Finally, an honest Christmas letter!

(In an email sent to me this morning by my friend. God I love her wit!)

Names changed to protect the guilty:

I love getting the Christmas letters some folks send out. They keep one informed of the going-ons of another with tales of what they have been up to throughout the year. I have often thought of sending one out myself. Yet, I’m not that good at lying. Okay, omitting some things! Oh come on now, you know they don’t include the really good going-ons.
 
My Official Christmas letter.
 
Dearest Smith family,
 
It has been another wonderful year for the Jones family! We started out last January with high hopes for our eldest son, who you know was injured in a car accident the fall before. We are most glad to report he is doing great. Leaps and bounds ahead of where the doctors thought he would be.

As for me I am still working part time at the nursing home. Yet most of my time is spent at home keeping the family together and on the right track.
 
Wishing you and yours a very merry Christmas,
The Jones family
 
 
Same letter, but now with some reality thrown in.
 
Dearest Smith Family,
 
What a fucking year it has been! As you well know we brought the new year in running from one hospital to another through the snow and the muck to visit our eldest son who was injured in a car accident the fall before. Well, the dumbass, who either climbed in a car with a drunk driver or was the drunk driver, is doing well. He took quite a bang to his head and the doctors weren’t sure he would survive it. I am happy to report he did and is ONCE AGAIN living at home. Fer fucks sake, do they ever leave and stay gone? (sneaks a sip of rum) Though he often forgets our names and refers to us as ‘assholes’ or ‘dumb bastards’ he can dress himself and wipe his own ass. So yes, things are improving there.

On occasion I am blessed with the presence of my only grandchild, Katie. A beautiful young girl almost 3 now. I am happy to report the cast is now off her arm and it’s all healed up. I am not sure where her mother actually lives as they have lost their home but, hey, her boyfriend is now out on bail from a domestic battery charge, so that’s good. Katie’s language skills are definitely improving. She can and does say ‘bitch’ as clear as a bell. (finishes off rum)
 
Fuck me to tears, (loads gun) if I see Santa, his ass is mine.
The Jones family

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Ladylike

There was a time when I pretended that I didn’t poop. I mean, how ladylike is pooping?!

 I don’t even like the word. Poop.

 I’m not sure why anything and everything bathroom related became a major embarrassment to me. There are no traumatic events surrounding bathroom activities in my childhood that I can remember. But, nevertheless, I much prefer doing “my business” in an empty house.

That could be why asking for permission to use the bathroom was such a stumbling block for me though. Here I was, pretending that I didn’t do “that” anyway, now having to announce it. Not only would Master know for sure that I do indeed do “that”, but he also knows when and for how long and how often.

 Mortifying I tell you.

I’m over it now anyway. What was once a stammering, blushing, eye-contact-avoiding plea is now a loud-and-proud announcement. Yay for progress, eh?

Just last night, in the midst of some hugging and kissing, I hopped up and gleefully announced “I gotta poop!” It really wasn’t until I saw the amused look on his face that it dawned on me that I’d ruined the romantic moment. I laughed and asked, as I was racing from the room, “Bet you miss those days when I was all shy and coy about it, huh?”

So, I’m normal. I poop. Big deal.

 But.. I don’t fart. I swear! I’m not ready to admit that one yet.

Truthfully, living in a house with two males who find odiferous body gasses to be the funniest thing ever, I can honestly say that I don’t fart like they do. My God… the pair of them contribute to at least half of the ozone depletion.

Master claims I fart in my sleep but I don’t believe him. If I’m not aware of it it’s simply not true.

Given the fact that I’ve only recently come to terms with admitting that my bodily functions perform like everyone elses, the very idea of having to ask *permission* to fart just blows my mind (no pun intended. *snicker*) .  I’m tossed back into Mortified Alley at the thought.

It’s one thing to sneak one off, silently and privately, while trapped alone in a cage or behind the thick door of the cupboard. It’s one thing to pretend to need something from the other room and disapear for a quick second. It’s one thing to hold it in all day and let your body take care of itself while you sleep. It’s entirely another thing to have to ask to do it, to draw that attention to it, to have an audience listening for it.

That’s seriously a new level of mortification.

Which is why, when I read this post from slut on display, I was cracking the hell UP, in mortified, omg-i-hope-Master-never-reads-this-shit, embarrassed glee. Seriously.. go read it. I admire this woman beyond all measure because I think, in her place, I may have blown up before obeying.

