Funnies

I have no idea what’s up with me today. I can’t seem to get into chores or the garden. I’m exhausted. Maybe I should revise my earlier declaration of not having pms because this sure is what I do when it’s coming. I feel like I’m trying to move through jello. Just knowing I need to shower makes me wanna take a nap. Ugh. Anyway, so I’ve been fucking off on Fet and surfing the web inbetween forcing myself to do a chore now and then.

Blogging mojo? I can haz it back, plz? kthnxbai!

Yesterday, while sitting in the waiting room of the doc’s office with the kids, I read this in a magazine, thought it was hilarious so I came home and found it online. We cracked up over it.

GOD TEXTS THE TEN COMMANDMENTS.

M, pls rite on tabs & giv 2 ppl.

1. no1 b4 me. srsly.

2. dnt wrshp pix/idols

3. no omg’s

4. no wrk on w/end (sat 4 now; sun l8r)

5. pos ok – ur m&d r cool

6. dnt kill ppl

7. :-X only w/ m8

8. dnt steal

9. dnt lie re: bf

10. dnt ogle ur bf’s m8. or ox. or dnkey. myob.

And of course you know there had to be an LOLCat Ten Commandments, right?

Exodus 20: Noo Roolz – Teh Ten Commanders

1 Then Ceiling Cat spoked all them werds:

2 I iz Ceiling Cat An I iz Top Cat, An I broughted u out of hawt litturbawx wit no cheezbrgrs for hard mousin at all

3 No can has other ceiling cat!! U gotz other Ceiling Cat, I shoot yous wit mah lollazer eyes. Srsly.

4 If u try be Ceiling Cat of any of mai creayshunz up in floaty skai, down in erth or in watr or I shoot yous wit mah lollazer eyes.5 If u think faek Ceiling Cat iz Ceiling Cat, I mek u ded An ur kittenz ded An if yur kittenz have kittenz, dey be ded too, for being stupid and stuffs.6 If not I wuv u An all ur lotz uf kittenz!

7 U sez Ceiling Cat bad, I shoot yous wit mah lollazer eyes, cuz I dun liek it. Srsly.

8 Remembur Caturday An keep holy.9 U ketch mousies 6 dais An finish ketchin, K?10 Caturday, u no ketchin mousies. U An all ur peepz go wrship me. And, if yu beez gudd, I maks it so yu can stays home and do alla stuffs yu wanted tu doos.11 I maded heavenz An erth An see An the stuff that does teh funney hoppey stuffz in An on it – so I make it holy cuz I no ketch mousies.

12 Bez u good to papa kitteh An mama kitteh so u has long nine liefs.

13 U no maek peepz ded with teh malice! Srsly!

14 U no maek sexxes wit other gurlz or menz than ur wief (that mi jobz!).

15 U no taek cheezburgerz for free if not getz for free.

16 U no tell bad stuff ov ur neibor.

17 U no wantz neibor cheezburgerz! No wief, no gurlz, no menz, no abimalz, NO BUKKITZ! DEY NOT UR BUKKITZ, K? dey da LOLrus’ bukkits.

18 When peepz see mai great orkestr wit thundr An all cool speshul effects thei wur scairdey wimps

19 Thei sed to Mozus ‘U goez speek to uz An we will listen; but Ceiling Cat will shoot us wit His lazer eyes!’

20 Mozus LOL’d lotz, An a bit moar, for thei wuz such scairdies, An sed ‘Ceiling Cat no maek u ded; he just wantz to hav fun wit u gais An maek u scairdey cats so u obei him.’

21 But peepz wur still scairdies An let Mozus go ther to Ceiling Cat.

Ceiling Cat roolz for idles an alters
22 Ceiling Cat sez “Tellz them scairdies: ‘U see I meowed to u from big ceilingz.23 U no mek me of silvar or goldz.

24 U mek me altar of kitteh-litturz An gif me pwnz0rzed animulz ther An I gif u cheezburgr.25 But u no maek me altar of bjutiful stonez. DO NOT WANT!26 An u no use steps on altar or I can see ur penises. DO NOT WANT!”

Bwahahahahaha!

Like

Unlike

Get off the road.

Just a small bitch about parenting teenage drivers. Because I just almost DIIIIIIED!!

When Jes started driving she was still living with my mother. So I missed the majority of it. I probably lamented that fact at one time, all woe-is-me about missing a milestone of impending adulthood. One thing I will say about Jes though, is once she’s decided she’s capable of doing something, she goes straight for it, like a stubborn bull.

Now, though, I’m rather glad to have missed it. I’ve been in the car with her. She drives like a stubborn bull. Just ask the rear end of the car she hit last summer. Oy.

