Vacay

See you when I get back!

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Ugly Duckling

(I started to write this in a thread on Fet but it got too long so I moved it here)

About this hair business and the desire to cut it.

M is, like the rest of them it seems, a fan of the long locks. So, as you can imagine, I had the long locks, right? Or, at least as long as my hair seemed willing to grow.

Anyway. My hair is thick and frizzy and difficult so I used to layer on the products. Plus I had to dye the gray out frequently because fuck you if I’m gonna be full gray at 41. And what with the blow drying, curling, flat ironing, etc., etc– In other words, after 6 or 7 years it was damaged beyond any repair. And I whined about it being ugly. A lot. Too much.

So.. one day he took me to the salon and directed the scissors to a short length the likes of which I hadn’t had since I met him. It barely touched my shoulders. I couldn’t even pull it back in a pony without copious amounts of pins and barrettes– and then I had a stubby tail poking straight out the back o’ my head.

It *felt* glorious, I ain’t gonna lie.

But he HATED it. I think every day for a month he told me how much he hated it. “I hate your hair, cunt.” Just like that. Every. Single. Day.

Over time, that tapered off to every other day, to once a week, to random announcements. Like, during sex, for instance (cue crying). Or on our way out. At the store. Whenever he looked at me.

I felt like an ugly turd.

Even though he’d been at the helm of the beautician’s scissors, even though it was his decisions to do it, I felt guilty. Because I asked for it. My hair was ugly (or so I thought), but now I *felt* ugly. Cuz I was– to him.

That hair cut took place last summer. Sometime in June, if I remember right.

It was about 2 weeks ago that he stroked my hair, for the first time in months and months, and said that it was beautiful.

It seems a drastic and long suffering move to show me whose definition of ugly really matters. But effective! Boy howdy, does that man know how to teach me a lesson.

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FB

Somebody recently asked me about facebook but I can’t remember who, what, when or where. But you can email me if it was you. :D

(kaya at underhishand dot com)

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Endless Soup and Bread and the fine art of Noticing

In the spirit of moving on, first the soup and bread-

Cheesy Potato Soup

8 to 10 cups of chicken broth (my preference is Better Than Bouillon)
2 carrots, 2 stalks of celery, 1 small onion- diced.
About 10 or so potatoes, diced
Whatever seasonings float your soupy boat (garlic, s&p, bay leaves, parsley, etc.)

Simmer in a large dutch oven until vegetables are tender.

In a separate pot, make a white sauce with 4 tbsp butter, 4 tbsp flour and 2 cups of milk. When thickened, add in 2 to 4 cups of cheese (I like to do equal amounts mild and sharp cheddar). Add cheese sauce to soup, stir until well combined.

If desired, garnish servings with crumbled bacon and/or green onions. Om nom!

This makes a pretty good sized amount of soup. Fills my dutch oven right to the top! And! It’s totally fattening. Ask me how much I care. :P

French Bread

(I use my breadmaker because, well, because I have one. And it’s easy.)

2lb loaf

1 1/3 cups warm water
2 tsp butter, softened
4 cups bread flour
5 tsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp salt
4 tsp bread machine yeast

Set it and forget it!

Eat both the soup and the bread together. Because it’s delicious.

~~*~~

On to noticing.

Remember that post I made a couple of years ago about how Master likes his closet and drawers to be organized?

Well. Over the last couple of months, I’d let it slide. I was just putting the clothes away in no order whatsoever.

When he didn’t say anything, I figured he’d lost interest in that OCD-level of clothes organization. That’s not an unreasonable conclusion to come to. He loses interest in a lot of things. Sometimes he neglects to inform me that he’s lost interest.

In other words, I wasn’t doing it to test him or anything. It was just one of those things, you know? We get busy and little things start to slide. It wasn’t a purposeful act of disobedience, really. Really really.

Anyway. The other day he said something about it. He was digging through his closet for something and pointed out to me how nothing was where it was supposed to be. The T-shirts were mixed with the sweatshirts and the long-sleeved button downs were rubbing the short sleeves of the Polos, and oh! Teh Horror! (grins)

All I said was that it was nice to be noticed.

Not a lot of things get noticed around here these days, as you can imagine.

The thing about me is that I don’t need, want, or even like the good things to be noticed. You know what I mean? I wouldn’t like for him to praise me or pat me on the head every time he opens his closet and sees the clothes are all arranged perfectly.

That should be the expectation, right? That I’m doing what he tells me to do. It shouldn’t be noticed at all.

