Invisible Title

The Background: Jes slipped on the ice the other day and wrenched a muscle in her thigh. She was sitting on the couch rubbing Icy Hot on it. I was doing dishes, lost in my own head.

Jes: Hey Mom?

Me: Hmm?

Jes: Remember when I was in softball and I pulled my groin muscle and I was putting Icy Hot on it and I rubbed some up a little too high? That burned so bad! Have you ever gotten Icy Hot up on your crotch?

Me: *laughing* Yeah, I have. Great big globs of it. It hurts!

Jes: *awkward silence*

Me: *Humming* *Still lost in my own world*

Jes: HOW did you get great big globs on there?

Me: *deer in headlights* Um… I…erm.. it… maybe…

Jes: *wrinkles her nose* You guys are weird.

So, like, she totally knows what we do. Not all of it, not (I don’t think) the M/s power exchange stuff. But she knows all about the s&m.

She’s really fine with it. She had a couple of questions, just some basic curiousity stuff. I’m okay with her knowing. I thought I would be all weirded out but I’m really not.

I have no particular reason for not posting much lately. I’ve been busy, I’m preoccupied with things, and blogging is usually the first thing I push back in favor of other things. The only problem with that is that I then have a hard time recapturing the mojo.

So while I’m recapturing, let’s do a meme! What fun!

The 7 Weird Facts Meme:

1. I have RLS. It’s hereditary. My mom had it, her mom had it, Am has it. I don’t think Jes has it. I remember the first time I saw the commercial for RLS, when it first was recognized as a syndrome, I jumped off the couch and screamed. I was stoked.

I don’t use any treatment for it, and I think I have a pretty mild case of it from what I hear. It only acts up when I’m tired, and almost always in my right leg. So I simply go to bed when it’s bugging me.

2. I can’t whistle. At all. I’ve had numerous people try and teach me, but all I do is blow hot air (haha!)

3. I used to vomit if a guy came in my mouth. I could not get over the idea that that stuff MOVES. It’s ALIVE.

Now, I’m a damn sperm guzzler. The only thing that changed was mind over matter. I just decided one day that I was going to swallow and that’s that. I did, and I’ve been swallowing ever since. (Though I still think about it moving.)

4. Though my feet are typically so cold they hurt, I cannot stand to have them covered when I’m in bed. No socks, and I have to be able to poke them out from under the blankets at random times or else they feel like they are on fire.

I also cannot go barefoot, ever. That hurts. But I also can’t just wear socks because once I can feel things on the bottom of my socks, I’ll have to change them into a clean pair. But I can’t wear socks and shoes in the house because I have to be able to poke my feet out into the air or they start burning. So I have to wear slippers. Simple, ugly, non-sexy, slip-on slippers.

5. I’m addicted to chapstick. I have tubes all over the house and in my pockets, my purse, my car. I refuse to go to the Lip Balm Addicts Anonymous website though. They’ll make me quit and I’ll die!

6. Watching those videos where people fall off skateboards/flip their bikes/anything of the painful sort of falling makes me queasy. Non-consensual pain or something. I generally turn my head or cover my eyes.

7. I can’t smash a bug. I can’t step on it or swat it or squish it in any way. The very idea of it exploding under my foot/hand gives me the willies. I picture, in graphic detail, the process of its skin/shell/whatever squeezing and then rupturing and the guts bursting out and it just makes me wanna puke. I can pick them up with a tissue, but only if I don’t have to hold it tight enough that it’ll pop, and flush it down the toilet. And I can spray a bug with Raid, but I can’t watch it as it convulses from the poision because I feel bad.

I’m supposed to tag peeps so if you’ve read this far, consider yourself tagged. Tell me the weird things about you so I can snicker behind your back get to know you better!

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Tidbit Tuesday

• Last night we had WDS, as opposed to WMS. WDS stands for Wild Doggie Sex (don’t call PETA, no real animals are ever involved in our sex life). The difference between Wild Doggie Sex and Wild Monkey Sex is 1) postioning. The obvious WDS position is, well, doggie style. Monkey Sex position involves alternating gymnastic-type positions that leave you with tangled limbs. And 2) WDS is mostly silent, with low, throaty growls. WMS involves hooting and hollering.

  /animal sex lessons

  I’d put on this short silky number before we got into bed because Master really has a thing for satin and silk fabrics. I planned on seducing him by rubbing my silky self up and down his body, with lots of licking and kissing and suckling. So, trying to keep that seductive tigeress look on my face I swung myself on top of him.

