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Have you ever had that perfect pair of jeans? It fits perfectly, makes your ass look GREAT. However, time passes, and they rip at the crotch, or just don't fit anymore, and you have to go out and find a new pair of jeans. But the new jeans just... aren't as perfect.
I really liked my previous profile text. I suppose I like the photos well enough still, so I'll leave 'em up. Not like my looks change much, unless I'm wearing my glasses or have changed my haircolor again. I like dyeing my hair.
I also really like people! Please don't be shy about randomly asking me questions; chances are I'll get back to you, as long as you observe the following:
- No penis photos, please. If I wanted photos of random penes, I'd be looking on Craigslist. It's a veritable penis buffet! So much sausage!
- Please, please make at least some attempt at proper grammar and spelling. I can only take off my writer/editor hat so much. After a point, I end up spending more time editing messages than being able to respond to them. It's terribly frustrating. (That said, I can survive texting with my 16 year old cousin, so I'm not asking for much.)
- I honestly find diving straight into talking about my kinks and fantasies a bit uncomfortable, unless I'm talking to someone I already know. Foreplay, please! Conversational foreplay, such as "so, what's your favorite Rush song" or "how many years now have you had a crush on David Bowie?!?"
- THAT SAID, non-personal questions about kinks are certainly welcome. Asking my opinions on existing as a feminist who is also into 50s household kink is perfectly groovy. Asking me if I want to put on an apron and service you isn't. Unless, of course, I've already given the go-ahead for those questions!
- If I've hit you with a random question or recently looked at your profile, it doesn't automatically mean I want to see your genitalia or hook up. It means something caught my eye; nothing more, nothing less. If you're curious, I'd be happy to discuss with you why you caught my eye.
- I'm not actively seeking a relationship. No, really. I just don't have the time for a relationship. I put a lot of work into mine when I'm in one, and that's just not something I can do right now!
All that said, here's a tl;dr overview of me:
I'm a single mom of two working full-time in the tech field for one of the leading businesses in my field. When I have off-time, I also have an artist hat (I love painting and drawing), a writer hat (I have a co-writer that I work with), and an I'm-bored-what-can-I-do-now hat that occasionally has me cooking, crocheting, reading (something I tend to do more of than I really should, I think, but booooooks), slowly killing plants, slowly saving plants, rescuing kittens (no really, I have two fosters I'm hand-raising at the moment), playing a war-themed hat simulator, or wasting time on the internet.
Fuck yeah Oxford commas. Vampire Weekend is just okay.
Anyway, if I get asked any particularly interesting questions, I'll add them (with the answers, of course) to my profile. Why the hell not?
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Ha ha wow 3 years. It's been a while!
I'm glad I stopped back in on a whim. I had forgotten how charming I found this site, as well as the people on it. I'm sad to see that a few of my friends are no longer around here. Hope they're happy!
Well, rather than hang around making insipid chirping noises, I'm gonna go blindside some poor fella with a question, then do offline-ish sort of things. Funny how people need things like food to survive.
eta: oy, nice to know the text editor is the same POS editor as it has always been. Thbbpt, not even CKEditor gets wysiwyg right all the time. If there were ever an area where I'm impossible to please, it's wysiwyg editors. Haaaaaate. |
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It's a strange sort of night.
I suppose the past four days of forced R&R have been good for me. It was admittedly quite a treat to be able to kick back and relax, enjoying the company of very close friends and people I had just met who might, with time, become friends. No work, no broken car, no offspring.
I'm home now, though. Things are settling back in.
Part of me wishes I could just live in one particular moment from this weekend. I was sitting on a lounge chair on my friend's porch, watching the sun set through some clouds behind the treeline. It was warm, the perfect mild warmth of an early summer evening. For a few blissful minutes, my mind quieted completely, and I felt simply a part of the world around me. There was nothing except the breeze, my body, and the sounds of life around me. Perfection.
As I lie here (geek that I am, I have a laptop next to my bed that also pulls duty as my alarm clock and my emergency notepad), I can think back on that moment, and almost recall it well enough to feel that peace again. I can't entirely, though. I'm not sure what it is about my home versus that porch, but I can't quite manage to put aside everything and simply exist like that.
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The Lebaron Chronicles 4 - You Get What You Pay For... And Then Some
Let me start off by saying something very important. If you value your car, do not take it to a major chain to get your maintenance done. I'm talking about places like Pep Boys, Jiffy Lube, Oil Can Henry's, etc. Take it to a local mechanic. Ask around for recommendations (and if you want a really informed opinion, ask a tow truck driver or the guys at NAPA). It's worth it.
