Hot Tears

I hate crying. I hate crying because when I start its almost impossible for me to stop. It’s pretty much over. I look light skinned after. I cry all of the chocolate away. I cry like that in the shower only. That way no one will hear me. I do. I cry.

Wait. I’m lying. Vasco Road. The path that gets me to and from work has seen many of my tears. Hot tears rolling down my cool check, burning with my vision blurry. My chest contracts in and out with my hand not serving as an adequate to tissue to wipe away the residue.

The reasons why I cry evolve as I let it flow. First, its my body and all it glorious imperfections. I then progress to my Spirit man and what I should be doing more of to make sure that I stay close to the Maker. Then my mama, my money and last but not least my man (who doesn’t exist in my life yet). The one I really want. That almost fictional character that I’ve fathomed time and time again in my mind. He who is loving and cherishing my every thought and breath. Strong armed, big dimpled face with breathtakingly kind eyes. A chocolate specimen so delectable you want to lick his skin! As the tears flow I secretly pray that he is looking for me as hard as I am desiring him…whoever he may be. The tears really flow then! A mixture of warm liquid and salt. Red and now bruised skin sensitive to even my own touch. Transforming my pretty face into an exact replica of a peach pit out of my grandmother’s garden.

Tears have a cleansing capability. They wash the soul. As hard as it is to endure a good hot cry always makes me feel better.

From Pigtails to Ponytails

My little girl just turned 9 years old. She is my only child. My pride and joy. She is liking the 26 pigtails with matching barrettes for each outfit alot less these days. The graduation from pigtails to ponytails is just as significant in a little girls life as your first menstrual cycle. It’s a rite of passage. It means that your leaving a lot of those “little girl” things behind. Playing with dolls a little less and testing the limits on the telephone. Looking at my daughter I see how she is changing already. Her face is slimming even more. Her gorgeous features are morphing her into an even more exotic beauty. My “baby” is less of a baby without me being able to get a hold of my feelings on the subject.

I think it’s hard for me because I vaguely remember who I was at that age. So uncertain, looking for confidence under a rock if I had to do. My child on the other hand is a little more free with her statements, a lot less calculated. She’s basically more comfortable in her skin. Ms. Thing is still sweet and young but thoughtful. She is not afraid to show interest in her friends and wanting sleepovers. Does it help that she got a cell phone for Christmas at 8 years old? She doesn’t really use it but by 11 I’m sure I will have to set guidelines. It’s all happening so fast. I want to slow time down. I want to go back to that Monday afternoon when I held her for the first time. She opened her eyes for the first time and looked up at me. Instant connections were made between she and I; we became linked for life.

By the time I was 13 years old I was certain that my father was a complete and absolute idiot. He knew nothing. Every word he uttered was jibberish and he needed to check himself into a mental hospital fast! My constant state of “lockdown” in my sheltered young teenage existence might have had a part in my perception of the man who was raising me. So that is why I know days of “not exactly adoration” are coming for me and my little legacy. Its nature. I can’t fight it. But its’ not my job to worry about the future so much. I’m sure the best thing for me to do is enjoy that she loves me like crazy right now.

I’ll end this post by sharing a poem my “mini me” wrote just a few days ago…

To My Beautiful Mom:

You are the key to my world and the light of me.
I love you forever and more.
The end.

*wipes tears*

I Wanna Dance With Somebody

Another "Bucket List" item for me is to "dance like nobody's watching".  Only problem is, I can't.  I want to but my feet won't move.  I've gotten in the mirror and shuffled back and forth but the thought of even "me" watching me dance makes me want to pick up the carpet and crawl under for all eternity.  Just like my singing, when I'm in my head I'm graceful, smooth, daring as I look people in they eye.  They always break contact first of course because I'm killing it.  Strangers marvel at my footwork/gyration combos. All of this with a mischievious smirk.

Delusion. I must get out more. O_o

Disingenuous Flexibility

When I'm bent out of shape I have a one track mind. I'm outraged and and disgruntled by the person, persons or occurence that has ruffled my feathers. I'm good at holding grudges and picking apart the scenario until I feel better or justified in the fact that I am unequivocally right in all ways, shapes or forms. While in my fit of self-righteous appreciation for all things Jess my vision is a blur. A red haze is about me and I am void of hearing all arguments that do not agree with the clear and precise case that I have set where I am the innocent. Everyone else may cower and accept defeat; fold in a corner and take whatever the accusation is being given.  But within the first 30 seconds I have masterminded a slew of witty quips of character assasination or decided that I will slash the tires of their 2013 Lime Green Ford Focus sedan in a fit of rage with the switchblade I forgot to put in my purse this morning.

