The irresistible allure of an escape from reality: What do i do?

As predicted, today was brutal.

Early meetings bled into late morning meetings morphed into lunch meetings rolled  into afternoon meetings like so many cigarettes of a chain smoker.  My ass didn’t leave my chair for 7 straight hours and even the cat got bored of me sitting there and found somewhere else to lounge.

Pey wanted to see me again after work, so the second I was done I laced up my tennies, put on cropped leggings so my chubby thighs wouldn’t chafe, and set out with the old, now creaky dog.

I was a little anxious.

My ex texted hours earlier asking that I refrain from touching our baby while he’s in possession.  A stupid, illogical request seeing as we have shared custody and yet another maneuver on his part to control his anxiety via my behavior, to, as he put it, “keep isolation intact.” Yeah, ok.

Never mind that we’re swapping every two weeks.

But I guess a hug from me while he’s in possession is much more dangerous than taking him back into his home after he’s with me.  I know: it makes no fucking sense.

I pressed Play on my audio book and listened intently to the dulcet tones of Tom Hanks.  I passed fragrant, blooming bushes and trees the names of which I’ve never known.  One tree with long, wispy branches had leaves like dragonfly wings and orange petals like an exploded firework.  I don’t think it had a smell and I didn’t stop to investigate for along the inviting boughs were inch long thorns.  I kept walking.

The visit was lovely.  More playing with the hose, lots of “accidental” sprays on each other.  My ex came out too this time, ostensibly to enforce his request of no touching, but he was mild mannered and we chatted about his family.  I honored his need for no touching.  Reluctantly.

The Vet asked me earlier in the night if I was up for drinks tonight.  I told him I wasn’t sure, but the truth was I wanted to be up for some.  For us to go meet at our favorite hang out or maybe a new one before he moves away and to catch up and laugh while serenaded by the chirping, hysterical cicadas overhead that seem to be everywhere at once.

I forgot that I no longer eat meat and ordered a pastrami sandwich to be delivered as I walked back past all the bushes and blooms and their thick, sticky fragrance.  I didn’t even realize my mistake until hours after I’d eaten every last crumb.  What a shit pescatarian I am.  (It was delicious, though.)

I didn’t cry when I got home like I’d hoped yesterday, but I also didn’t stuff my face or drink.  One rosé spritzer was all I had.  Good job, Hy.  I also completely forgot to text The Vet back.  I’m just a black hole of nothingness and useless grey matter.

Lastly – and most upsettingly – Sunday night, in a fit of desperation (and hope) I booked two nights at a downtown luxury hotel basically for the price of one.  It has two queen beds, a view of the water if I’m lucky, and is walking distance to all the fun, outdoorsy stuff my town has to offer.

But isn’t that the height of grossness??  To be in a luxurious setting while less than a mile away protesters fight against and endure police brutality?  I mean, do I go join them before or after I lay out at the pool?   Ugh – barf.

It’s in bad taste, right?, to spend money so cavalierly when others are having to skip rent payments to survive during this goddamned pandemic and since when did I become a Have and not a Have Not?

And not only all that, but what if I get sick by leaving the safety of my house?  Yet another indecent privilege I’ve been afforded during all of this.

I asked both my bff, Sherry, and The Vet if they’d like to come stay with me.

“It’ll be fun!”  I texted, filled with optimism and gripped by momentary insanity.  “We can drink, play, paddle, lay by the pool, get room service.  Party!”  They both agreed it sounded great and would love to come, but what if they get me sick?

They go to work every day and have been throughout this entire quarantine, and apparently that has affected their threshold for mingling.  Mine remains – apparently – very, very low.

But hotel sheets, a change of scenery, someone to take care of me.  It’s embarrassingly privileged and humiliatingly attractive all at the same time.

The hotel now reminds me of that beautiful orange blossom on that alien-looking tree with it’s misleadingly soft-looking branches – there are big ass spikes all over it, after all.  It is not to be experienced with anything but your eyes.

I have until 2:59 pm tomorrow afternoon to make my decision and get a full refund.  I wish the cicadas could tell me what to do in their songs.

 


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Stuffing my face.

