13 year old me. What a perv.

A few years ago, my childhood bestie returned the below letter, penned by yours truly at the age of 13. I don’t remember being as sex-crazed as I obviously was, though I did engage in evening phone trysts with a boy in my 8^th grade class by simply moaning into the receiver, hoping that he would do the same in return. He did – and I liked it.

The sad part is is that I knew nothing about sex – I just imagined it to be really, really hot and romantic and full of orgasms. I now know better, unfortunately. Perhaps I will take a “lova” who will fulfill my wildest fantasies, or at the very least, take me to dinner and offer to pay. Enjoy. xxx

February 21, 1998

Dear Anabel,

I wrote you this letter to tell you that I am really happy that we’re best friends again. I missed not being friends with you a lot. You’re a really great person, Annie, and I hope we remain as close as we are for the rest of our lives, or however long we’re able to.

I majorly can not believe what an awesome convo we had last night, when we spent 2 hours on the phone together. That was like the best time or conversation that I’ve had in a long time. Ohhh my God!! I am like getting so majorly obsessed over Matt. He is sooo everything, just like Jake. Jake is so fine. His body is like the best. Cathy is sooo lucky.

Anyway back to Matt. His hands are like so strong, muscular, and best of all – big! I love the way that he smells, he smells sooo good! Ohhh my God, here I go again! I’d give anything just to be with him for just one night! I’d do anything with him, except sex because we’re way too young, plus an STD is definitely not what I need right now!!!

I can just picture it now…

Place: My house, preferably my steaming hot tub.

Who: Me, like 50 pounds lighter in a black string bikini. Ha. Yeah right!!!

Matt: Black thong. Either that or his birthday suit. Oh baby!!!

Anyway, there’s soft, sexy music playing in the background (preferably *BSB!)

The hot tub is so steamy and Matt’s in it, completely naked! Ahh!!! The lights are dimmed down to the point where it’s almost dark but you can still see Matt’s sexy…everything!

I walk into the room, hopefully looking half way decent in a black string bikini, carrying a single rose. I get into the hot tub and hand the rose to Matt. He starts to rub the rose down my chest and along my neckline. (Oh, by the way, at this point I’m on top of him in a straddled position!) I can feel his large, hard dick against me and it feels absolutely wonderful!

He slowly unties my bikini top and throws it to the floor beside the hot tub. His big muscular hands explore my breasts and I moan softly due to his perfect touch. We begin to kiss on the lips as he does this, and the taste of his sweet lips against mine is absolutely dreamy. He begins to move his hands around my waist and slowly down to between my legs. His strong fingers explore me down there too, as I lean back and moan loudly. Matt’s breathing really hard too, because he’s enjoying this sexual experience just as much as I am. I reach orgasm and I smile sweetly at Matt and kiss him gently on the lips.

We then get out of the hot tub and Matt wraps my body in one large towel along with his and kisses my neck. We then leave that room and go upstairs into the shower. We shower together for a long time because we still can’t keep our hands off each other.

We get out and Matt takes the courtesy of drying off my entire body with his tongue. I do the same to him, but stay in one particular area for a while, if you know what I mean.

We later make our way into my newly remodeled bedroom (exactly like yours!) where it smells like burning vanilla candles that have just been lit. We crawl under the covers and he wraps his strong arm around me. We fall asleep for a few hours, but I can’t sleep well, because I can’t believe how romantic the day and night had been with him.

When he wakes up, I feed him fresh chocolate-covered strawberries. He enjoys this too, but both of us would still like to be touched some more by each other. Since no one else is around at all, Matt and I venture outside to my swing. He gets on the swing first and I spider him (again). All of a sudden, there is a big gust of air and the swing goes high into the sky. We keep it in the air by humping each other, very, very hard.

We slow down after what seems like eternity and slowly walk onto the golf course. We play a very sexual game of hide and go seek, and I surprise him behind a tree with a very slow, romantic kiss. It begins to rain and we wrap our arms around each other as we continue to kiss passionately. We lie down on the wet grass and make love for hours.

Later on, we go back to my house to watch old romantic movies. He feeds me popcorn as we lay close on my sofa under blankets.

Due to the fact that Matt and I are both really tired, he decides to go home. Before he does, he holds me close and tells me that he loves me more than anything else in the world, next to his family. He embraces me in the most beautiful kiss ever and walks to his car. He drives away, blowing me kisses out the window. I realize that he is and forever will be my one true love.

