silly rabbit

Love, pretty things, silly goose, soulfood, therapy

Ya’ll know I’ve been kissing frogs, for a while. I’ve officially been single for a year. Let me do some finger counting like a 1st grader realllll quick…. I’ve been on dates with TWELVE different men in a year. Of those seven made it to second dates. (That’s actually way more than I thought, now that I review the facts). Surprisingly decent odds, but I’m also just a really nice person who likes to give people ample opportunity to let their pretty little personalities shine. For only three of the seven was there any real potential for a meaningful relationship. One out of twelve made it to official boyfriend territory that quickly corroded into a land mine of manipulation, deception, and horrors, but who’s counting.

And then there was lucky number twelve. 

Twelve is an auspicious number meaning that this dude if wholesome as fuck. Someone that I look at and think, now here’s a man who stands up to the grandpa test. 

So, what’s the grandpa test?
My Papa who is absolutely the love of my life. The corner stone of positive male influence for me. The man, who when it comes down to it, I’ve been desperately trying to find. (Uhhh huh, that’s how attachment to our opposite sexed caregivers work, if you’re lucky, you try to recreate healthy relationships in your life and not toxic or disregarding ones… been there too.) I’ve been working on my daddy issues like it’s my job for years, ’cause it is.

This past summer I had the absolute blessing to spend a few days with my Papa. Time crawled by, I savored every moment of it. One summer Kansas evening, we were sitting in lawn chairs on his back porch, and my Pops was telling me about how he had made a number of loans to people who blatantly did not pay him back based on their agreement. My grandpa is savvy, it’s not that he didn’t understand that there was risk in loaning friends money, it was that he couldn’t fucking believe that people were systematically so God-damned shitty these days. Long held acquaintances. Family friends. People from his tiny close-knit community. Ohhhh you gonna do me like that. (That’s what my grandpa sounds like in my head, not reality).

He just explained it all really sadly. Like right in front of his eyes as the decades ticked by he watched as morality completely eroded. Disbelief. But, still he shows up to the next person ringing his doorbell in a terrible bind, with the benefit of the doubt. Still helping people. Still hoping that there will be a few more someones that behave honorably.
That conversation has been a lump in my throat ever sense.

Maybe that’s the word, the sentiment, the everything: honorable.
For a year I have been searching high and low for an honorable man and I didn’t even know it until it was just right there staring me back in the eyes.

I’m learning and learning and learning to listen to my intuition. To stay tuned into my senses. To be careful about getting ahead of myself, be careful about having too many drinks, being careful about over sharing, over promising, over fantasizing about how wonderful it all could be. Learning because the reverse of all of those things is like playing with matches in a kerosene bathtub. And I’ve taken many a self-induced fire bomb bath over the years.

Number twelve, who I shall now rename to number one, because it’s a new year, and a new even more intentional and present me, truly seems like a really good person.

My mantra/prayer/manifesting process before meeting him had gotten super clear:
I just want to find someone who is good to me, consistently.

That’s all. Time will tell. But you know, I’m me, and he’s probably the one.

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why I’m still putting myself out there

Love, silly goose, soulfood

I don’t know at what point I stopped writing about other interesting things and only now write about grief and relationships. Regular God-damned Dr.Ruth I suppose.

Today, something terrible happened to me. I’m not sure if it was the slurry of sugary shit that I consumed, or the early signs of the stomach flu, but I came home at 4:45, put on my pajamas and proceeded to spend the rest of my night entirely recumbent. The good news is that I can run the world from my phone and my laptop. The bad news is that my dog hates me because I haven’t walked her all day. I was just sick, shaky, just not well. I’m begging Ever to do everything, baby please turn on the light, please just take Meena out for a minute, can you just find something to feed yourself, please. She literally ended up eating raw spaghetti that she dipped in both salt and sugar…. ummm okay. Eventually I ordered pizza, pizza gets you out of the parenting dog-house pretty efficiently.