I’ve been eating my feelings the past two days, which might not be all that notable except that I’ve diligently been chipping away at my weight during lock down and this now feels extremely reckless.

My heart is breaking on all sides – no different than you, probably.  I ache for black Americans for all the suffering they endure and have endured.  I ache for essential workers who must chose to risk their lives to keep food on the table.  I ache for the loss of life as we all knew it and I ache for the unknown future.  I ache for my little one who is back at my ex’s.  I ache for my loneliness – I miss my mommy and my friends and dates (even the bad ones).

I just ache.

And after Pey went to my ex’s yesterday and we hugged and cried goodbye I threw myself into work.  I stared so hard at the computer screen my eyes watered and my back ached.  The fat ass cat tore into my lap whenever it suited him to get some attention. It felt like a reminder that I was not actually as alone as I felt.

When my day was over I grabbed a bite to eat – a chicken salad wrap – and took the dog off down the street, careful to suck in my stomach because that’s what middle aged women do, I guess.

My visit was leisurely, there was a hose and some water for all of us, a lolling tongue and squinty dog eyes, hugs and kisses.  I walked back home and immediately opened a bottle of wine and made pasta.  Ate too much, I’m sure, but didn’t care. Then drank some more wine and ate 4 truffles.  I went to bed early instead of eating more because that was all I really wanted to do (eat).

Today, I woke up with Pey’s balled up shirt in my arms.  It’s not weird, you’re weird.  It was so quiet, peaceful.  I wasn’t worried about what my child was doing or should be doing.  I immediately felt guilty for the relief I felt.

Work started earlier than usual and I bore down on my day like hungry little bug on a juicy leaf.  And boy was I hungry.  I ate most of a frozen dinner and then the left over pasta.  When work was finished I laced up my shoes again and headed back out.

This time I was met with an admission that there were tears the night before.  I was missed.  “This is hard.”  Yes, baby, I know.

We fabricated rainbows with the mister nozzle setting and turned our faces into it.  It was good to see each other.  Do you want me to come again tomorrow? 

“Yeah.”

I walked home listening to my audio book (my second ever) and felt guilty for being so removed from all the pain and suffering in the world, for my ignorance of whatever was happening less than 10 miles away.  But I’m fucking tired.

I feel like I have been weeping for humanity since 9/11 when I watched in horror as the first tower collapsed.  I had just barely turned 26.

I headed straight for my last bottle of wine and ordered some Chinese food.  It’d be my third meal of the day – I don’t even remember the last time I ate three times in a single day.  I savored the MSG on the sweet and tangy shrimp and chicken and the mouthfeel of the salty fried rice and wanted to melt into my rug for the sheer shame and pleasure of it all.  This was what I wanted.

I have a brutally long day tomorrow, so my plan is to indulge to the fullest tonight then be in bed by 10 and sleep it all off tomorrow.  No more booze then, no more eating my feelings.  I’m going to sit alone on my couch after my visit with Pey and I am going to cry.  I am going to cry for everything and everyone and everywhere.

But tonight, I eat and I drink.


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This is gonna be rough.

I wrote a whole other post about my failings as a mother.  I had an epic fail today – right off a fucking cliff – and sobbed for an hour as my guilt coursed as readily through my veins as the blood.  Hours later, I’m feeling slightly better.  Slightly.  Gotta pick myself back up and keep goin’, as they say.

Suffice it to say my heart is broken even after I didn’t know it could break anymore.  The injustice of police and white racist brutality is too much.  And then a bunch of white people say, “Be angry politely, please!” which is its own racist brutality.  I thought a killer virus that was sweeping through my nation (and world) was bad enough, but now it’s outright hate and ignorance added on top.

Anyhoo…

All that to say, this Every Damn Day in June is going to be special.  I’m glad you’re here for it!!  Expect to find lots of resources on how to do better and more and re-educate yourself on things.  Mama’s got ideas.

Welcome everyone!

 


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It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

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It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

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Worth the 20 bucks.

Pooh-pooh Amazon dresses all you want, but this dress delivers.

I wore it last night for drinks with The Vet and it ended up in a pool on his bedroom floor next to his. It was like The Rapture.

We didn’t have sex – he had whiskey dick and I passed out – but apparently the dress was a good choice.

