10 Things That Sound Dirty On Halloween, But Aren’t…
1. So…What’d you get in the sack?
2. Once you get under the sheet, start moaning and groaning!!!
3. Just hop on that broomstick and ride it!
4. Those small suckers are gone in a few licks!
5. I got the best piece from that house.
6. Quit screwing around on the porch!!!
7. Stick your hand in and guess what you’re feeling….
8. It was so filled and heavy, I had to use TWO hands!!
9. They’ll suck you dry if they get their teeth in you.
10. I bobbed and bobbed, but couldn’t get my mouth around it!
Top Ten Reasons Why Trick-or-Treating is Better Than Sex
10. You are guaranteed to get at least a little something in the sack.
9. If you get tired, wait ten minutes and go back at it again.
8. The stranger you look, the easier it is to get some.
7. You don’t have to compliment the person who gave it to you.
6. Person you are with doesn’t fantasize you’re someone else, you already are.
5. If you get a stomach ache, it won’t last nine months.
4. If you wear leather and chains, no one thinks you’re kinky.
3. Doesn’t matter if kids hear you moaning and groaning.
2. Less guilt the next morning from over-indulging.
1. If you don’t get what you want at one place, you can always go next door to get more!
Why Pumpkins Are Better Than Men
1. Every year you get a brand new crop to choose from.
2. No matter what your mood is, pumpkins are always ready to greet you with a smile.
3. One usually makes a better pie.
4. They are always on the doorstep there waiting for you!
5. If you don’t like the way he looks, you just carve up another face.
6. If he starts smelling up your place, you can just throw him out.
7. From the start you know a pumpkin has an empty, mush filled head to begin with.
8. A pumpkin is turned on (lit-up) only when you want him to be.
Question: Why don’t witches ever have babies?
Answer: Warlocks have hollow weenies.
Question: Why can’t Witches have babies?
Answer: Because their husbands have crystal balls
The guy had invited his girlfriend to attend a Halloween party with him, and he showed up at her door wearing only a pair of roller blades. “Uh, and just what on Earth are you supposed to be?” she asked. “What else?” he replied smiling. “I’m a pull toy!”
What did the lesbian vampire say to the other?
See you next month!
In other words, it feels like someone has stabbed a hot poker into your side. Sex during mittelschmerz feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing a hot poker into your side. A hot poker with spikes that are coated in tobasco sauce and covered with razor wire.
It hurts.
Yesterday was my mittelschmerz day. Accompanied by the beginnings of a killer headache and I was in fine form. Well, fine form for anyone with the option of popping two aspirin and curling up in bed with a good book to ride out the discomfort that is. Not so fine form for a slave with a horny Master.
I informed Him of my pain, both in my head and in my side. I wasn’t trying to use them as excuses so much as an exchange of pertinent information. Just as if He’d told me He was going to drive the car into town I would tell Him it was low on gas. I offer the information and He does with it what He will.
He acknowledged my pain. And pointed me to my hands and knees anyway. C’est la vie.
I did ask Him if He would start out slow, just to give my body time to adjust (in hopes that my ovaries would find a place to hide) and probably He thinks He did start slow. But He didn’t. At least, it didn’t feel slow on my end. But more than likely, the only thing that can be slow enough at that moment is not at all.
I’m not going to sugarcoat the pain of it. Sometimes, whatever it is we are doing turns into a self-lecture. For real, I could be a motivational speaker to reluctant masochists everywhere! I’m *that* good at talking myself into ‘taking it like a man’.
At some point, and perhaps it was my white-knuckled grip on the carpet or my frequent hissing that gave it away, but He asked me if it hurt. I assume “no shit, Sherlock!” wasn’t the answer He was looking for. A simple “yes, Sir” did the trick. Enough to spur Him into the faster-deeper-harder part.
There are times when I’m reading a journal somewhere and, especially if it’s someone I know or have been reading for a long time, I’ll find myself getting angry at the sadist for his “mistreatment” of my friend. Even with my passing knowledge of masochism and the how and why of our make-up, I still have a hard time easily accepting that they want this.