Isn’t that or wouldn’t that be your best reality ever? I wish that one day happens between me and Matt and I, but who knows, maybe you’ll snag him before I do, Annie! I can’t get over how much I really do like him!

Love,

Jeanie

P.S. Sorry I didn’t write more, Annie, but it took me about 3 ½ hours to do what I did, plus about 2 ½ hours of daydreaming about Matt.

*The Backstreet Boys

I used to be homeless. And by ‘used to be’ I mean four weeks ago, when I slept in a public restroom, a parking garage, a movie theatre and on the ground.

Just so you know, I do not have a drinking problem. I just like to party and have a good time. I feel like that’s an excuse one would give at an AA meeting, but I’m not totally sure because I’ve never been, because again – I do not have a drinking problem.

So four weeks ago, when I woke up on the ground…I asked myself, ‘How did I get here?’ ‘Why am I on the ground?’ ‘What time is it?’ ‘Where am I?’ and then I looked up and saw a public toilet bowl staring back at me.

One would think that inanimate objects such as a toilet bowl could not express shame, but this one did. It was ashamed and angry with me…for putting to waste two, sugar-rimmed watermelon martinis, a cucumber martini, and something else with vodka in it. But then I was like, “Fuck you, toilet bowl. You’re a toilet.” And I got up off the ground and stumbled to the mirror. Whenever I’m lost, I look for a mirror so I can be like, “Oh, there I am.” And there I was, still clothed. Thank God  – I like to take my clothes off when I’m drunk, as would recall a handful of fraternity boys from the University of Arizona circa 2004 – my slutty year.

Dried mascara oozed down my face, as though I had been violently throwing up or crying, probably both.  That’s when I remembered I had walked out on the last fifteen minutes of Magic Mike because my mouth started blubbering like it wanted to throw up. My mouth usually gets everything it wants – except for Channing Tatum’s peen.

I wiped the mascara tears from my face in what I now realized was the oddly quiet movie theatre bathroom. “Where is everyone?” I thought, not yet realizing everyone had gone home. And by everyone, I mean all of my ten friends who’d accompanied me to Magic Mike Ladies Night, the rest of Saturday night’s movie patrons, and the entire staff of the Arclight Hollywood. I was like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, but wasted Jeanie Bergen at the Arclight.

As I stood at the top of the stairs, both embarrassed and proud of myself for getting locked inside of the theatre, I spotted a giant clock. 2:45 a.m.  2:45 a.m.?! The movie had ended nearly three hours ago! That’s when I heard footsteps and spotted a man in a suit. Hoping he wasn’t a fancy rapist, I called out to him.

“Excuse me! I’ve been locked in. Can you help me?”

“How did that happen?” he demanded.

“I fell asleep in the theatre” …bathroom, I forgot to add.

I explained to him that I didn’t have my phone or my purse or money or any other proof that I wasn’t the transient I appeared to be. He called for a cab, which after a minute, I decided was taking too long.

“I’m going back to the theatre I was in to look for my purse,” I informed him, which was half-true. I mostly intended to sit down, especially after climbing the escalator back to Theatre 8. It had been turned off, being that it was 3 a.m. and I was the only patron still roaming around. It was like climbing the real stairs.

“Ow, my thighs,” I said, so irritated.

I went into the middle of the theatre (pretty sure it wasn’t even the one I had originally been in) and sat down. It was much more comfortable than the bathroom floor. So naturally, I fell back asleep. When I woke up, I was like, “Oh shoot. The cab,” and wobbled back down the defunct escalator to the lobby.

“Ma’am!” the guy in the suit beckoned. “You need to wait outside.”

“No. That’s unsafe,” I replied, as if passing out in the bathroom were any safer. To be totally honest with you, I’m not even 100% sure if I was in the women’s room or the men’s room. My giney wasn’t sore, so I’m guessing the women’s room.

“You could have been hate fucked in an alley,” said the guy I was seeing, though he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore after my Magic Mike escapade, claiming something about “timing” and “boopity boppity boo.” Who knows – I deleted the text.

Granted, he and my friends had formed a search party, calling area hospitals and trying to file a missing persons report in the middle of the night. A private detective was also involved at some point, according to the Facebook wall on my Magic Mike Ladies Night event page, where everyone rallied to find the details of my whereabouts…from the comfort of their homes.