Also, The Golfer will be too busy with end of Q2 craziness for the next two weeks to see me.

But let’s get back to The Vet. Despite the naked debauchery, I think I found a friend, and that feels nice.

Now I’m going to put my phone down and rejoin the 31st birthday party I’m at.

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My brain hates me.

I dream a lot and every once in a while I seem to like to torture myself.

I couldn’t tell you if any parts of this are from some repressed place of my mind or if it’s all fabricated.

I fucking hope it’s all a dream.

What I can tell you is that all the feelings are real: my sense of responsibility, my shame, my feelings of helplessness, my complete lack of trust in my sister (and people), my disappointment.

Ironically, I’d like to think that these are all things that I can change, namely being able to trust my sister and people. How different would my life be if the world were generally more safe than dangerous?

Anyway, here it is:

I was young, late teens, and in my father’s bed. He was huge, warm, and naked next to me. I felt out of place and didn’t know how I’d gotten there, though I felt as though I had manipulated my way there to be closer to him than my sister.

He rolled to his side, facing me, and I lay perfectly still on my back, not breathing. The head of his hardon pressed hard into my thigh until it hurt.

I hoped it would only be that, but I was also flattered at the affection. In that instant I flipped. This was not right.

I adeptly maneuvered my way away and he lost interest. I lay there, heart pounding hating myself for going quietly into the night, so I began to scream. Out of no where.

Loud and long and keening in hopes my little sister would come to my aid, but she didn’t.

Dad and I argued. Why was I doing this? I’d liked it, he said. I screamed how sick and gross it was and how fucked I was.

I ran to wake my sister, certain that she would jump to my aid, but instead she met me with a tidal wave of mistrust and doubt.

I begged her to call the police; they’d know what to do.

When they arrived I feared I didn’t “look hurt,” but I hoped that the possibility of incest would spur them on the protect both me and my sister.

They were more skeptical than my sister and I was left standing in the rain watching them drive off.

Then my nephew came in to tell me that he still had a sore throat from the night before and inadvertently saved me from myself.

Forty-three has been an interesting year for me, that’s for sure.

Friday, June 28th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I had the worst fucking dream last night and I wonder if it had anything to do with my last thoughts last night about clarity and boundaries. I’ll post it in a minute – it has no place here.

In other news, I bought my tickets to London! I watch fares on an app called Hopper (I highly recommend it) and use my CapitalOne Venture card for everything to earn miles. My flight is under $500 and will be erased with my reward miles I’ve earned this year. Woohoo!!

And today is the last Boobday of Every Damn Day in June! Which makes it all the more funny that I’d forgotten all about it. Again. I swear if my head weren’t attached…

Love you all!

Fucked up dream to be posted shortly…

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

Hi, how ya doin’?

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NOT my tits:

Miss B enjoying herself.

I thought I would submit something different than a bra picture.  I’ve discovered in the past 10 years that I am a Masochist on taking pain, although not humilation.  I’m grateful that I have breasts that can be enjoyed in a consensual relationship.  

::

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::

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Clarity.

My sister sent 2/3 of her kids out to stay with me and my folks last minute yesterday. I was in the middle of the beginning of a posh meal with an old friend and ex-lover, Zed, when my step dad asked what time I was coming over.

I side stepped my assholery and killed two birds with one stone: I’d be there around 8, and no, that meant I couldn’t hang out and “play,” Zed.

I have zero interest in ol’ Zed which fascinates me because we’re legitimately friends. Isn’t that the type of man I should go for??

He was the best friend of a graduate college friend and once I’d chewed him up, I moved on to Zed.

We hit it off with our appetites for food and cocktails and penchant for long, dark nights out on the town. I was 36 at the time, or 100 years younger than I am now if you want to know the truth.

I thought he was a fantastic kisser, but our bedroom chemistry fell flat. He tried to be cute with criticisms about my “performance” and not surprisingly, I wasn’t amused. I was also hungry for giant cock at the time and Zed was just a normal human male.

I got the sense not long after that he had caught feelings for me, but I was on the war path and couldn’t be bothered. Then one night while playing with my Book of Questions with me and The Neighbor, Zed had some allergic reaction to one of my answers and stuck his steel-toed boot in my face and derided me menacingly for what felt like an eternity.

