The Ultimate Question

Team Jon or Team Kate?

I have to know so I can divide you into “Friends” or “Maybe Friends”.

Srsly though. What a clusterfuck have they turned into? See, when I start thinking my own life is too drama-filled, I’ve only to pick up a magazine and see what those two are up to.

I hear now they’re taking Jon out and filming the show from the viewpoint of a single mother. That would probably work if the show had fuck-all to do with the realities of single-parenting. A woman making a rumored 75 GRAND per episode, with nannies and body guard and a whole crew of helpers? Not so much of the single-parenting struggles.

But then I’m a bitch and all, so.. yanno. No sympathy here!

Besides, maybe if SHE hadn’t been such a flaming bitch to Jon, he might not have left her.

Anyway. Enough about them.

Speaking of clusterfucks and bitches, I caused a shit storm on Fet the other day. Hee. Honest to God, I never ever plan it. It just happens. I’m a shit storm freaking MAGNET.

It was just typical bullshit. Unless you report everything phrased in hearts and flowers, the *immediate* advice is “He’s a loser and you should leave him.”

We live in such a throw away society. Nobody thinks they have to work at anything anymore. While I agree life is too short to be miserable, it’s also too short to run away every time there is a wrinkle in the fabric.

I don’t even believe that we have more wrinkles than other people. Well.. maybe a few more. I do think I talk about them more than most though.

Thats what I tell myself anyway. ;-)

More bitchiness to follow:

So I joined the local Freecycle message board here awhile back because I wanted to get rid of my fish tank, right? And I did, about an hour after I posted the ad. I stayed on in the group, but, for real? I have to leave.

I have to. Or I’m going to say something mean.

It’s actually pretty rare to get a posting for someone wanting to give something away. What I DO get are many many MANY messages from people asking for shit.

Sometimes, there’s a legitimate posting. A woman asked for empty babyfood jars for a Sunday School project. A guy asked if anyone had 3 or 4 roofing shingles because he ran out and didn’t want to have to buy a whole package. Someone else put a call out after a housefire for clothing.

The rest of them? “Hey! I need twin beds for my kids! Two of them with frames and mattresses and bedding!” or “I’m having a baby. What do you have that I can have?” or “I need a whole house of furniture!”

Well, wtf.

It just rubs me the wrong way. Even if I HAD stuff to give away now, I’d not put it there. It comes as too freeloading, lazy, whatever.

Bah.

But I seriously want to know- Team Jon or Team Kate? I’m Team Kate just cuz, yanno, us bitches have to stick together.

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Blog Review Guy

The other day I got an email about a blog review and I accidentally deleted it.

Any chance you’d resend that? Pretty please?

I’ll offer favors. ;-)

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Happiness is…

…connecting with your 14 year old son over a 20 year old Ozzie song.

I was just as surprised to catch myself singing as he was. Me for remembering the lyrics and him because he didn’t know I even knew who Ozzie was. The almost-approving look he gave me as I sang with him was totally priceless.

From Ozzie, we headbanged to Metallica, rocked some AC/DC- and then I totally blew it by not knowing any Pantera.

Before rolling his eyes as only teenages can do, pulling his earbuds back on and slouching back against the car window to feign sleepy disinterest in life in general, I caught a glimpse of that sweet blond-haired, blue-eyed darling that I have birth to.

He went back to hiding behind his hair and I went back to navigating traffic in the rain.

It was a sweet 15 minutes though.

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Turn that frown upside down!

You know the good thing about bad days? They dissipate like smoke in the wind, gone as quickly as they blew in.

And it’s like it never happened- other than one more valuable bit of wisdom tucked away somewhere in your heart.

Totally worth it, you know?

“Without darkness, there is no light.” to quote some wiser-than-I person. How right they were.

:)

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Forever Is A Long Time.

Forever: continually; incessantly; always.

This is one of those times where I am not in love with being a slave; when the normally secure-feeling of restrictions feels suffocating, binding, irritating.

I want to stretch my wings. I want to talk freely without fear of repercussions. I want to do what I want to do without having to submit it in writing, in triplicate, have the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition to explain, wait for the domly stamp of approval (or denial)-

I just want to say “Hey. I’m going here and I’m doing this and I’ll be back later. Buh-bye.” and have that be enough. A peck on the cheek, a happy farewell of “Have fun, baby” or “I’ll see ya later.” and walk on out the door.

