“There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”

The girls had decided they were going to cook me breakfast for Mother’s Day. B-man wasn’t home so he was off the hook on having to help (I told you he was the smart one). They “warned” me of it the night before, telling me that I couldn’t get up until they called me.

I warned them that we don’t sleep until noon.

I was a little reluctant to be handing my kitchen over to the inexperienced hands of my daughters, but I didn’t want to rain on their parade. Besides, they were actually going to do something together. How could I justify interfering when I’d just been bitching about how they hate each other?

Before going to bed on Saturday night, I nervously gave a brief tutorial on how to use the waffle iron. My new waffle iron. My clean and shiny and I-luffs-you waffle iron. Then we checked the batteries in the smoke detector (what? we have faith. We’re just cautious with it. Shush.) and went to bed.

Sunday morning, bright and fucking early (6:30am. Maybe I should have qualified the “we dont sleep til noon” with a “we also don’t get up before the sun on weekends”?), we were awakened by the clatter of pans and banging of cupboard doors.

For quite awhile, Master and I just lay there and listened. I couldn’t hear what the girls were saying to each other, only the low murmur of their voices. Then the shrill rise when they’d start to snap at each other, followed by footsteps stomping away and then stomping back, and then the low murmur again.

We giggled. Me and Master. We are teh evils.

They were cooking for a long LONG time. We were beginning to get the shakes from lack of coffee. One of us was going to have to make a coffee run or we were gonna die. The idea that one of would have to go was cemented when I heard the exhaust fan kick in over the stove and one of the girls give a hacking cough.

“That doesn’t sound good.” I said.

“I should go out there.” He replied.

I nodded and pushed him out of bed. (Well. It was Mother’s Day– not Master’s Day!)

He left and I settled into the pillows in his warm spot with my book. (I miss Harry. *sniffle*) After several more minutes of pan-clanging and the drifting smell of waffles, I cautiously crept to the bedroom door and eased it open a crack.

A crack gives me a tiny slice of the view into the kitchen.

That was enough.

The exhaust fan was blowing on high. The sliding door was flung open and cold air was blowing in (It snowed here on Saturday. S N O W E D. It’s MAY, ffs!). Smoke was billowing through the air. I could see the garbage can overflowing (literally things were falling onto the floor) with the remnants of several burnt and/or undercooked waffle-y shaped things. The girls were hollering back and forth at each other and running around and Master was standing at the end of the hallway, hands on his hips, watching them with a big ol’ shit-eating grin on his face.

Maybe he heard my “Oh my fucking God” whisper or maybe he sensed the dismay in the air because he whipped around, caught sight of my face in the door crack, pointed his finger and sternly said “You. Out.”

So I shut the door and crawled back in bed to see if I could find my happy place.

(No, not THAT happy place. Pervs. It was Mother’s Day, not Masturbation Day!)

I was a’scairt. My kitchen! My waffle iron! And I was hungry! And I needed coffee. Lots of coffee. And somehow, I was going to have to walk through the mess and smile and not look at it and not do anything but be light and happy and eat my breakfast.

It was a little while after that that I was allowed to come out. The table was set, piled high with waffles and pancakes, toast and fried eggs. Bananas, milk, OJ. And coffee.

We ate- with the sliding door open and our eyes burning and watering from the smoke that hung heavily in the air. The food was cold and greasy but the coffee was hot and the girls were so fucking pleased with themselves that nothing else mattered.

They’d even turned on my light rock station that plays love songs all day long, something they can’t stand to listen to.

“Look Mom. We didn’t even kill each other.” Am said, proudly.

“We came close.” Jes added.

“I made the pancakes!” Am said hotly.

“Yeah, when you remembered they were cooking!” Jes retorted.

“So what made the smoke?” I asked, interrupting them before blood was spilled.

“We don’t know. It was just… there… all of a sudden.”

I wish now that I’d have thought to take pictures so I could show you the extreme mess that littered the kitchen counters. It was almost cute how destroyed it was. And my waffle iron! I don’t know if they just dipped the whole thing in batter or what but it was *covered*. There were blobs of batter everywhere, counters, floor, stove, sink, down the cabinet doors. One entire box of pancake mix, one dozen eggs- and some of it even made it to the table!