Any way, I’m less yack-y now and my kid is bathed, brushed, and put to bed. My papers are done, I put a massive dent in the total ass load of work that I needed to do some time last month today. So, all in all it’s a win. But really this is a super long, whiney, intro to say the following:

Today, as I laid there bewilderedly watching my hands involuntarily shake just matter of factly I remembered that this is why we need adult partners. Today, as I sat listening to a client talk about the burden that she is enduring taking care of a friend who has no partner or family. Today, as I recalled the last time that I had food poisoning really bad. I remembered that we have a partner because we need someone to take care of us sometimes.

It’s not impossible to do every thing solo. We can be indigent about it. We can embrace our culture’s glorification of independence. We can sit on our high horse, wearing our martyrdom, singing our own praises disguised as complaints about how hard we’ve had it and how much we’ve over come. We can. I have. I’m also super fucking over it.

I need help. I’m also really good at helping. I have absolutely no shame about admitting that. This is why we have partners. There are hard days. There are sick days. There are old days. There are days where we can’t for any number of reasons rally and meet our own basic needs. Myself included.

This is the long version of what I said rather succinctly on Facebook earlier.

________________

On why my crazy ass is still making dating a priority:

Sometimes I just want to throw in the towel and get a cat and be okay with being single.

Then I remember the time that time I ate a bad egg taco at work, became violently ill, had to call my boyfriend to pick me up as I lay in the grass intermittently vomiting and shitting myself.

And it all comes back to me, this is why you need a partner in life. For there will never be a friend on earth who I will ever feel comfortable subjecting to those things.

_________________

That day is absolutely etched into both of our memories. I remember the exact moment of trying to walk to my car and then collapsing in the grass. I remember calling Julius in tears asking him to please come get me, quickly. I remember him pulling up with Ever in the back seat, completely unprepared for what he would see.

That may have been the day that all of his sexual attraction to me died, unsurprisingly, he literally watched me sit on a toilet with my head buried in a trash can for a solid 12 hours. Sweetly making me feel like I wasn’t totally vile. At some point in the night I wanted to go to bed, but I didn’t dare lay on any porous surface. He made us a bed of trash bags and old blankets on the living room floor and he laid next to me all night. That makes me cry even now.

I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there about about wading through the shit of life, and somehow you’re okay because there was someone by your side the whole time.

I could count another three dozen times when one of us were having some of the worst days of our lives and we pulled each other through.

I just know, that that’s what true, down for you, best days and worst days, love looks like.

I don’t know if you go out and find that. If you build it. If it falls into your lap. But I do know that I need that again.

The stages of a break up

domestication, Love, silly goose, soulfood

1- this prob isn’t going to last, tread lightly. bookend every criticism with 2 compliments.

2- yup, getting back together, at least for makeup sex, picking out the wedding dress right now.

3- that mother fucking asshole. probs going to burn his house down. unless he apologizes at some point in the next 72 hours, I don’t want to lose all of those hours of pinteresting our future baby’s nursery.

4- ahhhh good. he really sees his mistakes and has shown satisfactory remorse. yay I won’t die alone.

5- ohhh for fucks sake. dude literally can’t even fake being nice for 3 days.

(repeat steps 1-5, 3 to 7 times until you’re worn down to cinders of your former self. you’ll know it’s time for step 6 when you look at his pictures and expletives accidentally jut out)

6- you’re dead to me. outta lives. unplugged the gaming console and took a long walk to the woods to bury the last remaining drops of hope, empathy, and love that I had for you.

7- sit shiva for 5 days.

8- do you, but for real this time.

The Bumble Chronicles

silly goose

I have been single for exactly two weeks. Two days ago I decided to start Bumbling. What in the hell is bumble you ask? The (theoretically) less creepy version of Tinder. I’m unsure of the set up for same sex couples, but for the hetero-crowd the women call all of the shots. They pick who they like, the woman chooses to ­­­­message that person, she asks them out on a date. Conceptually it’s the better situation for a woman I think, but I’m feeling like I’m going to bail.