I want to come home from said outing without being nervous, without having to hand in receipts to be poured over, questioned on what’s-this and what’s-that and why’d-you-get-that. Without having to justify every purchase, every stop, every move.

I want to sit on the couch instead of cleaning if a good book has my attention. I want to feel like a contributor rather than a burden. I want to have an equal sense of ownership over possessions and have the ability to extend that to others.

I want to be able to offer criticisms that aren’t responded to in kind. I want every mistake to not ruin an entire day. I want repercussions, if there must be some, to be reasonable, sensible and pertinent to the mistake- and to not include people who had nothing to do with it.

I want to have the freedom to have my own thoughts, opinions and goals. I want the freedom to disagree- and to be heard.

I want the freedom to be wrong.

I want to shake myself free of the tools of manipulation and control that hang over my head, over my life; the things that shove me down and hold me there, trapped and squashed, every time I try and rise up. I want out from under the heavy blanket that is HIM.

I want to breathe.

The land of rainbows and unicorns seems far, far away. I feel like a permanent resident of some barren, Stephen King-esque wasteland of tumbeweeds and hot wind and hungry crows waiting to peck your eyes out should you fall.

His methods of enforcing his rights, of getting his way, of asserting his ownership can be tasteless. This is one of those times where the grass is greener on the other side and I’m pressed up against the fence of his control, having to swallow the bitter facts of my fate.

Of my life.

I am not always in love with being owned.

But I am always owned.

Now where’d that fucking unicorn go?

~cunt

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Drive-by BDSM

God knows I’m all for getting beat on.

But trying to have what should be a 3 hour scene crammed into the 3 minutes we have because a kid went outside to get the mail? Not so much!

Srsly. Dude. I need woo’ed. I need warm up. I need… flowers and candy and… and.. wine! Wine would be nice.

*le sigh*

Honestly. I just don’t think I’m EVER going to get him trained to do it right.

;-)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a hiding place.

*snickers and runs*

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No Title

You know, sometimes I can get so hung up on trying to think of a title that I abandon making a post all together? That’s silly. Like anyone cares what the title says. Today, I’m rebelling against having to title a post. I don’t have time to sit here and think of one.

I’ve been cleaning a lot lately. This couple that I work for usually does their own cleaning unless the place is super dirty. But they’re getting up there in years and she’s been ill lately so she’s pretty much just asked me to do it all. Today I’ll finish up an apartment that I started on yesterday, and I think she has two other jobs waiting. Small ones, but jobs nonetheless.

I’m kind of toying with the idea of marketing myself to other landlords for just this sort of job. It’s part time enough, and has enough flexibility in the scheduling that it shouldn’t interfere with Master’s wishes on my availability to his beck and call.

I’m just extremely ignorant of how to go about this. I keep having this image of me accidentally shattering a huge expensive picture window, or ruining a shower stall, and having to replace it because they hired me to clean.

Anyway- in other news-

Master is sick. I passed my germs on to him. Sorry! I sure hope Babygirl doesn’t get it though, cuz it is a wicked nasty bug.

Am had been a nervous wreck to start school because over the summer she ‘came out’ on Myspace and the news traveled fast. I suppose some of you in bigger metro areas might find that to be no big deal but here in Podunk, U.P. Michigan, it IS a big deal.

Or, she thought it would be.

There’s been some amount of whispering in the halls, finger pointing and “Look! There’s the dyke!” when she walks by. Some amount of classroom bullying (most especially from a boy who hadn’t heard the news who asked her out the first week of school and who didn’t take being rejected by a lesbian very well), but overall, she seems to be coming into her own.

She wants to start a GSA chapter (is chapter the right word?) at the school, and is meeting resistance with the school officials and teachers. All after-school clubs have to be approved by the principal and ‘sponsored’ by a teacher who is willing to stay after school and ‘host’ the club. The principal, while not refusing to approve her GSA club, is only saying that she needs to understand that her club will not be “funded or supported” by the school. So, okay fine. Where she’s really running into trouble is in getting a teacher who is willing to host it. So far, what she keeps hearing is that the teachers are “worried for the safety of the kids who would ‘come out’ in response to her club”.

