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?

JMo Rant: Is This TV or TMI?

I was watching that stupid Quit-Smoking-Gum commercial and when the guys says, “15 days…but not in a row.” And I literally blurted out, “Guy! Who gives a shit? Fucking congratulations for quitting a habit that is literally killing you.  And I’m literally using the actual term of “literally” correctly. I could not care less that you’ve not smoked for 15 days. But not in a row.”

And then I thought, why is this guy so fucking smug? So it’s like cool to fall of the wagon but still get credit for 15 days? No. You see, no one at AA get a chip for 6 months…but you know…not in a row. There was two months in 2010. 2011 was bad. Then 3 months in 2012….

Yeah, no.  Dude, here’s how you quit smoking:   Stop buying cigarettes. And then lighting them and smoking them.

I’m honestly not trying to shit on those trying to quit smoking.  I guess I’m just thinking – I don’t give a flying fuck.  And while we’re at it, I don’t care about your ailment or disease or misfortune either!!

Why am I forced to watch/listen to uncomfortable commercials about erectile dysfunction, dandruff, overactive bladder, incontinence, diarrhea, constipation, disgusting mucus, erections lasting for 7 hours; see a professional, the sad cloud that follows you around, the wellness spa you should go to because 12 step programs don’t work for you, tampons, cramps, hemorrhoids – whatever it is… I don’t care. I really really don’t. Go away.

The pharma commercials crack me up the most….because I don’t go to the doctor and say “Hey, can I get Trademarked-Brand-Name-Drug from you today?”

No, my doctor sends a script to CVS and then some dude that looks like Red Swingline Guy fills it, and probably automatically uses generic to save me money anyway.  Guess what? I have a prescription for Paxil, but I’ve been taking Paroxetine for years!

Thanks for letting me rant,


The Year of Living Dangerously…Social

I don’t know about you, but I get a bunch of those daily email deals from Groupon and Living Social and Amazon Local.  There are some I don’t bother ordering from anymore because they were dicks! I won’t even mention them here. But..if you don’t see their name, it was probably them.

I’ve decided to take advantage of those deals this year! Already I’ve signed up for an online course to learn photography with my new digital camera.  Because right now I only know how to zoom in/out and turn the flash on/off.   I’m guessing these new fangled cameras do a lot of cool stuff.  If I learn two things, I’ll be pretty jazzed!

So there’s that! Oh and I also signed up for a class to learn how to fly for free. Oh you KNOW I’ll let you all know how it goes!!

Unrelated to those deals…I picked up a beginners kit on how to knit at Barnes and Noble.  I know how to crochet, kind of. I mean, I never really got past the single stitch but whatever. Now…I must learn how to knit!

I was trying to think up other things  I would like to do/learn this year:

  • Sew – No, I don’t know how to sew. So….shut up.
  • Sky dive
  • Go to Denver. For the…..antiques. Yeah that’s it
  • Read more
  • Watch “Say Anything” for the first time

NO, I’ve never seen “Say Anything.” No, I’m not lying. And no, I’m not kidding you.  In fact, I’ve been watching a lot of movies recently where I’m like, “Hmm, I totally thought I saw this but NONE of this looks familiar….”

Nope. No idea. I guess I need to see it.

Nope. No idea. I guess I need to see it to get it.

So there you have it… this year JMo will be going to Paint Night, and wine tastings and taking online classes to learn origami.  Who knows?! The sky is the limit…..Literally!!!!  Let me know if you see anything funky, ok?

Happy New Year, peeps!


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