Now that it’s almost done, I think I have the pms. Because I am backward like that. But, man, I am some kind of irritated. With ev-er-y-thing. The weather, the house, the kids, money, other people, HIM.

Yeah. Him. Sue me. Better yet, spank me for my insubordination. PLEASE. (for the love of all things holy, somebody spank me) He fell asleep during Game of Thrones last night and *snored* so I couldn’t hear the big ending. The nerve! Irritated!

So, yeah. He’s working 7 days a week, 12 to 14 hours a day. Has been since he got back from Canada.

I haven’t had sex since a few days after he got back either. Because first I had that UTI, and then a yeast infection ( i offered once to rub my Wonder Bread vagina in his face and he was not turned on. Inorite?) and then the period all along with him being (understandably) tired.

Too tired for sex is some serious tiredness. He’s not even interested in a blow job.

Plus, other things get neglected besides my vagina. Things around the house and yard, projects that need tending to. I do what I can but I can’t do everything myself.

I have no complaints for him (I save that for you. :D ), this is just life.

My point is(!) bdsm, D/s, slavery, being owned, alla that “hot as fuck” fantasy stuff turns out to look an awful lot like real life. And if one can’t handle life, one shouldn’t be butthurt that bdsm didn’t make it better.

Because it doesn’t fix things. It doesn’t magically disappear the other stuff.

I suppose if a person doesn’t have two mortgages hanging over their head, plus car payments, insurance, utilities, property taxes (two of them, tyvm), plus groceries, gas, tuition, and a million other expenses, then it’s, perhaps, incomprehensible that he’d choose work over sex.

Or work over partying.

Or work over beating a naked girl.

Or work over everything.

But he isn’t that kind of guy. Hedonistic pleasures are wonderful and he likes them as much as the next dude; I promise you he does. But he’s also an adult. A grown up.

I can deal with that. I can deal with not getting laid.

And when… IF… he has a momentary burst of energy and wants to stick his cock in a warm, wet hole, you can bet I’m all up on that shit. Oh, I suppose I could play the passive-aggressive role and say things like ‘But I thought you were busy!’ and ‘Gosh. Sorry. Now I’m too tired.’

But to what gain to either of us?

He’s got a 3 day weekend coming up. He’s not on call (supposedly) and he’s not working. His first plans? Not me. Not sex or play or anything. He’s gonna game. Yup. He’s gonna hang out with some fellow gamers and do what they do.

I’m still not butthurt. Oh I could be. I could probably talk myself into it easily enough if I wanted to. But, jesus, when the sex and the play starts to feel like an obligation, he’s less and less inclined to find any joy in it. (Yeah. Ask me how I learned that lesson. Hmmph.) Who the fuck wants to be part of joyless bdsm? Not this chick.

So maybe I don’t get hot scenes as often as I’d like. I don’t get laid as often as I’d like. We’re missing camp, we’re missing munches and play parties and events that we’d both like to attend. Our friends seem to have given up on us- not that I blame them, really. We’re not fun. We’re not available. He misses those things, too, though. He’s not happy to miss out.

But we’re not always going to be missing that stuff. We’re both making huge sacrifices now so that in the future we’re in a better place to have all that stuff. You reap what you sow, both good and bad.

Neither of us want to (still) be robbing Peter to pay Paul for the rest of our lives. And I don’t mean that just in terms of financial resources, but in everything. Emotional and mental resources, as well. Things are beginning to work out, just as he planned they would.

The payoff is worth it for me. I haven’t been a demanding, entitled, passive-aggressive cunt, and we’ve now got (are creating) this great life together. He is worth it. He’s worth the wait.

Me! Pick me! I’ll be your warm, wet hole. In the meantime, I’ll just be sitting over here, shutting the fuck up and cooking dinner.

(Well, you know, except for here. This is my angsty-haven. He games. I blog. Heh.)

Somewhere along the way having a contract just became… silly. For us. If the rest of you have one, more power to you. It’s just not something we need, and was really never anything he followed when we had one. Seems like it was one of those things the internet said we should have so we had it and then promptly forgot it.

Here’s what it used to be. I crossed out what no longer applies and made notes on other things:

General Rules.

Slave will place a fresh glass of water by the bed at bedtime. (This one was super strict for awhile, then went away entirely, and has recently been reinstated.)

Slave will apply lotion to Master’s feet every night.

Slave will ask respectfully for the collar and chain. Master will hold the key.

Slave will sleep naked.

Slave will make coffee in the morning.

Master will state a request once and only once.

Slave will answer promptly.

Slave will follow the chore list daily. (see chore list at end of page) (I no longer have a list to follow. I’m just supposed to keep the house clean, e’ery day.)

Slave will ask for permission to use the bathroom, to eat, to use the computer, to use the furniture.

