Go gently into the week(end).

I wrote this on Sunday, but my blog has been acting up ever since.  Now the post has rebuttals.

So much sleep.

So much fucking work.

Some vino verde.

A little wine.

Probably too much food.

Just the right amount.

Three miles a day.

Nearly 3 miles a day.

Queer Eye.

Cheers, Worst Cooks in America, Sweet Magnolias (which wasn’t worth my time and I do not recommend).

Fur babies.

Fur babies.

Baby baby.

Not as much of my baby baby.

Zoom calls.

So many Zooms.

Tense and upsetting conversations with exhusbands.

Dinner outside with The Vet before he leaves in a month.

Curbside grocery pick up.

I ordered too much fucking food.

Hours upon hours of world news articles.

Still hours upon hours…

So many tears.

Very little tears.

Tears for a life never lived.

Numb again.

Tears for the world today.

Scabbing over.

And a few stolen moments to myself.

Too many moments to myself that they all feel dark and oozing and floaty in a universe of aqua-colored hair gel.  

This is “taking time for myself.”

 

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I couldn’t go.

I was nearly done packing.

I’d sorted all my toiletries, added thoughtful touches like a scented candle and sparkling water, a bag of citrus and kolaches, lots of sun screen and self tanner. I needed to only pick out which bikinis I’d take, but the thought was close to revolting.

While I lay out tanning my soft, middle-aged body, there would be a hotel full of people there not by choice, but out of necessity and 6 blocks away people protesting for the lives of black Americans.

It just didn’t feel right despite everyone I talked to telling me I deserved it. Do it, go for it, you need it. Truthfully, what I needed was to stay home and be that person.

The person who wept when she watched the videos of people bravely hitting the streets and peacefully protesting get mowed down by mounted police or thrown to the grown by big, muscular men in riot gear, a septuagenarian harassed and left bleeding by callous officers sworn to protect us.

The person who yearns for a world that feels safe. For women, all people of color, every sexuality and every religion, every different mobility and health status, every height and size., every gender identity.

When you think about it, this world is set up to be kind and accepting to very very few types of people. The lane to acceptance is narrow: attractive, tall, fit, straight, Christian, white, cis, preferably male, [college] educated, never incarcerated. That was a very easy list to write down versus the hundreds of other combinations I could come up with that are not that.

My decision made and my heart light, I called the hotel. I explained that with the uptick in COVID cases in the last week coupled with the protests, “It just isn’t a good time now.”

She was perfunctory and efficient in her response and in less than 4 minutes I’d rescheduled my stay for the end of August. Perhaps then it won’t feel so gross.

I texted The Vet. He was sweet. “Want me to come over instead and bring a pizza?”

“Nah,” I replied. “I have a shit ton of kolaches.”

We sat on my back porch, the cicadas drowning out our conversation from any possible eavesdroppers. We drank and talked and laughed. He’s leaving in one month.

I felt tears, but ignored them. We have never talked about our feelings regarding our friendship and what the move will mean for us. He’s happy to be leaving; it’s good for him. I’m happy he’s happy. But I will miss my best friend and I wanted the weekend at the hotel to be a last hurrah for us. Strictly platonic, of course.

At 1 am, fighting the urge to close my eyes in my chair he bid adieu. He stood tall and bald, casual in cargo shorts and a t-shirt that clung slightly across his broad chest.

“I read an article about how to hug safely if you’d like to,” I said. “We just can’t have our faces face the same way and I have to keep my face in your chest.”

He answered by opening his arms and I stepped into them. I turned my right cheek against his chest and wrapped my arms around him. I breathed in the scent of him, his detergent probably, and wished we’d held on a few beats longer.

I quickly stepped away per the safe-hugging instructions and felt awkward, like I’d just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

I walked him to the door and said goodbye. My entire night was the right thing to do and just what I needed, and today I slept until I could sleep no more then walked the 1.45 miles to my ex’s and played for an hour with Peyton and a hose and some slippery grass.

I don’t need fancy right now, all I need is simple: friendship, love and rest.


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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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