Eventually, the cab picked me up from the Arclight at 3:30 a.m. and drove me home. I didn’t have any money, so I gave the cab driver my phone number and said: “Call me tomorrow.” He didn’t call, so I guess the ride was free. I wonder if he caught a glimpse of my giney, as I was wearing a dress with no underwear, which was particularly fun when I later tried to scale a wall into the apartment complex of the guy I am no longer seeing. (I frolicked to his place when I couldn’t get into my own, which makes sense because I didn’t have a key. Or any hope.)

(Editor’s Note: This is not Jeanie, it is an internet picture. The wall she scaled was bigger/more impressive.)

By then it was 5 a.m. and my upper body strength was failing me as I tried to lift myself onto a balcony from the garden trellis in which I was dangling. I eventually gave up and went to sleep on the floor of his parking garage, with what I’m guessing was rat poop. An hour later, I tried to get into his apartment complex again. I do not give up, you guys. I used the call box out front to see if anyone would let me in.

After about 45 minutes, his neighbor answered and let me in to the building. I had to knock on his door for a good while, and eventually he woke up when I began pummeling his window. He opened the door, glad to see that I had survived what I’m hoping was my first and last night of homelessness. Then he asked me how I got into his apartment complex.

“Someone let me in,” I said. I’m glad I didn’t have to follow with, “And by someone, I mean the garden trellis.”

Me. 3pm the next day.

Though I just turned 25 (plus 3), I remain 13 in heart, mind, and soul. I wish I could include ‘body’ but my lady hips and D cups can’t be denied. Neither can the following evidence…

1. I practice writing my name “Mrs. Jeanie Tatum.”

2. I’m still pissed that Taylor Hanson is married.

3. I recently purchased not one, but two Justin Bieber singing toothbrushes. They each feature TWO HIT SINGLES you guys!

4. I’m waiting to open the toothbrushes until my friend comes over (one is hers) and we can use them together. Then we’ll have a pillow fight and stay up late talking about boys.

5. For my birthday, my friends gave me an “I love Channing Tatum” t-shirt, the new Entertainment Weekly with Channing on the cover, and booze. I’ve worn the tee to bed every night since, stained the mag with glossy kisses, and drank all the booze. (I didn’t drink when I was 13, but dammit, I’m an adult and I’ll do what I wanna!)

6. Whenever I hear Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” I fantasize about meeting a super cute boy, giving him my number on a piece of notebook paper, and falling madly in love.

7. I am OBSESSED with the color pink and frequently wear it head to toe.

8. Whenever a boy calls me, I let the phone ring twice before answering so he’ll think I’m super busy, but I’m really just waiting for him to call.

9. Giggling is my absolute favorite.

10. I still wear pads.

11. I rock side ponytails.

12. I only make my bed if a friend is coming over.

13. I spend all of my money on concert tickets, candy (flavored liquor), and lipgloss.

BTW, I realize the above picture is shoddy, but my boobs and head are too big to get in one shot and I really wanted you to see my Channing tee. Isn’t it the coolest?!

If there’s one thing I’m always down for, it’s an adventure. Unless it’s riding a city bus. That one – not so much. It may be economically sensible or good for the environment or whatever, but you have to draw the line somewhere when it comes to self-respect. No self-respecting toots can board a bus full of smelly strangers and expect to depart the same, disease-free woman. You may get where you’re going, but scabies will be going with you.

My favorite adventures usually involve carbs or cocktails – bottomless mimosa brunches being my absolute fav. One of these days, I would actually like to attend a bottomless mimosa brunch without my bottoms. (Of course, I would still wear a pair of super cute heels as to not look like a total nut.)
Maitre d’: “Just a minute there, madam. Where are your pants?”

Me: “At home. Table for two, please.”

Maitre d’: “I can’t let you in without your pants.”

Me:  “The sign says ‘Shoes & Shirt Required.’ I see no mention of pants. Now hurry up and get me that table. I’m cold.”

I mean, that would be so fun, right? What an adventure!

Of course, my table for two would actually be a table for one and I’d be the pant-less weirdo dining alone on the account of a technicality, but that’s what the mimosas are for – company. And what fabulous company they are.

I like football for two reasons: 1) Hot wings 2) Beer. The other nonsense I can do without. I realize I’ve just alienated you if you <3 football, but you’re always alienating me! Updating your Facebook status with “GO (Insert Team-Bippity-Boppity) and forcing me to tag along on your emotional journey before/whilst/after the game. “OMG, did you see that!” “This game is intense!” “Well played, fellas.” Or whatever it is that you say – I blocked you from my News Feed long ago.