So. You get what you pay for. That can refer to the fact that I bought a $400 car, it can refer to the fact that I went against my own advice and took the car to Jiffy Lube for a quickie, or it can refer to the trials of being a self-taught mechanic.
I knew my car had issues when I bought it, but it's been quite amazing to watch the repairs stack up. One thing gets fixed, and five new issues crop up. The leaking coolant which might have just been a hose became a likely heater core replacement has become a definite major leak involving the water pipe between the water pump and the heater... and still possibly the heater core and/or heater hoses.
For added fun, the leak became rather explosive rather suddenly, dumping ALL of the coolant in one horrifying gush while on the freeway. The engine almost instantly overheated. Yep, add in head gasket replacement to the to-do list...
If you're feeling froggy, feel free to look up the procedures for getting to the water pump and the head gasket in a Mitsubishi 3.0L V6. This is going to be my life once I get back from my trip this weekend.
Oh, also, I apparently need to replace my fuel line as well as the fuel filter.
Joy.
On one hand, all of these repairs are going to be a BITCH. On the other... $47 for the heater core (returnable if the current one turns out to be OK), head gaskets are pretty cheap, and none of the heater hoses are particularly expensive, either. It's really the labor that's the worst part... replacing the core alone would cost me $600+ if I had a shop do it (parts + about 6 hours labor). My labor is relatively free to me. (Thank goodness I seem to be rather mechanically inclined.)
In the end, I guess it's not that bad. I'm pissed that I have to get a rental this weekend, but it could have been worse.
Also, fuck Jiffy Lube. Fuck them, and fuck Pacific Car Care (bunch of dicks, seriously, and they overcharge on parts and labor).
OH OH OH OH WAIT Pacific Car Care. They're special enough to warrant their own paragraph. Not only were they dickish BEFORE I started talking to them about the car, they tried to tell me that I would have to take out my dash to replace my heater core with this huge "this job is too complicated for you MISSY" attitude. WHAT. I pointed out that no, that's actually not the case... you get to it by removing the A/C and undoing a couple of bolts, and the dude at the counter just looked at his computer screen and changed the subject. He didn't look at me the rest of the time I was there, and was just generally acting like a huge prick.
But yeah, several people I talked to over the rest of the day (a couple of tow truck drivers and a few people at uh places that know different auto shops) mentioned that they never hear anything good about that place, and that they overcharge like crazy and are dicks to EVERYONE.
On the other hand, I cannot sing enough praises for the guys at NAPA on Lombard. Seriously, they've been great to me (and they see me at least once a week now), they're always really helpful, and best of all? They don't assume I'm an utter nitwit just because I sport a pair of tits and have hair almost to my ass. They treat me with respect, and are willing to intelligently discuss repair issues with me when I have questions or concerns. Much love for those guys, seriously.
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I actually went and posted that bit from earlier on Craigslist... with quite a bit in addition. I'll have to make a note of any good responses I get. It's long and kind of meandering, but was fun to write!
I'm starting to think I have a teensy streak of attention whore in me. Kind of funny, considering I'm naturally pretty damned shy about seeking attention and try to avoid being in the spotlight.
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And on a non-car-squee note, I managed to trap myself on my yoga ball today. It was a proud moment for my family line, let me tell you. From now on, I'm not doing any exercises without pulling my hair up first! I'm pretty sure it was hilarious to see (my roommate nearly peed herself laughing), what with me bent over backwards on top of the ball, which was in turn rolled over most of my hair, and there I am on top of it grasping my medicine ball and staring at the wall upside down with a nice "WHAT THE FFFFF?" expression.
Pity she didn't snap a picture. I bet that would have made an awesome addition to my profile pics.
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The Lebaron Chronicles 3: Unexpected Perks
I'd had the sneaking suspicion that my car was leaking somewhere in the coolant system, but could never determine where. Now I know: the heater core.
See, on the plus side, I can say I have a car that comes with a standard hot foot bath on the passenger side. On the minus side, that's not exactly a selling point... and I'm going to want my car to keep its coolant where it belongs when I'm out driving in hotter weather.
Other unexpected plus: I'm rather fond of the smell of coolant. Trufax.
So, le sigh, I get to learn how to replace the heater core. Joy joy oh joy. Something tells me my car is going to be out of commission for a few days...
Heh. While I'm at it, I might as well replace the idle solenoid.
