A Slave Among Drivers

These Scabs Won't Pick Themselves

2011-12-10T15:31:00.001-05:00

There's been some discussion in the O/p group on Fet about telling the truth even when it's something your owner doesn't want to hear. I didn't contribute much. All I said was that I'm balls at it.

And I am.

I'm worse than that.

I have not been good to the Captain lately. I have acted in ways I am deeply ashamed of. I have hurt him.

I haven't been telling the truth. I haven't been telling him Hey, holy shit, the meds aren't working and I'm hurting and fucked up and I hate myself and I know I'm not allowed to physically hurt myself, so I'm going to lash out and act like an asshole until you're so hurt you hurt me back and I can feel like I'm getting what I deserve. I haven't been saying There are things that scare me and worry me and that I hate and resent and I should have said so years ago but I never wanted to upset you so here we are and I'm a jerk. I haven't been saying much of anything that I should have.

So here we are. We're muddling through. He's hurt. I'm mortified. We're still together.

We always will be.

Apology

2011-12-04T16:58:00.001-05:00

The baby doesn't sleep. Ever.

I need to increase my Celexa. Now.

I'm not up to blogging. Sorry.

Triumphant Return

2011-11-20T21:24:00.001-05:00

We're back from our weekend away. I'm feeling very loved up right now.

40ish hours with my owner, my kids, good friends and their children. A whole weekend away from phones, television and internet (not to mention the housework here - why is it always more satisfying to tidy up someone else's house?). A couple of days where everyone got along and had a good time. Babies passed from adult to adult, children snuggled by every set of arms available, voices creating a constant, good-natured babble.

And the smaller joys - two moms (me! one of them was me!) leaving the kids behind to bring home groceries and treats, and a latte and a cheeseburger before coming home. Sleeping in. Drinks! (Wild woman here had a glass of cava and a cider. I'm out of control, I tell you.) All sorts of yummy nibblies. Naps. S'mores on the wood burning stove when the bonfire was rained out. Good coffee.

Oh, and the sex. That's what you're really interested in, right? :D

The frantic, who-knows-when-someone-will-walk-into-the-room sex on the couch, pants roughly pulled down to my knees and hands slamming me down onto his cock.

The late morning, time-to-get-up sex. Hands around my throat, ripping the skin off my hips and ass, pinching my nipples, grabbing handfuls of breast and tearing at them, smacking my face.

The we're-supposed-to-be-packing, someone-foolishly-left-herself-alone-in-the-bedroom sex, my face pressed down into the blankets, silently screaming as the Captain forced himself into my ass and made rough use of me. I'm still feeling that one.

And to think, I nearly begged the Captain to call the whole trip off on Friday, because Quattrus's condition was acting up and I felt nervous about being away from our doctors and the children's hospital. I'm glad I held my tongue. We had a wonderful time. And, of course, Quattrus was in perfect shape the whole time we were there. :P

P.S. At one point the Captain announced that his foot was itchy, so I leaned over and scratched it for him. (Meanie. He knows feet squick me out.) One of our friends looked up incredulously and asked "Do you ever do anything for yourself?" I giggled inside.

So long, suckers!

2011-11-18T17:51:00.001-05:00

We're headed up North for the weekend. Wish me serenity and intestinal fortitude as we drive for 3 hours with 4 kids in the car.

See you next week!

VBA - [Insert witty acronym joke here]

2011-11-17T09:13:00.001-05:00

So Girl Deviante and my darling MT over at Sparkling Scars tagged me in on this Versatile Blogger Award thing. The idea, apparently, being that once tagged, I am supposed to share seven facts about myself and then tag fifteen blogs that I read. Spread a little blog lovin', direct people to the places I think deserve recognition, etc. and suchlike.

Let's do this.

1) I am extremely voooooooooonerable to orders like "Just relax for a bit" when the alarm goes off in the morning. More sleep? Okay!

2) I didn't break myself of the "two spaces after a period" rule until I started using Twitter.

3) I have a deep and abiding love for Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate from Starbucks.

4) Also, split pea soup. I love it all. I don't care if it's homemade or it comes from the Habitant can. I want it all.

5) I seem to have inherited my mom's dicky back and cranky sciatic nerve. Huzzah for heredity!

6) I'm a nutrition nerd, but not that kind of nutrition nerd. You know the kind I'm talking about. The "Try my carob and zucchini brownie! You can't even taste the spirulina and goat hair!" kind. I guess if you can eat that and feel like you're eating a brownie, rock out. But I am not among that number.

7) You see that ecard? Well, that's taking things a bit too far. I'm outdoorsy in that I like looking at patios. Despite this, I am manic about having fresh air in the house whenever possible.

Now for the tagging!

To be honest, I don't think I'm going to tag any perv blogs in on this one. The same blogs are going to show up on just about every award list because, let's face it, the circle is small (why not tell us all and then all of us will know...). Perv bloggers are awesome. Read 'em. But here are 15 blogs I read that don't typically talk about genitals.

1) Weighty Matters - Canadian bariatric doctor Yoni Freedhof weighs in (ha! I really didn't do that one on purpose) about nutrition and weight loss.

