Delayed May Coffee Date

That time life got away from me

Happy June, friends.

Where have you been?

Okay, okay—that’s me projecting. The better question is: Where have I been, right? Oh boy, do I have some stories for you. Grab a cup of whatever gets you through the day (or night), and buckle up. Let’s start at the beginning.

Thursday, May 15

Thursday afternoon found me deep in research mode for an article I’ve been meaning to write for you, dear reader, about The Five Love Languages. I have some very strong feelings about that particular pile of pop-psychology nonsense—especially since it seems to be a favorite topic on dating apps.

The inspiration for my research rabbit hole? A conversation with a man. (Of course it was.) We’d been on a date recently, and let’s just say he was…something. I need to figure out how to add him to this group chat without revealing anything too identifying. Let’s call him Speed Racer. Possibly the only thing he likes moving faster than his car is the pace of his relationships.

His whole story is one for another day, but let’s just say his weaponized use of the already-questionable Love Languages framework sent my brain into a full tizzy. Sometimes, these stories really do write themselves.

Still, I wanted to do the legwork—dig into the origins of this whole thing, if only to satisfy my own curiosity (and maybe confirm my suspicions that it’s all a bit sketchy). The outline is done, the bones are in place, and I promise to share my thoughts soon—on Speed Racer, evangelical gender roles, and why your “primary love language” shouldn’t be used as a personality test. Buckle up; it’s a doozy.

Monday, May 19

My best-laid plans to finish, edit, format, and schedule the Speed Racer/Love Languages article were derailed on Monday afternoon when I got a call from my divorce attorney. A second round of mediation had been scheduled for Wednesday, and she needed an updated laundry list of information to ensure we were ready to go in with our ducks in a row.

Now, because my ex-husband has spent years exploiting every legal loophole imaginable to drag out the finalization of our finances, this second attempt at mediation was one of the last hurdles before we could finally get a court date with our assigned judge. Needless to say, the stakes were high, and the stress was higher.

To add insult to literal injury, my left elbow was acting up—thanks to an overzealous Pilates session. Because of course it was.

Two quick notes here:

1. From here on out, I’ll be referring to the person formerly known as “Ex” as my ex-husband. A wise friend (Guy, it was Guy) pointed out that calling him “Ex” felt too cute and infantilizes him—almost like a harmless nickname. And let’s be clear: there is nothing cute, silly, or harmless about this man. He is my ex-husband. Full stop.

2. Yes, this was Round Two of mediation. The first go-around? A disaster. It ended with him storming out because I had the nerve to reject his offensively lowball offer. Why? Because, and I quote: “She was just a stay-at-home mom. She didn’t contribute to the family finances, so I owe her nothing.”

Charming, right?

I’d learned back in April that he planned to attend Mediation Part Deux via Zoom. Naturally, he couldn’t be bothered to show up in person. So, while I was grateful not to risk bumping into him in the mediator’s hallway, I wasn’t holding my breath for any real progress. It felt more like another expensive box to tick: my attorney’s fees, half the mediator’s hourly rate for the day, and my emotional bandwidth.

My mood was anxious. Stressed. And slightly sore.

Tuesday, May 20

This day was a total loss.

The weight of Wednesday loomed large. My brain was loud, rude, and spiraling in a dangerous loop. The anxiety was relentless. A big part of what’s made this divorce so tricky—so traumatic, really—is the extreme financial abuse my ex-husband inflicted for years. The feeling of being dependent on a man who uses money as a weapon is more than exhausting. It’s soul-crushing.

It’s not living. It’s surviving. Barely.

I’d stopped holding on to hope a long time ago. There was a time, once, when I thought the man I married—the one I had children with, shared dreams with, built a life with—might resurface inside the stranger who replaced him. But that was wishful thinking. That man is long gone. And if I’m being honest, the hope that he’d come back? He cured me of that, too.

So, at this point, I’m not chasing fairness. I’m not seeking justice. I’m just walking the final legal steps needed to get our story, our case, in front of a judge. To be seen. To be done.

My expectations? Rock bottom.

My mood? Anxious, raw, depleted.

Sleep and peace had both packed their bags.

And my elbow? Still aching. Why the hell was it still so sore?

Wednesday, May 21 – Mediation Day

My brother came with me—because he’s the best big brother. He was my rock, my extra set of ears, and my numbers guy.

We arrived a little after 9 a.m., expecting a short stay. Based on past attempts, there wasn’t much reason to think otherwise. If you’ve never experienced divorce mediation—congratulations—but let me give you a glimpse of what it looked like for me:

I was tucked into a conference room with my attorney and my brother. Down the hall, in a separate room, were my ex-husband’s two attorneys (two, because, of course) and his floating Zoom head on a laptop. I never saw them. I never heard them.