I remember the first time I watched Taylor and Carrie play, I literally plonked myself down behind Master’s leg. I had to turn away a time or two. I squeezed His leg and bit my lip and made big round saucer eyes of shock at Him when He’d peek down at me. He, on the other hand, loved it. He got hard. He gave me wiggly eyebrows while I looked on in indignation on Carrie’s behalf.
Fact is, sometimes it just doesn’t look very pretty in the moment. Now, almost immediately after their play had finished, when I saw the dopey look on Carrie’s face, the flush of excitement, the energy, the rush – well, I’m all on board with it. But to see it so personally, so up close, to watch her struggle and cry, to hear the sounds of his fist pounding into her flesh and her echoing yelp of pain – it’s.. disturbing.
I think I might have told Master that Taylor was a mean old bastard. (Sorry Taylor!)
So, I was debating about mentioning Master’s use of me yesterday here at all. Because I know, since I do it myself, how some people are going to react to the very idea that He’d be callous enough, mean enough, to use me so harshly at a time like that.
Because I don’t think there is a way to communicate, accurately, why I need that sort of treatment. How, had He chosen instead to put me to bed and coddle my ailments instead of pleasing Himself first, something inside of me would have withered and turned black. It just isn’t pretty as it happens.
The pretty comes later.
I got down on my knees and put my head on the floor. I gripped into the carpet hard enough to tear a few fingernails. I cocked my ass in the air and held my position as He tore into me – or so it felt. I hissed and breathed through each agonizing thrust, every one feeling like something ripping away in my side. When I sensed Him getting close I asked Him to take me hard(er) and fast(er), I wanted to savor every ridiculously painful moment in as much un-pretty glory as I could stand, and He did, almost knocking me over into a somersault as the pain reached a magnificent crescendo.
I came just after He did, right when He stopped thrusting, right when the pain dropped down a notch. I didn’t orgasm from the pain, not at all. It wasn’t erotic pain in any sense. I came from the use, the callousness, the insensitive cruelty.
After I’d righted myself and wiped the wetness from my eyes and looked up at Him, I whined a small and pitiful “that hurt” and He nodded, gave a curt “I know” and slammed His wet, sticky cock in my mouth to clean it off.
And then the pretty comes. It’s in the air and in our expressions and in our eyes. It’s in the lingering touches and small secret smiles. The emotions we feel. The energy we radiate, His powerful and hard, mine compliant and docile.
So should anyone think that Master is a mean old bastard and wish to rescue me from His maltreatment, please don’t. As Master likes to say “It’s all good.”
My oldest child is trying to drive me to the looney bin. I’ve decided that’s her goal in life. On the bright side, at least she has a goal! There for awhile I was beginning to think she had none.
The trick in dealing with her and her latest antics is to not let it become an issue between Master and I. We’ve worked really hard to become a parenting team vs. a divided front but it can be a challenge. He and I have extremely different parenting techniques so it’s been a tightrope to walk for both of us.
I wish I had a crystal ball and could show her the future she’s setting up for herself because she certainly doesn’t believe anything we tell her. We, of course, have never been in her shoes, never been young, blah blah blah. *eyeroll*
Mostly, the situation with her just makes me tired. Exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. I’m a walking zombie. An angry, hysterical, crying zombie and I’m a buttcrack’s width away from not giving a fuck anymore.
Those of you who have children too young to talk – cherish it, by God.
Master is equally as exhausted. He’s working 12 to 14 hour days, 7 days a week. Yesterday I asked if I could put a request in to His boss to borrow Him for a day. Just one day, maybe even a half a day. He’s going to get back to me on that.
And I has a job! Well.. sort of. It really doesn’t qualify as a JOB job. Master volunteered my cleaning services to people who have several rental properties when they were lamenting the chore of cleaning up after people vacate the property. They’ve called just a couple of times as I guess people don’t move out that frequently, but lemme tell you, it may not be very often but it is a job and a half getting it done. I cannot *believe* the filth some people live in. These are not cases of running in to windex and vacuum and spruce the place up. These are cases of things being a different color once I’ve scraped (literally scraped) the gunk off. I would never have said I was a clean freak before, but I think I might be, if those are the cleanliness standards. These houses have been disgusting.
