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!

I have antibiotics and AZO. I’m good to go.

I’m just dying to have one more go at explaining myself but it’s pretty useless, isn’t it? It’s not about doing the fucking dishes, and the people who get it get it. The ones who don’t never will.

Example #1:
“Master, my butt hurts and this njoy was the dumbest purchase EVAR!”

“Okay, cunt. Take it out.”

vs

Example #2″
“Master, there’s something not quite right going on down there. I don’t know if I’m getting a UTI or if the njoy is irritating something or what’s going on.”

“Okay, cunt. Take it out for awhile and let’s see what’s up.”

Of course, that also relies on me being honest and not pretending that #1 is #2. Obviously I could spin a story to appeal to his sympathies (because he really is a nice guy), but he counts on me not to do that. Likewise, I count on him to not cave into #1. Because I’m a masochist and I need a little bit of uncaring. Except for when I don’t.

God. What’s so hard to understand? lol

Fuck it. To be honest, I’m getting a little defensive about the whole thing. The whole needs/wants bullshit. How dare I expect anything from him! How dare I prefer to be happy! How dare I care enough about our relationship to speak up when it’s stalling!

I failed Meek 101. Heh.

Anyway. It’s not nearly as serious of a problem as some are taking it. We’re neither unhappy or splitting up. So there.

And! If what he wants is a different style, then he’s only got to clue me in. It’s not like I’m going to leave if he’s decided on a less strict version of living. I love being his, in whatever capacity that ends up being.

~~*~~

I’m sick. Blergh. It’s making me cranky. I don’t know what’s wrong. I thought it was maybe a UTI, but now I’m not so sure. I’m just icky.

And I just had to pick B-man up from school. Must be something going around.

I’m gonna go mope in private. Later taters.

I think it’s dishonest to pretend that the slave doesn’t have needs, or that they can’t be proactive in getting their needs met, or, worse, that they expect their owner to actually meet those needs.

Maybe some people really don’t care. Maybe they really don’t have any needs outside of what the owner chooses to do. It’s not something I can comprehend but if it’s true for them, that’s wonderful.

However, it is not true for me.

I risked a lot to search out this sort of relationship. I put a lot on the line, made a lot of sacrifices. I have a vested interest in making this work.

He and I didn’t “just happen”. We weren’t already involved and then organically grew into an Owner/property relationship style. Maybe that’s where some of the disconnect in comprehension happens between myself and others. A lot of them say that O/p wasn’t even something they wanted or deliberately set out to have. It “just happened” for them. So, maybe for them it’s not so disconcerting to have things appear to be slipping.

For me, it is. It’s disconcerting. In the thread I said ‘So when/if he does things that are in direct opposite of that “lifestyle” it does not make me feel loved. It does not give me warm fuzzies or make me feel treasured or delighted or any of those things. What it makes me feel is uneasy, threatened, unstable, and scared.’

I cannot be the property he wants without his firm guidance and iron-clad standards. The whole process requires his participation, his interaction, his input. It requires, quite simply, his dominance. Without it– I have no footing.

So when he chooses to “be nice” (which is how the whole thread started), when he chooses to be kind to me, to excuse my failings and undesirable behaviors, I don’t walk away feeling like he’s done me a favor.

I have no doubt that HE does. I’m positive he thinks he’s done me a great kindness. I wish he wouldn’t, though. It’s not a kindness to me to make cracks in the foundation of my life.

When he doesn’t follow through on a threat, when he forgets a punishment or a promise, when he fails to provide the direction or guidance I need– instead of feeling like I dodged a bullet, I lose a little more of the spark. I lose faith. I lose… I just lose.

It’s a conundrum– for me and for him. On the one hand, I really do want it to be about him. So does he. So if he wants to give me a free pass on a failing, he should do so.

On the other hand… I end up feeling what I feel, regardless of the understanding that it’s his way or no way.

I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve had far too many people message me about it. Sometimes I wonder if, for all their brains, D-types have the slightest clue how people like us tick.

And I’m not buying into that “Oh we know, but we do it because we’re sadists!” excuse, either. I think that’s a cop out. That’s a “that’s my story and I’m sticking to it” line. An “I meant to do that” cover. In other words: bullshit.

You don’t drive your car into a concrete post because it’s funny. And you don’t make your property lose faith in you because it tickles you, either. If you do, you’re a fool. You do it because you’re misunderstanding something.

Before I leave you with the impression that M and I are on some direct path to a cement post, we’re not. He does have a tendency to do me favors-that-aren’t-favors and it does indeed have the opposite effect on me that he’s probably going for, but we’re not floundering. I wouldn’t object to a heavier hand, though. I mean, if we’re talking about feeling loved and all, then that’s what makes me feel loved and safe. Consistency. Firmness. Unyielding. That equals love. The other stuff equals insecurity.

I’m easy that way. Honest.