like Ukrainian or Grecian.

Well she is Greek. And she let me know how disgusted she was and I was sort of flabbergasted. Because I wasn’t derogatory. I was just guessing.  Believe me, I’ve been around enough dark-haired men of different origins to gently squint my eyes at a blurry photo and go… Yup, that’s the Armenian Tom Cruise, remember him? Or whatever.

You guys gotta tell me:  If I said – Malia is cool cuz she’s a white girl. Duh.   Is that racist? If yes, why? Please see my example above about dicks.

I prefer Rudolph’s Shiny New Year over the original Christmas episode. Discuss.


JMo Reviews a Girlie Product!

Listen, I know it’s been a while. And this post might be shit, but look….I don’t have a muse. I haven’t been inspired. It’s like the same old shit, same old day.  I’m not ALWAYS like that. But recently it’s been a big ol’ “meh” when it comes to blogging.  But I miss it.

Ok, before my review….short of Hillary Clinton saying “Yeah I wanted everyone dead in Benghazi,” WHAT will make the GOP happy at the end of their little investigation?  Ooops. It happened. It sucks. A few Americans died. Guess what? Americans die here everyday. Wait, no, NOT at my house!! Gosh!

As you may know, or not, I’m not a gun person.  I find the 2nd Amendment to be … ridiculous.  AWESOME back in the day of our founding fathers. Not so awesome now that silly people like me are scared to go anywhere fearing that stupid people with guns will shoot me.

One of the bullshit lines I get from the NRA nuts is “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”  Ok, well we obviously can’t control people, so how about those guns? You know…the WEAPONS that were specifically designed to kill you.  They aren’t stunners, they aren’t pepper spray.  They are guns, weapons, with bullets that will mostly likely kill you…cuz that’s like, its job. You know, that’s why you go to war with guns and not knives.

Ok, people kill people. But with a gun? Right? Cuz why aren’t I getting that argument? It’s like saying “Sail boats don’t kill people. People kill people.”  Really? Tell that to Yong Sun.

Anyway, someone on a social media site literally said “Guns solve problems.”  Meaning, I surmised, the problem of rape.  Since that was the topic at hand.

And then smoke blew out of my ears and my eyeballs fell out of my skull.

I’m sorry, now, guns don’t kill people (duh) but they do solve problems??

Guns: The Rhodes Scholar of weapons.

Why do they get to say stupid shit like that? But every time I point out ANOTHER mass shooting, I get “JMo, guns don’t kill people….” Oh shut the fuck up.

For the record, I DON’T know the answer to the gun problem.  I’m not against taking them all away from the crazies (cuz we’re all crazy in America), and yes, by Crazies I mean Everyone.

But I know that isn’t popular. So…now what? We do nothing? And allow the “normal gun lovers” to shoot us at the movie theater, Walmart, church, school, restaurants.  You know, pretty much anywhere.

How about you keep your killing machines locked away in a safe? Don’t leave it lying around for little Johnny to find and shoot his three-year old cousin. Accidentally of course. But these types of accidents kill people. Unlike, you know…spilled milk.

And only shoot them at the shooting range. And don’t mosey into Chipotle with your AK-47 strapped around you. You look like an asshole at Comic-Con.  Or my worse nightmare…a person with a gun!!!

Guns don’t solve problems. People solve problems,


P.S. Neutrogena Makeup Removing Cleaning Towelettes – Night Calming are awesome.  I hate washing my face at night, and while I’m convinced that’s why I’m still mostly wrinkle free at my age, I really should take the makeup off. To top it off, I do use Waterproof mascara. I cry a lot, okay??

So it works on waterproof makeup. It took all my makeup off. And I didn’t have to use any water or soap! Score!!



Is the Word “Slut” Even Relevant Anymore?

What’s your number?

You already know what I’m talking about.

I hate getting older for one reason (okay there are many reasons, such as, but not limited to, I now fully understand and appreciate why the product Poise is manufactured):  Feeling like an out of touch old fogie around the young people.

I’m cool. I’m hip. I’m with it. Down with it. It’s it. What is it?

Where was I? Oh yes…sluts!

Today it’s totally normal for a 22-year-old girl’s “number” to be 20. Or higher!

That makes me wiry-haired chin drop to the floor!

She’s slept with 20 guys?? And she’s only 22! Holy shit.

That, to me, is a lot.

Ok, fine. You’re totally not a cumbucket slutbag if you’ve fucked 20 guys practically before you were of legal age to drink. P.S. Vodka doesn’t give you crabs. Keep your legs closed for a few days!

As a wise man once said back in the 19 hundreds and 90’s about what makes a woman a “low pro hoe”:

But I know she’s a loser

(How do you know?)

Me and the crew used to do her!

Oh snap!  That is a cold hard dis right there.

But now…it takes more than the crew.

It’s the crew, the cast, the understudies, the Kraft service, and the whole damn audience!

THEN that would make her a hoe?? Maybe?

And I’m not a prude. I’m sure my earlier posts have proven that. But wow.

Rainbow Party!

Rainbow Party!

Ok, and here’s another problem with this scenario…If true, if girls are more promiscuous and more slutty than ever, what good is being a cougar then??  I thought being a cougar was all sexy like “Oh, that older lady over there has a lot of sexual experience and will do all the things that the girls at school won’t do.”

Yeah, no! Apparently those girls are already doing everything, including you and all your friends AND your enemies.  In ever position and every hole!

So what do I bring to the table? I mean, I know I’m a good lay! I got high-fived by a broad-shouldered plump lipped Jewish rugby player* who KNOWS how sex is done.  Do I wish I could have a personal reference CV when it comes to my fucking abilities…Yeah, yes I do.  But I can’t.

Because honestly….. I would if the guys would take my request seriously! References, people! Or endorse me on LinkedIn. (Ok, omg, imagine?? I’d get a lot of anonymous views after that!)

So why would a guy pick a cougar nowadays?  Oh God, don’t say money. Now I’m really screwed.

Yo slick blow,


*Damn, SFJ, when are you going to get divorced already?

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