What makes an impact on me is when he notices that I’m NOT doing what he expects. It’s like a little mental slavery hug when he points something out that I’ve done wrong. Pointing out what I do right, or not noticing either way, makes me drop the ball.

I react far more positively internally to “You could have vacuumed more thoroughly today, cunt” than I do to “The house looks nice, snooks”.

Of course, all of this comes with the caveat that I should do what I know I’m supposed to do anyway and he shouldn’t have to do anything that makes it easier or better for me. Blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. And I should and he shouldn’t. BUT. I’m just sayin’ how it works for me in case he was of a mind to do it my way. ;-)

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“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”

For the question of Can i divorce my child(ren)?, the interwebz best answers are:

Kick them out, call the recruiter, sell the place and go on vacation, keep a PO for mail and tell the kids you’ll be in the Caribbean or the far east, write if you need something,

Tempting. So very tempting.

No advice on what to do with the grandkids, though. Hmmph.

So. Jes is pregnant. Again.

I had to blurt that out there. It’s painful to say.

The last time I had to deliver that news, and the next long while following, almost broke us. Do you remember? I do. Vividly. My fears and reluctance to tell him again were justified I think. It was brutal the last time.

I’ve had about 2 weeks to sit with this news. Some of the shock has worn off, most of that eased considerably by how well Master took the news.

She’s not far along. A month, 6 weeks perhaps. Abortion is out, she’s as pro-life as I am. She did mention adoption but I’m sure that was thrown in there in an attempt to soften the blow when she told me. I don’t believe for a second that she’s going to give up her baby (even if she should). I simply told her that the decision to either terminate, adopt, or keep it was between her and the father.

The father is Babygirl’s father. (Or so she says) That really should be a good thing, right? *At least* they have the same dad. Hahaha! It’s soooooooooo not.

Not only does Babygirl already have a half-sister courtesy of her daddy’s Super Sperm (older by a whopping 6 months. Do the math, people.), a third half-sibling from another girl is due in May.

So, here we have Mr. I-Have-Strong-Swimmers, with 2 kids already and a 3rd on the way, and he has unprotected sex AGAIN? He’s a dumbass. He’s a fucking stupid motherfucker who deserves to spend the next 18 years working for nothing to pay child support for FOUR FUCKING KIDS IN 3 YEARS BY 3 DIFFERENT WOMEN. And not a one of them over the age of 21. Neither is HE. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

As is Jes. STUPID. What the fuck is SHE thinking? The boy hasn’t done fuck-all to help her with Babygirl. He didn’t even show up for the birth, ffs. Let’s see. Was he here for: Formula? No. Diapers? No. Middle of the night feedings? No. Teething? No. Cranky baby? No. Visitation? No. Child support? No. Potty training? No. Bottle breaking? No. Birthday parties? No. Christmas? NO.

So let’s have another one! Whee!

Fucking stupid.

It’s been what, 5 weeks or so since she asked me to take guardianship of Babygirl? (Which, by the way, she’s since changed her mind about. Again.) Knowing that she was struggling with the kid she has she runs off to have unprotected sex? AGAIN?

I cannot comprehend the stupid. From all parties.

Including me! I’m stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Do we know why she didn’t fully learn the consequences of having unprotected sex, peanut gallery? Oh, come on now. Don’t mince your words. This is me you’re talking to. I can take it.

Here, I’ll help you out.

The reason she was careless AGAIN is because she never raised her first kid. I did. She didn’t learn anything. She didn’t have to worry about money, diapers, formula, child care, or the millions of other reasons why SMART people insist on using protection when they’re fertile.

Because I did it for her.

Fuck me. I’d shoot myself if I have a clue where M keeps the ammo.

~glares at the wall and hyperventilates for awhile~

But.

I had a tiny moment of clarity just the other day. Seriously. I was in the kitchen doing some domestic something-or-other, and Jes was on the couch, and I was all frowny-faced, worry-lined, shoulder-slumped when all of a sudden I jerked my head up, whipped around to point my stirring spoon at her and said:

“You are not 16 anymore. THAT? ~waving the spoon in the direction of her stomach~ ain’t my problem. You are TWENTY. You’re an ADULT. This is your family, your children, your life. Not mine.”

And then I smiled.

Because it’s true.

At 16, her problems were my problems. At 20? Not so much.

Here’s what I spent the last 2 weeks coming to realize.

With her–it’s never going to stop. Never. She’s going to exist from one crisis to the next. For YEARS. Maybe for forever. Whether that’s her illness or just her, I can’t say.

No matter how much I do for her, no matter how much I help her solve one problem, she’s going to seek out another one. ON PURPOSE.