When Am started driving, she approached it with the same methodical, slow determination that she approaches most everything. She didn’t care that all her friends were starting driver’s ed when they were 15, she knew she wasn’t ready so she didn’t sign up. When she thought she was ready to drive, she started with short jaunts down our country road, content to drive a mile at a time until she had a feel for the car and the steering and the pedals. THEN she signed up for the class.

Even now, at 17, she doesn’t have her license. She’s been driving on her permit for over a year and she thinks that she’s just about ready to go try for her license. But, no hurry. No stress. No pressure.

B-man. B-man is 15. He’s… he’s so not ready to be driving. Just.. not ready. And, while I know it’s my parenting duty to teach the kid how to drive, I’m really at the point of just plain refusing and making him wait.

He’s been in driver’s ed for about two months now. But there is just something reckless and dangerous about his approach to it. He’ll argue with me before just doing what I’m telling him to do, and in driving where seconds count for real, arguing over whether or not he has to stop/go/slow down/turn/whatever, cannot be.

I’ve tried to be understanding of his need to learn. I’ve tried to be cool, calm and collected in the car. I KNOW how yelling at a driver only makes them nervous.

After this morning though, I think for the safety of everyone else in the world, Imma have to be the big bitch of a mother and revoke his driving privileges.

Correction #1: First thing, upon backing out of the driveway, didn’t even slow down at the end before pulling into the road. His response? “Jes does it!”

There is a way to check for cars WHILE backing down the drive. An experienced driver can do that. HE? Did not. He just… flew. Backwards. Straight on to the road. He was in the road before I could sputter out an objection.

Correction #2: Blew the stop sign at the end of the road. His response? “There’s never any traffic coming anyway!”

But see, there is traffic. That’s why they put the fucking sign there! Matter of fact, the traffic that DOES come, comes at 50 mph because it’s a country road and they EXPECT the people coming off the side roads to fucking STOP at the STOPSIGN.

Correction #3: Upon turning onto the highway, we are driving up to an intersection and encounter a flashing yellow stoplight. This flashing yellow stoplight is always there. Always. 24/7. It flashes yellow, never turns red. Ever. It’s flashing red for the people coming up the other way because they have a stop sign.

He? Slams on the brakes and stops. At the flashing yellow. In the middle of the HIGHWAY. With people coming up behind us at 55 mph because they don’t expect people to come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. My frantic squeals to “Go GO GO!” before getting rear-ended by the logging trucks screaming up behind us are met with a “But yellow lights confuse meeeeee” whine.

Correction #4: We’re approaching a curve. A sharp curve. We take this curve multiple times a day to get where we need to go. It’s a 15 mph curve. He enters it at 30, arguing with me as I’m saying “You need to slow down. Start slowing down. Slow the fuck- Jesus!” with him going “My driver’s ed teacher said we shouldn’t hit the brakes going into this curve. He says that- Oh. Oh! Oh shit!” as he has to crank it hard, the tires squeal and he’s driving, now, in the wrong lane.

By the time we get to the school, I’m in full on lecture mode, and he’s all “I hate driving with you! You just yell at me! Waah!”

I’m sorry, kiddo. But being put at risk of death 4 different times during a 3 mile run to school at 7:30 in the morning makes me edgy.

All I see when he gets behind the wheel is dollar signs. I see our insurance premiums skyrocketing. I see Master’s wallet puckering up like an asshole looking at an enema tube.

He scares me behind the wheel. Scares me for him, for myself, for other people on the road. He’s just not ready.

That is all. My heart rate is almost down to normal now.

Like

Unlike

Rants, Navel Gazing and Tidbits, oh my!

First, the ranting.

So, about breaking up. It happens. People change and grow and lose interest and whatever. Sometimes, relationships don’t last. Sometimes, they absolutely shouldn’t last. Sometimes, they’ve lasted too long already.

When a couple that I know breaks up, I mostly try to remain impartial. I don’t particularly care who is “at fault” because I don’t ever believe we get the full story from anyone. Unless you’re a part of the relationship, you can’t possibly fully know or understand the intimaties involved. There are 3 sides to the story, so says Dr. Phil.

I don’t choose sides, as a general rule.

But of course, rules are made to be broken, so says me. Heh.

Seriously though, when you stoop to the level of vitriol and vindictiveness and name calling and bashing, I completely lose any respect that I may have once had for you. And, I’m then inclined to believe that, hey, if you are this mean and this temperamental and this out of control, golly gee, she was totally justified in leaving your sorry ass.

Thing is, it doesn’t matter what you did for her. What favors you did, what wonders you introduced, what magic you think you created. It doesn’t matter how happy you were. It doesn’t matter how much you loved her. It just doesn’t matter.