Anyway, I actually enjoy the work a bunch. I love to clean, but what’s really neat about it is that I work alone, at most I cross paths with a maintenance man fixing drywall now and then, and I can do it pretty much whenever I have time. It works really well around Master’s and the kids’ schedules.
So that’s that.
Oh. Master said I could shave my pits. The reason why is as mysterious as the reason why He told me I couldn’t shave them in the first place. But not the legs and certainly not the pubes. Ugh. I feel dirty.
It’s snowing here already. Blech. I hate winter. We went out for dinner with a group that Master works with last week and I, in making conversation, casually asked “So, just how much snow do y’all get up here anyway?” The table went silent til one guy asked, “Is this your first winter up here?” to which I nodded and they all erupted into squeals of laughter and calls of “Hope you brought a shovel!” and “Whooooeee! You’re in for a treat!” and “Honey, you’re in the snow belt!”
Top ten snowiest cities in America :
1 Blue Canyon California 240.8 2 Marquette Michigan 128.6
3 Sault Ste. Marie Michigan 116.7
4 Syracuse New York 111.6
5 Caribou Maine 110.4
6 Mount Shata California 104.9
7 Lander Wyoming 102.5
8 Flagstaff Arizona 99.9
9 Sexton Summit Oregon 97.8
10 Muskegon Michigan 97.0
So. Yeah. Real excited about that.
The conversation then turned to bears and moose and the plans of me raising farm animals of any kind. They laughed at me. Asked me why I didn’t just open a restaurant for the wildlife in my backyard. So boo. APPARENTLY, this place is only pretty to look at it and people don’t actually LIVE here. ‘cept us. Cuz we’re stoopid.
ummmm… I really got nothing else. There probably isn’t a whole lot coming either. Master is going out of town for a bit next week. Anyone wanna be hired to come and install some trim boards? Change a light? Take over Master’s much-neglected honey-do list? Anyone? I’ll cook!
Master is working insanely unreasonable hours lately. This leaves very little (read: zero) time for anything fun. I’m making the most of it by throwing myself into what I DO have, which is cooking and cleaning and giving body massages and masturbation and offering blow jobs. And assuring Him that I am perfectly fine without being beaten even as I secretly writhe in unscratched-itch discomfort.
And I am not whining or complaining about it, either. (Except here right now because I can.)
What I find is that the longer I go between beatings, the more I tend to want to stir up trouble in other places. Unfortunately, this lends credence to Master’s theory that I “need the bitch beaten out of me”.
I so hate it when He’s right.
But since I cannot have the bitch beated out of me, I’m going to wistfully go over past moments of being beated beyond the bitch and into the zenful state of cunthood. I’ll call this a loverly trip down torture lane.
Two of the most popular search phrases that lead people here to Under His Hand are “breast torture” and “cunt/pussy torture”. This pleases me. I like to know that other perverts are googling torture methods. It makes me feel a tiny bit less freakish. Or, at least, a little less alone in my freakishness. Welcome fellow freaks! Take off your coat and stay awhile. :-)
It surprises me, really, to read that people so freely search for “torture”. As often as I hear that people won’t even use the word “beat” because of the negative connotations attached, I’m just -pleasantly- surprised. I hear “he touches me in such a manner as to cause moments of intense sensation that we mutually enjoy”. Well – fuck that. He beats me. I am not interested in romanticizing it or drawing balloon hearts around what it is that we do. He beats and I get beaten.
Now torture as a descriptive word might be pushing the envelope. Generally when speaking of torture methods, one pulls up mental images of medievel devices that ultimately end in a death of a gruesome and bloody, painful manner. I suppose if I’m going to be so vehemently against the romanticization of being “beaten” I should be equally opposed to romanticizing torture. But I’m not, cuz sometimes, “beaten” and “hurt” simply do not describe what I feel at the time of the particular torture. Maybe torture isn’t exactly it either, but it’s damn close enough.