(I do apologize for the frequent cap-lock typing. I know it’s irritating. But I’m irritable.)

Being willing to take on one child was one thing. But when does it stop? How do I take in one and not the other, if it comes to that? What if there is a third, God forbid? Taking on two or….more…. is not possible. It’s just not. Not for him.

I have to limit how much of me can be dragged into her issues. I maybe should have done it a long ass time ago, but I’ll excuse that away. I had valid reasons (to me) for it.

I know I’ve said some of this before. Talked all big and tough. But now we’re moving into different territory.

If I don’t set up the boundaries she’s going to ruin me. And, well, I’m owned and I’m not mine-or hers-to destroy.

So, I’m divorcing myself from her problems.

My sympathies are pretty nil.

Except for how this is going to affect Babygirl. She has all my sympathies. The baby-on-the-way isn’t real to me yet, but I already have sympathies for it, too.

I can’t save them.

That’s really the bottom line, and the hardest part to put to rest. I can’t save them. Not Jes, not Babygirl, and not NewBaby. Can’t.

Divorced. And I’m not fighting for custody. :-(

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Escapism, Underestimation and Divorce

Every time I’ve been allowed to sit down in front of the computer, when I’ve had to choose whether to spend my time blogging, reading, Facebooking or Fetlifing- I’ve instead chosen to escape into Grey’s Anatomy, or whatever other drama-ridden show I can find on Hulu.

Do you know why? Because they have more drama than I do! I don’t care if it’s fake, made-up drama. Anything to distract me from my own drama.

I don’t want to talk about how we do “this thing we do” over on Fet. I’m over the judgement, the catty behavior, the snarking and the insulting. Half the people there are online-only, or part-timers, or LDR. They’re all full of plans and dreams and ideas of what it’s going to be. So sure of their plans that they can’t even entertain the idea of it being anything other than what they lie in bed dreaming it to be.

I don’t know anybody who made the transition from LDR/online/part-time to 24/7 and didn’t have to adjust their plans to accommodate the issues of real life.

I’m cynical.

I can’t read any more blathering bullshit and posturing from those who think they’ll be the ones who avoid that pitfall because they believe they have some inside line, some secret knowledge that the rest of us didn’t have. The worst of it coming from those who have never even done this, those poor misguided saps.

I can’t read any more of the bewildered pain from people who made the leap and had their dreams shattered when this “thing we do” ended up being something entirely more difficult and altered in real life than it was on the weekends or through the monitor.

I can’t talk any more about the adjustments and compromises we made as a couple to create this workable version of O/p with people who sit in judgement of how we do it when they aren’t doing it at all.

I’m jaded.

Master and I aren’t who we were 8 years ago. 5 years ago. 3 years ago. “This thing we do” is a shell of its former structure, barely recognizable from where we started. I’m not the same person, nor is he, all in spite of the plans and the determination to create the vision of our fantasies.

Because life is what happens while you are busy making other plans, don’t cha know.

Jobs and finances. Kids. College. Illness. Family. Growth. Change. It all comes no matter how far in the sand you try and bury your head. It’s those people who are set in stone who don’t make it, who can’t make this work. Those people so dead set on what their fantasy is going to become that they cant– won’t– tweak and adjust anything, spending year after year alone, doing nothing more than congratulating themselves on refusing to settle, refusing to compromise, refusing to give, waiting for the ever-elusive Perfect.

What we have? Is not perfect. So very not perfect.

We defy the rules laid out for Owner and property, for Master and slave. We don’t fit. We don’t belong.

He’s fun, and romantic. He’s my friend, my best friend. He changes rules when they don’t work- even if the only person they aren’t working for is me. He values my feelings. He loves me.

He fixed me. He repaired my broken psyche, my frozen feelings, my stunted emotional abilities. Even though doing so changed who I am, altered my need for the darker things, and compromised my desire to fulfill some of his darkness, he let that go. For me. For me.

How do I repay him for this? By doubting his integrity. By betraying his faith in me.

I’ve also stayed away from Fet because I won’t talk the talk when I’m not walking the walk. I’d open the Fetlife page, see the many posts from people ‘doing it right’ and be flooded with guilt and shame, and close it out. I wasn’t walking the walk. So I couldn’t talk.

I needed to deliver some news to him and I didn’t want to. I sat on it for about a week, 5 days in fact, terrified out of my gourd that this was going to be it. This was going to be the last straw. This was going to be the end.

Yet, I had to tell him. HAD to. Property transparency and alla that. Plus, I was LYING, even if only by omission. Every time he asked me what was wrong and I replied that it was nothing. Every time he asked if there was anything he needed to know and I said no. Every time he looked at me with that direct, searching gaze and I averted my eyes, quickly changed the subject, trying to distract him.