She’s not giving up though. I admire that. That is not something I’d have had the balls to do when I was 16.

She’s kind of embraced lesbianism. I thought she was open with me before, but now, she’s really really open. Pointing out “hot girls” and talking about… things… and really? For as open minded as I thought I was, she’s challenging me sometimes.

She has a date for homecoming; a girl, of course. And so I, without really thinking, started trying to assign them into the traditional boy-girl roles. I asked if she had to get a dress or a suit (and I was completely serious! I know, right?). I asked who was picking up who (whom. whatevs). I asked who was going to lead at the dance.

Srsly! I don’t know how this works! Honestly, Am seems to have adopted the ‘boy’ role, in looks and style and personality so, yanno, I’m (apparently) just as pigheadedly ignorant as the rest of the world and have decided she’s the “butch” one of the pair!

Fortunately, she’s not offended at my ignorance because she knows there is no malice behind it. She just pats my hand and shakes her head. Her recently practically head-shaved faux-hawk head. Because, you know, she’s the BOY! lol

Oy.

B-man… hmm. I found a homemade bong in his room. So, yeah. That was quite the shock. I’m currently exploring my options for drug education/therapy. I just… maybe pot isn’t such a big deal to most but it really is to me. It’s still illegal and I can’t just do nothing.

Jes is doing okay. She’s stepped up a lot more than I thought she would with taking care of the baby. School is waiting but that’s not her fault. The whole online thing is a new program and they are still working out the bugs in the system.

She’s still got some tough realizations ahead- like, figuring out that having a baby who keeps you up at night does not excuse you from still having to get stuff done during the day. All in good time though.

She’s seeing a boy here. Nice kid, has his shit together. Same kid from before, actually, who wanted to date her when she was pregnant. I like him. This dating has my seal of approval. Babydaddy can go jump off a bridge.

Awhile ago I was whining to a friend about being a failure as a parent and she says “They’re alive ain’t they!? Success! Now shut up.”

Hee. I love her.

Things between Master and I are good. No big excitement to report, it’s just day to day doing our thing. I think someone needs to have a play party pretty soon though (hint hint!) because day to day doing our thing doesn’t exactly scratch that masochistic itch. ;-)

I guess that’s about it. I’ve gotta get over and start cleaning anyway.

~cunt

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Addendum

(We’ve been busy. And sick. And more busy and more sick. I apologize for dropping the ball.)

A lot of the previous comments revolved around a sort of well-trained, autopilot kind of submission. Which, while something that I do want to talk about, is far, far from what I was getting at in that last post.

It started, I suppose, with this one random comment I read on Fet:

“I’d use my safeword and refuse.”

I’m not interested in a discussion over safewords really. That comment was not in response to a discussion over pain play or how to tell your Top that your hands are numb. It was a generic question about submission and the reply was that she would refuse.

She has an out. A trump card. She holds the power.

It just spiraled from there. You know how you buy a car and all of sudden every other car you see is the exact make, model and color of your car? Yeah, so, after seeing that comment I started seeing similar comments everywhere.

“I won’t swallow because I don’t like the taste.”

Okay. Fine. You don’t like it. It doesn’t even *matter*, at this point, if the Dom in question *cares* if you swallow or not. The words speak for themselves.

“I won’t [fill in the blank here] I don’t like it.”

“Any Dom worth their salt would respect me enough to never ask me to [do anything I don't like to do].”

“He’d either come to understand why I couldn’t perform this task . . . or it’d be a deal breaker.”

“Simply put.. I would not do it. End of disscusion.”

It’s that sort of blanket refusal to even the most basic dominance that I simply can’t wrap my head around.

It’s not that I think everyone should submit just like I do. Or that if they aren’t then they are “doing it wrong!” I just don’t think they are doing it at all, right or wrong, when they retain the power to pick and choose what they submit to.

WHERE is there submission AT ALL when the submissive is the one deciding what they will or will not submit to, and the dominant one appears to be the one kowtowing to her? There is none. That’s where.

I know this is coming off as elite.

I don’t care.

So I’m an elitist. ~shrug~

I’ve been called worse.

~cunt

ps. With a name like cunt, would you expect me to act any other way? ;-)

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Like it or not-

I know I’ve asked this before, but I keep coming back to it in my head so I’ve obviously not answered it well enough.