In all honesty, some of His methods ARE classified as torturous. Just.. mildly. And perhaps it only falls under the “mild” category because I’m too damn willing to participate. Were 95% of these things done to an unwilling woman, she’d claim, and rightly so, that she’d been tortured. So, if we’re to isolate the actions from the consent, torture as a label fits pretty well.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
After watching that video yesterday, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that one masochist’s pleasure is another’s torture. Behind the cut are some of my favorite breast and cunt torture moments of the last few months. Most are pictures I have posted before so probably nothing new to you regular folks. :-)
That would be me. ~waves~ Chicken-shit right here.
So yesterday I got a comment. Lovely comment it was, short and sweet, came with a link to a video. Now I love me some shared s&m ideas, so I read the short and sweet message of “would master like to consider this solution to the hair issue?” and hollered out to Master to come watch it with me.
He did.
Now. Here’s the thing.
Me? Reluctant masochist. I have a hate/hate relationship with pain. You see there at the end how that amazingly brave and wonderful guy has that spontaneous orgasm as a direct result of intense pain? Yeah. That does not happen for me. I don’t orgasm from pain. Well, okay maybe I do when it’s that perfect nipple pain, but I sure as fuck ain’t gonna from hair plucking!
Anyway, back to the hate/hate thing — I hate that I have to be hurt. Srsly. I don’t LIKE pain at all. It hurts. A lot. I go into it dragging my heels and cursing the Genetic Gods that created me in this manner. I got brown hair, short legs, small tits, and a need for pain. Thank You God, you sadistic bastard.
For me, this is the major difference between a “pain slut” and a “masochist”. Y’all may define it differently or even see no difference between the two words at all, but seeing that I live in kaya’s world where I create my own bdsm-language, they are two different words with two different meanings. A pain slut (not me) LIKES pain, craves it, gets off on it, it makes them randy. A masochist (me) NEEDS it for whatever fucked up reason, and it feeds some portion of them in a manner that is not (entirely) sexual. It’s like taking bad tasting medicine. It has to be done for the after-effects. The during-effects suck fat dick.
So when Master discusses with me the mechanics of duct tape hair removal, I am not jittering with masochistic glee. My pussy is not wet. I am not eagerly anticipating the day. What I AM is cotton-mouthed, dry-heaving scared. My stomach churns and I think I might vomit, I envision running away and make panicked plans on where I can go and who I can stay with. I even hate Him a little. Maybe a lot, but who’s keeping track?
And that’s why, as we sat watching the video so generously shared with us by subsquare99, I watched with my mouth hanging open, my legs firmly crossed and tears in my eyes and Master watched with a grin on His face and a twinkle in His eye while getting a chubby. Because He is an eager sadist and I am a reluctant masochist.
/armchair psychology.
The hair continues to grow. I’m no longer just Sas-crotch, but the full Sasquatch. The armpit hair no longer leaves neat-o trails in my stick deodorant, but now lays flat, greased down by my stick deodorant. It is brushable.
Master looks at my leg hair and each time He does, He grabs some to pull. Apparently there is a magic pull-length that I have not reached yet. He also makes faces, cringes and ewws. *sigh* Humiliation games are fun.
Now, fer real people. There is NOTHING even remotely sexy about those legs on a woman. Nothing. I’m trying to come to terms with what His reasons are for making me feel unattractive. Or, more accurately, for turning me into something that HE does not find attractive. I know there are other people who dabble in this sort of thing and if you read Slut On Display, you’ll know about the complicated relationshipher Owner has with her tits that He does/does not like.
It really is complicated and hard to grasp. On one hand, I can try and brush it off as being something He’s doing as a means to an end. He *wants* to cause me pain through hair removal and the only way to do that is to let it grow, a process that is just as unpleasant for Him as it is for me. However, while that may or may not explain the cunt hair, it does not apply to the leg/armpit hair. I don’t think duct tape hair removal is in the plans for the legs and pits. Or, it may be in the plans but merely because it happens to be there when He has duct tape in His hands, that wasn’t the purpose or plan when He took my razor privileges away. There is more to it and I can’t figure it out.