I was stuck. My go-to person in times of trouble is him. When I need direction, when I need support, when I need advice, when I need anything… he’s my person (to steal from Grey’s).

I argued with myself. A lot. Berated myself. Cried. Fretted. Tried to examine my options for when he kicked me to the curb. If not because of the news, then surely because, with each passing day, I was damaging the core of our relationship.

Those options, by the way? Bleak. I don’t really have any good ones. I don’t have a job-or any marketable skills anymore. No continued education. I don’t have access to any money. I don’t have a car. Or a house. Or any furniture. I’m 41 years old, which is entirely too old to be moving back in with Mom and Dad (not to mention that my mother and I are currently not speaking to each other, but that’s another entry).

Dependency has fingers that run deep, in all walks. But fuck me if practical dependency isn’t where the real power lies.

So I explored those non-existent options. I kicked myself for being horrible property who wasn’t being transparent. I lectured myself on how this is not the kind of relationship we have. I don’t GET TO hide things from him. We don’t have a relationship based on dishonesty.

“Respect, Discipline, Honesty, Integrity, Focus, Strength, Passion, Faith”. Those are the words HE chose. That’s the synopsis of our relationship. That’s what he wants from me- and more than that, that’s what he gives me.

So great. Now I have guilt. Guilt and fear. Betrayal. I was betraying his expectations. Betraying all of the work he’d put into me. Not living up to the ideal he’d instilled in me for how his property was supposed to behave.

I underestimate him all the time. I underestimated him for 5 days in a row before I couldn’t take it anymore. I was convinced he was going to leave me when I finally sat down to spill it, but I chose that possibility over continuing to feel like I was betraying him.

I knew I could end up unowned. I knew it’d be well within reason. And I still couldn’t live another day feeling like I was violating those 8 chosen words. Respect, Discipline, Honesty, Integrity, Focus, Strength, Passion, Faith.

I disrespected his rule.
I was undisciplined.
I wasn’t honest.
I compromised the integrity of his rule.
I didn’t focus on his ownership.
I was weak, and
I showed indifference to his rule.
I didn’t have faith in him.

I was Dead (Wo)Man Walking when I finally made my shameful way to sit in front of him. I was all full of “I hope’s” and “Please don’t's” and “I can’t's”…

I think I’ve spent the last 8 years waiting for him to toss me away, waiting for the day he wakes up from whatever delusional dream he’s been living in, sees what he’s gotten himself into and disappears for bigger and better things.

How shameful is that, huh?

I underestimate him.

So very shameful.

The reason I’m so easily pulled into the fantasy world of Grey’s Anatomy is because I identify so readily with the unworthy, broken persona of the main character. I get it. I get that tendency to self-sabotage.

I prepared myself for worst-case scenario. What I got was a nod. An “I know.” Not really even a change of expression.

Even though he’s shown me time and time again that he has the ability to roll with the punches, to adjust us and himself to fit with life and doesn’t expect life to fit with his fantasy, I still sat there, ready to follow up my news with obeying the order to pack up and leave.

I underestimated his integrity. His strength, his focus, his passion, his everything. His love, his commitment. My worth.

He hates when I do that. I know he does.

I don’t know if there are going to be consequences for the hiding and the secrecy and the underestimation. Or for the disrespect, the indifference, the weakness, the… seemingly unending list of failings. I don’t know. I can’t predict him.

Maybe it’s enough that I see the error of my ways?

Probably not, but a girl can dream.

As to the ‘divorce’ part of the title:

We are not divorcing. We are fine. He’s… good. He’s okay. That was the underestimation part.

I’m divorcing my daughter, though. More on that later.

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¡Feliz cumpleaños!

M took me shopping for my birthday presents. I got a new blender, with the food processor and smoothie maker attachments (I’ve been rocking out the smoothies lately. Om nom.) to go with it. I also got an immersion blender because I broke mine; and the new Weight Watchers cookbook.

My parents got me a Robo Stir, and a food chopper thing. And a pair of yoga pants.

I am seriously in kitchen gadget heaven. The only other thing I can think of that is a must-have is a bigger George Foreman grill. The one with removable plates. Yes, indeed. I will then be a happy(er) kitchen camper. :)

~~*~~

There’s really not much else to talk about. Nothing has changed with any of the kids since the last time I yammered on about them. Things with M and I just keep rolling on. Nothing new, nothing exciting.

