Blog number 12 – February 13, 2020

Hola, Jaye Hawks, and Happy February!

Can you tell I was totally faking that greeting?

Good call.

Because, February…. ugh. Never been a big fan. In fact, if you ask me, numero dos is by far the suckiest month of the year. Unless you happen to have been spawned between the 1st and the 28th (or 29th,  whatever that bewildering ‘leap year’ crap is all about), and annually receive a boatload of amazing and wondrous gifts from some deep-pocketed relation in your family who never had kids, I’ll bet you’re agreeing with me right now.

Go on, admit it.

Yeah, I know a lot of righteous people who were born this month, like my brilliant baby sis, my faithful friend Colleen D, and Honest Abe (okay, he’s long gone so I don’t legitimately know him as much as I’ve always idolized him), but that’s about all I can say on Feb’s sorry behalf.

Seriously… I dislike its dull, dark-when-you-wake-up-and-dark-when-you’re- sprung-from-work days so much, I’m loathe to waste another sentence on the dreary thing.

Oh, wait. Valentine’s Day. Forgot that sucker. All those gooey chocolates, romantic cards, and a more-than-a-middling chance for a fancy lobster dinner…

All right, maybe it’s not all bad.

Not to mention, book two in the Breakaleg Trilogy, Need It, Worse (Tansy + Gash) is slated to hit the presses just as soon as Feb hits the road and March roars in like a lion. Now that’s cause for celebration!

(Stay tuned for the exciting date you can hold it/download it in your greedy little mitts. And make sure you grab book one, Need It, Bad (Bebe + Tommy), for the optimal opportunity to meet my trio of foul-mouthed, alpha-male, busted-leg buddies in proper order: tantalizing Tommy, the taciturn Ex-Marine. Gorgeous Gash, the serial commitment-phobe. And austere Axel, the ruthless billionaire. Ladies, trust me: you owe it to yourselves.)

Hell yes, the release of NIW is cause for celebration, indeedie. Particularly for moi, who is thanking the heavens above another 75,000 wordcount of edits is behind me. Not that I’m out of the woods, by any means… Even as I pen this little ditty, JC is Thesaurus-deep in fine-tuning the final tale in the trilogy, Need It, Worse Than Bad. (Axel + Iris.)

Shoot.

Still, at least it won’t be the F-word (February) when I’m grinding my molars to dust over those eleventh hour, OCD-driven tweaks.

Hey, March isn’t nearly as bad, right? All that green beer…

*******

Well, kids, it’s time for another installment of what drives JC Jaye off the wall. Maddens this purveyor of hot nʼ dirty prose. Drives this not-for-the-prudish author

Absolutely. Freaking. Bonkers.

Girlies, you know those gauzy, see-through tops with tanks attached underneath? The ones with a few meagre stitches attaching them to the overblouses inside at the shoulders for modesty’s sake?

You with me? Good. Then you know THEY SUCK.

Read on for just how much…

Soaking up the balmy climes down South on my extended writing sabbatical, JC had the notion to exit the ol’ keyboard before atrophy set in and do me a little retail therapy. Wandering around a stylish establishment with earbuds blasting most excellent tuneage while blocking top-forty pap shrieking out store speakers (this has sadly become a must), I happened upon a virtual treasure trove of funky patterned creations as described above. Furthermore, these lovelies were slashed to not-to-be-believed, rock-bottom savings. Rock bottom!

Yeah. Now I know why.

Question for the ages: What twisted, diabolical mind is behind the construction of such pretty, innocent-looking confections? No idea, but whoever it is, I’m giving these garment monsters a solid E for Evil.

Arms overflowing, I hightailed it to the dressing room, eager to pick and choose the most flattering and lay down my about-to-explode credit card.

This is when the fun and games commenced.

Would you even believe, once unclothed from the waist up, not only did I…

  1. A) Manage to entangle my wire-rimmed shades half in my hair and half in a tank strap
  2. B) Somehow end up with the overblouse on backwards and said strap painfully bisecting both boob and armpit
  3. C) Incredibly and bizarrely scrape the oversized sale tag along my neck, creating a long and angry red papercut (See JC previous blog #10. Don’t know what it is, but me and necks don’t get along so hot.)

…BUT ACTUALLY HAD TO CALL FOR ASSISTANCE TO RESOLVE POINTS A, B, AND C.

Stop that laughing right now. Come on, I can’t be only idiot out there who is incapable of figuring this shit out.

Can I?

Hawks, do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be screeching for an SOS with a purple and fuchsia swathe of Made-in-India paisley wrapped around one’s skull, blocking vision and all airways?

How impressively one can sweat, curse and contort in a cramped and cluttered closet?

How enlightening it is to discover just how claustrophobic one truly is?

How many times one can holler for help before someone (a fellow shopper, not even an employee) finally, finally hears you?

How utterly humbling it is for a total stranger to assist in removing bunched-up material from areas it should never be in the first place?

No? Well, this winner does.

The mindboggling aspect of this tale (other than “Kimberly” clocking my bare tatas and Lord knows what else), is the ridiculous fact I KEPT RIGHT ON GOING after my Good Samaritan eventually took her (unsubtle chuckling) leave.

I seriously did. God’s honest, I repeated this insanity with the whole dang pile— broken sunglasses, missing hair follicles and all.

Call me a glutton for punishment, but you didn’t see those sale prices, either.

It got worse when I got back to my digs, too. Like an absolute fool, I proceeded to model my new bargains all over again, this time with the appropriate accessories, just to see. You know, appropriate earrings, sandals and such.

I think you get where I’m going with this.

Mamas, it was not a pretty sight. But at least I’d remembered to remove the shades this time. Ditto those ornery, skin-gouging tags. And, really… What’s a few busted straps in the grand scheme of things? I may not be an expert seamstress, but how hard can it be resewing a few basic stitches? (I’ll let you know on that.)

Moral of the story: JC, my girl, stick to T-shirts whenever possible.

*******

All right, enough with the self-mockery. I’m sorta embarrassing myself all over again.

Gad, that look on Kimberly’s face.

Until next time, Hawks. Remember, sharing is caring… Forward this baby on to anyone you see fit. Leave a comment on my pages. Send like-minded followers my way. Every and any means of support is bigtime appreciated!

And get yourselves ready for book two. You know you NEED IT!

Website: jcjaye.com
Facebook: jcjayeauthor
Instagram: jcjayeauthor
email: jcjayeauthor@gmail.com

In humor, lust, ‘n’ love,

JC