The mediator moved between rooms, relaying offers, clarifying numbers, and gathering context. It’s a strange dance. I assume this format is typical—especially when there’s a no-contact order or history of abuse—but I can’t say for sure. I’ve only lived through my version of this story. I’ve only survived my situation. I have only seen my ex-husband once since late 2020. That was in a courtroom in 2021. My advice to any woman going through a divorce is: cut them off, go no contact, let your attorney handle them, and protect your peace. Also, if you’re dealing with a narcissist, they fucking hate it when you cut off their supply.

Halfway through the day, my Apple Watch started alerting me—heart rate spikes galore. My attorney and the mediator noticed and gently suggested I take a break in the mediator’s office. I sat on her couch in the dark, trying to breathe. Luckily, her couch had pillows so I could prop up my ever-mysterious, ever-throbbing elbow, and I did my best to calm the storm inside my body: meditation, deep breathing, surrender.

By 4:30 p.m.—six grueling rounds of offers and counteroffers later—we had an agreement. What just happened?

No, I didn’t get everything I wanted. That’s not how mediation works. My dream of owning a home will be delayed a while, and yes, that stings. But I got so much more than he ever intended to give me—and that, frankly, is a win. Plus, the way family court functions or dysfunctions in Orange County, NC, it’s entirely possible it could’ve taken us another year to get in front of our judge. While it would’ve been nice to put the fuck ton of evidence we’ve gathered on my ex-husband’s shenanigans over the years in the public record, I’m not certain I would’ve gotten a better financial deal. Perhaps a little more money, but honestly, knowing I’ll be fine and all of this is behind me is the biggest win. Unlike my ex-husband, I’m not greedy or hyper focused on money. I’ve never once in my entire life met a Jones I wanted to keep up with. I suppose now I can take all that investigative research and write that book or perhaps a screenplay. Who’s to say?

And more importantly, it’s over.

More than a decade of emotional, mental, financial, and betrayal abuse.

Four years after I filed for divorce.

Three years since the divorce was finalized and I reclaimed my name.

It’s over.

It’s a lot to process. I’m still working on that. There’s an essay or two, hell, probably a whole ass book or two, in the processing of all I’ve been through to get here. But that’s for another day.

That night, my brother, Guy, Girlie, and their roommate took me out for dinner and drinks. We toasted survival. We toasted freedom. We toasted a lot.

Current mood: joy. shock. relief. elation. searing elbow pain.

Seriously—what the fuck was going on with my arm?

Thursday, May 22

4:30 a.m.

I woke up to searing pain in my left arm—and maybe a whisper of a hangover. Look, we listen and we don’t judge.

I fumbled for the light and discovered my elbow had ballooned to the size of a baseball. It was red. It was hot. It was streaky. It wasn’t just angry; it was furious. Sleep was a lost cause, so I took some Tylenol, slapped an old lidocaine patch on it, and waited for my doctor’s office to open at 8 a.m., convinced I’d overdone it in Monday’s Pilates class.

With the long weekend looming, I didn’t want to risk waiting until Tuesday. I booked the first appointment I could get. The doctor took one look and said:

“Not a pulled muscle. This is an infection.”

Cue him inspecting my left arm for a scratch, bite, something—but we found nothing. He ordered blood work and scheduled an MRI for the next day. My white blood cell count was sky-high but not quite enough to push me past Go and straight into the ER. So I went home with a massive dose of antibiotics and a clear set of instructions:

If anything worsens, go to the ER.

Spoiler: it got worse.

By that evening, the swelling had intensified, the redness was on the move, and the pain was unbearable. So off to the ER I went.

After six hours in chairs, I finally got a bed. (I felt like I was in an episode of The Pitt)

Ultrasound and X-rays confirmed the infection hadn’t reached the joint—small win—but I had a nasty case of cellulitis. My labs were not great. My medical team started throwing around words like sepsis and blood cultures—that’s scary. They started IV antibiotics and gave me the kind of pain meds that make you feel the pores on your face when you move your mouth. Just me? While I appreciate how the meds eased my pain, I don’t think I’ll ever have an addiction problem. I don’t like being able to feel the pores on my face when I talk. It’s unsettling.

I was discharged Friday morning with a second high-dose antibiotic to take alongside the one from Thursday. Oh—and it had to be taken four times a day. I also received strict “take it easy” orders, which, honestly, what else could I do?

Wednesday, May 28

Nausea arrived before the sun. My stomach had waved the white flag in surrender. The pain was still an unwavering 8, and the swelling and redness weren’t giving up either.

Prescription-strength anti-nausea meds helped me make it through the rest of the antibiotic marathon.

Saturday, May 31

Finally, relief. The swelling and redness had mostly disappeared, though the pain lingered—a deep ache with tenderness to the touch.

But here’s the good news:

I could rest my arm on the table for short stretches. So, I started writing this post. I’ve been working on it ever since.

More good news: I watched a lot of television while lying on the couch with my arm elevated above my heart. You can read my full report below.