 

So men pop up on the screen and there are a few pictures of them and they say very little in their profile section. Just one thing, or even just a series of emojis. It’s clear that this whole online hookup thing feels like swimming in stagnant water. You might catch a leach, get dysentery but hey at least you made a concerted effort to get wet. Everyone is brief, just trying to preserve their anonymity, myself included.

 

There’s the full gamete. Doctors, lawyers, business executives. Men named SoliderofGod who have gold fronts and look like a skinnier version of Snoop Dogg. I didn’t make that one up. It’s not the most horrendous activity that I’ve ever been part of but it’s pretty close.

 

I had to Google which way to swipe. Had to ask friends for advice. Had to read a number of profiles aloud because they were better than stand up. My friend consuls, it’s the fucking worst. But what are you going to do? These days it’s pretty much the only way to meet guys. Maybe you should try Tinder, at least you could get fucked quickly.

 

For fucks sake (literally) this is what life has come to. Am I really that washed up? That undesirable? Is it entirely unfeasible to move out of state? Where in the world are all of the single men? I’m not even picky at this point. Just needs not be a serial killer, holds mediocre conversation and isn’t physically repulsive. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK? Apparently.

Perfectionist

Love, pretty things, silly goose, soulfood, your body

These bodies that we’re in. What a funny device. All of this ambulating. The arch of your back on the inhale. The way that you kiss the top of my head, and then the center of my forehead. The back of your thighs.

 

Sometimes I get the urge to wrap your body around mine and take off down a rolling grassy hill. Sort of sure that we’ll gash our knees open but so delighted by the joy of momentum and gravity and I could care less. Grass stained and out of breath, let’s do it again.

Some shit is just gonna fuck you up

silly goose

I used to think that I knew things
that I could figure things out.

I’m beginning to understand that life can’t be rushed,
that grief feels like being in the middle of a thunderstorm some days
and the dead of winter the next.
So cold you can see your own breath.

Someone said once that they thought that I hated being alone,
easy, that’s what’s wrong with you.
Maybe you’re right. Alone is the fucking worst.

I’ve started doing all of this extra stuff for my dog,
like hide treats in her dog food and taking her on midnight strolls.
I don’t even care that she naps on all of my new pillows.

That’s why you obsessive dog people are like that,
everyone want’s somebody to love.

Spotify’s Got Me All F**ked Up

silly goose, your body

As many of you know this weekend was a very special weekend. I realized that I had a free Spotify premium membership just waiting for me out in the ethers. I promptly, filled out the necessary information and like the resurrection of Christ himself, the sweet nectar that is my old Spotify playlist has RISEN! Can I get an amen!

[If this is all some foreign tech babble that you don’t understand. You’re life has no meaning. I mean okay, so it probably has meaning but you are barely living. At the very least you need to get the free version of Spotify, which is the Limewire of this decade. I have been trudging though the perils of the free version for the past six months. Six long terrible months. No, I’m not being dramatic.]

Here’s what I wasn’t ready for. The onslaught of songs that have now become so terribly sad because my life circumstances have dramatically changed.

Music that you continually listen to through life changes and expanses of time evolve with you. That smooth love song that you and what’s his face used to grove to in the living room, well now that’s the song that you shake your fine single behind to when making dinner. All is well.

But those songs that you haven’t touched in you don’t know how long, those will jump right out of your ear buds and sucker punch you in the gut. Damn. I would like to send a personal f-you to Damien Rice, Citizen Cope, Bill Withers, Fiest, Paolo Nutini, and Joss Stone herself. You can shove Super Duper Love up your arse.

This isn’t news to any of you who have weathered the storm of heart break or what you thought was heart break in your teenage years, Coldplay knew just how to say it didn’t they. Our brains are hard-wired to connect music with our longterm memory, speaking of being able to recite every Will Smith album ever from heart… adding that to my resume right meow.

The hippocampus (that little bitch) is likely the culprit here. It mediates both memory formation and emotions. So here we are sobbing between Amos Lee songs. I’ve got bad news for those recovering from crushed dreams and the promise of forever love even patients with very advanced Alzheimer’s can go into deep emotional recall at the drop of one Ludacris song. Okay, so What’s Your Fantasy probably isn’t bumpin’ on the dementia wing, but ya know.