Because, she’s allowed to change. Everyone is allowed to change. So she changed, and you either didn’t change with her or changed in another direction. Whatever the reason, she felt she needed to move on and that’s that. The end.

Emotional blackmail is incredibly unbecoming. Incredibly cowardly. Incredibly weak.

Incredibly telling.

Verbal assault, airing secrets or out and out making shit up and blabbering it across the internet or to mutual friends in some misguided and lowly attempt to bring people to your side only has the opposite effect on me, dude. I figure the faster I cut people like you out of my life, the better I’ll be. What’s to say I won’t be the next person you’re blabbing about if I somehow fail to meet your expectations?

Where’s your fucking integrity?

So you were broken up with. Big deal. Name someone who hasn’t been broken up with. According to this article, you are doing everything right to ensure that you remain forever stuck in your perpetual state of misery. Blaming someone, anyone, for your life being in the toilet is just exactly what you should be doing to stay miserable but pardon me if I refuse to come along on your ride, mmkay?

‘If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?’ – Kahlil Gibran

~~*~~

Navels and my propensity for gazing at mine.

So. I’ve long thought that slavery and M/s and s&m and all it entails was a healing venture for me.

Remember way back in the beginning when I spent too many hours examining my motivations for M/s and s&m and thinking of my childhood and my past experiences and whether or not that meant I was somehow impure in my motives for desiring this lifestyle and that it must mean I was flawed or some such shit and how, eventually, I came to the conclusion that it just didn’t matter why I was this way, I simply WAS, and I’d never know anyway whether or not I’d have been a freak because I surely can’t go back in time and have a do-over, like some Leave it to Beaver rerun, so I was just going to accept myself as I was because, golly darn it, for ME this M/s “stuff” is all incredibly healing.

*big breath*

‘member that?

Healing defined: To restore to health or soundness; cure. To set right; repair. To restore (a person) to spiritual wholeness. To become whole and sound; return to health.

To cure. Fix. Return to wholeness. Repaired.

Strange therapy. How would that work in the psychiatrist’s office? “What you need to do to heal your broken self, is sign on to be someone’s servant and let them beat on you for a few years. Why, by the end of it, you’ll be good as new!”

Sometimes I think I’ve been cured. Perhaps not necessarily by the service and pain, but by the love and acceptance. The service and pain just kept me around long enough to let the love in.

Sometimes, the pain feels… not good. Not erotic. More insulting. Offensive. And it hurts, not just on the outside where it’s supposed to, but inside. Hurts my feelings.

What does that mean though, if my motivations for doing “this” have been cured because they really were flawed after all, but his motivations are pure and natural and organic and we’re left staring at each other across the Great Divide? Do I change to suit him? Do I fake it, suffer through it, pretend, or lt myself become broken again? Does he change, pretend, stuff down his natural desires? Does he continue to do it anyway, knowing it’s possibly damaging? CAN he? Does that say incredibly bad things about him?

But those are only ‘sometimes’ thoughts. Things that trickle in when I have that incredibly confused reaction of hurt feelings in response to hurt skin.

Maybe it’s just hormonal. Maybe I’m premenopausal.

Maybe I’m fucking crazy.

Maybe “it” is just not happening as often or as regularly as it used to and my body and my head are in turmoil from the lack of regular doses of endorphins.

Maybe I need a physical.

Maybe I’m worried he’s changed because of the lack of use ‘n’ abuse and my head is “creating” a way to change with him.

Maybe I need a drink.

Maybe I think too much.

Because other times, that old familiar feeling flares up and I writhe in sexual need, I fantasize of dark and dangerous things, I ache for pain and degradation, I long to be hurt and used. And I still can only climax with a nice side of hotly whispered words of ownership and hard, hurtful hands playing a lurid tune across my body.

Definitely. I think too much.

~~*~~

Tidbits of random daily life.

Master took me to get my hair cut the other day. After years and years of refusing, or of only allowing a small trim after frequent begging, it was a very very strange thing to be taken without any begging and so soon after the last cut, AND, to have him say to cut so much off.

This is the shortest my hair has been since I’ve known him. It doesn’t even touch my bra strap. I can’t reach behind me and grab it.

When I asked him why he was doing it, he said because it was going to be a hot summer and I’d be spending a lot of time working outside.

So.

I have been.