Slave will hold onto the Master’s belt, hand or loop while walking. (This is kind of still enforced. It really depends on his mood.)

Slave will not block or move away from Master’s touch.

Slave will address Master as “Sir” or “Master” when appropriate.

Slave will write in her journal a minimum of three times a week, daily when Master is out of town.

When school is out for the summer, tasks and nipple clamping can be done before the kids wake up and after they go to bed. Butt plug can be inserted in the bathroom or bedroom.

~~*~~

So anyway, what I really got to thinking about was how, if someone new comes along and ends up at some of these older entries and then flips to the current ones, it must seem like we’re not even the same people. Or that we’re flighty or something. The changes that have been made and how different we are now to who we were then- it’s HUGE. The fact that it took 6 years for us to change into what/who we are now probably doesn’t translate well to the person who is reading it over the course of a day or a week.

Some of the things I wrote back then? Yeah. Wow. I am not that girl now. He’s not the same guy. He doesn’t have the same interests, he’s not even the same sort of dominant he was 6 years ago.

Some days I really really miss what we had back then. Other days I realize I’m old and tired and I don’t want to wear nipple clamps all day or stand in the corner anyway.

Plus, I really like sitting on the couch. The floor is hard. For real.

I am:

“You feel tense and nervous and often feel like something dangerous is about to happen.” With him around, it likely does.

“You generally see others as selfish and devious.” Him. I see HIM as selfish and devious.

“There are times when you believe a certain amount of deception is necessary in social relationships.” Um, again, just him.

“Often you do not feel effective, and may have a sense that you are not in control of your life.” snort

“People generally perceive you as distant and reserved and you do not usually reach out to others.” Because he won’t let me!

Weaknesses:

“You can get bossed around easily.” snickersnort

Strengths:

“Rarely bored.” Who has TIME? Again with the selfish and devious part!

~~*~~

Though I have nothing to compare it to, I’m certain he’s ruined my personality. Surely, I was less neurotic (I scored a 90% on the neurotic scale) and much more conscientious (I got a 0% there.)

He’s a bad man.

~beams~

A 50-freaking-percent off sale!

Go forth and save money by spending money. That’s how I roll.

It’s magically easy. So easy and so magical I called my MOTHER(*) to share it with her!

It’s all about corn on the cob and the horrors of cleaning those millions of silky little threads that are never, ever completely removed and get stuck in between your teeth like corn-flavored floss.

Okay, maybe for most people cleaning corn it isn’t a “horror”. But here’s a little back story that puts my personal horror into perspective.

So, I grew up in a house in the country surrounded by cornfields. I mean that literally. Our driveway was (is, as my parents still live there) a quarter mile long, single car wide dirt lane cut right down the middle of a corn field, that leads to the house sitting on about a half acre of cleared land that is completely circled by corn fields.

Here; I drew a picture to help you visualize:

Walking down to catch the school bus in the early morning darkness became an “experience” after Children of the Corn came out, let me tell you.

The guy who owns the farmland is a personal friend of my parents who also happens to be the guy who sold them the house. Like, they went to grade school together or some such thing. So when Farmer Bob was out working the corn fields, my dad was usually helping or my mom was running out lemonade and other such 1950′s stuff.

Because Farmer Bob is a nice guy, and because my parents had more kids than they knew what to do with (nine. NINE.), he always invited my parents to help themselves to as much corn as they wanted, provided they weren’t selling it or anything.

So they did help themselves. And we had to help them. Bushels full of corn, folks. Corn every night when it was in season. Corn picked to be canned. Corn picked to be frozen. Corn, corn, corn.

I remember many a hot summer day sitting on the porch shucking corn, with a bucket between my knees to catch the corn husks.

And the threads. The stubborn, stuck on, millions of tiny threads. Pick, pick, pick.

I had blisters. That’s not even hyperbole, I swear. I had blisters from shucking corn. (Farmer Bob alternated his corn crop with green beans. Ask me how much I like snapping beans. >:-| )

Anyway! Even though I like the taste of corn, when I moved out on my own, I bet it was years before I touched a corn cob. Hate shucking corn. Hate picking threads off. Hate eating the threads. Hate. Hate. HATE.

But it’s so yummy, you know? All smothered in hot, melty butter and sprinkled with salt and pepper. Mmmm. So I’ve relented over the years and I make corn on the cob sometimes. Once or twice a season, maybe. Plus, Babygirl chows it down like in the cartoons, type-writer style, until she’s got little corn kernels all over her cheeks and nose. “MOAR CORN, BEEBAW!” Who can deny that? Not this granny!

So when I read this little tip on Pinterest, I figured since I’ve literally tried cooking corn on the cob every other way EVAR, why not give it one more go?

I’ll tell you how it goes. It. were. beautiful. That’s how.