2) CBC's Inside Politics Blog - Come for the Evan Solomon, stay for the Kady O'Malley!

3) Lisa Freemont Pages - Ham... with a side of cheesecake!

4) Destination 1940 - Okay, I know the blog hasn't been updated in a year and a half, but it's still a great read!

5) The 1940s Experiment - One woman's journey to lose 100lbs by surviving on wartime rations. Neat!

6) 100 Days of Real Food - A family's tale of cutting out processed foods.

7) Food Politics - Marion Nestle's blog.

8) Jen But Never Jenn - Funny. Also home of the 1950s Housewife Experiment. Also also? Canadian!

9) Crunchy Betty - Blog and crunchy living community.

10) The Apron Revolution - 50s Gal spent two years living the 1950s lifestyle and runs an excellent blog.

11) Things Your Grandmother Knew - Tips and tricks from a different age.

12) Organized Home - Home organization tips.

13) Chronically Vintage - A vintage lookbook/scrapbook sort of blog.

14) The Hook - It's The Tyee's blog. Because for someone who has lived in Ontario my whole life, I sure do spend a lot of time analyzing BC politics.

15) Rabble blogs - At rabble.ca, because, you know, the politics thing.

LOL 6 - Love Our Lurkers

2011-11-10T00:33:00.000-05:00

It's just past midnight here, Eastern Standard Time. That means that LOL 6 has officially begun!

I think all of you - whether you're a regular or this is your first visit, whether you comment or stay silent - are balls to the wall crazyawesome. The fact that you come by and read about my life is genuinely neat. And for those of you who feel like you get something of value from my blog, I'm genuinely humbled.

So in honour of LOL 6, I am offering up a little audience participation incentive. For every comment left in the next 24 hours, the Captain will hit me with a different suckful thing. Photos will be provided.

♥ to you all, lurkers!

I'm A People, Like You

2011-11-08T11:10:00.000-05:00

One of the nice concomitant effects of being home is that the Captain is starting to buckle down on me again.

Well, I think it's nice.

Sometimes.

The fact is that after a year and a smidge of being given my head and kind of doing my own thing, I'm having some trouble adjusting to reintroduced protocols. Being made to sit on the floor, for example, is really bothering me. And while I previously found sitting at his feet to be soothing, after 14 or so months of getting up on the furniture like a people, it is beyond me to not feel as though I'm being punished for some vague, unexplained infraction.

Troubling, too, are the early signs of dietary restriction. It wasn't that long ago in my personal history that dietary restriction was one of the fastest, easiest ways to keep my head in check. Now just knowing that it's going to start up again soon makes me crabby. You don't come between a bitch and her food. Am I right or am I right? Jesus.

I find, too, that when he hits me, pinches me or otherwise painfully molests me, I do not submit with dewy-eyed wonder. cough I mostly feel indignant and sometimes try to get him back, because, well, he's fucking hurting me.

Still, there are some signs that I'm coming around. I'm finding contentment in getting his work things ready. I haven't been too forgetful about making his coffee. I'm learning to deal with him controlling the money and I occasionally suspect I might even manage a soupçon of grace about it. (Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahahahaha. Okay, maybe not.)

But... just.. blargh. This slavery shit is hard work. Did any of you know that?

Hollow

2011-11-05T16:08:00.000-04:00

I've really been neglecting poor ol' Bloggy lately. And I do apologize, because presumably you people who keep coming back here are clearly are interested in seeing updates. But... feh. You know? Feh. I'm going through a phase where I'm really just not invested in the idea of dissecting my experiences here right now.

Moving on.

Last night was a challenge for me. Without getting into a whole lot of specifics, the Captain had me do something that was similar to something that has fucked me up in the past. And I really, really didn't want to do it. Poor M had to deal with a whole week of me breaking down, then apologizing for breaking down, then breaking down again. I really just wanted to beg him to call it off, to promise me it wouldn't happen, to take me down to our bed and hold me in the dark and whisper that he would never make me do unpleasant things ever again.

I didn't beg. Which is good, because begging wouldn't have made a difference anyhow. And I got through it. And it was different and it was as fine as the Captain had promised it would be. And I survived. I even had one of those wonderful, peaceful, I-am-full-of-trust-and-I-am-yours moments after.

But today feels a little hollow. I thought today would bring one of those big decompression breakdowns, but instead I just feel... blah. A bit out of sync, a bit unsettled, a bit freaked out. Not enough that I can just have a big sob and get over it, but enough to keep me feeling out of sorts. HATE.

I really just want to curl up in bed with a book and a cup of tea and stay there until my head is sorted. I can't, of course, because I have all sorts of things I ought to be doing. It's what I want, though.

And in cheerier news, the Captain started talking again about having me permanently marked. Then he learned that most artists won't tattoo a nursing woman, so I guess that's off the table for another while. Sigh.

The Etiquette Post

2011-10-29T23:03:00.000-04:00

Hey, if you ever want to introduce some protocol into a practically no-protocol dynamic, just get yourself a house with servant's stairs.

I swear, my head almost swims with all the stair rules. Take the front stairs when the kids are awake, because I must show them I am in charge of the house in the Captain's absence. Take the back stairs when the kids are in bed. Always take the front stairs when carrying the baby, because "the boy doesn't go down the servant's stairs". (Bonus hilarity points if you refer to the baby as "the young Master".)