Now, this is just me?  You may not think as violently or angrily as I do.  Thankfully all those scenarios only play out and receive life in my very vivid and strange imagination.  Normally I'm non-confrontational; passive aggressive even. I rarely make a fuss. I go with the flow.  This helps to make me extremely likeable.  People know that I will pretty much not make noise about alot of these. Does this make me a pushover in some respects? Absolutley!

But the point I think I'm making is... Going with the flow is not agreement but my silence is consent.  So my actions are not genuine. I'm not true to myself or others when I behave this way; Even if it is to keep the peace.  I struggle with this because there is a chink in my armour. I'm no longer "Jessica Princess of Integrity!" (cue viking music, suspicious wind blowing up my short leather flap skirt and a cleavage bearing leather studded ,yet rugged top).

Ehhh. I'll continue to work on it.

What I Want To Say

People have this idea of me ... That I suppose I'm somewhat responsible for. Above reproach and squeaky clean in deed. Never caught with my hand in the cookie jar. The operative word is "caught". So this means at some point in my life I've errored.

Bc I mess up royally at frequent unplanned intervals my eye now becomes keen to the majority of forthcoming doom.  Tonight as I write I just want to dump all of the garbage! Who needs a psychaitrist when I have a blog?! Hello!

So, here is a list things I want to say tonight.

ahem... let us begin

1.  bad breath makes my skin crawl.
2.  pork is not the other white meat. (i say this bc bacon is red. o_O)
3.  I don't ever, ever need an explanation as why your breath smells the way that it does 10 minutes after you brush your teeth (see #1)
4. I wanto be in love.
5.  I don't need anyone rewind me that I'm fat. (If we're ever in a shouting match and you deide you want the first words you to be "you fat..." your mother and her personal attributes and lifestyle choices will critiqued in a very un-Christ like way).

Whar would you like say?

My Invisible Life

Continuing with my ever-evolving rant of self obssession I examine this meager existence that I currently possess.  I float through my day.  I go through the motions and I ponder "am I really seen"? Is my contribution to this world more than just being alive, occupying a seat at my 9-5 and being somebody's mother.  When I enter a room is my presence commanding?  When I get a mind to I can show out.  When I'm feeling real "extra" I boast that the party doesn't start until I walk in the room.  Those are on my good days.   Other times I can be socially awkward.  Even in writing this blog fright grips my soul because if I share my thoughts than people will see me! Hear me even... And they may not like what they hear.  "People" whoever these elusive beings might be not like what I have to say.

And then there are men. But that is another story for anothwer time. It's really not so bad. ;)

When do you feel invisible... if ever?

Afraid of Continuing to Fear

According to dictionary.com the definition of fear is as follows....

fear

   /fɪər/ Show Spelled[feer] Show IPA

noun

1.

a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid. Synonyms: foreboding, apprehension, consternation, dismay, dread, terror, fright, panic, horror, trepidation, qualm. Antonyms: courage, security, calm, intrepidity.

All of the emotions shown above do not directly or even remotely resemble the actual fears that I carry.  It causes me to seriously analyze why I fear.  "Whether the threat is real or imagined" jumps out at me for some reason.  I think public opinion is my greatest nemesis.  I constantly articulate my dreams, aspirations, wishes and hopes. But fear always dominates. That dark shadow hulking in the corner. Lurking. Waiting for me to feel the cool of the doorknob in the palm of my hand and then it begins to squeeze. Not just my heart, but my mind races down a path with no finish line. There will always be something that is beyond my control. Someone will always disapprove. Money. Time. My health. My child. My age. Global warming. Obama's "mom jeans". The price of a Nicki Minaj lacefront.  All things that I allow to distract me from me.  I desire to wake up one day no longer afraid.  I see what I miss out on.  The freedom to be who I am supposed to be.

So, let's rewind. My foreboding, apprehension, consternation, dismay, dread, terror, fright, panic, horror, trepidation and qualms inhibit what I should have?   So, I've been being stupid this whole time?Which is courage, security, calm and intrepidity!