Or maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s purely a whim and I’m giving Him too much credit. *snicker*
Either way, that video up there? If that happens, you’ll hear me screaming wherever you are.
Okay, that other picture isn’t of MY legs. But that’s where they’re headed!! Good God.
These are mine. It’s worse than it looks, trust me.
I am not taking pictures of my disgusting armpits. But I do have a hairy cunt picture. Oh lucky you!
Meh. Nasty.
Anyway. Enough about hair. And thank you for the video link, subsquare99. We were both impressed. You are amazing. :-)
I was tagged by more than one person and I figure that trumps Master’s meme preferences. Hey, majority rules, man. Master’s been out-voted. *beams*
The Rules-
* Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
* Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog – some random, some weird.
* Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
* Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
1. I’m the youngest of nine kids. I’m also the most normal and well-adjusted of the bunch. Take from that what you will. ;-)
2. My mother spent a large part of her childhood traveling with a carnival and working a booth as a carny. One of the things she did was palm-reading. Before I got married the first time at age 19, she (jokingly) read my palm and told me I would be married 3 times and have 3 kids.
3. Master is my 3rd husband and I have 3 kids. (My first marriage ended in divorce after 3 kids in 4 years. I was widowed the second time.)
4. I have had both electric shock therapy and “truth serum” therapy. And I am STILL the most normal one in my family. We put the “funk” in dysfunctional. ;-)
5. At one time I was a suspected anorexic and weighed less than a hundred pounds. Now I’m a confirmed overeater and need to lose about 40lbs. Irony? No? I can never grasp the concept of irony.
6. When I was a kid (around age 6 or 7) I used to pick all of the marshmallows out of the box of Lucky Charms, put them in a bowl, cover it with chocolate sauce, and force myself to eat it to the point of vomiting — and then some. The game I was playing with myself was of dominance and force, though I didn’t know it at the time. I carried on a sick and twisted dialogue in my head of “do it or else” though I don’t know that I ever defined the “or else” part then. I ‘graduated’ over the years of my adolesence from Lucky Charms and chocolate sauce to eating cigarette butts and licking ashtrays to sucking on the bottoms of shoes and scrubbing toilets with my tongue. Strangely (luckily?) I never picked up germs or got sick. I figure I’ve been a pervert since birth, with a strong tilt toward taste/forced gross stuff. It’s not something I engage in very often or to the point of recklessness that I did as a kid. I’m far too aware of germs these days and it’s ruining that kink. (and I still maintain I’m the normal one!)
7. When I get angry I play minesweeper. I’m currently on a 96 game losing streak of minesweeper. I’m not sure it’s helping the anger.
It’s taken me hours to think of these facts. I am incredibly not interesting. That’s rather depressing.
I think almost everyone I read has done this meme. If not, consider yourself tagged by me! Dweaver? you should do it in my comment section unless you have a blog somewhere that I don’t know about? You are definitely tagged though. I’m popping your meme cherry. :-)
(Note: I’m chopping her post up to hell and back but I urge you all to go read it in its entirety. Trust me. Go. Read. Tell her of her insane awesome-ness. kthnxbi.)
How to please your Man (or Lady) in Three Easy Steps! And I quote:
“Step One to pleasing your Master
SHUT UP.
Yes. Stop talking. Hush your mouth. Stop speaking. That is the very first step in pleasing your Master.
Step Two.
LISTEN TO WHAT HE SAYS.
Listening is different from hearing. Listen to what he says. Get in there. Hear the words and retain them. Really listen. And if you want to say something while he’s talking? Refer back to STEP ONE.
Step Three
The Last and I think most important step in pleasing your Master is this simple phrase. This action should come directly after LISTENING.
DO WHAT HE SAID.
That’s it. Shut up. Listen. Do what he says.”
Simple, eh? Kinda makes one who has struggled with this feel a bit like a twit when you realize just how simple it really is. Shut up, listen, do it. Easy-peazy.