Okay, I guess that's only three rules. Still, coming from having never had to consider stairs in any way, it's rather a lot to take on board. I mean, they're stairs, for fuck's sake.

And speaking of segues, I have a language question, because I'm a language nerd and I think about these sorts of things.

The other night I got to thinking about how so often one hears English-speaking subs and slaves insist that they don't address anyone other than their own bossy-sort with an honorific, because no one else is the boss of them, et cetera and so forth. And I was thinking how very glad I am that English doesn't have a formal you form like, say, French or German, because I have a hard enough time remembering to switch to calling the Captain "Master" after the kids are in bed. Having to switch from an informal tu or du to a vous or Sie every day would probably do my head in.

Which brings me, in my roundabout way, to my question. If you speak a language that already has a formal you, do you habitually address other toppy types with it? Do you only use it until you are introduced and acquainted and then switch to the informal you? Do you have particular orders regarding the use of the formal and informal you? Do you snub people you don't especially care for by using the formal you with them?

Please, let me know. This has been bugging me for a couple of days. :D

O/p Is So Sexy

2011-10-28T12:58:00.000-04:00

Do you ever have one of those months where you move into a new house, experience everyone in your house coming down with various gastrointestinal viruses, have your baby referred to a specialist and still need to unpack, cook, clean, mind the children and occasionally try to sleep? If you have, you'll probably understand why I haven't blogged in over a week.

And then, do you ever have one of those days where you finally go to blog, but you're arguing with the appliance place about when your fridge is going to be delivered (and reminding them that their shitty repairs have left you without a functional fridge for two full weeks), and your infant figures out how to remove his diaper and copiously evacuates his bowels all over your bed, and you hear your toddler gagging only to have her run up to you hysterically screaming that she swallowed "Daddy nunny!" and you congratulate her for being the first of your children to swallow a coin as she makes herself retch and you still have 4 more loads of laundry to fold and you broke one of your favourite tea mugs from your grandma?

Just me, then?

Carry on.

Weekend Update

2011-10-15T13:29:00.000-04:00

The weather is definitely autumnal here. Every day I fight the war between being cheap and being cold. So far being cheap is winning and I haven't turned the heat on. My goal is to make it through the month. If I can make it to mid-November I'll be very proud of myself.

Of course, there's Quattrus to consider. He's decided to try his hand at being a bit of a medical oddity these days. I'm not sure letting the house get chilly is the best thing for him. Then again, I'm not sure it's any worse for him, either. He seems happy enough. Hopefully in a few weeks we'll have a better idea what, if anything, is happening with him.

The Captain has taken to having me sit on the floor while we watch TV at night again. I admit that I had a bit of a cranky moment when the cat got to curl up on the couch and I had to hit the parquet. I think I kept it to myself, mostly, although I did accuse the cat of taunting me with her contented purrs.

Captain: "I know the location of everything in the universe, down to the tiniest particle. You will immediately forget this conversation the next time I lose my keys."

I was going to attend the local Occupy movement today, but I feel like I've been run over by a large vehicle. Possibly one that's hauling pig shit. I just want to curl up in bed and stay there for a week or so.

Split pea soup for dinner tonight, bitches.

The Owner's Guide To A Happy Cunt

2011-10-10T17:46:00.000-04:00

Give her permission to yank the skanky carpet runner up from the stairs.

Take her to the discount meat market/grocer and let her buy a shit tonne of groceries for almost $30 less than she had estimated the bill would be.

Let her endlessly listen to Shake It Out without ordering her to turn it off.

Let her babble on about converting the gardens to food production and heirloom seeds.

Let her sleep in 3 days in a row.

Let her go to yoga classes two nights a week. ("Oh yes, I'm a saint. In a few months when I can twist you into a pretzel and leave you like that we'll see how selfless I am." - The Captain)

Let her have her friends over for fun visits of tea and more boring garden talk.

Suggest a grain mill might be in her future next year.

Dolla Dolla Bills

2011-10-07T23:20:00.000-04:00

Well, fuck. I didn't see this coming.

I know a great whacking gob of you on the bottom half don't have control of the household finances. And most of you seem to be doing just fine with that. And oh my god, all the more power to you.

I never expected this to happen to me. Me! Fairly early on in our O/p the Captain said that he wanted me to be in control of all the money stuff - day to day budgeting, bill payments, investments, whatever. He hated money, didn't want to deal with it beyond saying "I need $60 for gas", it was my bag to hold.

And I loved that, in a lot of ways. I like money. Not in the sense that I need to have a lot of money, but I do like making money work for me. Money is my bitch.

Today he decided that he's taking charge of all the finances. And I am freaking. the fuck. OUT.

(Graceful submission I am not.)

And now... uh... I guess this is the point where I put the finances out of my head and trust Mah Man to handle them, right? Because I'm not seeing a whole lot of options here.

A Spilling Cupful of Thanks

2011-10-06T10:02:00.001-04:00

Proper Thanksgiving is nearly upon us (not that strange Thanksgiving the Americans do after it's cold and snowy). I'm feeling the urge to commit acts of public thankfulness. If you'll be kind enough to indulge me, I'm sure I'll be bringing the snark again soon.