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Doing better now. Had a nice sobfest that led to a short, deep nap, then focused on product development and freesketching for the rest of the day.
I miss my little boogers already, though.
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Well, the loinfruit are off to stay with their father for a few weeks.
I've never been apart from them for more than four days, and that was only once.
Not crying yet, but something tells me I'm gonna break my two year streak sometime within the next 24 hours.
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I'm thinking about putting an ad up on Craigslist, just for kicks. Something like...
Dear Men of the World:
I have spent the better part of two years reading your ads more faithfully than I manage for even my favorite webcomics. I've learned about your tastes, your dreams, your hobbies and your occasionally dubious grasp of the English language. It's my number one form of pre-sleep entertainment, and I thank you all for it.
The time has come, I think, to return the favor by describing myself for your edification (and, perhaps, even enjoyment).
For starters, I am not sweet. Well, I can manage to be sweet, but the truth is I'm just as likely to take a swing at you for being an ass as bat my eyes at you and snuggle because I think you're adorable. I'm rather catlike in nature, really -- even petting me isn't going to guarentee sweet lovin', but there's also something really rewarding about how I purr and curl around you like an adoring boa.
... I'm also rather catlike in the amount of bodyhair I grow. Unlike my feline companions, though, I do actually make attempts to keep things trimmed and groomed. (All bets are off during the winter. I've learned just how cozy my legs stay in my jeans if I let my leg hair grow out in cold weather. I didn't even need extra leggings in the snow!)
Not only am I piquant (as one friend charmingly tagged me), I'm also on the cheerful side of the crazy scale. No more than your average pagan or charasmatic Christian (and if you understand why I consider those to be comparable, I love you already). 99% of the time, I'm told I'm a rather charming crazy person. The other 1% of the time, you won't really see me anyway because I'll be in the shower bitching about that betraying uterus of mine and how evil it is.
Aside from the copious amounts of body hair and a prediliction for sticking my head and hands into the guts of my car, I really can be a girly-girl. ... OK, well, I clean up well. I know my M.A.C. from my NARS (and prefer the former's lipstick, but the latter's eyeshadows, not that I can find NARS around here anyway), I am reasonably well-versed in labels and designers but prefer stuff that fits (nobody designs for DD breasts), and am a shoe whore without actually managing to *buy* most of the shoes I lust over. I've also been told I'm a lot prettier than I think I am (to each their own), and I know for a fact that I don't stink. Really. I can't stand my own body odor, and take care to avoid generating much of them.
I like and prefer mature-acting guys, but I still laugh at fart jokes. It's all in the timing, really.
Anyway, my attention has wandered, so if anyone is actually interested in a crazed, occasionally hairy, cheerful wanna-be mechanic self-employed single mom, feel free to say hi... even if it's just an insatiable case of train wreck syndrome that kept you interested. I understand TWS. It's what keeps me cheerful when I think about my rather hectic life.
(Don't think I'll actually post this. XD Was fun to bang out, though!)
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The Lebaron Chronicles 2 - Tush
I was supposed to do the title paperwork at the DMV today, but thanks to my prioritizing my Starbucks consumption over taking care of business, I ended up cruising around shopping auto parts all day.
Not that I'm complaining about spending the day cruising around Beaverton/Tigard with the top down, slow-roasting myself in the gorgeous weather.
So, my new favorite spots in the city involve self-service auto parts. I'm already becoming recognized around the NAPA closest to my house, and I discovered the joys of wandering the LKQ yards with my tool set and that little "I get to tear shit apart and nobody will stop me" glint in my eye. I managed to find several cars with seats that could possibly fit mine, but they're all manual... I'm looking for that magical power seat, and if it happened to be red leather? I would be the one dancing a solo waltz around the auto yard.
It wasn't all shopping, though. I did manage to change the distributor cap and rotor, and even had to fix a couple spark cables when they didn't pull cleanly out of the old cap. All is well again under the hood, though, and as an added bonus to the day, I discovered that I'm averaging 25 MPG. Not bad, considering my notorious lead foot and the fact that my lead foot is paired with a V-6.
Another bonus to wandering the LKQ yards: I had a chance to educate my roommate a bit about cars and engines and stuff. She's interested, which is great. Perhaps soon she'll start taking a more active part in helping with the maintainance!
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Still shallow, but...
Oh my GOD I have finally run across a profile where the guy's pics made my jaw drop (and other physical reactions). I mean, he's pretty much everything that makes me double-take. Dark hair long enough to run my fingers through and get a good grip on, great smile, a particular combo of facial feature shapes that I find especially delicious, and he has BODY HAIR! EEEE. Oh how I love a nice cut chest with enough chest hair to rake my nails through it. I love the textures, I love the way it feels on my skin... oh man I'm positively TWITCHING.