And their pleased, smiling faces. They were so proud of themselves, it tickled me pink.

I grinned at them and sat back, belly stuffed. The mess, the smoke, the rather chilly breakfast weather– I could not have asked for a better morning. Srsly. It was the bestest Mother’s Day in the history of ever. Lots of hugs and thank yous went on after we ate.

Later, after the girls helped me clean up, Master took me to the store where he made me pick out two outfits. (I hate clothes shopping. For real.) He bought me a skirt and a cute top and a pair of capris and another cute top. Now if it’ll just get warm enough to wear them!

Then he bought me an outdoor patio set, table and six chairs, so we can all sit outside and eat and stuffs.

You know, should it ever get warm enough to actually go outside.

Because it’s the fucking arctic circle up in here! What the hell! Snow. In MAY.

Argh.

AND! Master got two blow jobs. Count ‘em. T W O. On Mother’s Day! I got nuttin’! I guess every day is Master’s Day. :)

~cunt

I hope all of you mothers out there had a glorious Mother’s Day!

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Something’s Gotta Give

That “something” is gonna be me.

I’m so so so tired of the battle between mom and slave. I never get it right, this blending of the two characters.

I’m not interested in lectures about how I am both of them all the time, blah blah blah, because it’s bullshit. I am not. Maybe that’s my own doing, maybe that’s how it had to be due to the ages of my kids when this started, but wherever lies the fault, it is what it is. My slavery and my mothering are entirely separate entities.

I’ve detailed here more than once the ongoing difficulties of co-parenting. Even without trying to maintain M/s, blending families is difficult. Blending families with teenagers is even harder.

Meh. Even writing this is hard. And pointless, probably, except that I’ll feel better when I’m done.

I’m the central figure in this house, the one that holds the rest of them together. That’s not an egotistical claim, it’s an honest observation. Nobody else likes the other here. They all like me, they all revolve around me, they all come to me and talk to me and use me as the go-between for everyone else.

Nobody talks to anyone else. I’m the message center, the planning center, the information center, the peacekeeper. If I am in the room, the rest of them can be in the same room together, with me, all of us. If I leave, they scatter. One of them will be in each room of the house, by themselves, not talking to anyone, just waiting for me to settle somewhere. Then they’ll slowly flock back to the room I’m in, until I leave again.

I’ve tried extracting myself from being that central point. I don’t want that post. But the only thing I get for my efforts is banshee-type screaming amongst them all. Things literally begin to fall apart. No matter how determined I am, the house doesn’t function until I resume that post.

There’s always tension between Master and the kids. Always always always. They tolerate each other for my benefit, I think. Sometimes I think I see a glimmer of genuine affection and I get my hopes up– but it doesn’t last. There isn’t. There is toleration at best, slow-simmering dislike at worst.

Jes and Am hate each other and can’t manage to ask the other to pass the milk without being snippy about it. Case in point- that girl who killed herself was a friend of both of them, and they couldn’t/wouldn’t talk to each other about it. Oh they talked to me, separately, they cried and we hugged and talked- but to each other?Not a single word.

B-man is the brightest of the bunch and just stays in his room most of the time. No wonder he wants to smoke pot. Maybe I’ll join him.

This may come as a big shock to y’all, but did you know that it is absolutely impossible to please 4 people all at the same time? I mean, really! Who’d a thunk?

So here I am (again) battling between mom and slave.

If I put Master first too often and am too obvious about it- the kids get hurt/pissed/indignant. They get all “why do you stop talking to me when he calls you from the other room when we aren’t allowed to interrupt you?” and “if you can get HIM a glass of water then you can get ME a glass of water” and “Mom! We’re important too!”

If I put them first and do something for them at the expense of him having to wait? If I “serve” them or get up to go see what they want when they call me or drop what I’m doing to help them, then he gets pissed at me.

And God forbid I make an error in judgement and think I can get something done for them real quick before I devote myself to him and it ends up taking a whopping 20 fucking minutes instead of 5 because that obviously means that I’m just using him or that I like them better or some such cockamaimie bullshit.

On the flip side, the kids will also stomp off feeling unloved and ignored if it happens the other way around.

Every direction I turn becomes a personal insult to the one I’m not facing.