Kitten goes on to simplify it even further by telling you what NOT to do:
“Confucius say read 10 self help books, then work on self, then become one with self, then journal about it, then watch three very very special episodes of Oprah, then read 99 articles written by 99 different slaves with dynamics TOTALLY different than yours. Finally go to 7 Cons, attend four workshops on self talk, self esteem, and other things that begin with “self”. THEN you will be ready to please your owner.”
WHAT?? It’s not that deep ya’ll. And if you took that path and it worked for you, more power to you. I was on that path until Master knocked me off of it by asking me where HE fit into my grand plan to please him.
Don’t debate it. Don’t think about it. For Fucks Sake, don’t blog about it. Don’t ask the girls on the internet chat channel and forum what you should be feeling about what he told you to do. Don’t post it on a FetLife group. Don’t consult your horoscope, his horoscope, or the tarot. Just DO what HE says you should Do. Preferably, you should try to do what he says when he says you should do it.”
I don’t know if the rest of you found her post to be as hilarious as I did, but no matter how many times I read it, and I’ve read it several times, I am still giggling by the end. And applauding. Clap-n-giggle. It’s a new craze.
I think what gets me about her words is how I see myself in them not-so-long-ago. Or, more accurately, how I see myself *still* in her words. The bit about For Fucks Sake, don’t blog about it.? Cracks me UP.
Because just how much time do we waste trying to find that deeper meaning? Or trying to stumble upon the hidden secret of submission? Driving ourselves *crazy* trying to “get it” when all it takes to “get it” is to shut up, listen and do what He says. There is no secret, no deeper meaning, nothing to “get”.
Which is maybe a bit of a letdown, but a funny one so that’s okay.
There was a recent thread on Fetlife called “Too Perfect?” that ties neatly (I think anyway) into Kitten’s theory of 3 steps to success. The question on the FL thread was, as you can probably figure out from the title, is there such a thing as being too perfect in submission, and if so, wouldn’t the dom get bored with your perfect-ness.
Most of the responders fell all over themselves assuring themselves that perfection is not possible, that they will never be perfect, it’s unattainable, blah blah blah. Or, yanno, something along those lines. I, however, because it seems I’m always the voice of contention around there, said that perfection (perfect submission) within your relationship most certainly IS possible. Not only is it possible, if it ain’t happening, it’s because you choose not to be perfect for Him. Or Her.
Once you’ve become aware of what the expectations are, once you’re past the meet ‘n greet stage and are firmly embedded in an M/s relationship, perfection is easily within your reach. And you can have it too! By following Kitten’s 3 Steps to Pleasing.
I’m not saying I’m a perfect person because God knows I am as flawed as they come. But I’m not trying to be perfect for everyone. That *would* be impossible. I am trying to be perfect for one single person and that is NOT impossible. And any time, every single time, that He is not pleased and I have not been “perfect”, it’s because I CHOSE not to be. I chose whatever action or inaction it took to make Him displeased, to be less than perfect for Him.
I could say that perfection is impossible, but that would a self-deluding lie. It would be an excuse to absolve myself of responsibility. It would be a handy, and widely accepted, scapegoat. “I can’t please Him ALL THE TIME! Nobody is perfect, ffs!”
Bullshit. Pleasing Him, even perfectly pleasing Him, ain’t all that difficult. Shut up. Listen. Do what He says.
There are two things that mark the end of the “pre” part of pre-menstrual syndrome and the imminent beginning of the “menstrual” part.
The first is that I get a killer headache – which I was blessed with last night. Two excedrin and an early bedtime took care of that.
The second is a sudden, undeniable urge to fuck. To fuck now, fuck hard, and fuck dirty. That occured earlier this morning when I trotted past Master, naked and wet from a shower, bent over to show Him my shiny- albiet hairy- junk, and then begged Him to fuck me up the ass.
Being the red-blooded American male that He is, He obliged. What a trooper, eh?
