I’d just finished most of a greyhound and half the Sunday paper this morning went I got a text.
“Got called into work :(“
Starting to convince myself there are no men with the time to fuck me.
Still an otherwise lovely Sunday. Changed out of the cute little black sleeveless sundress that shows a comical amount of cleavage, so much so an areola makes an occasional peep, into a more subtle frock and headed out. Breathed in. Since the paramour calle…excuse me, texted…so late I’d missed my regular Sunday yoga class and girl crush instructor. She teaches family yoga right after, though, a class of mostly Mom’s and Dad’s and the juice of their loins. The peanuts were cute, admittedly, and the vibe different from a regular class. I was inspired by youth and building strength and a dose of my own loin disappointment to attempt - and finally achieve - crow. For a few seconds at least, before crashing left shoulder first into the mat (no doubt an azure blue spot is now forming) then to the Natasha Richardson soft spot past the temple and above the ear. It hurt, actually rang a bit.
Hands up, anyone care to kiss and make it better?
Dressed and sprinkled out of the locker room, headed out for a coffee and the mother ship, Macys, where I purchased a piece of lingerie I’d been eyeing. Gorgeous retro 40’s inspired, black lace with boning, a ruched slip that hugs the body with five, small hot pink bows; one in the cleavage, two at the top of the thighs in front and two behind. I like how I look in it.
Hands up, anyone care for a preview?
Also picked up a thin summer dress for a possible, last minute jaunt to FLA and a gift for a goddess. Last stop, the phone store where I finally updated my Flintstone flip, circa 2005. Didn’t add internet access; I’m pervasive enough online. A writer alone at a laptop more often than not, I find myself tearing into e-mail (three accounts) and Facebook like a monkey on a cupcake. Last thing I need is the ability to do that while out with the real people. Serious, read a damn book, crack the spine and smell the pages, fuck Kindle. Buy a drink, don’t send one. Give a friend a poke, the naked kind. Chat with the one next to you in the theater awaiting the start of the show, tapping at the coffee shop, with feet in the mani-pedi tub.
Hands up, anyone need a call? Loads of long distance.
A stop by the market, a second (maybe third) fresh and frosty greyhound and supper of buttery seafood eaten with slippery fingers (finally seared the scallops just right) and corn on the cob.
Hands up, anyone for a proper tucking in and forehead peck?