  And prompty bonked my head on the metal bars of the headboard. Not just a little bonk, but a big one that reverberated throughout the hollow metal tubes. I *was* going to pretend it didn’t happen because that totally doesn’t lend itself to the seductive tigress look I was going for- but it really hurt. It was one of those kind of bonks that makes your eyes water and requires rubbing to soothe the sting.

  Naturally, Master cracked the fuck up. “Your middle name isn’t Grace, is it?! Bwahahahahaha!”

  Fucker.

  When he could breathe again, he rubbed the sting away and kissed my owie.

  And that was kind of sexy. So I was all inspired again to be the seductive tigress and I went ahead with my plan to rub my silky self all over him.

  I really really REALLY enjoy making his eyes roll up into his head. It’s powerful.

  He happily returned the favor. By the end of the WDS, I was on another planet. The Planet of Ecstasy. Lovely place, that.

  And then we spooned, with our legs all entangled and his arm thrown heavily across my body. Before drifting off to sleep, he breathed into my ear, one word: “Mine.”

  I smiled into the darkness and settled deeper under the binding feel of his embrace. I replied with one word: “Yours.”

• And speaking of being his, I had an… “episode”… about two weeks ago where I decided that I most definitely was not going to be his and I snuck off to erase the scarred words that label my body.

  I scratched and scratched and scratched. There was a lot of blood, zero pain, zero tears, zero hysteria. I was numb, lost down some rabbit hole of despair and desperation.

  Desperate to reclaim my self.

  There was a lot more going on than just that, but the details of it are not necessary and I want to focus on this one thing.

  Afterward, instead of making me feel better, I felt worse. Lost. Adrift. Panicked. Unidentified.

  When it was all done and said and he observed the damage; ‘It’s still there’ was all he said, confident that his “work” could not so easily be removed.

  As the tissue has healed-and as I have healed- the words are reappearing. Each letter standing out, raised and perfectly legible, amidst the dull pink of healing skin.

  Seeing that permanence soothes me to my soul. I can’t erase what he’s scarred into my skin anymore than I can erase what he’s scarred into my very being.

  Someday, I’ll stop trying. I know it, he knows it. Last ditch efforts to claw my way out. I don’t know why. I don’t know that it matters why. Maybe all that matters is that even when I claw my way to the top, I turn around and jump right back in.

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On Being a Bum, or, How Not to be His Slave

His parting shot before walking out the door this morning was “maybe stepping up the domestic violence around here will step up the domestic help”.

I gave him the appropriate eye roll and “OooOoooOooh. I’m so scared!” reply.

Kidding! I didn’t. Actually, I might have humped his leg and said “Promise? Do you really promise??”

He told me I was incorrigible.

Like, I know that’s supposed to be a warning, time to step up my game, yada yada yada- but threats like that just make me moist in my bad place.

Totally ineffective.

I’ll step up my game because that’s what I’m supposed to do. But the quickest way to get me to spend another day sitting on the couch with my laptop stuck on Fet- is to tease me with talk of domestic violence.

Silly man. He doesn’t know me at ALL, do he?

(and don’t I just know that someone is going to holler about me making light of domestic violence and the true victims of DV and blah blah blah, yawn yawn yawn.)

Anyway, that is why we’ve (mostly) dropped the punishment aspect of our relationship. I will find a way to eroticize it and I will fall victim to my lust and find a way to earn more and more and more.

That’s a talent, I’m sure of it.

I was being a bum because yesterday, I was having a Fetlife frenzy. I did that on Friday, too. Sometimes the quick snippets of conversation appeal to me. From picture to picture, topic to topic, nothing too deep, nothing serious- I like it.

Even those who try and get under my skin can be amusing.

But, one does not spend an entire day on Fet while also performing her other duties. One cannot be in two places doing two things at the same time. So, one’s Master, while a very giving and lenient soul, has to make vague threats of violence now and again.

S’okay. I got the hint. We’re cool.

What I think it was, is that Jes had a couple of days off of work so she packed up Babygirl and took off to visit with baby-daddy. She left on Friday, and it’s like the house itself breathes a big sigh of relief as soon as she pulls out of the driveway. Tension eases, from all of us; Master, me, Am, the boy. The noise and chaos level drops significantly. And it was just relaxing, quiet. I enjoyed it.