He didn't respond to my clumsy little attempt to communicate, though. Oh well. He *is* on the ass-opposite end of the country and all.
Still. Holy mother of DO ME PLZ what an attractive man.
(Nice to know some parts still work. I was getting a bit worried that my cynicism combined with fairly regular self-service was making me run cold. Nnnnnope... just needed to find somethin' worth fantasizing over, cuz god knows those porn guys just don't do it for me.)
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On a completely shallow note...
My roomie got a new hat that arrived yesterday. Since she's out of town, she had me open the box and check it out. I tried it on and squealed like a vacuous cheerleader. I love this hat. I covet this hat. I want to take this hat and make it mine. She won't let me have it, though, and since she lives with me there's not much chance of me successfully stealing it.
Guess I'll just have to save up for one of my own.
(In the meantime, I uploaded the photo I snapped for her, because HAT. I had to share this hat and its fabulousness with the world. Can you believe it's my 8th photo?)
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The Lebaron Chronicles: Intro and Day One
So!
Two days ago, I became the dubiously proud owner of a '91 Chrysler Lebaron GTC. I had originally set out to buy a late '80s Volkswagon Cabriolet, but I couldn't pass up the magic combination of "OH SHIT I NEED A CAR NOW NOW NOW" and "Oh, hey, not a bad price on this one... and it's sort of what I'm looking for!" I checked the car out, talked down the price a bit based on the condition of the car, and drove off with the barest beginnings of genuine fondness for the vehicle. It came with a nice long list of issues, but only a couple were really urgent issues, and the price balanced out with those rather nicely.
Today marks the first day I've attempted actual repairs/restoration on the car.
Now, for a bit of background, I have worked on cars in the past. ... sort of. I like tinkering with my toys quite a bit, and once set out to restore an '86 Toyota MR2, but that restoration project only lasted the couple of months I had it before I had to move, and I hadn't attempted much along those lines since then. I can find my way around an engine pretty well, though, and am handy enough with taking things apart and putting them back together that I've managed to make a hobby out of building computers.
This car is my project. I bought it because I was looking for a car that needed restoration, but was still in good enough shape that I could actually drive it while I was working on it.
So. Day One:
Replace Spark Plugs and Cables
Today I learned about making sure you have the right goddamned tools for the job BEFORE you start taking apart the engine. In my defense, I had forgotten that my ex had made off with my tools, so I was pretty damned sure I had a spark plug socket in my war chest. ... No. In fact, I have like NONE of the tools I thought I had.
So I borrowed my dad's. They have to go back every night, though, so I have to be careful to get everything done by the time the sun goes down, or make sure I'm only working on something that only uses the few tools I still have.
I also learned that spark plugs are a lot more fucking difficult to change than the Haynes manual led me to believe. On the other hand, I got a HUGE kick out of getting to take apart a bit more than I had planned, and it was a good refresher on how blasted painful it is to scrape skin off your knuckles, bash you fingers into engine manifolds, and slice fingertips on sharp edges. I had also forgotten the epic staining power of engine grease. (I didn't like that shirt anyway. My hands, though, are permanantly stained gooey black.)
Once I had replaced plugs 2, 4, and 6 (with a short detour to take out the radiator overflow), I figured out that I had to take off the air filter assembly (is that what it's called? Can't remember) to get to 1, 3, and 5. 5 and 3 cooperated. 1. Oh 1. I hate you so hard.
See, Spark Plug Numero Uno is located behind some thing that holds some other thing via a slab of metal. A pretty unremovable chunk of metal. I could access Ichiban by reaching through and around that support or strut or whatever, but it was awkward in the extreme. I had to use two extentions just to be able to get enough length to reach the plug. One of those didn't seat well enough at first, so when I bore down on it to get it loose, the ratchet slipped loose and I ended up bashing my pinkie into... something. Something HARD.
My pinkie is now swollen and very very sore.
I did finally get that bastard out, though.
It felt pretty damn good to hook everything back up and start the car. She had been running pretty damned shaky, and when looking at the condition of the plugs, it's not difficult to see why. I also have to replace the rotor, but the difference already is ASTOUNDING. When I picked the car up, stepping on the gas pedal accelerated, but in a "eeeeenh" kind of way. Today, I discovered that if I stomp on the accelerator, the damned car not only peels out, but does that neat bouncy thing where you're torquing the tires so hard that they're skidding along the pavement trying to get enough grip to go forward. HEEEE. (Not going to do that often, though. Gas be expensive, and my girl, she drinks premium.)