Sure, I’m down for Sunday Funday at Barney’s Beanery. I’ve even been known to frequent an actual stadium through the first quarter. But as I stated before, I’m only participating for the food and drink. (Which is why I participate in most of life, honestly).  So, three minutes after thinking of the idea, I have decided to open “The Lady Bar.*” The Lady Bar will be a place for ladies who don’t like football (which is 98% of us – the remaining 2% are either trying to get laid or lezzie.)

In lieu of sports, we’ll watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Say Yes to the Dress, and Oprah’s Lifeclass. (We’ll make an exception for men’s swimming, but only for the occasional glimpse of peen). The lighting will be super-flattering (so we’ll look really pretty to the shirtless dudes behind the bar) and the chairs will be super-comfy, just in case anyone has their period. The house specialty will be the ChoGo martini, a combination of Godiva Chocolate Liquor and Grey Goose Vodka, with splash of nothing else because it’s already ah-mazing. There will be private powder rooms so you will never have to carry a convo over the tinkle of pee again. (Gal pals/female co-workers, please take note and cease the chat through the stall door. I’m busy).

Aside from being handsome and sculpted, the male bartenders will be uber-charming and will only speak during commercial breaks. “Here is another martini, Miss. Now please allow me to massage your shoulders, free of charge.”

Touchdown.

*Now accepting applications for investors. If The Lady Bar isn’t up your alley, perhaps you’d be interested in my late-night Cakes & Cream delivery service, catering to fatties with cravings past 10 p.m. We’ll make millions, darling.

Follow The Mrs. on Twitter @JeanieBeanie25

My holiday tradition is getting fat. Come autumn, I pull out my stretchy jeans and oversized sweaters and breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, the time of year has rolled around where my stomach is free to do the same.

Oh, who I am kidding. This year I’ve been a fatty year round. My husband lives afar, my job is as fulfilling as a vegetable, and I’ve been in at least six car accidents. I stopped counting a while ago because I don’t like to count. Unless you’re a worker at Dunkin’ Donuts and I buy a baker’s dozen and you defraud me with a dozen. I will catch your blunder and you will not appreciate my wrath. But I’ll be Dunkin’ no more.

Ten days ago, I put myself on a dairy-free diet. “Why dairy free?” my friends inquired. Note that they did not question why I am dieting, but rather the method. Fuck you, friends. You’re supposed to say that you love me the way I am…big, boobilicious, and full. (In all fairness, they were justifiably shocked that I would cut the 75% cheese, 15% chocolate and 10% pizza that is my regular diet).

The reason for this insanity is simple. Five years ago, I saw an interview with Alicia Silverstone and she’d lost 20 pounds by not eating dairy. Her skin also looked radiant. I’ve wanted to try it since then and I do things on my own time.

I’m pleased to say that I have lost a few lb’s and my skin is looking ah-mah-zing. Only now I’m afraid to get my routine eyebrow/lip wax for fear that my sensitive skin will become a massive pimple planet and the ultimate compliment – “Have you lost weight?” – will be replaced with “Ah! Your face!”

So, it’ll be a trade off. I’ll be skinny… with a unibrow and mustache. Fuck it.

*Dairy and I have since reunited. I grew up in Wisconsin. What the shit was I thinking.



I’ve been hit by a car twice and have yet to be knocked off my feet. Needless to say, I’m a sturdy gal. I haven’t always been this sturdy (aka: chubbs). In fact, when I was in college, I fluctuated between a size 4 and 6 – depending on how many keg stands I did that month.

When I see pics of mini-me from what was surely the most irresponsible/awesome time of my life, I’m puzzled as to why I didn’t run around naked more often. Seriously, I totally could have gotten away with it and not one person would have been offended. If I were to pull that shit today, peeps would be calling 911 left and right.

“Um, hi. Police? There’s an albino who seems to have misplaced her Riders by Lee Slimfit jeans AND her Spanx and she’s running around naked. Well, not running, really. More like…walking swiftly.”

Sad thing is, even when I was ultra thin, I still thought I was a totally fatty. That’s why I ran at least three miles a day, ate fruit for breakfast, and didn’t attack the bread basket like Jesus at The Last Supper. But alas, here I am, 27, and nowhere near a size four – unless I’m standing in line at Gelson’s buying Ben & Jerry’s and a skinny bitch is ahead of me purchasing cayenne pepper and lemons.