For the last couple of weeks (maybe months, even) I haven’t had much interest in talking about the intricacies of bdsm or about my relationship. It’s working–the bdsm and the relationship, I mean. Sooo.. what’s there to talk about? :)

I’ve also been really, really, REALLY unconcerned with housework. I can’t seem to work up any give-a-fuck about cleaning. I think I’ve given up on it. It’s like that old saying “Cleaning the house before the kids stop growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing.” When it stops snowing, I’ll clean. There.

Now to get Master to see it my way… ;)

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Potty Training my pals

Jack and Jill stopped by last night. They were in the neighborhood and it was good to see them. It’s been about a month or so.

A little about Jill: She’s eensy-weensy. She’s tiny. She’s fun-sized. I don’t know her exact height, but I’m only 5’4″ and when I stand next to her I feel like an Amazon woman.

I suppose she’s accustomed to people treating her like a child because she’s child-sized, right?

However.

I would never have MADE her use Babygirl’s miniature toilet seat when she needed to use the bathroom.

But she did.

I’ve no doubt she fit on it just fine, too, lol.

If she’d have stuck around I’d have given her a sticker, too. Haha!

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I scream, you scream, we all scream for- Well, except me.

He sent me out to the kitchen to fix him a bowl of ice cream.

Creamy french vanilla ice cream, in perfect rounded scoops, very ice cream parlor-esque, mounded up in a white china bowl.

“Put some chocolate on it, if we have any.” He called out from the living room.

We had some. Of course we did. Hershey’s syrup. Mmmm… chocolate… So no, it’s not Godiva. Deprived chocolate addicts aren’t choosy. If a starving man can eat a roach, I can certainly lower myself to snarfing on some Hershey’s chocolate syrup.

A little drip missed and started down the outside of the bowl. Swiping it with my finger, I licked it off. I shouldn’t have. It only ramped up the craving.

“Thanks, cunt.” He said dismissively, straining to see around me when I inadvertently stepped between his face and the television as I handed him the bowl. When I didn’t move he cut his eyes impatiently to the spot on the couch next to him. Message: Sit. Now.

Message received. Message obeyed.

I picked up my glass of water from the end table and took a sip. A noisy sip. A noisy, slurpy little-kid-type sip, designed to say Hey! Ice cream hogger! Remember me! Unfortunately, it was drowned out by the latest explosion of the Bomb Squad–or whatever Dick-Flick he had playing on the tv. Foiled!

I set the water glass on the coffee table in front of us, in plain sight, with a little thump and a little slosh and watched him out of the corner of my eye. He slurped up chocolate-covered ice cream.

I wiped up the slosh. Hmmph.

Inside I had a snivel. Was he really going to eat that giant, gooey, gloppy, delicious-looking bowl of ice cream right in fucking front of me and not even give me a BITE??

I took another drink to quiet the rumble in mah tummy. And then smiled secretly to myself. Of course he wouldn’t do that! He’d give me the last bite, I bet. And probably rib me a little about the diet he had me on or something. He’s so funny!

Grinning, I drank more water and settled back to wait; mouth watering, tummy grumbling, saliva squirting waiting. No problem. I got this. Clever dom wasn’t so clever. I know him too well. Smug cunt was smug.

My attention moved elsewhere for the time being; it was a big bowl. I had time to kill.

Fet. Facebook. Email. Recipes.

The tell-tale sound of a spoon scraping the bottom of a china bowl pulled my attention back and I turned, mouth opening, anticipating that last bite–only to watch the spoon, dripping with chocolate and melted ice cream poking into his mouth. “MmmmM!” he moaned, making a production of licking the spoon, handle and all. “That was gooOOOood, cunt.” Then he got up, carried the bowl to the sink and ran water into it, rinsing away even the clinging hope of licking the bowl.

Sauntering off down the hall he called back, “How’s that water?”

After I’d swallowed the butthurt (and more water), I had to chuckle in appreciation. Fucking sadist. Whoever said BDSM was about whips and paddles has never been to my house. :)

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Menu

1) Cajun Tilapia fillets with a creamy dill sauce (made with plain yogurt and light mayo); brown rice; steamed green beans

2) Honey-mustard glazed chicken breasts; roasted acorn squash; peas

3) Meatless spinach and mushroom manicotti; normandy-blend vegetables

4) Homemade pepperoni pizza for them (leftover spinach and mushroom pizza for me) on whole wheat crust; avocado, tomato, and romaine salad

5) Black Bean and Chicken Chilaquiles; spanish rice.

6) Butternut Squash Soup; turkey pesto panini (? Maybe. I’m undecided on that.)

7) ?? Probably some concoction with leftovers and some corn bread.

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