Tomo... er, today, I think I'm going to mess with the doors a bit. Three of the four windows don't function, and I want to see if I can at least get the one that's stuck down to be stuck up instead so I can stop worrying about it raining. The three motors I need to replace are on the list after the driver side seat, which is actually busted -- I need to prop up the back with a sawed-off board as a brace. Not exactly the safest or most comfortable setup, but I'm having trouble finding a replacement right now.
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Rant Time!
Why I am I so attracted to guys who are, like, 22-25 years old? That's, um, a little too young for me, but over and over, I just tend to find them attractive. Maybe it's because that age group seems to be much more likely to grow out their hair (hey, I'm a TOTAL sucker for lovely locks and a crooked grin), or there's just more of them... I don't know.
Maybe I should just try to find a guy like my unbiological brother. He'd be perfect for me if we were actually attracted to each other (he's really my type, so the lack of willingness to fuck him that has been a hallmark of our relationship since Day One occasionally strikes me as REALLY inconvenient, strange, and hilarious) and if he were a few years older (he's the same age as my biological brother) and liked and wanted offspring. He gets along with my two just fine, but they're his unbiological niece and nephew, so they're an exception. ... OK, and he's a sub, which means things would only work, like, once every three months or so.
OK, so not perfectly like him. I need someone steadier than me, someone who can... I don't know, keep me corralled a bit or something. Someone who appreciates my nerdy flavor, but isn't going to spend most of their life playing WoW. Someone who can see and appreciate me for who I am, not for some unattainable Platonic ideal of who I should be. Most of all, someone who isn't going to make those horrified faces at my body that I've suffered on occasion. I've had kids. Things happen.
... Crap. Bedtime. Got a lot of design work to do tomorrow.
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Online dating is a total pain in the ass.
... On second thought, I won't expound on that. tl;dr.
Also, cocks.
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Quick update before finally sleeping...
Things are picking up with the studio. Not yet at the point where we're bringing in any appreciable amount of money, but we're building quite a fan base! It's a bit exciting to watch it happen, and there's a weird thrill to know that I... have fans. Of my work! HEE.
Artistically, I've managed to start hitting another improvement streak after having plateaued for several months. It was quite a giant leap forward, too. I keep looking at one image I finished today and blinking, shocked that I did that! I keep looking at it and then looking at another artist's work that I particularly admire, and there's that little thrill of "Holy SHIT I am almost... ALMOST that good! WOW! I can do this!"
Now, if I can just figure out how to puncture the bottom of my planters so the water can drain out of them without damaging my plants or my already-injured wrist...
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The internet is so much fun.
So, on a bit of a can't-quite-call-it-a-dare, I filled out a Match dot com profile. I decided to have fun with it, aiming more to see what I could get away with in honesty and still get past the censors and who the hell would actually click on something like that than actually trying to write it to attract potential matches.
First profile was rejected due to language. Oops.
But yeah, it was a lot of fun. It'll be interesting to see if anyone gets past the tagline. "High maintenance, needy, and only in it to suck your wallet dry!"
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Aaaaah, back in the W7 saddle again.
I had forgotten over the past month just now light and nimble Windows 7 is compared to Vista... and even XP, to be honest. I adore the interface, I love how QUICK it is, and now that Chrome runs on it, I have zero complaints. Unheard of, considering what a griping Linux groupie I can be.
On the other hand, Microsoft's announcement that they're not going to allow RC upgrades from the beta broke my goddamned heart. Yeah, there's gonna be a workaround (boot from a flash drive, then modify cversion.ini), but still. Why you gotta be so bitchy, Microsoft? You don't even have a good excuse.
In slightly related news, I've finally accepted the fact that I've gotta build another fileserver. The one I'm using now just isn't cutting it AT ALL. *sigh* Anyone want to buy a G4? Cheap! The only reason I haven't sold it before now is because I was genuinely curious about how well a Mac would work being used as a file/media server. The answer: NOT WELL. That's OK... xubuntu always treated me well in that capacity, so I'll just do that again.
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STATE OF THE ME ADDRESS
I am definitely starting to grasp my patterns of behavior with others, and my most recent experiment in the world of dating really drove it home.