I would like to tell you that my future holds a hardcore diet/workout routine, but that’s unlikely. However, when I sell my first book or screenplay, I will invest in some serious lipo and go streaking. People will assume I’ve had my boobs done as well, but they’d be fools. My tits are (and always will be) fabulous.

I once dated a guy with a tiny penis*. He had a cute face and drove a BMW, so he wasn’t totally unfortunate. As one would expect of a tiny-penised man, his personality was rather dull. However, he called me “Babe” and I liked that.

The first time I saw the tiny penis, I was unfazed. We were a little drunk, and I just thought there was more work to be done to get the little fellow up and running. After 20 minutes of coaxing, I realized it was about as good as it was going to get. It was disappointing, but I went on a few more dates with him nonetheless. (I drove a 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera – can you blame me?)

When it came time for the sex, I braced myself for some serious magic tricks. Surely, he’d learned to work with what he’d been given. Wrong. It was about as exciting as inserting a tampon. And that’s when I knew that I could never, ever marry him. I could forgive his dull personality…and his vanity license plate…but the tiny peen was a no-go. I bid him adieu and never saw him again.

Forever the curious gal, I recently Googled him and much to my surprise, he’s married! Sure, I’m a little pissed that his wife is skinnier than me, but for the most part, I’m happy that he and his tiny penis have found companionship. To her, and what must be the world’s tiniest vagina, I offer a salute. You’ve done a good thing, M’lady.

*akin to the size of a pencil at the Lottery kiosk

The Mr. just turned 32. What this means is:

1. He’s still five years older than me. Yay! I win.

2. He is the perfect blend of hot young guy and sexy old man.

3. He has a cute little bald spot on the back of his head (and has yet to admit it).

4. He can run a mile in 10 minutes, which is 20 minutes less than me.

5. It’s been two years since he saved me from drowning in the bathtub at The Venetian on his 30^th birthday after I had ten-too-many vodka lemonades.

6. Another year has passed where he has not fully grasped the idea that my haircut (nor any other woman’s haircut) will ever cost $10.99.

7. He rocks a pair of Roxy boat shoes. (I’ll worry when he combines with socks).

8. His boxer briefs have never looked better.

9. I’m a reverse cougar. Rarr.

10. He’s one hot Sugar Daddy. Only he’s not loaded. And he’s not a daddy. But he is hot. And that’s all that matters. Yay! I win again.

Please note that The Mr. would like to make the following corrections:

4. It’s 8 minutes, not 10.

5. It was The Palazzo, not The Venetian.

7. They are Vans, not Roxy. “That’s a female brand.”

Apparently he’s given up on denying the bald spot. Yay! Triple Win for me!

* Please note that for privacy reasons, the attached photo is not The Mr.  It’s just one of The Bitch’s many shirtless screensavers. You’re welcome.

When people ask me how often I see The Mr. and I respond: “Once a month,” I know they are secretly calculating how often we have sex. I know this because women reply with a frowny face: “Aw. That must be really hard.” And dudes, after wiping a look of total and utter devastation off their mugs, grunt: “Man,” as if they’re sending empathetic vibes of bro-hood all the way to The Mr., who lives in Arizona.

Don’t feel too bad for him, bros. We more than make up for it when we do see each other. (Let’s just say the cops have been called and we weren’t arguing). Plus, being the awesome Mrs. that I am, I gift him regularly with digitally-transferred images of my ta-ta’s and lady part. (If you are reading this, dearest Mother-in-Law, this is a falsity and I am in fact, the sweet, innocent, and non-slutty young lady you know me to be).

Sure, our “situation” – as we call it so lovingly – isn’t ideal. But until California police agencies start hiring or I sign a deal to write for a network (I’m super available!) this is our life. With a few minor adjustments here and there, like our game of “Boobies in Your Face” becoming “Boobies in Your Facetime,” it isn’t so bad. Living apart has its perks. I can take my dog outside to pee without The Mr. yelling after me: “Put some clothes on!” And he can tug at his ball skin all he wants without one peep outta me. (Seriously, he could stretch that shit over my head if he wanted…and I’m sure he’d love to try).

Hopefully our careers will get the big breaks we’ve been working towards soon, but if not, we’ll continue fucking the fuck out of each other once a month. (And by this, dearest Mother-in-Law, I mean holding hands and gazing deeply into each other’s eyes).