And fuck me if I don’t suspect they are doing their damndest to sabotage the other. On purpose. Getting their digs in when and where they can, not even realizing the only person getting poked in the process is me. You can’t be hurt by someone that you don’t care about and none of them care about the other so- yeah. I’m also the shield while they hate each other.

I’m just sick of it. Sick, tired and done.

I give.

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Revenge is a Dish Best Served-

-with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

I don’t know if you all remember (because it was SO effing long ago) that Master swore revenge upon me for swiping burny-type lotion on his ass?

I mean, wasn’t that like, last year or something??

Whenever it was, I forgot about it. Statute of limitations and all that, you know.

So, last night when I raised my head from sucking his cock and saw him sitting there with a fingerful of the same lotion and that Cheshire cat grin on his face, I was a little taken aback! What is this? Belated revenge? Ha!

He instructed me to turn around and spread my cheeks, mumbling something about an eye for an eye, or maybe it was an asshole for an asshole, I can’t be sure. I was busy giggling in my head.

Because, you see… Master is a wimp. And myself? I am not.

*beams*

He swiped and smeared and chuckled and then gruffly pushed my head back down to his cock where I resumed sucking.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

I was waiting, see, for that “this shit burns like fire!” reaction that Master had when I did it to him.

*snicker*

Mayhaps he forgot that I’ve had Icy Hot slathered from stem to stern–and inserted and fucked and used as lube for a butt plug– many many times during my service with him and that this incredibly mild muscle rub lotion with it’s scant amount of menthol was no more “burning like fire” than would a swift kiss fresh after brushing your teeth.

So, after awhile, and after I’d been toying with his cock and idling the time away humming to myself, he lifts his head up to peer down at me and says, rather dejected and disappointed-like, “Nothing? You don’t feel anything?”

I just smiled serenely up at him from around his cock.

He grunted and dropped his head down. “Bitch.” I heard him mutter.

He then flipped me over and fucked me six ways to Sunday and through it all, my asshole remained nice and fresh and tingly. It was just lovely, to be honest. Everyone should have a fresh-feeling asshole. *nods*

Now, it seems to me that he’s had his revenge, pathetic as it was. He blew it, therefore, we’re even and the slate is clean and too bad, so sad, Mister Man.

Least, that’s what I think.

:-)

~gloating cunt

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Dead is Forever.

This is the second time in less than a year that a teenage friend of my daughters has committed suicide.

The second time that I’ve tried to explain the unexplainable, finally having to settle with ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know’ to their repeated cries of ‘why did she DO that?’ The second time that I’ve hugged them as they cried, second time I’ve wondered and ached at the pain of the dead girl’s parents, and the second time I’ve pleaded with them to not ever do that to me, first begging and then angry-scared, ‘Don’t you ever ever EVER do that to me! Promise me!’

The two teenage girls, unknown to each other, living in different states, neither of them with apparent mental illnesses, neither of them exhibiting prior signs of depression, just 15 and 16 years old- both died the same way and for the same reason: Hanging themselves because their teenage partners wanted to break up.

And now they’re dead. Forever.

What is with teenagers today that such minor, insignificant problems seem that unfixable? Is there no comprehension of death? Are they missing perspective, not knowing the difference between real problems and stupid teenage dating bullshit?

It’s just depressing and it makes me mad and, my God, those poor parents.

Incomprehensible pain.

~~*~~

That’s not all that’s keeping me from blogging, there are other things going on right now, too. Mostly I’m just busy. We spent the weekend working on some odd jobs around the house and I did a good spring clean in the kids’ bedrooms.

Jes’s room is all set up with a crib and changing table and a rocking chair, along with her bed and two dressers. It’s a damn tight fit in there with not a lot of room for extras but it’s her baby. She’s got less than 2 months to go so it’s time to prepare.

There’s talk and rumors of the bad economy finally catching up to us here. The rumors range from lay-offs to company closings and that has everyone on pins and needles and short tempered. Well, I am anyway. In fact, I’m quite freaked out. Master’s more of the “wait and see and let’s not worry until we know for sure” type. Bah.

Oh, and I have pms, too. Just, you know, for shits and grins. There wasn’t enough going on that it could skip me this month.

Anyway, now that I’ve sufficiently depressed everyone, I’m off. I’ll be back when I’m better company.