To the Captain: I tried thanking you for everything - from the gilded cage to the depraved sex to the love to the all the rest of it, but that turned out to be a lot of words and still didn't do the trick. So instead, I just want to say "thank you for my life." You're a better man than I ever hoped to meet, or even really believed existed. Also, you're sexy and hung like a freight train, assuming that train had a huge dick. ♥

To SP: Thank you. A million times over, thank you. Thank you for knowing the difference between spaetzle and galuska. Thank you for always knowing how to make me laugh. Thank you for clucking sympathetically when I call, hysterical and snotty. Thank you for calling me when you're hysterical and snotty. Thank you for being the best damn depressed mommeigh in the world and a better friend than I could have ever hoped for.

To SIL and MIL: Thank you for being better family than the one I was born into. I love you so very, very much.

To the kids: Thank you for being mine. I don't know how I managed to give birth to the Best Child Ever four times in a row, but I did. And as the winter approaches, thank you for being warm, snuggly little people.

To MT: Thank you, my far-away darling, for being so wonderfully you. For your ability to brighten my day, love me from afar (which is sensible, as I smell rather obnoxious up close) and understand the vital importance of SEEDWATCH.

To the cats: Thank you for... well, you're pretty nice cats.

Thanks also to Mil Millington, without whom I would not have the phrase "a spilling cupful of thanks".

Wheat Kings And Pretty Things

2011-09-29T22:05:00.000-04:00

I'm quitting wheat. Taking bets on how long it will be before I murder someone is perfectly acceptable, by the way. Especially if I get a cut of the pot. Anyway, there's a bunch of research that supports our modern, hybridized wheat crop being not especially good for our bodies, so I'm giving it the heave. I mean, the worst that can happen is what, I don't eat wheat for a while? (This will necessarily - and tragically - reduce my peanut butter consumption, too.)

The packers will be here tomorrow morning. We should be home for good by Saturday night. All of us, all under one roof. Permanently. Props to anyone who has had to go from a live-in to LDR situation on a long-term basis. This is hell.

I want a dog. Because 4 kids, 2 cats and a rabbit doesn't leave me with enough shit to wipe or scoop, I guess.

I missed the Ontario leader's debate because I was too busy with the endless cleaning/laundry/organizing that needs to be done before tomorrow.

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday in not assuming someone's intent when I'm trying to stave off a migraine and can't understand them.

Days like today deserve on-demand ice cream.

I think I'm already on the verge of cutting someone for a sandwich. What's the over/under on this wheatless lark?

I'm probably not going to be back online until it's October, so enjoy the end of September, pervs.

A Different Kind Of Posture Collar

2011-09-28T00:45:00.000-04:00

I'm talking about the kind people put on to pretend they're something they're not. That sort of posture.

I honestly don't understand how kink and power exchange are so breathlessly thrilling to some people that they feel the need to create lies about it. What is it? Is it the fantasy that all this shit is gracefully and nudefully nadu-ing your way through life?

I can understand, in a very limited way, why people lie about how certain relationships started, or ended, or how certain indiscretions were in fact completely alright. I'm all for owning your shit, but I can see how no one wants to think of themselves as being the home wrecker/cheater/abandoner/whateverer. Those aren't comfortable things to be honest with yourself about and I imagine it's even more uncomfortable to have other people think honestly about you in that light. Far better to say that the other marriage was already falling apart, or that it doesn't count if you're out of town, or that you had no choice but to see that your needs were met or whatever rationalization you need to sleep better at night.

But the people that create lives out of whole cloth - the ones that create a fleshed-out reality to pretend they live in - they are the ones I don't understand. Perhaps I lack romance in my soul, or I am supremely shallow, but I don't see living under someone's heel or getting smacked around during sex to be all that compelling. If you're into it, great. If you're not into it, great. If you wish you were into it but circumstances don't allow, hey, that sucks. Do you really think a group of degenerates and perverts are going to judge you poorly for just saying "I'm interested in this and want to hear more"? Do any of us seem like we're in a position to be Judgey McJudgersons here? Hell, I was just told by my owner that he wants, one day for him to "say 'jump' and you to say 'yellow'".

Or is it a fear of rejection? A belief that all our friends are completely homogeneous and we won't accept anyone different? Because I'd say that shows a distinct lack of attention to detail. Hell, even among slaves, we're all different. Some of us provide almost nothing but sexual service, some of us provide almost nothing but domestic service. Some of us work, some of us don't. Some of us have kids, some of us don't. Some of us move halfway across the world to be with an owner we met online, some of us are owned by the person we were already married to. If you think that you're going to fit in just because you say you've got an owner, you simply haven't been paying attention. None of us fit in.

100 Things About Me - the meme

2011-09-27T09:58:00.000-04:00

1. I can't imagine that there are 100 things about me interesting to other people, but hey, at least this is content.

2. I hate serif fonts. It's a burning, white-hot hatred, too, not merely a mild dislike. I was probably traumatized by Times New Roman as a child.

3. One of my very favourite things in the whole wild world is dropping off for a nap while snuggling a little baby. Bonus points if it's an unexpected nap.