Here’s what you do. Make sure you’re rested; it’s exhausting.

Take an ear of corn and do nothing to it. Nothing. Don’t shuck it. Don’t open it. Don’t cut it. Don’t pull off a single thread. Put it in your microwave for 4 minutes(**). That’s IT.

Put it in, turn it on, walk away.

Until it beeps and then you gotta walk back, but bring oven mitts. That little bugger is HOT.

Put the steamy ear of corn on a cutting board, take a big knife and saw off the root end (is there an official name for the root end? I don’t know.)

Here’s the magic part. Ready?

Using your oven mitts, hold the ear of corn up, cut end down, and squeeze. Your steamed to tender-crisp perfection, and PERFECTLY SILK FREE piece of corn on the cob will slide right out the cut end. Perfectly.

I forgot to take pictures, so let me draw you another one:

Perfect corn. Perfectly easy.

I made six ears, it took me about 25 minutes. It’d take me that long, or longer, to shuck, de-thread, and boil six ears.

I was amazed. Inappropriately so, perhaps.

Probably because of the memory of those blisters. ~nods~

(*)She was unimpressed by the way. I mean, of course she was. Not because she already knew of this trick-o-the-trade, but because she’s convinced the microwaves radiate your brain. Did you know I grew up in a microwave-less house? I was so deprived. You have no idea.

(**)In my microwave, which is fairly powerful, it took 4 minutes per ear. Less powerful microwaves might take a few more minutes.

I got up (again), and finished up the housework and some laundry. Then Babygirl and I took her Mommy out for lunch for Mother’s Day, and then to the store so she could pick out her present. She chose to buy a couple of summery outfits that’ll work for maternity wear and non-maternity wear.

Of course, Babygirl had to get a few things, too. Namely, pirate-themed dishes. Because she’s awesome.

I was gifted with a silver picture frame that says “Grandma’s angels” on it; some gourmet coffee (chocolate strawberry, and it’s yummy!); flowers; Lindt chocolates; socks (I love new socks!); pretty cards and… a dog. Heh. (more on that after the cut)

After getting home from shopping, I made dinner. We had steak smothered in mushrooms, onions, and melted swiss cheese; baked beans; coleslaw; and brownies for dessert, though neither of us had one.

When dinner was done, M and I took the dogs for a walk, and then snuggled up on the couch to watch Game of Thrones. Then we went to bed.

And had sex.

Actually we didn’t have sex. M was too tired. Having sex would have pushed the day from nearly perfect to perfect. But s’okay. There’s always today. And tomorrow… the next day… the next…

Life is good that way. :)

~~*~~

He actually got the dog for me about 10 days ago. Her name is Gracie and she’s a pitbull mix, though we don’t know what she’s mixed with. She’s sweet and gorgeous and rambunctious and still a whole lot of puppy. She’s somewhere around 10 months old.

We became aware of her through a local Shar Pei rescue group who’d ended up with her after being contacted by a kill shelter that was just about to put her down. She was in such bad shape when they got her, 90% covered in demodex mange, malnourished, and so swollen that they mistook her for a Shar Pei puppy. They didn’t have a lot of hope at first that she was even going to pull through- but she did, obviously, and spent about 4 or 5 months in recovery- during which it became obvious she isn’t a Shar Pei at all. Soooo… they needed to rehome her.

We did a lot of talking with the foster home, a couple of meetings, dog intros, home visits, vet phone calls. She and Trusty are getting along great so far. There are no signs of aggression. She’s gentle with Babygirl, she’s playful and snuggly and kennel trained and housebroken.

We did a lot of thinking on whether we were willing to attempt having another dog or not. There was no question that we *wanted* a second dog, but given the outcome with Xena, we were hesitant. The fact is, though, that while we had Xena, we improved her situation regardless of her not ending up being a permanent placement with us. Xena spent her day locked in a kennel; when we picked her up she was dirty and she smelled horrible. We got her updated on her shots (she’d never had any); we paid to have her spayed, and cleared up an infection she had. She was then adopted out to someone else.

In the criteria of animal care, if a placement is an improvement, it’s not a failure. Though we’d intended to be Xena’s ‘forever home’, we ended up serving more as a foster. I’m okay with that. She didn’t fit with us, but we didn’t set her back, either.

Gracie, due to her being in the wrong rescue group, needed to be rehomed asap so they could provide for the breed they were there for. So she was facing being placed in a shelter anyway. Pitbulls aren’t easy to adopt out from shelters. There are already a couple of pitties in our local shelter that have been there for awhile. Is her situation worsened by being with us over being in a shelter for a few months, and possibly being put down? I don’t think so.

So. Justifiable or not, this is my Mother’s Day gift from M. I am thrilled with her. We’ve no intention of being temporary, but even if we are, she’ll be loved and happy and taken care of for as long as we have her.