I’ve finished potting and planting the flowers, trimmed up around the house, and started the garden. I have one garden bed done and planted (onions and zukes), I have 3 hanging tomatoes and Master just dumped off 30 bags of potting soil so I can finish the other two beds. I have to first dig up all of the grass and pull that out, lay out the beds, dump in the dirt, plant…

It feels good to be outside. It feels great to have my hands in dirt, to be growing and creating and making food. I have no idea where I’m at in this short-ass growing season of the Frozen North, and I really don’t care. What grows grows, what doesn’t doesn’t. Besides, it sure as heck-fire isn’t frozen up here right now. Helluva heat wave, eh? It feels wonderful. I am warm for the first time in 9 months. ;)

I don’t really know what to make of this generosity from Master lately. It’s in my nature to be suspicious because the people I know just aren’t nice without wanting something. The garden, the hair, the fishing pole, the Ipod… something’s up. It can’t just be because he loves me. Can it?

Anyway, I skipped the gym this morning (with permission) so that I could get an early start on the garden stuff before the heat hits, and instead here I sit writing this.

I always turn to writing when something is eating at me.

I’m definitely having a crisis of slavery. As we move more and more toward a vanilla lifestyle, in spite of what our hearts or heads (or genitals) say we want, I have a harder and harder time convincing myself that I shouldn’t also be pursuing vanilla pursuits. I wonder about that offer he made a few weeks ago, of school and a career. I question his motives for it and worry that I should take him up on it after all. I worry that the offering wasn’t what I thought it was, that he’s, perhaps, trying to tell me something.

And it bothers me that I continue to chafe over some of the aspects of slavery. After all this time, if this really was a good fit for me, shouldn’t there be acceptance and smoothness? I shouldn’t still be having thoughts of dumping it all and embracing independence merely to alleviate these few instances where his control chaps my hide.

But that’s silly, isn’t it? To ever expect that it would be perfect all the time.

Well, would you look at that. I’m such an expert navel gazer that I slid right back into it when I’m supposed to be tidbitting.

I don’t even have pms. Not yet.

I do need to get outside though. Lots of work to do out there. Y’all have a good one.

Like

Unlike

Embarrassing Moment #7,539

A few days ago, Master ordered me an Ipod. An 8 gig Ipod with a docking station. For no real reason other than the mp3 player that I have is a dinosaur, uses a battery, and it never fails that the battery dies mid-workout at the gym which drives me bonkers. He had some saved up travel points from the Holiday Inn that can be redeemed for all kinds of cool stuff, including manly-man tools, but instead of using them for something he wanted, he used them on little ol’ me. He also took me shopping for a new fishing pole.

I’ve wanted an Ipod, or at least a better mp3 player, for a long time. But I just couldn’t justify spending money on one when mine, ridiculous as it is, still worked. Sort of worked anyway. At least once a week I’d get through an entire workout with it working so if that counts as working then it works. And, come on, a PINK fishing pole? We- well, HE- must have 15 fishing poles and I certainly didn’t NEED to have my very own girlified pink fishing pole and I was telling him that even as he plopped the pink pole in my hand in the aisle. But, damn it all. I like pink. That was a dirty trick if you ask me, letting me hold it before asking me if I was SURE I didn’t want it?

So we were in the check out line at the store, waiting to pay for my new PINK fishing pole (srsly. They don’t make men better than mine. Sorry girls. I got the best of the best!) when I had a sudden surge of gratitude that a mere “thank you Master” couldn’t express.

But I only really know one way to show extra-special appreciation, you know.

I leaned against him and sighed contentedly. “I can’t believe you got me an Ipod. I love you. I’m going to suck your dick for you.”

Granted I suck his dick anytime anyway but it’s all I got.

I expected SOME sort of reaction from him. Maybe a grin, a “yum”, even an agreeable “okay!” would have been nice. Instead he just stood there, staring straight ahead, a small half-smile frozen on his face, not acknowledging me at all.

I nudged him. “Okay?”

“Sure!” he said, a tad too cheerfully and still not looking at me. “And next time, why don’t you say that a little bit louder. I don’t think everyone in the store heard you.”

Before I could protest that I’d barely whispered it, the woman in line in front of us turned around, and with a big old shit-eating grin on her face quipped, “Oh. Don’t worry. We didn’t hear anything!” and giggling, she turned back to the cashier and they both laughed.

Master just shook his head while I slid behind him and hid my face in his back. I like to have died.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gawd.

1 person likes this post.

Unlike

Rules and Rituals: Lifeblood or death sentence for M/s?

I’m including both rules and rituals because sometimes I get confused on when a rule is actually a ritual, or vice versa.

I’m wondering whether, in your experiences, you find rules and rituals to be helpful in maintaining the M/s dynamic or if you find them to suck all of the spontaneity and fun out of it.

It seems to me from different things I’ve read across the web in the last few years that most relationships that employ rituals tend to lose the spark. Yet, from those who don’t have any rituals at all, they long for them.

We don’t have a lot of them in place ourselves. At least, not anymore.