4. A close second is napping on the couch. Napping on the couch makes me feel luxurious. I don't know why, but I always end up feeling like Oh, look at me, curled up on the couch. How very swank, to be able to lie down and waste this time in such a pleasant manner.

5. I am a rabid patriot. I am a flag-waving, leaf-wearing, maple-huffing Canadian. If you cut me my blood would run red because that's the colour blood is, but I'd probably try to make a metaphor of it anyhow.

6. I am a political junkie. When I visited Ottawa for my Grade 8 class trip I was bitterly disappointed to learn that I wasn't old enough to work as a page in Parliament. I not-so-secretly want to be a Hill journalist.

7. Once, after an acid trip in my teens, I developed a transient Scottish accent. It was terribly embarrassing and was also a valuable lesson in not dropping with people with accents around me.

8. On a vaguely related note, I was mistaken for being deaf by someone I didn't know. In his defense I was signing instead of talking, since I had a bastard case of strep throat.

9. I am ambidextrous, but I don't do much with it.

10. I took most of my notes in Grade 8 in mirror print. I found it easier and faster than printing the right way. These days I simply find printing to be torture and avoid it whenever possible.

11. This necessarily means I hand write most things. It does not follow that I have good handwriting. My penmanship is appalling and largely illegible. Thankfully, the only person I ever have much cause to leave handwritten notes to is the Captain, who has largely learned to decipher the hot mess I leave on the paper.

12. I recently learned that I tested in the 97th percentile for mathematical aptitude when I was being assessed for the gifted program. I have no idea what to do with that information, but there it is.

13. I love beans. Beans of all kinds! Legume-beans leave my stomach feeling happy. Raw green beans are one of my favourite snacks. Jelly beans are awesome.

14. This is my lucky number.

15. This is the age I became homeless.

16. This is the age I became pregnant for the first time (and ultimately miscarried).

17. This is the age I graduated high school with honours. (Who would have guessed?)

18. Whenever I have STD screening done for a pregnancy, I feel the irrational urge to take my clean bill of health, find the guidance counsellor who suggested I was going to wind up dead of AIDS and yell "IN YOUR FACE!". Because I'm totally mature like that.

19. I am listening to the Arrogant Worms right this second

20. This is the age I was when I gave birth to Prima, left my ex and met the Captain. Busy year!

21. I am an unrepentant fan of The Bangles. Seriously. Tom Jones, too. I am powerfully uncool.

22. If I see one more 90s babydoll dress listed as "vintage" on Etsy I may just stab someone with a safety pin earring.

23. I think snails are adorable.

24. Half my children have been born at home, the other half in the hospital. By a stroke of coincidence, I laboured in the same room for both of my hospital babies.

25. The songs that I think of as being songs that make me feel pretty are all depressing as fuck. This is probably very revealing of the sort of person I am.

26. If I have one defining personality characteristic, it's mutability. (Lord help me, I think I'm hilarious.)

27. I am entirely capable of starting the washing machine, then wondering where the running water is coming from and if we have a broken pipe somewhere 2 minutes later.

28. One of the best compliments I have ever received in my life was that I had perfect equitation. Booyah, bitches!

29. I am guilty of making entirely too many "your mother" jokes and finding them uproarious.

30. I am also guilty of using the word "lulzy" in speech. You'd think it would be bad enough that I use it online, but apparently I have no self-control when it comes to sounding like a twat.

31. I want to be a space pioneer and help open up a new world.

32. I am terrified of moths. I have good reason.

33. When I was younger I was convinced that I wouldn't live past 27. Instead, I gave birth to my 3rd child when I was 27. Although she was grey and wasn't breathing when she was born, so that's pretty close, right?

34. I want to breed bettas. Yes, the fish. See #21 re: being powerfully uncool.

35. I realize saying this is tantamount to national sacrilege, but I don't care for Tim Horton's. This is perhaps all the more shameful when one considers my place of birth.

36. I still don't know how to drive, although I swear I'll learn. Really. This time I mean it.

37. I'll totally cop to BDSM being therapy and fuck all the haters. Having someone who loves me choke me, force himself upon me, hit me, etc. is gloriously therapeutic. Christ, people, this is Behavioural Therapy 101 shit.

38. I'm very cheap. Frugal, if you prefer. If I can find a way to make it I will, just to save a few dollar.

39. Speaking of which, I tend to just go ahead and do things regardless of whether I have the slightest indication that I would be proficient at them. I mean, if other people can make rugs/take apart their dishwashers/pull up and re-lay their carpeting/etc., how hard can it be? Amirite?

40. Possibly pursuant to the above, my mother recently remarked that I have always been able to learn anything I wanted to. I think she's just trying to gently encourage me to go back to school.

41. I cut the Captain's hair. I often cut mine, too. I refuse to do the kids, though. I still have nightmares about some of the awful, awful haircuts I received as a child in the name of saving money. I mean, I'll give Prima a trim if she needs it, but style changes are for the professionals.

42. I always wanted to learn how to play the harp, but never did. Just most of the woodwinds, some piss-poor guitar and a smidge of French horn.