It hurt, I ain’t gonna lie. It always does. His cock is big and while my ass may also be big, my asshole is not. Least I don’t think it is, though admittedly I’ve not measured. ;-)
I was hot for it though, pressing back against Him and grunting through the familiar burning pain. He took me slow at first, gently tapping His way in, only having to tell me once to move back as my instinctive reaction is to scootch forward in tiny millimeters. Once fully in, gentle no longer factored in and the phrase “bouncing me off His dick” comes to mind.
Funny thing about ass fucking when it’s good and right and feels amazing is that I lose my extensive vocabulary and can only manage such eloquent phrases like “fuuucccccck!” and “shit!” and “fuckfuckfuckfuck!” Occasionally I toss in an “Oh God!” when I can manage to close my mouth and stop drooling all over the floor.
But I don’t have any pictures to share of the actual ass fucking or of the gaping asshole left behind. Unfortunately, things got messy. Very messy. Even I, classless and vulgar though I can be, have limits.
Judging from the way Master catapulted into the shower when He was done, so does He. ;-)
I’m having a fuck-all of a day and for no reason that I can pinpoint. I shall lay the blame on the handy-dandy pms excuse (shush. I’m a woman. I can blame everything on my uterus.)
I’m getting SLAMMED with spam. Probably a hundred today. That’s how I deleted those comments, in a mass spam delete because I didn’t check them all, which makes me feel really crappy. Y’all are nice enough to leave the words and I come along behind you and erase them. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
~~*~~
I made cinnamon buns. They were NUMMY! Master ate two and the kids each ate two, I choked down one and then was nauseous for an hour. There is some serious sugar in those buns. I used this recipe. Be warned though – I gained a pound just reading it.
I had some issues with the dough and since I’m a n00b baker and you all are not (as evidenced by the waffle recipes! Thank you!) I’ll ask here.
First, I have no idea how to knead. Or why I’m kneading. The recipe said to knead the dough for 3 to 5 minutes. I’m guessing there was something I was supposed to notice about the dough that may have happened in 3 minutes, but possibly not until 5 minutes. So I kneaded (kned? Hee.) for 4 minutes on the dot but the dough looked exactly the same as before I kneaded it.
Second – Sticky. The dough stuck to the counter, stuck to my hands, stuck to the rolling pin. That’s maddening! I’ve watched my mom bake a time or two and I’ve seen her dust flour on sticky stuffs so I did that, but when baking measurements are so precise, how is it that kneading a cup of flour into the dough doesn’t fuck it up?? So I was real sparse with sprinkling flour and I had sticky shit everywhere.
Third, I can’t bake these fresh in the morning unless I’m going to get up at stupid-o’clock a.m. (which I’m not) so what are my options with this? I baked them last night, left them sit out and re-heated them this morning. They tasted okay, but the bottoms (after sitting all night in melted butter and sugar!) were soggy. So, could I have left them in the pan, uncooked, until morning? Should I refrigerate them? What?
I am living in the kitchen lately.
Master volunteered me to make lunch for his work crew today so I spent most of the morning slaving over chicken enchiladas. I’m thrilled that Master likes my cooking, but I am extremely not-confident in my cooking abilities. And then I don’t believe anyone when they say it was good, cuz I figure what the hell are they gonna say?? Such a negative nelly I am.
~~*~~
I called the vet yesterday to get price quotes and options for euthanasia. Sutter fell yesterday and it was a long time before he was able to stand up again. He can’t do any of the things he likes to do – no more fetch, no walks, no running. He can’t even stand up long enough to eat, I have to set his bowl in front of his face after he lays down. He can lay down, or he can hobble a few feet. That’s it.
I know it’s time. Master knows it’s time. I cannot bring myself to make the appointment. Bah. Depressing.
Well damn. I guess I’ve spread enough sunshine for one day, eh?
Oh hey. I have a picture of what is the most offensive political macro I have ever seen. Anyone wanna see it? :D I’m not even gonna post until someone asks for it cuz you know I’ll get slammed for it!
Uncategorized | kaya | 
Friday October 31st, 2008 8:46am | 
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