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How many subs does it take…?

Here’s a little diddy ’bout Jack and Diane– (um, no, that’s not right. Lemme try again. ;-) ) Here’s a little something written by AnnabelJ (from Fet Life). It cracked me the hell up so I knew y’all would get a kick out of it. She graciously gave me permission to repost it here. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

HOW MANY SUBS DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHTBULB?

Answer:

1 to say she’s not allowed to change a light bulb without Master’s permission;

3 to say they’re not even allowed to talk about changing a lightbulb without Master’s permission;

1 to say, “well, that’s why I’m glad I’m a sub and not a slave;”

15 to take offense to that statement as slaves;

56 to become embroiled in a discussion about what defines a slave vs. a sub;

3 peacemakers to point out that the definition of slave and sub is complicated, and different for everyone;

1 to finally overcome their submissive nature, take the initiative, and go to the store to pick one out;

4 to stress out on her return whether or not that particular light bulb casts the most pleasing glow for Master or Dom’s pleasure;

1 to begin to screw it in anyway;

6 to debate if that’s the right way to screw it in, because they do it differently;

1 to say, “well, I do it differently because I am a slave, not just a sub’;

15 to take offense to the ‘just a sub’ phrasing;

78 to become embroiled in a hot debate over who’s better, a sub or a slave;

3 to act as peacemakers and point out that the important thing is to change the light bulb according to their own kinks and beliefs;

1 to once again take the initiative to start screwing in the bulb;

436 to remind the sub that she needs to use lube every time;

5 to argue that it’s more exciting to just do it dry;

436 to say, ‘well then, I hope you are stocking up on Depends’;

1 to tell that urban legend about the person who tried to ‘insert’ a light bulb and ended up in the ER;

1 to comment that she and Master use the Gorean ritual to change lightbulbs while cryptically leaving out what that entails;

4 to say they don’t change lightbulbs because they’re only submissive in the bedroom;

19 to comment that, for them, BDSM is about a lot more than sex;

6 to make cheeky, naughty comments about sex with their Master or Dom anyway;

33 to soothe the sub afterwards, when she worries she did not install the light bulb well enough to please Master or Dom.

1 to compose this list and post it to the Suck it up, Buttercup group on Fet Life.

HOW MANY MASTERS DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHTBULB?

None…they make their submissives do it.

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Too Sexy For My Blog

According to Lexi and Chloe anyway, who awarded me with being made of sexay. God love ‘em.

“This award comes with some rules. You are to list 5 sexy things about yourself and pass it on to 4 other people.”

~~*~~

5 sexy things about myself.

Erm.

If there were one word in the entirety of the English language that I would not apply to myself, it would be sexy. I generally see myself as a bit of a fumpy housewife. I mean, I’m lucky to make it out of my sweatpants by mid-afternoon. Susan Boyle has nothing on me (except for that whole kissing thing, of course).

But I’ll play by the rules (unlike SOME people *cough*Chloe*cough*).

~~*~~

Sexay Number One: My Slippers

Subtle’s bitch boots be damned! These are the bomb. ;)

Sexay Number Five: Wanton Cock-sucker

My mad skillz. Let me show you them.

~~*~~

Now, to pass the buck-

1. Zille Defeu. (Have you seen her pictures? She’s a hottie and a half.)

2. A View From the Floor. (I’ve seen Carrie naked. I’ve seen Carrie get beat. I’ve seen Carrie cry. I dream about Carrie.)

3. Lessons Learned. (I’ve also seen Leesa naked and getting hurted. That was hot, too, but what makes the whole thing with them so fucking hot is what her and Phrank get up to. God dayum. They’re living out my fantasy, the lucky bastards. I don’t think she’s much for playing blog games, but no matter. I’m just going to picture her locked up in the cage under the desk with red stripes all over her body and smile. Plus, she farms in the nude. How hot is THAT?)

This next one is private but she’s going public soon. I’ll let everyone know when she opens up. She’s very much worth waiting for, trust me on this!

4. Married Man’s Fucktoy. (She posts pictures. And she posts video clips. But hotter than those two things are her *words*. Good God Almighty can this girl reach down into the very root of your masochistic little soul and tickle it, just by stringing sentences together. I luffs her.)

~cunt

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