So I’ll ask you fine people.

The question is: If it’s not expected for you to do anything you don’t want to do, are you still submitting? If you’re never asked to do anything you don’t like to do, is it still submission?

I’m leaning heavily toward no.

I’m all kinds of behind people doing what they do and calling it what they want-

But.

If everything you’re doing is stuff that you would do on your own anyway, and the only difference now is that someone is telling you to do what you were already doing, and you’re never challenged or pushed or expected to, you know, actually submit to something or someone…. I have trouble seeing the submission.

I dunno. Maybe I’m being too elitist.

Thoughts?

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Cleanliness is next to nothing, apparently.

I got called to clean another house. You remember that very very part-time job I have? Yeah. *shudder*

Apparently, this guy who owns these homes either has a knack for renting his places out to people who can’t be bothered to clean or more people than I realize live in filth.

Because.. just, ew. Fucking ew.

7 hours, one box of SOS pads and a bottle of dish soap, plus countless rags later- the kitchen is clean.

Except the floor. And the dining area.

Srsly.

Cupboards, counters, stovetop and oven. 7 HOURS. Oh, and a window.

I spent half the day fuming over Master’s latest unkind words about our house, because in comparison to the sludge (literally. Sludge. No lie) that I’m trying to wipe off the counters over there? This house is fucking spotless.

So there.

Goodbye guilt, hello righteous anger.

*beams*

I spent the other half of the day reminding myself that it doesn’t matter if *I* think our house is “clean enough”, if he isn’t pleased, then I have to be better.

Goodbye righteous anger, hello acceptance.

*beams*

Anyway.

So I gave up for the day over at that dirty house, came home about 7-ish, and no sooner do I walk in the door and Master gets called in to work. Now he’s gone and I’m alone. Boo.

I’m going to bed very soon though. I’m fucking beat.

Well, I’m tired. I wish I was beat. Or had been beat. Or will be beat soon.

Dinner was a bust. I’d tossed a lasagna in the crock pot, figuring that since I wouldn’t be here, everyone could just help themselves whenever they got hungry and I wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Naturally, I walk in the door and voices start clamoring. “I’m hungry!”, “When’s dinner?”, “cunt, where’s my food!?” I’m all like, Dude! Can’t you fucking SMELL the BURNING shit in the crock pot? Didn’t you see that giant 6 quart fucking thing sitting on the counter? Kee-rist, man.”

The lasagna was mush. Tasted like shit.

I served it anyway.

Meh. They ate it. They bitched- but they ate it.

….

….

Master needs to come home. I hate going to bed without him.

….

I had to stop at the grocery store today and I had Babygirl with me, and this little old lady who, I think, had a touch of Alzheimers, was just enamored with the baby. She must have asked me how old Babygirl was a dozen times *at least*. Just about every other sentence she wanted to know how old she was. And of course Babygirl was being her usual adorable self, grinning her slobbery toothless grin at anyone who looked at her.

This old lady was SO cute. She could barely see over the shopping cart she was so short and with Babygirl up in her car seat, Little Old Lady was standing up on her tiptoes (while I kept a careful hand on her arm. She was wobbly!) touching her little hands and talking to her. I was seriously starting to wonder if she was lost because she had nothing with her. No purse, no cart. But she wouldn’t stop talking about the baby long enough for me to ask her anything.

Then, all of a sudden she turns around and yells- and I mean YELLS across the store “Hey WALTER! COME LOOK AT THE BABY! WALTERRR!” and around the corner comes this little old dude, pushing a cart and going “There you are. I told you to stay in the produce!”

She’s flapping her hand at him to shut him up and saying, “Look! Look at how cute she is. How old did you say she was, dearie? Look at her smile. Look at that. She likes me, Walter. Oh she’s so soft. Touch her hand. She’s so tiny! Ha! She’s laughing at me!” and then she’d hoot and dance around.

Oh my god.

Too fucking cute.

Finally, after a lengthy conversation about cloth diapers and how Walter had to change them all with a clothespin on his nose, and how easy kids have it today what with them disposable dealies, I started inching my way toward the check out line, Little Old Lady still singing to Babygirl as I went.

Just too funny.

Well shoot. He ain’t home and I’m falling asleep in the chair. So, g’night.

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