Plus, yesterday the weather screwed up my plans to go to the gym. Jill and I (and our Men) are going to join a gym and we were going to check it out yesterday, but Master said I wasn’t driving anywhere on the icy roads. My fear is that we’ll join the gym and it’ll be things like this that’ll make it be a complete waste of money. Not that any of us have any control over the weather, I’m not pointing fingers or anything, I’m just trying to be practical. We live a good distance from the place and the weather here tends to be yucky. I just need to make sure we’re making the right financial decision.

And along with that is knowing that if I don’t join a gym and if I don’t do something drastic, I’m only going to keep gaining. I HAVE to make changes. I have to exercise. Just changing what I eat isn’t going to be enough.

Speaking of losing weight! The dilemma of Master’s b-day present is solved. Thank you all for your suggestions, though! Given that nothing of the toy/hurty/vibrating variety was appealing to me–because let’s face it. All of the toys are variations of what we already have. And I have enough insertables to last a lifetime– I started poking around the lingerie, heels, shiny stuff stores.

And Mah Man got kinda twitchy. Like, pitching a tent kind of twitchy.

I can take a hint. I’m brilliant like that.

I can’t say exactly what I ordered because then he’ll know. I can say that I’m probably going to look like a marshmallow stuffed into a smore. Know what I mean?

Hence my NEED to exercise. I don’t want to look like the Michelin Man in leather.

I did get a couple of ouchie things though. Master broke his misery stick (again!) so he had me order him a couple more (because apparently he is planning on breaking more of them. This simultaneously amuses me and scares me witless), and seeings as how I hadn’t yet gotten kitten and her Man a wedding present and seeings as how she gifted me with a gorgeous spatula and I live for revenge, I ordered a COUPLE for them, too.

*beams*

And since I was on that site (prysm creations, btw, should anyone else want to order one) I got one ouchie toy that I’m sure I’ll wish I hadn’t gotten.

I mean, what kind of moron goes to the one website that sells the one toy that she just cannot conquer the pain from – and orders other products?? Me. That’s what kind of moron. My species of moron.

Anyway, I spent a lot of money and I get kind of twitchy when I spend a lot of money on things like this. Even though he gave me the parameters of which to spend, and even though when I was hemming and hawing over it, he slapped his hand down on the ottoman and snapped out “order the goddamn shit and shut up!” (which I did, at that point. Cuz.. yeah.. not even my kind of moron pushes THAT button), I’m still twitchy.

I don’t know if I will ever get over not being a financial contributor. It’s been years. YEARS. Time to let it go already.

Anyway, I suppose I’d better get to tackling some chores before he follows through with some of that hot, yummy violence.

Or….

Gah. Seriously! What was he thinking saying that to ME of all people!

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What d’ya mean I’m not priceless?!

He just came out of his mancave room and launched into telling me about some story that he’s reading.

Some fictional something or other about mind control (he always reads mind control stuff. I’m living proof that it doesn’t work. ~beams~) and slaves and bdsm and he’s going on about how well controlled the slaves were and…

I kinda don’t listen, you know? I hate erotica fiction.

But then he’s like, flapping his arms and getting excited and he finishes with “and the guy wrote a check for 2 million dollars!”

~blink blink blink~

“He sold his woman, his sex toy, for 2 mil,” he repeated, slowly, reverently.

He just looks at me. Silently. Appraisingly.

I guffawed. “That’s st00pid. Yer a dork.”

He narrowed his eyes and did some vulcan-hand movement in front of my face that, I think, was supposed to shut me up. I busted out laughing.

“Pffft.” He said. “You still need work.” and he stalked back into his mancave.

Srsly. He’d be lucky to get 2 bucks for me.

If I cannot attain being priceless, I can easily manage worthless.

:-D

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My stupid slip is showing.

M’s birthday is right around the corner. I can buy him anything I want from Extreme Restraints (except for the $1200.00 gold plated vibrator. Penny pincher!) or from any other bdsm toy provider.

I’ve been browsing and browsing… can’t come up with anything. We’re so stocked up on the “usual” stuff that it all seems old and tired.

Though it scares the pee-waddins outta me to ask you lot, here I am, asking anyway.

Ideas? Hints? Anything new or exciting you’ve done lately (besides wire brushes, kitts, you sick puppy!)?

~cunt

ps. (I have an entry that my brain is stuttering around. I’m trying to work it out.)

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Nosy Pokers.

Show us what was in the box, kaya, you said.

Let us see what else was in the box, kaya, you said.

Post pictures of it, kaya! you said.

You know I had Master convinced there was nothing else in that box, right? I mean, whose side are all y’all on anyway??

I feel so betrayed.

It’s cute, though, isn’t it?