One in particular comes to mind-

A couple of years ago, Master had implemented a rule (or ritual? Heh.) where before getting into bed and before getting out of bed, I was to ask him if he’d like a blow job.

At first, it was working pretty well. It was a nice way to reinforce my purpose as a sex slave, a ‘last thing at night and first thing in the morning’ reminder. He enjoyed it, too (no! really! He enjoys blow jobs!). I think he enjoyed the offering of sexual service rather than the taking.

Except, it wasn’t really an offer. Not a genuine one. Because he’d already ordered that I offer it. Ya see?

Long story short, it got stale.

Instead of heightening my sexual desires, it started to feel like a chore. My “offering” got less and less pleasant, and more and more reluctant, until by the end, I may have been asking by way of saying “You don’t want another frikkin’ blow job, fer fucks sake, do you???”

Way sexy, no?

And, by the end, he was as irritated by being asked as I was of having to ask. He’d started to answer me before I even got the words out, often times snapping “And NO, I don’t want a blow job! Just shut up and get in bed.”

Finally, a couple of years ago, it was just dropped completely.

I could repeat that same outcome with different scenarios, different rules, different rituals that he’s used and discarded over the years. They start out great, but somewhere along the way, the repetition robs us of the magic.

It’s been awhile since we’ve used any sort of rituals. Honestly, right now I’m craving one pretty badly. Craving something. Anything. Everything about us has become so… fucking… NORMAL that I can’t stand it.

That’s not entirely true. We actually do normal pretty decently. And nowaways, I think if we just stayed this way for the rest of our lives, I’d find a fairly happy satisfaction in it. We’re in love, we make each other feel good, we have fun together, we laugh, we look forward to the next day. It’s all working. If the “stuff” that makes us M/s slipped away, we’d be alright.

I don’t think I want that to happen though. And I’m not willing to let it go without a fight.

I don’t know that rituals are the answer, past experiences being what they are. But I sure am jonesing for something along those lines. Not pain.. not sex.. but something.

I’m not sure why it’s always failed for us though. On paper, rituals should work. So I’m curious, how- and IF- they work for other people.

And if they do work, how do you maintain the spontaneity? How do you keep it fresh? Or do you also feel that same staleness, but push through it anyway?

And, who does the ritual serve most? You or The Boss? If it isn’t working for you, does The Boss care or change it or are you just expected to ‘fake it til you make it’?

Enquiring minds want to know.

(ps. Thanks for the information, comments and emails about Jes. It’s a lot to process and we’re taking it slow. She’s not on any medication, nor is any being recommended.

Also, I updated my Babygirl’s flickr AND she took her first steps last night. :D )

Like

Unlike

It’s like this, it’s like that…

So Jes’s diagnosis is BPD and ADD.

An edited description of BPD:

The one word that best characterizes BPD is “instability.” Their emotions are unstable, [...]. Their thinking is unstable – rational and clear at times, quite psychotic at other times. Their behavior is unstable [...].

Their self control is unstable [...] And their relationships are unstable. [...]

Associated with this instability is terrible anxiety, guilt and self-loathing [...]

In addition, individuals with BPD show great difficulties in controlling ragefulness; [...]

[...]an inability to tolerate the levels of anxiety, frustration, rejection and loss that most people are able to put up with, an inability to soothe and comfort themselves when they become upset, and an inability to control the impulses toward the expression, through action, of love and hate that most people are able to hold in check. [...]

The effect upon others of all this trouble is profound. Family members never know what to expect from their volatile child, siblings, or spouse. They do know they can expect trouble: [...] outbursts of rage and recrimination, impulsive marriages, divorces, pregnancies and abortions; repeated starting and stopping of jobs and school careers, and a pervasive sense, on the part of the family, of being unable to help.
[...]

The end result is all too often the failure of a promising life or a tragic suicide.

Lovely.

Neither of the diagnosis surprise me overly much. It’s a relief, in the way that being sick and told it’s all in your head is a relief when you get a diagnosis of cancer or something. Horrid, but nice to know you aren’t imagining everything, yanno?

Not that it’s good news by any stretch. Post-partum would have been easier, even though I knew something was up way before she got pregnant. There’s a lot of guilt, too, because of the reasonings for BPD occuring and because I’ve excused away her behavior for years and years, just not wanting to believe it was anything other than normal teenage rebellion.

I don’t even know what to do with this information. Unfortunately, because she’s 18 and not enrolled in school at the moment, she’s about to be kicked off our insurance so treatment options just got really limited. Though I need to check into the insurance stuff before I just assume things. Maybe with extenuating circumstances, things can be arranged or something? Dunno. Need to make phone calls.

She’s in an upswing at the moment. She’s on the ball with taking care of Babygirl, she’s attending GED classes, she’s applying for jobs and is engaged to the baby’s daddy.