43. Incidentally, I originally had to learn how to play the guitar left-handed and then reteach myself how to play right handed. No idea why, but that was the only way it clicked.

44. I'm international in that I can quickly convert metric to imperial and Celsius to Fahrenheit.

45. As children, one of my cousins and I looked so very identical that there are photos where our own parents still can't tell us apart. Despite this, we look absolutely nothing alike as adults.

46. I am a remarkably good person to turn to if you need some frontier veterinary care for your cats.

47. I have an unholy love of guava, poutine and pho. Not all at the same time, though. That's taking things a bit far even for me... and I have fairly whimsical tastes.

48. I spend so much time on Regretsy that I now automatically spell it "whimsicle" the first time around.

49. I hate vibrators. A lot.

50. I'm halfway there!

51. I adore crows, Australian Shepherds, orangutans and axolotls.

52. Back in my drinking days, I used to consider artificially orange foods to be sovereign hangover cures. Kraft Dinner, Cheetos, orange popsicles (which are otherwise passed over in favour of pink and purple), etc. Never oranges, though. Food that was naturally orange didn't contain the right quantity of healing dyes and chemicals.

53. Sometimes the Captain calls me Giant Kitty. This is not some sort of pet play thing. It's just that everyone has been likening me to a cat for a long time. I don't understand why anyone other than the Captain does, though. At least the Captain has a reason to believe owning and training me is essentially a process of teaching me that I'm not allowed to shit on his bed when I'm cranky.

54. If disposable clothes were a practicality, I would switch us over in a heartbeat. The laundry is simply never ending here.

55. When I was a child, my ragweed allergies were so bad that I would wake up blind every morning from my eyes crusting shut in my sleep. (It's stories like these that make me so dreadfully compelling.)

56. I always wanted to have one of those husky, dirty, rock-girl singing voices. I didn't get it. My voice is sweet and clear and so fucking boring.

57. Incidentally, I still kind of sound like a child playing grown-up when I record the greeting for our voice mail.

58. I used to love moving. I'd get itchy feet and want to move every year or two. 3 moves in 3.5 years has cured me of this. I dread ever moving again.

59. Having said that, I'd love to buy a big RV and drive across the country for a few years once the children are grown and flown. There's so much of Canada I still haven't seen and that irritates me.

60. I consider sirens to be the lullabye of the city. I miss them out here and when I do hear one, I feel relaxed. Sirens tell me that things are happening around me.

61. I'm an introvert. This probably comes as no shock.

62. I have been working on this post for three days now.

63.I can deliver the "I am Cornholio" speech in French and German.

64. I once auditioned for a talent show with When I'm 64 when I was eleven because... oh my god, could I be any more lame? Really.

65. Speaking of lame and music, I recently did away with the CD collection I've been lugging around the last few years. The only things I kept were a couple of kid CDs, 3 Tom Jones CDs, a double album of choral and opera, Songs in the Key of X, Devo's Greatest Hits and the Supercop soundtrack. I realize this does not say flattering things about my taste in music.

66. The Supercop soundtrack is worth keeping just for Devo's cover of Head Like a Hole. It's one of my favourite things ever.

67. When I was a kid I really wanted to be like James Herriot. It was a sad day when I learned the life of a British country vet in the 1940s was not something I could reasonably expect.

68. I love magnolias.

69. One of my favourite "fuck the environment" indulgences is to clean the bathroom with lots of smelly chemical cleaners, especially if I can also lock the door and bring my iPod with me. That's an enjoyable half-hour, right there.

70. I find sorting socks to be soothing. If I'm in a really foul mood and can't take being around people anymore, I take the Master Sock File, dump it on my bed and match the socks up. By the time I'm done my mood is improved and we have many pairs of socks. It is a goodness.

71. I am a raging urbanite. Cities are my natural environment - the larger, the better.

72. All of this talking about myself, revealing details about myself, this whole schmear is rather uncomfortable for me.

73. I have a plan so cunning you could pin ears and a tail on it and call it a weasel.

74. My fingernails always start to tear the second they have any length. Nail hardening treatments do nothing to help them. Honestly, I have the world's worst nails.

75. I have made it this far in life without major surgery and don't intend to start now.

76. I speak fluently in Simpsons quotes.

77. I knit rugs out of old t-shirts. Life doesn't get more thrilling than this, folks.

78. I'm terrifically disorganized. I always mean to be organized, but then something better comes up. Oh well.

79. I have never owned a coat rack.

80. I dislike lamps.

81. I have recently discovered chia seed. I think I am in love.

82. I am very bad about seasonal decorating, or home decor of any kind. I intend to rectify this at the new house. A house that nice deserves prettying up.

83. My favourite style of shoe is the Mary Jane.

84. I'm only happy when it rains.

85. Also, I want to be the girl with the most cake.

86. And possibly, I'm as empty as this beating drum.

87. I'm not above using song lyrics to fill a few spots on this list.

88. I have a few orchids. They're very nice. I'm always impressed with myself when I fail to kill a plant.

89. I am willing to take the wholly controversial position that cheese is wonderful.

90. And soup. I really, really love soup.

91. I also hate chewing. The Captain has broken me of the worst of it over the years, but I used to be an incorrigible dipper/masher/blender of food, all in the name of not wanting to chew. I'd still happily live off smoothies, mashed potatoes and soup if I could.