 

 

Making Peace With The Fact That You Look Like A Video ..Girl..

silly goose, your body

My back side came to be in the 8th grade. Not that it wasn’t disproportionate before hand, Ev is going to be blessed in all of the same ways I can see it now, but puberty did not spare me. I remember walking up the stairs in junior high and a boy gasping out loud ohh my God who is that?! I turned around and he was shocked little ol’ Reggy from the block looked like JLo from the waist down. None of us were ready. 

I’ve had a love hate relationship with my body as a whole and my whole ass for the better part of my life. By the grace of God and the help of  my friends I have largely stopped waging war against my body in the past four-ish years. I’m still working on fully embracing it. Yet still times pop up when I surprise myself, shall I share…

Yesterday, on the international holiday of woman stuffing them selves into strappy contraptions, lace and satin, I abided.  A few days prior J and I had perused through the negligee department of our local Dillards. He pointed at all things minuscule and see through while I held up floor length opaque frocks suitable for Grandma. At one point a passer-by laughed out loud at us. I reminded often, “Jesus Christ, Julius I’m somebody’s mother”. Truth. But the truth is also that millions of mothers on this planet are workin’ it. Being a mother in no way diminishes your sexuality if you don’t let it. My reality is it just seems so silly to dress like a stripper (yes, this is subjective) regardless of the holiday, company, or sobriety.

In defense of pubic hair, cotton granny panties, sweat pants and extra large t-shirts. 
-Google gynecological health. Hair is for a reason.
-Silks, satins, Lycra and all things wedged up your butt crack do not breath and vaginas need to breathe.
-No body wants to sleep with under wires jabbing, panties creeping, garters and thigh highs. And let’s be real after the fun I’m going to pass out like a brown bear going down for winter hibernation.
-The realest of the real reasons, the pomp and circumstance lasts about 5 seconds. Then we get stripped naked any way. Let’s do the math: 15 minuets exfoliating, shaving and plucking. 20 minutes figuring out how the G-damn hookey contraptions work, 5 minutes getting your winged eyeliner just right- we know how every man loses his shit over that perfect angled tip… 5 more minutes tucking and sucking and doing 360s in the mirror, fuck gotta readjust at least one of the straps and bobbles. That’s a total of 45 minutes for 5 seconds of glory. I’m no mathematician but God damn.

So yesterday because I’m a selfless person and sympathetic to the cries of, “You just don’t understand what men want” (I may have asserted the aforementioned arguments a time or two) I strapped my self in. It took just as long as I thought. And then I turned a round. HOLY FLIPPING LORD I literally looked like a centerfold for some B rated nearly-porn magazine. I’ve got booty for days. Not news. But still somehow shocking in the right rig.

There’s some bizarre disconnect in seeing your business casual, mom hair cut self so sexualized (for me,  if this isn’t your struggle then good for you sister let’s hear your raawwwrrrr). I don’t know if it’s easier to walk into a room where the spectator is the love of your life and one of the silliest people you know or if I would prefer a total stranger. It’s hard to embody a persona to fit your body. I did a good job of not taking myself remotely seriously. Because I just, couldn’t.

So, who won? No one and both of us. J learned that the impossible was a possibility. And I learned that I have to go through this entire ritual more. Not for him or any one else but for me. Because I’m so damn used to looking at my self covered in dog fur, tussled hair and ratty pajamas that my body in… well fitting… attire looks utterly foreign. Last night I literally looked in the mirror and didn’t remotely recognize the girl woman before me. Even if I look like one of those rap guy’s girl friends and that’s not who I am in my heart of hearts I need to make friends with that reality. All of me is mine. 

This morning I woke up trying to make heads or tails of all of this. So I put on leggings and I wore them as pants. Not because I love that look, but because I have to get used to seeing alllllllll of my ass in it’s full glory instead of tucking it into something in hopes that it won’t look so obscene. Hi my name is Reagon, and I have a ginormous beautiful full derriere and I’m not apologizing for it anymore. If it shocks you, entices you or repulses you well that’s your business not mine. I’m doing ALL of me from here on out.