And then to be told it was “cute”. Too fucking funny. I loved it.

Ladies do not fart. Unless they are sleeping. *snicker*

~cunt

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What’s the big hairy deal? Well, I’ll tell you.

I haven’t mentioned that about two weeks ago, Master took me to the beauty salon and had them cut eight inches of my hair off. EIGHT inches.

That’s a lot of hair.

At the last minute, like as I was sitting in the chair, he upped it to 10 inches and I near about had a panic attack meltdown in front of the beautician. But, fortunately for me, his purpose in upping it to 10 was to be able to donate it to Locks of Love, but my 10 inches of hair would have been in layers and not a straight 10. So whew… it couldn’t be done and the cut stayed at eight inches.

My hair now sits just an inch or so below my shoulders. Still not a super-short cut, but for me it is, and it’s the shortest Master has ever seen it.

I’m not sure what he has going on here with chopping off the head hair and letting the cunt hair sprout willy nilly.

I’m reluctant to present a haircut as a profound thing, or to make it into something more than it is… but, if I’m going to be honest, a haircutting decision made by someone other than yourself really is profound. It’s easier, in my experience, to let it grow based on his decision to wear it long, than it is to sit in that chair with him dictating to the lady with the scissors how to cut it.

Not that I wasn’t in agreement with getting it cut! Because, truly, it was a pain. I swear that every move made by myself or Master involved getting my hair caught, trapped, pulled. He was as frustrated with my yelping as I was frustrated with the pain.

But the inconvenience of having that long hair was offset by his clear attraction to, and enjoyment of my hair. I would never have chosen to cut it if it meant lessening his pleasure. That HE chose to do it has sent me into a teeny tiny tailspin.

I don’t think he likes it, at all. So I sit in front of the mirror and I feel this overwhelming guilt. It wasn’t my decision, nor my choice, true, but… neither did I object beyond a cursory “Are you sure you want to do this?” while sitting in the waiting area of the salon. I feel like I should have argued more, or protested more because I KNEW how much he loved my long hair. But all I was thinking at the time was how wonderful it would be for me to not have to deal with the hassle of it.

I don’t feel pretty, and I see it in his face when he looks at me and his eyes travel over my head. He’s said to me about a hundred times since “you don’t like it do you?” and I don’t.. I really don’t. I don’t like it because HE doesn’t like it.

So, it’ll grow back of course. But that’s a long time to feel unattractive and guilty.

I keep thinking that his initial offer to take me to get it cut was made because he wanted to hear me say that putting up with the difficulties of long hair was worth it for him. And I didn’t say that. I eagerly hopped into the car and focused on how nice it was going to be to not have my hair layed on or stepped on or caught in the car door or stuck in the zipper of my coat… and never once did I think of the look on his face.

Fail.

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BWAHAHAHAHA. My son had that same look.

moar funny pictures

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He’s so dreamy!

Master, that is. He’s my dream man.

 He works all day, comes home, takes me to the mall amidst Christmas traffic, lets me shop til I drop and then takes me home and fucks me rotten.

If only I could clone him.

We’re just so damn pleased with each other lately. Not even pms is causing a ripple in things.

Speaking of pms, yesterday I burst into tears while listening to the Jackson Five’s version of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause”. Because, you know, it’s such an emotional song and all. ;-)

 I turn the station when “Christmas Shoes” comes on. I’d sob hysterically if I tried to listen to that song.

I’ve been doing most of the driving whenever we go out lately. It’s lost that “power position” feel that it used to have. Now I rather enjoy looking over and seeing him all sprawled back in the seat or playing air guitar along with the radio. It feels more like a service now. But not when he whips out his backseat driver’s license and starts picking apart my mad driving skillz. I fantasize about slamming on the brakes in the middle of the road, hopping out of the car and offering him the wheel. “You want to drive? Huh? No? You don’t want to? Then STFU, motherfucker!” But of course I would never, EVER say that outloud. Well.. actually I would say that but I wouldn’t stop the car in the middle of the road. I’d at least pull over to the shoulder. *snicker*

Well, I guess that’s about it. Our water heater is on the fritz, oh joy of joys, so the agenda today is to get it fixed. Bah. Why does something expensive always break around Christmas time?

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What is going on at livejournal with all the warnings and shit? Are they about to shut down any adult content?

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Monthly PMS Rant(s)

I mustn’t break tradition and suffer in silence. I shall generously share with you.

 Things that piss me off, December 2007.