92. You know that new baby smell? If you could bottle it you could use it as an effective tranquilizer on me.

93. There are sounds that cause me psychic pain and rage. Anything with a short I sound followed by a plosive is right up there.

94. I also have problems hearing certain frequencies, if my head is congested or understanding what people are saying if there is background noise. This is the dull legacy of an exciting ear drum explosion, courtesy of an ear infection.

95. During periods of intense, newborn-driven sleep deprivation, I have hallucinated insects and giant birds hovering in the air.

96. Sleeping in is the most glorious gift anyone can give me. I love the bed so very, very much.

97. Fuck the Oxford comma.

98. My preferred medium for colouring and shading is crayon. One day I'll invent spot-warming paper so the colours will blend better. Pastels are too fucking messy.

99. I adore pearls, but bore easily of the "large, white, round" variety, no matter how pricey they may be. My true passion is for baroque pearls that have been dyed fun colours. I imagine this makes me some sort of pearl heretic.

100. Five days later, I have finally finished this post.

First Contact And More

2011-09-13T20:57:00.000-04:00

It's that time again. What time? Eden Fantasys review time!

Today's secret word is "ticklers".

Yes, ticklers. When the Captain told me to order this thing, I was not-so-quietly horrified. Things that tickle are on par with things that are designed to stab people in the eyes, so far as I'm concerned. Tickling me is usually a sure-fire way to get yourself hit rather forcefully... and the Captain delights in not allowing me to hit him, for some reason. You know, he may not be a sadist, but he's pretty Method in his acting.

Somewhere, a child's play car wash is missing its mitter curtain

The package arrived, as they do, in a plain brown box. Luckily the children were all hanging around when the Captain retrieved the package from the courier, so he was treated to delightful chorus of "What's in the box, Daddy?", "What's that, Daddy?" and "Why can't I see what it is, Daddy?" as he tried to take it downstairs. Sucker.

That smug feeling wasn't to last very long, though. The video on this product's page uses words like "excite", "delight" and "tantalize" to describe it (all while a woman writhes most improbably), but for me one word sums the experience up: infuriate.

First contact made me irritated. Like the Brain trying to deal with Pinky-level irritated. "Yes, Pinky, we're going to open a boutique and sell ladies' fashion and pollen"-level irritation.

It didn't take much more than a few seconds for that irritation to turn into full-blown homicidal rage. The sensation of the rubber dragging against my body was like the tactile version of listening to Sarah Palin's voice. It didn't tickle, it just made me want to kill.

The Captain decided change his approach and started using the tickler as a mini flogger and crop. This was definitely better than using it to "entice" in that it didn't give rise to murder lust. Of course, it didn't do much more than that, either. A cheap and flimsily made tickler does not make a great impact toy.

When the tables were turned (strictly for scientific purposes, of course), the Captain did find it somewhat pleasing to have me drag the tickler along his junk - a game I mentally called "Clownfish in the Anemone". Overall, though, this is not a fantastic addition to our slowly growing collection of sex toys.

Slavery Gets Shit Done

2011-09-11T20:38:00.001-04:00

Scene: The Captain is drawing himself a bath, I am enjoying a few quiet minutes on the computer as Quattrus naps and the big kids play outside.

[Captain enters the doorway, wearing only a towel (yum!)]

Captain: I want a cup of coffee.

[Biddable hops to feet to dutifully procure coffee]

Captain: Huh. I was just looking for my coffee cup. But that's good, too. Get me a cup of coffee, bitch.

Howl

2011-09-10T22:38:00.001-04:00

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart
drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart

My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in
You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl
My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in
You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to

Howl, howl
Howl, howl

I've been feeling lately like we're not just losing our mojo, but that it's straight-up lost and I don't know if we'll ever see it again. I miss those moments of sheer delirious frenzy where we would try to physically and psychically smash ourselves into one whole. I miss not feeling the constant, plodding exhaustion of having a new baby, having low iron, having to be separated, having to deal with every fucking thing in our lives that isn't selfishly us.

Now there's no holding back, I'm making to attack
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground

like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
I want to find you tear out all your tenderness

And howl, howl
Howl, howl

I want to run after him. I want to chase him. I want to shred my feet on the rocks pursuing him. I want to hit him in my desperation, snap and snarl at his neck, to force his attention to me. I want a bloody fight if not to death, at least to conquest. I want to feel alive.

Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
Hunters, hunters, hunters
Hunters, hunters, hunters

The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress
Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallow'd ground

And howl

I want to cry against his chest in rage and defeat. I want to feel him best me and to be bested. I want us to have the time to devote to passion. I want to kick the status quo in the teeth.

Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground

Oh Captain. My Captain.

2011-09-05T19:02:00.000-04:00

I'm going to miss you something awful.

The bed is going to be lonely.

The house is going to seem empty.

I am counting down the days until we're permanently together again.

Love you,
-cunt

Do You Remember The First Time?

2011-09-05T00:21:00.000-04:00

I sure as hell don't.