It's quick enough to summarize; emailed a guy on Craigslist whose ad I ran across while just browsing, emailed him complementing his fine ass, ended up exchanging several light-spirited emails that led to something of a date. Neither of us were terribly surprised to find we're utterly incompatible but had a good time nonetheless. It says a lot when the ride home on the MAX proved to be the most worthwhile part of the evening, though. (More on that later.)
The thing is, online openness and flirting and outright bawdiness aside, I am very shy in person if I feel that there's some kind of expectation I'm supposed to meet. Once that feeling is gone, I open back up and am every bit the gregarious critter I am online... but there's really no escaping that awkward first stage. It's especially difficult if the offline experience follows any sort of dating situation -- the most comfortable I've ever been on a first date is because I was friends with the guy online first in a very non-relationship sort of way, and it just kind of hit us after we had met in person that hey, there's something going on here.
So, I guess the hardest part is transitioning from the online to the offline in a way that doesn't make me choke up in nerves, but most of that is tied up in worrying about the expectations people have of me. I'm getting better, though -- I didn't choke up as much as usual on Friday, and he even took the time to reassure me that he had a good time as well, even if I didn't put out like he had hoped.
On the plus side, all this contemplation on relationships that I've been doing lately has helped me narrow down what it is I really am looking for... and how I see myself. Basically, I am someone who both reads the New Yorker and loves hanging out in art museums, and would laugh uncontrollably if her date accidentally cracked an audible fart. Kind of hard to find partners who fit both categories, you know? Add to that my desire for someone who would be the dominant partner with a side of enjoying being the one tied down to the bed once in a while and able to keep me on my toes while still managing to curl my toes (in a good way)?
Well, at least I'm learning to enjoy the hunt a bit more.
... Oh, right! The MAX story.
So, on the way back from this Friday night semi-date of mine, I ended up sitting next to a very inebriated old man who immediately took to flirting with me. I was in a good mood and have gotten rather used to older men flirting with me, so I smiled and was attentive. Not too difficult, since he immediately started launching into some rather funny and somewhat tasteless jokes, and then followed that up by telling me about how his wife of 62 years wouldn't let him eat her pussy.
I must have seemed a little too sympathetic, because he spent the next 40 minutes of the ride trying to convince me to let him go down on me while peppering his attempts with hilarious stories about his Army buddies and their wives.
At one point, he asked me if I was married. I mentioned I was twice-divorced and living with my roommate, to which he responded by asking if I was living with a male or female. I replied that I was in fact residing with another woman, and of course he assumed I was having sex with her. I was rather loud in my denial... OK, what I said was, "What? No! I mean, I'd rather fuck my sister!" Every male on that train car looked at me (not that there were too many... I think maybe 6, not counting my 90-year-old Romeo), and one of them burst out laughing, sat down next to me, and immediately starting asking me if my sister was hot, and if I really would do her. (The answer is an unequivicable NO. She is gorgeous, but she is also my sister and also a WOMAN, and that's not something I'm into. At ALL.) He and his equally inebriated buddies joined in with peppering me with questions, even as I stood up to get off the train. The old man stopped me with one hand on my wrist, and asked in quite a carrying voice, "One more question. Spit or swallow?"
"Gargle!" I said, and winked. They laughed and applauded as I stepped off the train, nearly tripping because I was laughing so damned hard myself.
All in all, it was the most amusing hour I've spent in quite a long time!
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I can't write. I feel impotent... except for the part where I have a really bad case of baby fever going on right now (hello, hormones... is it already that time again?). I'm also feeling SO RONERY, and my bed is cold, and wah wah emocakes.
On the bright side, spring fever has hit, and now my kitchen is sparkling clean from the tops of my cabinets and fridge to... just above floor level, because I haven't gotten around to vacuuming yet. TOMORROW. I can see out my windows, my plants are green (and there's even grass in that mudpit I jokingly call my lawn! Awesome!), and why do I have the urge to rip out my IUD?
... Oh yeah.
OK, ovaries. Let's have a chat.
1) We are sparsely employed. Yes, there is going to be steady income soon, and yes there is a lot of side work going on, but not enough to support another mouth to feed. We already have... uh... 10, including pets.
2) We are single, beloved generators of reproductive cells. While it may be easy enough to find some happless bonehead on Craigslist to contribute genetic material... see #1.
3) Remember what your eldest kitty did when you got knocked up the first time? Remember why we had to find her a new home until a month ago? Yeah. And your clothes are worth more now.
4) And your new shoes.
5) Which are fabulous, by the way.
Give it up, girls. We may have already enjoyed all the knockked-upedness we're gonna get.