Like, it should totally be hanging on the wall in my kitchen, looking all pretty and winter-festive. It absolutely should NOT be delegated to the toybox.

That’s my take on it anyway.

There’s a play party coming up, in about 2 weeks. The day after Master’s birthday actually.

He’s going to be 43.

Of course, my birthday was just a bit ago. I turned 39.

43+39=82

82 because I always get his and I haven’t gotten mine yet.

It seems somewhat of an unfair practice amongst the fuckers we hang with a tradition to let whoever wants to join in give birthday spankings to the birthday girl/boy.

So 82 multiplied by x amount of fucker… erm, x amount of people equals more spankings than I’ve had in probably a year.

I’m understandably reluctant to allow this to happen.

And by “reluctant” I mean “how can I fake my death in the next two weeks”.

And by “allow this to happen” I mean “I’m going to give Master the stink eye when he orders me to bend over”. (Because really, that’s all I have in my arsenal of resistance).

I am in a major pain-avoidance funk lately. It’s weird because when I see him playing with someone else I get all “aww! I wanna be up there doing that!” and then when I get up there to do that I’m all “This shit hurts. I can be done nao plz?”

So since some of you folks that will be at the party are reading this right now, just let me warn you of this- if you get in the birthday spanking conga line:

1. I kick. I’m just sayin’

2. I know where you live. Well, some of you.

3. One whack? One. Single. Whack. and you can consider yourselves stricken from my christmas card list.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about THAT.

(Am I sufficiently scary?)

Hey! Anyone wanna volunteer to be my sister in submission and be the painslut/anal-sex-receiver of the operation? Srsly! You do that shit, I’ll cook and clean and it’ll be FUN!

Anyone?

Buehler?

Call me!

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A Box Of Love

I got a box full o’ love in the mail. It’s from kitten.

In it is:

A wooden squirrel puzzle thing. I don’t know if she’s telling me I’m childish or squirrely or both, but.. I am childish and squirrely so YAY! I’m gonna put it in my garden. *nods*

There’s a journal with a big K on it.

There’s some nifty soap and a bath poofer and warm PINK fuzzy socks. Between kitten’s bath stuff and the yummy bath stuff that danae sent me, I’m going to have to convince Master that part of my daily slave duties must include lounging in the tub. Preferably with candles, wine, and good music. And a pillow. Maybe a waterproof “friend”, too. (Hey. A slave can dream, right?)

And that is all that was in the box.

Yep.

Nothing else in there.

Definitely not.

~tra la la la la la~

Btw, is lying a spankable offense?

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In Master, We Trust

We were sitting on the couch, watching tv. (American Idol, ftw!) Master had been snacking on bits of cheese that he was slicing off of a block of mozzarella with a steak knife. When he was done, he just handed the whole mess to me. Knife, garbage, leftover cheese.

I was watching American Idol so, you know, it says somewhere in the rule book that I don’t have to get up and clean his mess until the show is over.

It’s in the fine print, I’m sure of it.

I started fiddling with the knife, making mock stabbing motions at him and saying “Obey me, Bitch!”

Srsly. It was funny. I thought.

He doesn’t even do or say anything. Perfect deadpan. So I take the knife and I very slowly, and very carefully, and very steadily, put the point of it up his nostril.

Oh come ON. Like you wouldn’t??

He doesn’t even blink.

Just cuts his eyes at me and… waits.

So I stop. Because, I’m not completely STOOPID. Just… marginally stupid, perhaps.

A few more segments of the show go by (in other words, he waited until my guard was down. Fucker.) and then he plucks the knife outta my limp hand and quips, “My turn!”

And I?

Freaked. The. Fuck. Out.

Like, I suddenly became a herculean octupus. I wasn’t about to hold still for him to stick a steak knife up my nose. No way, no how. Nuh-uh. Wadn’t happenin’.

He’s half-heartedly trying to pin me down, I’m laughing and screaming and doing Exorcist-type moves with my head. All I could see was the very sharp and very shiny point of that steak knife out of the corner of my eye and it scared me fucking silly.

He demanded that I sit still and I tried, I really really tried, but it was instinct, I tell you! He’d get close, I see it, and, fucking fight or flight? I was doing both!

This went on for hours. Well, okay not hours. But long enough that I’d started to sweat and my throat hurt from screaming for my life.

He, of course, was nothing but amused.

Finally he stands up and in mock indignation, with his hands on his hips, exclaims, “I can’t BELIEVE that you don’t trust me! You untrusting bitch. I’m hurt.”