It seems like everyone out there has a story about the moment they realized they were kinky, or the perverted experience that shook them to their core and initiated a sea change within them.

I don't have one of those.

When I had sex, I just had sex. And having sex, as it turned out, involved biting and scratching and snarling. Sometimes it involved handcuffs or knives or hot wax or blindfolds or whatever was interesting and on hand. It never occurred to me to angst about it or even feel a measure of self-reflection. Sex was supposed to get you off and that's what got me off.

Sometimes I wonder if this isn't a sign that I'm a tremendously shallow person. Other times I wonder if this means my parents got one thing right at least and didn't saddle me with their ideas of what constituted acceptable sex. Most of the time, though, I just take it as part of who I am.

I suppose I could try to reverse engineer it all. I could sit down and ask myself which pivotal moment happened when and see if I can assign some sort of import to it all. But honestly, the way I fuck doesn't need a back story.

This has all led to me having no grasp of what constitutes "average" sexuality. Because I inherently fall on the kinkier side, I tend to assume everyone else does as well. There has certainly been more than one conversation over the years where a friend has confessed to trying "really kinky" stuff to me... and has been met by a polite but confused smile and nod. Oh, you let your husband tie you to the bed and smack your bottom? Uh... wow? I am thankfully not so socially inept as to ask when they will start talking about the dirty stuff, but that is typically what I'm thinking.

(Disclaimer since this is the internet: Yes, I understand what constitutes kinky is different for everyone, etc. and so forth. I'm merely saying I'm incredibly bad at determining where those lines are, generally.)

Since I don't have a story, tell me yours! When did you realize you were kinky? What was the inciting incident? Don't spare the salacious details.

Party Like A Rock Star

2011-09-01T08:48:00.000-04:00

Happy September, y'all. (Are Canadians allowed to say y'all? Probably not.)

You know, there really hasn't been a lot to write about.

Jack Layton's death took up a surprising amount of my time considering I'm not a Hill journo. There has been back and forth with moving companies, new babies in the family that I didn't give birth to (and that's a novelty, I tell ya), kids being kids, medical appointments for trivialities, housework... and Quattrus. Darling Quattrus, who parties like a rock star all night long, leaving me gently drooling into my chest come the daylight hours.

I've been working on a new (vanilla) blogging project with a friend that should theoretically generate a small amount of income in the next year or so. I've also been trying to integrate myself into the social media scene back home so I have something resembling a network to return to. I've committed to a weekly column for one of the sites I write for, I've been brought on as editor of a local paper back home and I've spent entirely too many late night hours researching wheat berry and grain mill prices. (Wheat futures are sky high right now. Just sayin'.) I've potty trained Tertia, who apparently needed no more inducement to do her business on the toilet than a jelly bean bribe.

I've mediated arguments. I've cooked. I've tended to children with snotty noses caused by summer colds. I've tried to emotionally ready myself for the fact that Prima and the Captain leave in a handful of days. I've considered which cakes to bake for Birthday Season.

So I guess I haven't exactly been idle. I just haven't done much of anything worth blogging about, least of all on a pervert blog. Which isn't surprising when you consider the new baby and the business... but the kink just isn't there right now. The control is, as much as it has been, but that's not much of something to write about most of the time. And the kink? Well, that takes time. And sleeping children. And those are two things we never have.

Orange Crush

2011-08-22T10:42:00.000-04:00

Request permission to dye my hair orange, sir.

I'm off to have a cry now.

D.G. (Domestic Grapefruit)

2011-08-21T14:01:00.000-04:00

If you spend as much time on Pinterest as I do (and you probably don't, because you're probably not trapped under a nursing baby 28 hours a day and your FB Sims character runs out of energy with great frequency), you've probably seen this post from Re-nest making the rounds. Clean your bathtub with half a grapefruit and some salt! Abundant design for green homes, indeed.

First of all, I can't be the only one that is starting to suspect that the internet is putting us all on. There are only so many green cleaning solutions and it seems implausible that a grapefruit is actually one of them. The very concept is so ridiculous and hipster-twee that it seems positively designed to be repinned by the great, unbrained masses. But I had half a grapefruit yesterday and a dirty bathroom, so I thought I'd give it a try.

Findings:

1) I fail to see how you're making your bathroom any cleaner by spreading bits of grapefruit pulp everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

2) You can't exactly rinse your grapefruit out. This means if your tub is full of dried up baby wash and flecks of peanut butter (thanks, kids!), you eventually are cleaning your tub with grapefruit, salt, baby wash and peanut butter. This is not what I consider to be hygienic.

3) If you have fruit flies (and who doesn't get a few in the summer?) they will immediately fill your bathroom.

4) The grapefruit and salt failed to remove all the ring from around my tub. I don't know if this is a function of the extremely hard water we have out here or what, but scrubbed as I might I couldn't get it off.

5) This method is totally balls for cleaning your toilet. Trust me.

6) The grapefruit did a remarkably good job of cleaning the shower door, which is often cloudy from mineral deposits.

7) In the end, you have to clean up your cleanup. This is inefficient and frustrating, especially when you want to have a bath.

8) The grapefruit smell - arguably the best part of this cleaning method - doesn't last.

Damn. I could have eaten that half grapefruit.