But.

We’ve so been here before and Hope has left the building. Not that I tell her that. I only tell y’all cuz y’all have been on this rollercoaster with me for a long time.

It’s the engagement story that really highlights what the BPD description says about unstable relationships and impulsivity. Not even 24 hours before the sudden engagement, she was on the phone telling me about a crush she had on a guy she’d JUST slept with a few days prior. And she was telling me how much she disliked the baby’s daddy, so much so that though she was taking the baby over to see him, she didn’t think she could stay at his house very long and was making arrangements with me to pick her up early. In that same conversation, she was discussing with me the possibility of signing over temporary guardianship of Babygirl and taking herself back to Illinois so she could “get her shit together”.

The very next day she calls me and tells me she’s engaged, she’s not going to Illinois, and they are all going to move up here.

*head spin*

Am I terrible for kind of daydreaming about pushing her out of the nest and quitting? Can I quit? I wanna quit.

I can’t quit.

Maybe she is my addiction.

*le sigh*

We all need fucking therapy. Oy.

Like

Unlike

Well suck me dry and call me Dusty!

It’s official. Master has esp.

I know, I know. I don’t believe in it either but after yesterday and today, there’s just nothing else it could be.

Yesterday, he came home from work and tried on all those jeans- and then reduced the pile by over half. Reduced as in gave them away.

And if that wasn’t enough to have me choking on my words, he let me dwindle down those work shirts in that closet by over half, too!

AND! He tossed out all but 3 ballcaps, of his collection of 30.

Body snatchers? Or esp?? I don’t know!

But wait! There’s more! If you call in the next 10 minutes, you get a free…

Wait. Wrong commercial.

Anyway..

There is more, though. More esp-ness.

I read this comment today: I say spank the bitch!

Just guess what he did when he got home from work?

He spanked the bitch!!

I was stretched out across the bed, yakking at him while he changed his clothes, and when he pulled his belt out-

Just hold on right there cuz that needs to be talked about.

When he pulled his belt out.

Is there any other sound that gets a spanko’s heart a’pumping like the quiet clinks of the belt buckle coming undone? Or that swish of a belt through beltloops?

*swoon*

Teasing, he wrapped it around his hand (double swoon) and gave me a most forboding look (triple swoon) and swished the belt through the air (quadruple swoon), pretending he was going to whomp on me.

Being the demure and timid woman I am, I cocked my ass at him and dared him with my eyes to stop pretending and get to whomping already.

So he did.

It was through my jeans, but, srsly? Don’t they just swing harder when they think that centimeter of material is somehow padding the action anyway?

He cracked and cracked and cracked and when he started cracking down the backs of my thighs a mighty strong tingle started somewhere in my lower belly and beelined its way lower still.

Yum.

And then- well. then it was over because he had to go back to work (boo! hiss!).

However!

The significance of it all is not that Master has esp (which, when asked what esp stands for, said “extra special powers?” Hee.) but that my masochism is not broken as I had been convinced that it was.

In fact, just over the weekend, while out running errands we stopped for lunch and over grilled chicken and veggies, I was explaining to him that I was quite sure that somewhere along the way I’d stopped being a masochist. That I was suspicious that my occasional longing for “it” was nothing more than me thinking I was supposed to want it and not that I actually wanted it.

That, while I loved belonging to him and I loved service and I still loved slavery, I thought the desire for pain had just.. simply.. vanished.

There was a lot that we talked about that day, and a lot that I was thinking about and it was something that I had been planning on blogging about–

But then this happened today. That familiar little tingle in my belly that took a straight highway south. All because he whipped me with a belt and it hurt.

(I’m still gonna blog about it of course. Tonight or tomorrow or whenever I can. I’m too hard up for material to pass it over. ;) )

Like

Unlike

Hey there, stranger!

I’m being a terribly neglectful blogger. Meh. I’m still mired in Blogger’s Block I guess. Icky place to be, btw. Don’t try it. :/

We’ve been busy. The weather’s been awesome so we’ve been getting some stuff done outside. I was going to buy some flowers and start some gardening but then we had to take the car into the shop and that was about 300 more dollars than we planned on so there went the gardening budget. Boo.

The spring cleaning bug has bitten me. I start to feel claustrophic just knowing that things are cluttered up, even if the clutter is packed away in a box in the closet. It just bothers me that it’s there.

It also bothers me that Master is so resistant to downsizing his sizable collection of STUFF. I have to make an argument that would impress most lawyers to convince him of why he should get rid of something.