Living at my fullest potential.  Being who God intended.  Not some fallacy of the good girl I portray. Me! All that I am currently are too many things to name. But I am making a decision to trust myself above all others.

I'm afraid of continuing to fear.

To Be In Want Of...

My wishlist is (in no particular order)...

To be more than I am. 
To live up to my fullest potential. 
To have so much wealth that I couldn't give it all away.
To smile daily and mean it.
To love without apprehension.
To expound without confusion. 
To dance like nobody's watching.
To have my daughter never experience the heartbreak I felt from her father. Ever.
To meet my mother in heaven.
To really, really be in love (for real).
To see my daddy happy.
To see my brother's and sister's attain the unattainable (I'm not the big dreamer of the family).
To cry tears of joy.
To sing like nobody's listening.
To vacation consistently.
To write so ferociously a true conscious thought that is so poignant, relevant, intriguing, gut-wrenching, heartfelt and raw that Obama has to inbox me and say..."Girl, you did that!".
To meet a man that can discuss social reform, WuTang, porcupine fur, their first kiss, orange peels and how beautiful my eyes are in one sitting (without breaking a sweat...my eyes make'em squirm).
To be at peace with every inconsistency.
To keep my car clean.
To process fear as renewed energy and adrenaline to tackle everything bigger than my current reality.
To have dinner with Phylicia Rashad.
To slam a door and mean it.

Besides that... I don't want much.

JE Heartbreak's Jestings and Things: Silly Rabbit...Funeral's Aren't for Kids! Are They...

JE Heartbreak's Jestings and Things: Silly Rabbit...Funeral's Aren't for Kids! Are They...: October ‘89   Vague memories of the day that my mother was laid to rest hit me from time to time.  I was not allowed to attend the fune...

Silly Rabbit...Funeral's Aren't for Kids! Are They?

October ‘89

 

Vague memories of the day that my mother was laid to rest hit me from time to time.  I was not allowed to attend the funeral.  My father thought it would create a sense of trauma for me.  So I didn’t go. Over the years I’ve wrestled with whether or not I should have been able to decide that for myself.  But now as a parent myself of a child who is almost the exact age I was when my mother died;  whether I would have wanted to go or not, I do understand that my dad was doing what he thought was best.  I was taken to the Mare Island Park by the waterfront in Vallejo with my cousin Johnathan.  Our Sunday school teacher Sis. Thurston stood as a surrogate that day and cared for us when our family couldn’t. I gather from the swiss cheese memories I have of that time we spent a lovely day at the park, grabbed a bit to eat and ate ice cream cones. I’m sure mine was a strawberry cone. 

 

I remember that I promised myself.  Why we make promises to ourselves I believe is a protection method to face those things that we know will be difficult.  I promised my 7 almost 8 year old self that I would be strong because the day before the funeral my daddy asked if I wanted to go the mortuary to “say goodbye” to my mother.  I said yes but not really understanding what “goodbye” meant.  So, “be strong Jessica” is what I said to myself.

 

We walked into Cooley and Riolo Mortuary and I was frozen at the opening to the room.  I saw my mother set dead center in the middle.  The room seemed to compliment everything about her.  The atmosphere made her seem angelic and peaceful.  There was some odd stringed and harped chords lulling in the background making the ambience cool and calm.  She was in a raised casket.  My mother’s dark brown mushroom wig and a soft rose colored dress complimented her redbone complexion.  Her skin seemed to be glowing but muted and gray all at the same time.  Mommy’s lips seemed to be slightly turned in a smile.  I was glad to see that she looked so good and so…healthy.  The past two years had taken away her usual light and happy demeanor. The chemo had taken away her thick hair and left scabs and scars on a gaunt face and greenish skin tone.  Blindness, hallucinations, jaundice and all the bi-products of cancer had left the voluptuous and charismatic wonder I had idolized from birth less than who I’d always know in our short relationship.  