 1. Recipe sites that allow for posting reviews of the recipe. It’s not the review itself that’s irritating because when trying a new recipe I rather like hearing some opinions on it. What is irritating as fuck are the people who write something like this: “I gave this a 5 star rating! I did make a few changes though! I used diced tomatoes instead of soup, canned potatoes and carrots instead of noodles, beef broth in place of the water, added garlic powder for more flavor, only a 1/2 a pack of taco seasoning, and leftover pot roast instead of ground beef. It turned out great!”

WTF! That’s not a review of the original recipe, it’s a review of your own fucking recipe. You have to add a little more salt, or liked it better the next day, or thought it was too spicy, you can do a review. If you’re changing more than 4 main ingredients, you’re making a new dish. Write it on your own recipe site. ‘tard.

2. This journal pisses me off. But that’s old news.

3. My neighbors, who think that WE are the odd ones because we don’t think it’s a fun time to sit on the front porch and get slobbered-up drunk like a bunch of white trash morons. I don’t refer to my kids as “jeagermiester babies!” and then cackle like letting your child know he was a drunken mistake is humorous. I don’t think pizza hut is a career, (especially if you’ve worked there for 19 years and are still a waittess. Bet I make more painting clothespins. Ha!). Nor do I buy weed for my teenager, or think having the cops parked at my curb is “cute”. But mostly, we’re weird because I don’t work. Welllll… maybe if you’d all stop spending a paycheck on beer and poker, you could quit your minimum wage “careers” too.

They’ve finally stopped inviting us over for white trash poker night and we all live in relative peace. We wave if we’re outside, which is plenty more interaction than I care for as it is. Gah. Even if I wanted to be social, it wouldn’t be with them.

4. People who write post after post after post about the problems in their life… and do NOTHING to change it. At first, I’m all kinds of sympathetic. A year later, same whining, same woe-is-me? Piss off. I can only listen to you crying in your cheerios for so long. You aren’t helpless, you aren’t a child, ain’t nothing going to fix itself. Get off your ass and change or shut the fuck up. Self-pity is HIGHLY unattractive, don’t wonder why you are still alone.

5. Bell ringers. If I want to donate I will but don’t guilt me into it. That completely ruins my giving spirit. I like the bell ringers who do a gentle tinkle. I do NOT like those who rattle it like a freakin cow bell the very second you come into earshot, who lift it up and shake it in front of you when you walk by, or who flash you dirty looks if you walk by without poking money into the slot. I have no problem with charities and we do more than our fair share of donating, but Jesus, it hardly feels like a charitable donation when I feel “attacked” going in AND out of the store. Back off already.

6. Senseless violence and the media for turning it into a circus. I’ve made this rant before. If they’d stop making these murderers famous, they’d stop doing it for that reason. What was the shooter in Nebraska’s note? “I’ll be famous now” or something like that.

And senseless stupidity that results in someone else’s death. A few weeks ago, a woman babysitting six kids left them in a running van while she went in to the store. The van caught on fire. A nine-month old and a two year old died, three other children were hospitalized in critical condition. Two families are burying their children when they should be buying them Christmas presents.

I remember watching a news story a few months ago, detailing the events of another shooting not far from here. A man, involved in a spat over an ex-girlfriend, walked into a house where a little party was going on and started shooting. 6 people were killed, all of them high school aged kids. You get so used to hearing it anymore that you become numb to it. I was really only half-listening to the broadcast when they ran a clip of an interview with the mother of one of the victims, a 14 yr old girl. (Don’t get me started on the gall it takes to stick a camera in the face of a woman, standing on the street, who has JUST learned that her daughter is dead) What she said nearly broke my heart and I haven’t yet gotten it out of my head. She said “I haven’t seen her yet. Maybe she’s hiding out somewhere waiting until it’s safe to come out.”

So sad.

Well now I don’t feel like ranting anymore. Now I want to hug my kids.

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State of the Pubes Address.

I’m at just about a month now I guess. Hasn’t been so much as a sharp fingernail near these puppies! It’s almost long enough to pull, and God help me, I think that’s what Master is waiting for.

So what do you think?

Bald or Bearded?
Hot or Not?
Bride of Chewbacca?

MY opinion ranks somewhere between “jack” and “shit” is that, while I don’t like the looks of it so very much, I am still loving not having to shave. I didn’t realize how much I hated razor burn until I stopped having it. No itchy bumps, no irritation, no red rash, no nothing.