I’m trying to tell him how it is but he was having none of it. He was all “talk to the hand cuz the face ain’t listening!” butt-hurt about it! He wouldn’t let me touch him, he wouldn’t let me kiss him…

He wouldn’t even let me stick my poor cold feet under his ass when we went to bed. He said if he can’t stick a knife in my face, I can’t stick my feet in his ass.

Is he a sore loser or what??

Well! He can’t shut me up HERE so as I was trying to explain to him last night-

I DO trust him. In the following ways:

I trust him to be a sadist.

I trust him to make it hurt.

I trust him to always push it just a little past fun.

I trust him to make me bleed.

I trust him to always do exactly what he wants to do.

I trust him to make me cry at every possible opportunity.

Now, there’s going to come a time, probably in my very near future, when I will be tied down somewhere and he’s going to get a knife and he’s going to poke it up my nose. And it’s going to hurt.

How do I know this?

Because.

Because I trust him like that.

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It’s Control, Bitches!

I do believe I’ve ranted about this topic before but it’s been more than two weeks so that makes it practically a new topic.

Besides, I haven’t ranted in forever. I’m due.

Why is it that every. single. blessed. time there is a discussion about what a dom will or will not allow his slave to do, people make some sort of comment about how “Well! My dom trusts me so he doesn’t CARE if I do that!”

Or “MY dom isn’t insecure so I’m allowed to do that.”

OR “If your dom won’t let you do that, there are bigger problems to work on in your relationship!”

*headdesk headdesk headdesk*

It always always ALWAYS ends up in some sort of pissing match over insecurity or trust or “issues”.

WHY CAN’T IT JUST BE ABOUT FUCKING CONTROL?

Huh? Why?

I mean, we ARE talking about dominants, right? You remember them? The ones who get to CONTROL you?

So, like, if I’m not allowed to go to a submissive-only slumber party, it MUST be because he can’t trust me. It could not possibly be ANY other reason, like, say, oh I don’t know, maybe he just doesn’t want me there? Maybe he thinks my ideas on submission should come from him? Maybe he prefers to have say in who I associate with? Maybe he wants to limit what I’m exposed to?

Maybe he wants to control me?!?!

I’m thinking that not being allowed to do the submissives retreat is probably NOT a sign of distrust. Or of “issues”. Or of his insecurity.

You know, when he left to go to work this morning, and left the car keys on the counter, his bank card in my purse, and the door unlocked, he wasn’t showing lots of signs of distrust or insecurity then.

But that he knows the password to my email account is over the cotton-pickin’ line, man!

I bet the reason he chains me to the bed at night is because he cannot trust me to stay there. I might sneak off and eat Twinkies all night or something.

(Actually I might do that. I <3 me some Twinkies. Or raspberry zingers. Nom nom nom)

Or here's a new one that made the rounds a bit ago:

If he's tossing his socks on the floor and expecting you to pick them up, it's clearly because he's a toddler looking to replace his Mommy.

Not that he bothered to secure himself a slave to do those things for him. Or hell, to wipe his ass if that's what he wants. He's the BOSS. I's the SLAVE. He says, I do. The End.

Or, if he's not requiring that you go to school or somehow better yourself for society, then he's a thumb-sucking tool. Nevermind that he's bettering you FOR HIS BENEFIT, he's supposed to be bettering you for society's benefit. Apparently, it's society's dick you're going to be sucking.

Or, let's see. If the two of you engage in a mutually consensual and fun-as-fuck scene that leaves you with *gasp* a black eye/broken rib/busted nose/ needing stitches/UTI--

Who the fuck cares? What business is it of ANYONES?

Here's a newsflash: Your kinks are just as fucked up.

No, seriously, they are. They aren’t TO YOU because you choose to engage in them and it’s nobody else’s concern what you do. And neither should theirs be of any concern TO YOU.

You aren’t somehow better because you do s&m-lite. They aren’t worse because they do s&m-extreme. We’re all sick fucks, doing s&m AT ALL.

Unless you were dragged into their scene and walked away with that injury?

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

If he’s happy and she’s happy?

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

It’s one thing to say that a particular kink or fetish isn’t for you (forks anyone?). And it’s one thing to admit that a kink makes you wanna puke (scat anyone?). It’s entirely ANOTHER thing to be judge and jury of what’s acceptable in the entire world of bdsm.

Unless your kink is to make yourself look like as big of a piss-poor, whiney-ass, self-righteous bitch as you can possibly be. Then good job! Cuz it’s working splendidly.