Rawwrrrrrr, and love.

 

 

the wonder of you by julius

Love, silly goose
Tonight on Valentines day proper I lay in bed semi-smoothered in 6 year old, 75 pounds of dog and enough stuffed animals to fill a trophy den *the cover photo was taken in my bedroom, truth*.  Everyone is here except for my man. We did Valentines last night, the details of which I’ll spare all of us. So, tonight it’s just me and an inbox full of so many lovely and hilarious exchanges between me and what used to be my internet boyfriend…. yeah that’s what I called you.
It has been concluded yet again that both of us are absolutely insane, excruciatingly funny and as in love with words as we are each other.
I wrote J in mid May last year:

I hope that you get drunk enough that you write me some crazy metaphor riddled email.

I love you!
He responded, probably completely sober:
oh yeah! my baby asks for terrible drunken poetry. damnit thats what shes gonna get!!
the wonder of you by julius
i wake and wonder
pause to reflect
on the wonder of you
it must be a dream, i think
life is cruel, it really does stink
true love, harrumph, harrumph
it’s a bad movie, a withered old fairy tale,
like the matrix, alice’s wonderland or maybe even the holy grail
it’s marketing,
a cheap magic trick
a loser’s game played out
with cheap greeting cards
and teenage flicks
its a fantasy don’t you see?
one that everyone clings to
but no one really believes
at least that’s what i thought
but then came you
and you know what?
fuck the wachoski brothers
and lewis carroll can eat a dick too
hollywood can kiss all of my black ass
and save some room for hallmark too
now i believe in one thing
it’s not magic, not a fairy tale, it’s true
it’s as natural as the warmth of the sun
and as real as the moon…it is simply you
i believe in us
i believe in you
and that’s all I need
I love you baby
(You may now smile and clap…or groan haha)
This may be the love poem to take all love poems.
xoxo

The Essence of Man. Guest Post from Mr. Julius Williams

Love, silly goose

brut_old_look

Advisory: If any of these products are in your possession, RUN

My dearest family and friends,

I come to you today with a heavy heart. But I feel that I owe a public apology to my friends, family and community. Tonight, I had a life changing experience. As my girlfriend and I were enjoying a quiet Sunday evening, we were both overcome with the most egregious, intense funk that I have ever had the unfortunate displeasure to experience. It smelled like a mixture of old man, dead fish, vinegar and bath salts to which my girlfriend exclaimed “ I know that funky smell!”

We raced through the house trying to find whatever demonic possession had taken hold in our happy home when I noticed a peculiar green slim dripping down the bathroom sink. Upon further review, it became clear that Beelzebub had not in fact began his 1000 year reign of terror on earth in our bathroom but instead my bottle of Brut had tipped over and had been slowing leaking for hours.

Although on the positive side, the colors I’ve been seeing for hours are pretty amazing and I now longer have to use my nose hair trimmer because the hairs have been permanently singed away I must confess that I had no idea what I was putting all of you through.

Do you have any idea how much good aftershave costs? I could have bought a house for cash with all the money I’ve spent over the last twenty years on colognes and after shaves. So when I saw the Walgreen’s special for 4.99 I thought I had finally overcome (halleyooyer!).

But I have seen the light. No human being, animal or earthy spirit (and I do believe this funk crossed dimensions) should have to smell that smell. So I humbly apologize to all of you.

In case there are other men out there who have followed down the same dark path, I beseech you, stop now. If not for yourself, for your loved ones and for your community. I’m pretty sure that the ingredients in Brut violate some environmental and/or humanitarian laws. I will be following up with the EPA and the UN in due course.

If any of you wish to help me banish this scurge from the depths of hell, I am starting a fundraising kickstarter to build awareness. You can find our webpage (when it’s up and running) at http://www.geeeyoooooddaaayuumthatstinks.wtf.com/pleasejesushelpus.

Thank you for your support.

-Julius Williams, Jr.