And heck, my showers are so short now, I must be saving a bundle on my car insurance by switching to Geico! hot water costs! No razors, no shaving cream… I don’t need to work! I just needed to stop shaving! :D

~cunt

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Funnies

These kind of jokes appeal to me. Go figure, eh?

 How many men does it take to open a beer?
None. It should be opened when she brings it.
——– —- ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
Why do women have smaller feet than men?
It’s one of those “evolutionary things” that allows
them to stand closer to the kitchen sink.
———— ——— ——— ——— ——– ———— ——–
How do you know when a woman is about to say something smart?
When she starts a sentence with “A man once told me…”
———— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
How do you fix a woman’s watch?
You don’t. There is a clock on the oven.
———— ——— ——— ——— – ——– ——— ——— -
Why do men pass gas more than women?
Because women can’t shut up long enough to
build up the required pressure.
———— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
What’s worse than a Male Chauvinist Pig?
A woman who won’t do what she’s told
———— —- —– ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy.
———— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
In the beginning, God created the earth and rested.
Then God created Man and rested.
Then God created Woman.
Since then, neither God nor Man has rested.
———— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
Why did the woman cross the road?
Who cares – what was she doing out of the kitchen anyway?
———— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— -
And my personal favorite:

Why are wives like condoms?
They both spend too much time in your wallet, and not enough time on your dick.

*snicker snicker*

Thanks, Min!

~cunt

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Drowning in Stress

Gah. Things here are so freaking stressful (hence the title :D ) and I don’t really see an end in sight just yet.

Family Flu ’07 has made it’s rounds. B-man is currently on the couch at the tail end of his battle with it. B-man got the worst of it with a temp of 103. Master, hyped up on Airborne, and I, with my awesome immune system, made it through relatively unscathed. Nothing more than a few sniffles and a day or so of general bluck. So, excitement, I know. It’s thrilling.

I’m not so much feeling Christmas-y this year. I don’t know why. I’ve been Scrooged I guess. I’m pretty well done shopping for Am since she’s the only one who had a precise list. B-man wants an xbox360 which, sad to say, is more than what I spend on Christmas presents and Jes only wants money (so she can save up to buy a car) which isn’t what I really want to do for Christmas. What is she going to do, watch the rest of us open presents while she holds on to some cash? That’s no fun.

Speaking of Jes, she’s moving home. In two weeks. Which is wonderful and I’m incredibly happy to have her home, but she’s also coming with a boatload of stress and problems. And I’m well aware of the issues that will arise in the rest of the house after she’s here. I love her to death but I’m not going to pretend that her being home doesn’t send things into an uproar. I’m hoping that since her and I have come so far in repairing our relationship,  things will be better than they have been in the past. We’re all a little older, a little wiser… but keep your fingers crossed for us, please?

Master’s started a new position which comes with the benefit of longer hours and more stress (and more money, tee hee). He’s pretty excited about it. My own employment status is pending still. I’m torn between putting the recertifying process on hold and accepting a position at a lower pay/lower responsibility for right now, or putting off working and getting recertified, which would take a few months and lots o’ money but allow me a higher paying position in the end. I would have done both at once, taken the job and gone to school, but with Master working longer hours and things with the kids and Jes and her baggage hitting right now, it can’t happen that way. One of us needs to be home more often than not so there is no practical way to do work and school at this time.

So! I just don’t know. Smut is at an all-time low. My head is so far away from kink right now it’s pathetic. All the times I panicked “Master was going vanilla!!!!11!1!” only to end up with me being the one who did. I just don’t know. It’s just a phase, right? Has to be.

Though, truly, we’re just really, really happy. I don’t miss it, yet anyway. It does make keeping the blog up fairly difficult. I’m not certain of the future of the blog anymore. I don’t want to be one of those people who talks about quitting all the time, but I’ll be honest and say the thought is there. I see things here becoming more and more time-consuming, leaving even less time for kink or writing about kink… and if I’m not using this place as I should, paying that monthly fee to keep it open is going to start to grate on the Boss’s nerves. It’s not a huge fee, but wasted money is wasted money.

Anyway… we’ll just see. And to those of you from LJ, yesterday I did a mass unfriending on LJ. From 500+ friends down to 50-something. Most of them didn’t update, nor could I keep up with that many anyway. And also because a few people who I did read unfriended me so I had a “fuck it” moment and started clicking. However, I know I clicked some that I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry about that.

~cunt

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