 

My father nudged me forward towards the front of the room.  I stumbled a little but regained my footing and somehow made it up to the casket.  Close enough to touch the edge of the reliquary with my nose.  It really looked like she was sleeping.  And I longed to touch her.  To feel the warmth of her hand and even for her to give a light squeeze back.  So I slowly reached out my hand to hers.  Every so slightly, sliding my little girl into her full grown woman hand.  No familiar warmth. No squeeze. No movement at all!  The chill of her hand sent me into hysterics.  Her hand being so, so cold pushed me into reality and I realized that my mommy was gone!  I began to wail!    So much so to the point that my father and to carry me out of the room quickly.  I remember screaming at the top of my lungs and sobbing until my throat felt raw and my eyes were dry and puffy. 

Even as I write this I am overwhelmed with the memory.  Tears sting my eyes.  It was when I realized that I would never see, hear again.  I stayed silent for days after.

 

So on the morning of Thursday October 12, 1989 I remember my older brother Jason dressing in a dark suit with a very sad look on his face.  Not really in the mood for conversation.  I became oblivious all over again in my 7 year old mind as to what was happening.  I believe that my mind couldn’t process the grief so I melted into a fog that children use to protect themselves from horrible things.  I remember reasoning with myself that Jason was just being mean to me.

 

After going to the park I remember going to my aunt’s house for the repast.  There were tables and chairs everywhere.  It was an odd sight to see for me at the time.  I saw every end of the spectrum in faces and occurrences.  I saw black and white faces, people sobbing and laughing and those who chose to sit in total silence.  I glided through the crowd wondering why strangers were being so nice to me when I normally feel invisible.

 

I felt sad but couldn’t remember why.

The picture attached to this post is me at my 9^th birthday party and Chuck E. Cheese.  This is the first memory I have (taking this picture) from the day of my mother’s funeral.  I remember being disgruntled but not understanding why.  I guess I get it now.

JE Heartbreak's Jestings and Things: The Big Things

JE Heartbreak's Jestings and Things: The Big Things: Is self love wrong?   I find myself warring with esteem and my health on a daily basis.   Using my sword of “self esteem” to slice the cake...

The Big Things

Is self love wrong?  I find myself warring with esteem and my health on a daily basis.  Using my sword of “self esteem” to slice the cake of self loathing that I shovel into my open mouth gate by way of grease filled concoctions dressed sexy in sugar glazes and smooth/ salty aroma.  All that yummy resting on my tongue. Filling my mouth rich and creamy.  Sugary. Sweet. Enjoying the residue so much I save licking the corners of my mouth for last. Sliding down my throat and settling in my belly. Mmmm…. Small moans escape from my mouth without my control. 

Providing a euphoric comatose aftermath that only my “junk” can provide.  But my “Junk” causes the junk in my trunk to expand and ripple a dimple.  Back fat falls far below an exceptable height on my body.  Sweater’s camouflage… or should I say lie atop  the unwelcome layers of blubber under my skin until I feel more like a hostage in my own body instead of the master of my own domain. Knees hurt. Back bent. Head still held high though because for many years I’ve lied to myself and said … The bigger the better, right? Not really even acknowledging that it’s a question rather than a statement.   Ignoring stares of disgusts from those “smaller kind” of me.  Other 30ish, articulate and chocolate girls that wonder, “why doesn’t she just do something about that?!”.  Blaming the truth on my mammorys sometimes.  Ignoring the rest like my thighs  (look at my eyes…so pretty, deep, penetrating), My arms (enjoy my charm, nice smile… eyes up… ignore everything else), my belly (but she’s so funny, hear that quick wit…its all you’ve got to distract them).

Deep sigh. 

Okay let’s try this again… You are f-word.  Okay, use your words.  Try new adjectives.  Plump. Portly. Chunky. Bodacious. Voluptuous. Robust. Sizeable. Affluent in pudge. Protudicious (made that one up... lol). Jelly- like (that one too) Is that all you are? No. But does that.. (no pun intended) make up the biggest part of who you are?  Physically... Yes.  It’s what people see.  This is not an expression of self -loathing but more of self discovery. Awareness. 

Even in all this... I still think I'm fly. Lol. That might be laced with a tinge of conceit but I own every drop.  Honestly ambivalence rears its lopsided head more than I care to mention. But this is my life.  Its how I feel today. Right now. In this instant.  Tomorrow, I may want to see something different. And the day after that.  And the day after that.  And the day after that...

Let's see how it goes.