Of course they counter with "but our babies they smell so sweet and they're all warm and cuddling and breastfeeding! Remember breastfeeding? Wasn't that awesome? And aren't we CUTE when we're pregnant?" They're right, of course; I feel my cutest when I'm waddling like a duck with a belly that can stop traffic (due to blocking the intersection while I stand on the corner). It's a sickness, I guess, designed to keep me propogating even when all reason says "LOL WAT NO." I really did enjoy breastfeeding, too... after that initial part where I'm staring from the crying newborn's mouth to my chafed nipple and sobbing because I know what must be done, but it's gonna HURT. It feels good once everything's back in the groove, and there's nothing funnier than going off like a milky set of emergency sprinklers in the shower.
Aaaah, mommyhood is so glamourous.
Anyway, back to ovulating and drawing, seeing as how drawing is managing to pay at least one bill this month.
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Ah, home. So glad to be home. Not terribly enjoying the massive sinus infection that made two takeoffs and landings utter hell, but hey, at least I didn't die in a fiery explosion, right?
One of the weirder side effects of being all hopped up on being sick and the accompanying drugs of choice is that sex becomes terribly funny. I mean, I'm looking at the banners on the site, and there's this one where one of the shots is this chick all roped up and puckered up on some guy's bald cock, and I keep cracking up at it. It's got to be one of the most hilarious things I've seen in a long time! I mean, genitals in general are a source of amusement even on a regular basis, but seriously, there's just something about the way this guy's pelvis is positioned and the pink extension that is just outrageously funny. It doesn't help that the particular way her cheeks are all sucked in and the way her lips are sealed right around the spot behind the glans before the shaft flares out in a broader girth is also insanely hilarious. ... Look, it's just funny!
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Still in California, but hurrah for the rural folk who don't bother to secure wifi passwords so that I can surf the webz while I'm doing laundry.
Well, while my ex does laundry and chases the kids so I can catch up on my work (and slack off a bit on other websites).
I may have grown up in SoCal, but I couldn't ever live here again. Portland has grown on me, to the point that two days in I was actually homesick for it (and still am). It's lovely here right now, sunny and in the mid- to upper-70s, and I do love the desert and the sparseness of the landscape, but... it's not home. It's not my forests and mountains and rain and green.
Although damn, I wish Oregon had California's beaches. Oh my GOD I missed the beaches down here. If I had more time, I'd take up surfing again. Hell, once I'm back into a shape I'd slap into a bathing suit again, I'll head down here and and least indulge in a bit of body-surfing.
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Still in California, but hurrah for the rural folk who don't bother to secure wifi passwords so that I can surf the webz while I'm doing laundry.
Well, while my ex does laundry and chases the kids so I can catch up on my work (and slack off a bit on other websites).
I may have grown up in SoCal, but I couldn't ever live here again. Portland has grown on me, to the point that two days in I was actually homesick for it (and still am). It's lovely here right now, sunny and in the mid- to upper-70s, and I do love the desert and the sparseness of the landscape, but... it's not home. It's not my forests and mountains and rain and green.
Although damn, I wish Oregon had California's beaches. Oh my GOD I missed the beaches down here. If I had more time, I'd take up surfing again. Hell, once I'm back into a shape I'd slap into a bathing suit again, I'll head down here and and least indulge in a bit of body-surfing.
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Urgh. If I ever needed proof that I am gettin' too old for this shit (as they say), today is it.
Last night was fun. We ate at the Brass, then took it upon ourselves to visit the R Palate, which may end up being our new favourite haunt. Nice ambiance, but I think I pissed the owner off a little by claiming that my creme brulee recipe is better than his. ... Well, it is, in my opinion. I may not be Le Courdon Bleu trained, but I can work a kitchen pretty well. My sister disagreed and said his was better. I would have been miffed if she hadn't followed that up with "there's no way you can outdo her bread pudding, though." I'm pretty aggressive about defending my Best Bread Pudding EVER title.
But yeah, we were out really late. Long enough that we barely managed to catch the last MAX, and enjoyed the time changing over while still awake. On top of that, we had to wake up four hours later so I could take everyone home.
Thank God for Starbucks.
I feel kind of dead right now, though. I'm relaxed, but oh I just want to undress and crawl into bed. Still have enough Smut in my hair to make me wanna do a bit more than just crawl into bed, but I'm also tired enough that, well, no. I'll deal with a pleasant glow of mid-level horniness while I sleep, and hope my dreams tonight will be vivid enough to make up for it!