I wonder… how many of you perverts out there are actually going to stop doing what makes you happy just because some bored housewife with a bitchy attitude has decided that you are doing it wrong.

Anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Yeah. Didn’t think so.

Jeebus. I have never seen anyone need so badly to denigrate others in order to convince themselves of their own superiority.

Therapy. You need some.

Fetlife is bad for my blood pressure. Srsly.

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It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

I’ve been watching that show “Til Debt Do Us Part” for the last couple of weeks. Have y’all seen it?

Basically, this woman comes in and fine tunes a couple’s finances. She figures out how they can get out of debt within a couple of years, and shows them how far into debt they’ll be if they don’t change. It’s pretty cool, actually.

It inspires me. It makes me fired up for financial change!

Right up until that means I can’t go shopping anymore, that is. :P

Finances are a huge source of stress for me. 99% of that comes from the fact that I don’t work so I bring in very little, yet because of me (my kids) I’m spending lots. The imbalance weighs on me.

I’m leaving out all of the “it was his choice, blah blah blah” because that’s not where this is going. Where it’s going is in my motivation for wanting to make smart financial decisions.

When the money belt gets tight, I feel the responsibility for it. For all of my attempts to keep the grocery bill low, I can blow the whole deal by ordering pizza or having a “Grandma moment” in the toy aisle. Or Am’s braces (which she got off, btw. Teeth look awesome), the coming Accutane treatments, someone needs bras or socks or underwear or school supplies or lunch money, or it’s picture time or it’s yearbook time or .. gads… it’s an endless list.

Having it broken down into a pie chart, according to the show’s recommendations of how a monthly budget should work, it not only makes it easy to see where we are overspending, it eased my mind tremendously to see that I’m within budget on things like groceries.

Of your monthly net pay, she recommends this: Housing: 35%, Debt: 15%, Life: 25%, Transportation, 15%, Savings 10%.

I’m still trying to figure out where some of the bills fall on that chart. Like medical bills, for instance, are they life or debt? (the “life” category includes everything from groceries, to gadgets to entertainment.) And does car insurance go in transportation? Do utility bills fall in the housing category?

Anyway, we’re revamping the budget and we’re committed to making some sacrifices and some changes. A lot of it will be easy for us. We do not do credit cards so that’s not going to be a problem. We don’t really have expensive hobbies to sacrifice or entertainment costs to cut. We’re pretty content little homebodies.

Some of it is little things- like, by making some slight changes to our cell phone plan, which on the surface means increasing our cell phone bill, we can eliminate the house phone and end up spending less. To the tune of about $50 a month, actually. Cancelling the boy’s WoW account that he hardly plays anymore saves another $15. Cancelling AOL since Master’s travel schedule has been drastically reduced saves another $25.

Little things add up.

So why am I telling you all this anyway? As if you care about my monthly budget!

Where it gets tricky for me is big things. Surely someone reading this will have a working knowledge of the real estate market and what that means in the banking/credit world.

Here’s my question:

We has a house. Only we don’t live in it.

Long story short, we moved here and are now renting out the old house and we’re waffling on keeping it as a rental property or selling it and being done with it.

The pros and cons that my ignorant self has are as follows:

Pros for selling:

1. It’s extremely unlikely that we’ll ever move back that way. Which means we should buy a house here. Having multiple home loans in this economy scares me rotten.

2. It makes me very nervous to be so far away from it (4 hours) and have it rented out to strangers. We can’t observe what they may or may not be doing to it.

3. It is a constant source of stress, thinking about how, if something big did go wrong with it, it could potentially sink us. As landlords, we’d be required to fix it, no? (we’ve already had the furnace repair guy out there twice this winter. And at least one of those was the renter’s negligence.)

4. What we’d make as a profit by selling, we could use as a down payment on a house here.

5. It just scares me to have it sitting there. It seems like a huge liability.

Cons:

1. Our payment history on that mortgage is perfect.

2. I’m sure the house could be used as collateral or.. something.. whatever.

3. The rent payment, even though it only covers the mortgage and taxes, does count as extra income (I think) if we were to apply for another mortgage.

4. We *might* move back there someday. Who knows. Nothing is certain in this economy.

5. I have no idea whatsoever of the housing market. None. It makes zero sense to me.

6. I’m sure we’d have to do some fixing up in order to get out of it what it’s worth and I absolutely do not want to do that. At all.

Probably those aren’t even the right pros and cons. I just don’t even know what to do.

So why that silly title that has nothing to do with the post?

This. This is why.

Hee.

~me

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