Like, he has a closet full of shirts. Not everyday shirts, not dress shirts, not t-shirts. Not wearable shirts. Well, they’re wearable in that one can wear them, it’s just that one never does. EVER. Because they’re work shirts. Like, uniform-y shirts. Except, Master can’t wear them to work because he has a particular company shirt that he has to wear. So these shirts, about 20 of them, just hang in this closet, taking up space and bugging the ever-loving fuck out of me. He hasn’t worn them in years. YEARS.

Will he get rid of them and open up this closet for other things? No. No he will not. Why? FUCK IF I KNOW! Because, maybe, someday, like neverday, he might wear ONE.

*head desk*
*head desk*
*head desk*
*head desk*

Sometimes, like over the weekend when he was cleaning out the shed, I was literally tugging things out of hands because he would just hover over the garbage can with it. Srsly. There was an old computer keyboard, probably from the 1990′s, filthy and gross and likely non-usable on any computer anywhere. Just.. throw. it. away.

He did, but not without several longing looks at it.

Want to know where the rest of that particular computer is? In the closet. In a big, blue rubbermaid tub taking up half the closet floor. A giant, out-of-date monitor, and a HUGE tower that has not worked since I met him 6 years ago. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t WORK. So why is he keeping this giant dinosaur of a computer (when we have FIVE other working computers in this house), why have we had to lug it around every time we’ve moved, finding new places to store it? Because of Someday.

Someday is a reality to packrats that throwawayrats like myself do not believe in. Because it doesn’t exist. It’s like Never Never Land. But Someday, he’s going to make it work and do what with it? Recover lost files, he says. Files that he hasn’t seen in over 6 years. How bloody important can they be, I ask?

Not very. That’s how important.

I don’t hang on to stuff, I don’t collect stuff, I don’t keep stuff. I have a love affair with my garbage can. I like clean white walls and empty shelves. If something hasn’t been used in a month, I’m pretty fine with tossing it. Master, on the other hand, just likes to know he has stuff-even if he never ever ever touches it. He just likes to know it’s THERE.

I can pinpoint each and every spot where he has STUFF sitting, and…

…can you feel the anxiety attack coming on? Me, too! Gah.

*breathe*
*breathe*
*breathe*
*breathe*

I get so proud of him, though, when all on his own, he throws some useless piece of crap thing away. He’ll make me come and look at it, too, just waiting for his pat on the back. Hee. He’s so cute.

No really. He is. He’s cute and his clutter doesn’t bother me at all. *cough*

I’ve learned the hard way not to just go ahead and throw his stuff out when he isn’t looking. Early on, because I had no idea how packratitis manifested itself, I thought, well, jeez louise, there is no way he knows what is in this box! It’s all garbage anyway! He’ll never miss it!

Wrong. So very very wrong.

Because they know. They know and Someday, months and months or years later they say, hey honey? Do you know where that yellow piece of paper with the doodles and coffee ring on it is? I know I put it in this box and now I can’t find it.

~pause~

You didn’t throw it out did you?

~gulp~

So. Yeah. I don’t move his shit stuff.

I’m only ranting about this because I’m trying to clean out the bedroom closet. I texted him at work (a very sneaky maneuver I have of trying to get simple one-word answers out of him because he hates to text) and asked him if I could give those 20 pairs of jeans that don’t fit him anymore to Goodwill. My ploy worked when he said a quick “yes” but before I could box them up and run out the door, he called me (drat!) and hemmed and hawed and finally said, nah, just hang on to them because SOMEDAY they might fit.

Actually he said he wanted to try them on first. But do you know when he’ll try them on?

Someday.

*ohm*
*OHM*

Okay, I’m done. No, I really am.

I’m no neat-freak myself anyway. Maybe my small collection of kitchen appliances grates on his nerves too. Don’t even think about asking me to give them up. I’ll bite yer damn leg.

Anyway, so yeah, I’m cleaning out the closet and I found this big tub of clothes that I thought I had gotten rid of. It was all the clothes that I had outgrown. Guess what?

They all fit again.

*nods*

I’m melting. Slowly but surely.

Very. Very. Very. Slowly.

And I have some clothes that I can’t wear anymore because they are too big. *beams*

I’m actually only 5 to 6 pounds away from weighing what I weighed when Master and I met. Unfortunately, when we met I needed to lose a good 20 pounds..lol.

Plus, even though the number on the scale may be the same, I don’t think the weight is distributed the same. I think when we met, the weight was evenly distributed and I carried it well enough that most people guessed my weight at 20 pounds lighter than I was. Now, I’ve slimmed down in other areas so I’m carrying most of the extra around the middle.

Ah well. It’ll come off eventually.