He also wasn’t good with Peyton, falling back on an old school “I am the adult, hear me roar and kowtow to me!” sort of mentality with a fucking sweet little 4 year old. Uh… NO.

I chalked it up to his PTSD from multiple tours in the Middle Wast, but that essentially ended my sharing my time with him in any capacity for some years until we crossed paths on a dating app in 2016.

He’d calmed down, softened, been through more shit. He’d missed me he said. I agreed to see his new house and go to dinner with him.

The night was decadent and hedonistic, though also completely sexless. I was irritated with him the majority of the night and felt like I was putting up with him as I danced just out of arm’s reach. Last night was no different when he made it very clear that he’d like to date me or at least fuck me.

“My physical needs are met,” I said frankly. “Plus, I think I may just be done looking for more than that anyway. It’s too hard, my bar is too high, and I need to focus on other things, anyway.”

He made an ill-timed joke about the “coincidence” of me reestablishing contact. Which I hadn’t – it was another internet crossing, but whatever. Peyton is gone for two weeks and I’m sick of Mens, so I took him up on an offer to see each other.

I’ve been thinking about it pretty much non-stop – this idea of “giving up.”

I had yet another boring, go-nowhere date on Tuesday and when I saw a lone man sitting in the bar my first thought was OH NO. Never a good sign. What’s it called when you feel absolutely nothing for another human being? Apathy?

I just looked at him and couldn’t imagine him giving me half as much pleasure as The Golfer gives me. Also, his five o’clock shadow reminded me a little of my father at his age, just before he died. Also never a good sign.

If things between me and The Golfer stay the same then I can expect to have the best sex of my life 1-3x a month. I’d rather have it 3x a week, to be sure, but I wouldn’t be sexless and I could focus on other things. Like moving and working up the ladder at work and organizing my sock drawers and blogging more.

He’d be a known and familiar quantity in my life; I could just relax a little.

And Peter has to go. He just has to.

For more than three years I have been a willing side piece gobbling up whatever stolen moments and scraps of him I could get and since he’s met One-Month-Girl I have been relegated right back to that role without ever getting the chance to grow tired of him from a marathon weekend together or even a motherfucking sleepover.

His recent illness has put an even finer point on it: despite me being his destination when he was struck down, I was probably the last person to learn of his condition and status and was left completely in the dark overnight and stood up. Again.

He apologized in a drugged haze and I struggled to think of what to do about feeling so cast aside and disrespected; this isn’t a text conversation and I also felt badly for him. He has no insurance and spent the night in the ER.

I decided to focus on him first and offered to have food delivered when he was up for it, and yesterday he called in the favor. I even remembered his ex-girlfriend – who’s nursing him back to health – is a vegetarian and a picky eater so got her Pad Thai with tofu as a way of apologizing for my intrusion.

He was grateful and called me baby and sweet and kind and caring and said he felt almost cured since the beef pho I’d ordered for him. He passed on her thanks.

You’re very welcome. I can imagine how stressed out you are by all of this and I wanted to help somehow. I doubt you’ll take me up on my offer stay with me (One-Month-Girl wouldn’t like that lol but it’s still there), but I can at least feed you, so feed you I will ?

He never denied that OMG was his ultimate destination once he’s well enough to leave his apartment with the ex-girlfriend in it, which confirmed how far from the top I am in his mind. It sticks in my craw like a lump of ice, cold and painful, but my righteous anger is swiftly melting it. Fuck. That. Shit, man. Fuck that shit.

I am fully done inviting people to stay in my life who treat me like a faithful dog, ever ready to forgive and always searching for a pat on the head no matter what the fuck they’ve done to me. That goes for everyone, not just men.

Clarity will be my word for the back half of 2019. Clarity to protect myself and clarity to be patient, but most of all, clarity to be real and bold and stronger than ever. No one needs boundaries more than I do and it’s gonna be tough.

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I’m thick and needy.

Se t these to The Golfer. Three guesses as to his response.

Curvy as fuck.

See my bruises?? ON MY ARM, you pervert!

Baby bruise right there.

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