(^That^ is on sale, should anyone else do more than think about doing it.)

This one; I mean, gosh, he’s so fond of spikey things and all.

~~*~~

This next one goes in the ‘Things I Will Never Want To Do To Master’ file:

ADD length and girth? That’d be a big, fat nothankyouverymuchsir!

~~*~~

And this one just looks like a turd. I’m trying hard to understand the appeal. o.O

I think time was the worst culprit. He doesn’t have a lot of it. Don’t I complain about that constantly? I do. So, yeah, time and prioritizing.

She deserves someone who has time and who makes her a priority. M’s priority is himself– I mean, let’s call it like it is, right? Doing what he does, being who he is, is a pretty selfish, self-serving “job”–with the rest of us (me, kids, grandbaby, dogs, household responsibilities) falling on a sliding scale behind him.

The idea that another wouldn’t need to be prioritized was foolish. She is not me and I’m (mostly) used to/okay with being deprioritized if that’s what he wants to do. His intentions were good, I know this because he’s a good man at heart. But reality and life being what they are…

Anyway. :-(

O.O

Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Yesterday’s doubts appear to have dissipated and you are busy moving forwards. Try to use this energy to start new projects and make important decisions. Since everything is taking care of itself and you feel at ease with what you are doing, you can enjoy success across the board. Don’t become involved in too many projects, otherwise your inner balance will come under threat and you will risk burning yourself out.

There. You see? My inner balance has been restored. Probably due to antibiotics. -snicker-

However! Did you see this comment from magdalene in the last post? Because, yes.

I have told my Master that for me, it’s like a railing on the stairs. I don’t go around pushing against the railing all the time. But I like knowing it’s there and that it will keep me from falling. Sometimes, for whatever reason, I start to wonder if that rail is still sturdy enough. If I lean against it and it wobbles, I get worried. Yes, I could just try not to ever lean on it and then I could tell myself it’s sturdy even if it might not be… but I really feel better if I know it’s sturdy for sure.

^THAT!^

Having a wobbly railing doesn’t make me unhappy or miserable or a bitch or a whiner or not true or whatever other spin gets put on it. It makes me feel unsafe, the end. I want to fix it. The end. If he doesn’t? If he’s got other plans in mind for staircase design, so be it. I’ll deal. I always do.

BUT! Sometimes, he’s not aware that the railing is getting loose if I don’t tell him. He’s not a mindreader. He’s a busy, self-absorbed, preoccupied man. And dude. He’d be pissed if I didn’t tell him and then I fell off the steps. Pissed, I tell you.

Sometimes it’s him having to tell me that I’m dangerously close to the edge. Sometimes it’s me having to tell him the edge is wobbly. It’s really not an indication of bigger, deeper problems.

That’s my final answer, Regis.

(I really mean it this time!)

(Maybe.)

(Shup!)

In other news, B-man is going to prom this weekend. Prom is stupidly expensive. Since when are we still living in an age where the boy is expected to pay for everything? -grump-

Am finished her first year of college. I don’t think she’s gotten her final grades yet, but she’s not the least bit worried about having passed. She’s doing well at her job, too. Go Am! :)

Jes is… meh. The sickness has eased up some. She even showed a weight gain (3 whole pounds!) at her last appointment, which is better than the losses she’d been showing. She’s still down over 10 pounds, but at least she’s going in the right direction. She’s still having other complications, though. Her BP is incredibly low (in the 80/40 range; give or take a few numbers), and she ends up feeling dizzy, weak, short of breath, and feels like she might faint.

And, she just had an ultrasound yesterday because Dr. thought 1) she might have too much amniotic fluid, and 2) that her placenta is too low and she wants to keep an eye on it. Jes said that at the ultrasound, the technician spent a large amount of time focusing on the baby’s heart so now she’s worried there’s something wrong with it. I just told her to not panic before the Dr. gave her the results. If they were instructed to do a thorough ultrasound, then that’s what they did. There’s no point in stressing over what you can’t change or control.

Anyway, she and Babygirl spend a good bit of time here still, coming over for dinner or for a couple hours in the afternoon, but I’m weaning them off of me. It’s a lot easier to let Jes make her own decisions about Babygirl (in regards to things like bedtime, eating, etc.) when what she’s doing isn’t affecting the rest of us. If midnight is bedtime at her house, good for her– because it’s not keeping me or M up until midnight. And Jes is learning for herself that a tired 2 year old = a cranky 2 year old, and having to put up with a cranky 2 year old is less fun than enforcing an earlier bedtime. :)

Did I tell you that her and baby-daddy are talking marriage again? Good for them, I say. Let’s do it. I’m all for it. I’m not holding my breath, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

I guess that’s all I got. Tata for now!