JE Heartbreak's Jestings and Things: TaTa's, Toes and Teeth

JE Heartbreak's Jestings and Things: TaTa's, Toes and Teeth: (Imagine background music:  "It's Take Two" by Rob Base) This is my very first blog. Kinda nervous about it but... let the de-flowering be...

Singing Is My Secret Super Power

Okay, so... I sing. Not something I think I am the best at in the world, but it is something I do well.  I'm nobody's Macy Gray (and nor do I want to be... no offense to her fans just not my idea of good sangin'. I was being facetious).  I do okay for what I do.  But I have yet been able to define my actual genre.  Its a mix of soul, gospel, jazz, country, r&b, folk, pins and needles and spaghetti.  Those last two were random but somehow fit.  Now people often tell me I'm wonderful, but those are all people that love me, are blood related, have known me for years,etc.  So, it is difficult for me to believe them sometimes.  I have myself at times "encouraged" some not so great singers to "keep on going", or let them know that they "touched my heart".  A loose interpretation of those words are "yes you were howling at the moon but I love you anyway".  Just once I would like to see what other people see when I'm up there pouring my heart out in the mic. 

I'm shy.  But when I'm alone I feel that my vocal chords are an instrument that can fight the crimes of the soul.  That's why I think its my secret super power.  Is that wierd? Pompous? Yeah, I'm not really sure either.  But in my car driving... through Vasco Road ... windmills on either side... country road and mountains on the way to my 9 to 5... I sing my most fearless songs.  I belt out notes I'm scared to sing in public. Passionate purrs. I sing sexy songs. I sing silly songs.  I sing power ballads.  In my car... my songs will melt a man's heart or empower that "not so pretty chick" to get the guy. I dance sensually, freely and because I can.  Mind you... the dancing is only chair dancing because I'm in my car. But dancing nonetheless.  My singing pulls that stressed out mother of 3 with no money or resources off of the edge of her window sill.  My songs provide her hope. They let her know that she can make it another day.  That "it" (whatever "it" is) will get better.

My singing can change the world. If I would let it.  Hmmm.... something I'll continue to ponder as I stay in my little box... called a comfort zone. Rockin' the Clark Kent prescriptions and my imaginary business suit as I put along in my car down the highway.

What's your secret super power?

TaTa's, Toes and Teeth

(Imagine background music:  "It's Take Two" by Rob Base)

This is my very first blog. Kinda nervous about it but... let the de-flowering begin.  I prompted to write it because it is on my summer bucket list. I'm not dying. This is not my goodbye letter to the masses or to my best friend and handful of co-workers that may be reading this.  AbBucket list just sounds way better than "Summer Goals for J" or "Whispers of a Hope List for the Hot Months". 

Anyway, I will be writing today about my bosom and thangs.  My need for a breast reduction is dire. As much as I enjoy the voluptuous curve and all the attention that it brings ... it has become terribly laborious to haul around the watermelon-esque mammary's day in and day out without any physical reprieve.  And all the attention hasn't always been "the best".  From merciless torturing by my siblings to people to totally missing my dazzling Colgate smile to gaze up on gargantuan glands of flesh on the front of my body. 

The biggest setbacks of having such bigguns...

1. Finding shirts fit (especially button ups... that 3rd button is a beast. always screaming for mercy).
2. Back pain... self explanatory.
3. Never, ever finding a bra that will provide proper support without pinching back fat or showing your headlights at a free for all. (Btw... I have had several men point this embarrassing occurrence out to me as if they were the culprit of me being all hot and bothered.  Uh...yeah. No thanks. And I assure them it  is because the air conditioner is set to a snowman's butt cheek and not that nappy 5 o'clock shadow you've been rockin' for the past 3 days that has me all titillated.)
4. Being fondled by babies.  For some reason they all believe that I am the surrogate nurturer to the nations and that they can stick their hands down my shirt and get a snack. Super awkward. o_O
5. The open mouthed gaping and staring by complete strangers well... just because they are HUGE!

I shall not disclose my actual cup size but people have a hard time containing their shock and awe.  Sometimes, you just DON'T want to know what people think about you.

I guess its time to shut up now.  I hope you enjoyed.  I may or may not do a part 2.  Depends on the response I get to my first try at this blogging beast or ... I whether or not I feel like it. Eh... it is what it is.  Ttyl.

Signed...

"Bigger Than A G" aka JE Heartbreak