June 2

Bright and early follow-up with my PCP.

We both agreed: the antibiotics should’ve done more than they did. Still, we decided to spare my stomach any further torment and wait it out a bit longer. As long as things continue trending in the right direction—no return of redness, swelling, or searing pain—we’re staying the course.

That means continued rest, elevation, and babying my elbow like it’s a cranky houseguest. I’m bummed to miss Pilates, but needs must. I’ll be back to fighting strength soon. I mean, I finally have my life back. I’ve got shit to do.

What I Watched in May

Buckle up, friends—I had a lot of couch time with my arm elevated above my heart and strict orders to stay put. So naturally, I thought: I'm paying for all these streaming services... let’s wear these bitches out.

The Residence (Netflix – 8 episodes)

I kicked things off with a cozy mystery set in the White House. Uzo Aduba is fantastic as Cordelia Cupp, a birdwatching super-sleuth called in to solve the murder of the Head Butler during a State Dinner with Australian dignitaries. It’s part whodunnit, part satire, and fully fun—loaded with sharp writing, great cameos, and a few genuinely hilarious moments.

I had my suspicions by episode 5, and when the villain was unmasked in episode 8? I gave myself a very smug, one-handed high-five. (10/10 recommend)

Black Doves (Netflix – 7 episodes)

Keira Knightley plays Helen, a sleek, badass operative with emotional baggage and a killer instinct. Is she a spy? A mercenary? A politically motivated vigilante with high-end explosives? Yes.

Married to a senior Tory party figure (very much a cover), Helen’s long-game life implodes when her lover is murdered. And hell hath no fury like a grieving, elite-trained assassin. There are car chases, dark alleys, and a corruption trail that leads straight to 10 Downing.

Fast-paced, brutal, and full of espionage, with just enough emotional core to keep you hooked. Trust. No one. (10/10 recommend)

Your Friends & Neighbors (AppleTV+ – 10 episodes)

Jon Hamm plays a wrongly fired hedge fund guy who turns to burglary to maintain his luxe lifestyle. His rich neighbors? Totally forget they own the priceless things he’s stealing. The concept had potential.

But by episode 3, I realized I was more interested in reorganizing my spice cabinet. Maybe I’ll go back to finish it. Maybe I’ll just rewatch Mad Men. (3/10 meh)

The Secrets We Keep (Netflix – 6 episodes)

This Danish crime drama centers on the disappearance of Ruby, a young Filipino au pair. When the police drag their feet, a neighbor and her own au pair start investigating—and what unfolds is a chilling unraveling of class, privilege, and family secrets.

The acting is stunning, the pacing breakneck, and the social commentary sharp. I was glued to the screen. (10/10 recommend)

Sirens (Netflix – 5 episodes)

Apparently the internet has opinions about this one, but I loved it. It’s labeled a comedy, but it’s really a razor-sharp dark comedy on wealth, womanhood, and how easily people fall in line when power calls.

The cast is stacked: Julianne Moore, Kevin Bacon, Milly Alcock, and Meghann Fahy all crush it. The finale? Controversial, sure. But I thought it nailed the landing.

Not quite “eat the rich,” but maybe… poke them hard with a stick. (9/10 recommend)

The Four Seasons (Netflix – 9 episodes)

Three college friend couples vacation together each season—until one couple divorces, and the husband (Steve Carell) shows up with a much younger girlfriend. Naturally, chaos and midlife existential crises ensue.

This is smart, sharp, and hilariously heartbreaking in all the right ways. Tina Fey! Will Forte! Kerri Kenney! And Coleman freaking Domingo—need I say more?

One standout episode involves Carell’s college-aged daughter staging a brutal play about her dad’s affair. Honestly, it’s exactly the kind of thing Guy and Girlie would’ve done if they’d been theater majors in college. (11/10 recommend)

The Perfect Couple (Netflix 7 episodes)

Set in the ultimate East Coast playground for the wealthy elite, Nantucket, during summer wedding season, The Perfect Couple tells the story of what happens when privilege and a murder investigation intersect. Nicole Kidman and Liev Schreiber deliver pitch perfect performances as the heads of the Sacks-Winbury clan. A wedding guest on the island for their son’s impending marriage turns up dead on their waterfront property hours before the nuptials are set to begin. As the investigation begins, family secrets are uncovered, and no one is above being a suspect. I’m not giving anything away; just watch it. Clearly, I was on a bit of a whodunnit kick in May! (9/10 recommend)

That’s all I’ve got, friends. Do you like how I snuck in the biggest news I’ve had in 2025? I just slipped that little nugget of goodness in there, didn’t I? I apologize for being offline for so long. Trust me, I’ve missed writing to you terribly. I have so many essay ideas in my voice notes I’ll try not to completely overwhelm you with content! How was your May? Did you spend any time in the ER? Finalize your divorce? Watch anything good? Inquiring minds want to know! Tell me all about it in the comments!

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