I got a bike! I’m uber-excited about it. Master bought me one and then fixed Am’s so we can start taking rides together. I figure the last time I was on a bike was 25 to 30 years ago. In fact, I was so young when I last had a bike that I hadn’t yet graduated to a bike with gears. Consequently, I have no clue what to do with the gears on this bike. So, Bike Riding For Grown Up Dummies is my next task. :)

Anyhoo. While I was cleaning out the closet, I came across that one skirt that Master bought me in Mexico that I won’t wear in public because I’m not a salsa dancer (remember? I talked about it back in the March Q&A) and I remembered that some of you had wanted to see a picture of it. So I took one.

Okay, so it doesn’t look nearly as hideous on the hanger as it does on my ass. And I had the colors wrong. But I’m still not wearing it in public. I will wear it here at home and I pair with a bright pink tank and go barefoot and he thinks it’s sexy as hell (but we all know he’s weird anyway). But if I wore that to Walmart I’d end up here. Amirite or amirite?

Like

Unlike

What’s going on?

Nothin’. Nada.

I’m not blogging because I have blogger’s block.

And I’m not in a good mood because we had to cancel going to Spankfest in June because Master’s stupid company is sending him out of stupid town that stupid week.

I’m trying to remain thankful that he has a job and, apparently, is very much needed in his job. I know too many people struggling with finances and employment to not recognize how fortunate we are.

But, dude. Come on. It was Spankfest. I was so looking forward to going. ::insert frowny face here::

In order to soften the blow after telling me we couldn’t go, Master brought home chocolate cake. Not just any chocolate cake, but Chocolate Euphoria cake. It was seriously the most deliciously decadent and disgustingly melt-in-your-mouth-sweet chocolate cake in the world.

It did nothing to soften the blow. It did, however, blow my diet all to hell and back. Did I care? Nope. Will I care today since I have to go to the gym and work it off? Yep. It was still good though. First chocolate I’ve had in I don’t know how long. Nom Nom-frigging-Nom.

I need to work on regaining my blogging mojo, though. I miss it and yet I sit down and stare at the blank screen and then give up and walk away. Bah. Suckage.

I guess that’s all I got.

Spankfest. *sob*

Like

Unlike

Quickies

Master is coming home today, he’s on his way now, and he’s stopping to pick up Jes and Babygirl on the way. They were supposed to come home last weekend but agreed to stay an extra week to save on gas, etc.

So not only am I over the moon about seeing Mah Man, I’m practically giddy about seeing my baby. It’s been a month! She may not recognize me!

Since I’m short on time – and since I have nothing of substance to blabber about anyway – Imma poll all you fine people.

Whenever Google starts giving me too much conflicting info, I turn to y’all. Isn’t it nice to know I think you are better than Google? :D

Here’s my dilemma: I’ve been fighting with my skin since I’ve been 11 years old. I have oily skin, and that comes with all the side-effects of oily skin. Prone to break outs, large “dirty-looking” pores, blah blah blah.

Incidentally, I keep reading that the benefit to oily skin is having less wrinkles when you get older, but srsly, I’d rather have wrinkles when I’m 50 than have spent the last 30 years fighting pimples. Amirite or amirite?

I think it was Leesa who said something about the absolute unfairness of getting grey hair while also still getting pimples. I wholeheartedly concur.

So. Google.

In my occasional searching on dealing with oily skin I’ve read everything from:

1. Only use lukewarm to cold water because hot water will dry out your skin and fool it into producing more oil

to

Use water as hot as you can stand it to cut through the oil and to open up and clean out your pores.

2. Do not use moisturizer! Your skin is producing enough of its own! You don’t want to add more gunk to clog pores

to

Always use moisturizer so that your skin never gets dry because dry skin produces more oil.

3. Don’t use soap of any kind, ever! Soap dries out your skin and dry skin? See above.

to

Use a dab of dishsoap (srsly. I read that. Dishsoap.) because dishsoap cuts oil.

Then there is an overwhelming amount of recommendations for supplements and vitamins and ‘natural’ skin care regiments, from apple cider vinegar to honey/sugar masks to lemons to… what-have-you. Everything.

I’m betting someone out there is a skin care expert. I just know it! Help?

My other poll is pretty simple. I’ve gotten a couple of recipes and diet tips in the comments so I’m just going to come right out and formally ask for your favorite low-cal recipe, anything from dinners to snacks, drinks, desserts, everything. If I can get them in one place (on this post), I’m gonna try and compile them in a file and maybe post it here, too. So whatever you have, like how you curb cravings, what (and when) do you indulge, are you super-strict with your eating or just generally healthy in your choices? Even vegetarian/vegen recipes would be cool because I’m trying to cut way way down on eating meat.

So! That’s what I got, or rather, that’s what I’m asking. Now I’m gonna go finish that wonderfully exciting chore of laundry! Woohoo! :/

Like

Unlike