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I! I am going OUT!
If anyone needs me, I'm going to be at the Horse Brass with my unbiological brother and my roomie.
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
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... And as a counterpoint to the BAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWfest that was the last entry...
As I've mentioned, I am a huge fan of BPAL. I can cruise their site and imagine their scents as I read them. I adore trying new ones (tried Fallen tonight, since my roomie has it and I was curious how it would smell on me. The answer: "not for me".), and have a few steady favourites I can count on. Three of them in particular: Blood Kiss, Smut (2008), and Clio.
Clio is the one I consider my scent. It's discontinued, which means once I'm out I'm screwed, so I don't wear it often. It's a blend that speaks of dusty books, quiet contemplation, and the breath of inspiration. She is the muse of history, which I find entirely appropriate given my personal beliefs and practices, as well as the general bent of my writing. When I wear it, I gain a focus to what I do, and find myself smiling quietly as I work, caught up in the twists and turns and intrigues and relationships that make up the world I write.
I bought Smut (2008) after spending a weekend at my friend's house. (She hangs around here as summermagpie, for the curious.) She has the 2007 blend, and wore it to bed one night. I had figured I wouldn't have problems sharing the bed; I was married most of my adult life, and actually tend to sleep better with another warm body next to me. ... Not so much that night. She crawled into bed after I had dozed off, and the freakin' scent she gave off woke me up all over. I wanted to bury my nose in her hair and grope her like crazy. I was so turned on it hurt.
She thought it was funny. ... Well, it was. I'm so straight it's frustrating, but that perfume overrode that in a hurry!
So, when I spotted Smut (2008), I snapped up a bottle.
It's my self-love blend. On summermagpie, it was teasing and dark and unavailable in the most painful way. On myself, it's languid self-adoration, the sensuous awareness that twists and writhes because the sheets are stroking my bare skin, teasing my nipples and sliding across my thighs as my hand explores warmer parts. I can't not think about sex while wearing this blend. It's simply impossible.
Blood Kiss is the one I wear most often. It is the anticipation of Smut, the subtle promises and anticipation that whisper in my ear all day, leaving me looking forward to the night. It's a warm and full scent, sweet and seductive, and somehow more outside myself than Smut is. It's like having my lover at my back, breathing kisses down my neck as I go about my routines, smiling promises of a much more stimulating pasttime to come as soon as the lights are down and everyone has turned in for the night. In a way, it's the promise to myself of finding that person who matches the scent.
All that, and it smells incredibly good on me. I have honestly had men stop me in public and ask what I'm wearing, and tell me how much they like it. (Well, guys, NOW YOU KNOW. I smell like my fantasies!)
A lot of the fun I have with my perfumes comes with layering them. It takes some practice; on a general level, some of the scents just don't work together. On the other hand, combining them can be fun. For example, right now I'm wearing what I call my Sexy Librarian blend: Clio layered with just a touch of Smut. Not only does it smell great, but I kind of want to take myself upstairs and ravish myself into a coma while quoting ancient texts and poetry. (The funny part is I did that to cover Fallen, which is an extremely sharp scent on me. Smut would have done the job by itself, but that's just mean, so I layered Clio first to take the edge off it a bit and leave me able to write before I jumped in the shower and rocked my own little world for a while.)
I have a few more blends lined up on my wish list. I think I'm going to get Severin next, which is a very bold, masculine scent. I think it will pair well with Blood Kiss when I want a more aggressive edge to my presence.
I think I'll stop here. I could literally go on for hours about scents, and how I use my various perfumes for all sorts of mood therapy and other minor bits of magic.
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Among the many hats I wear, one is "semi-professional photographer." I say "semi-" because I haven't been seriously in the game for a couple of years, and I don't quite have the equipment I used to. (That's being fixed next week as I begin rebuilding and doing it seriously again, but for now... semi.)
Part of what I do, and admittedly it's one of my favourite parts, is photographing other peoples' bodies. Regulars around this here journal area aren't strangers to the fact that I have some self-esteem issues concerning my body, but it revisited my brain a bit just now as I was cruising other photographers' sites, catching up on what everyone is doing. Beautiful bodies, beautiful photos... and none of them look like mine.
It's a hard thing for a girl to take, looking at those beautiful shapes and seeing how people react to them... then heading upstairs and seeing my own body in the mirror. It's nowhere near the same (and admittedly never was; I've always been somewhat broad-shouldered and slim-hipped), and it's hard to imagine anyone finding me beautiful, especially with all those lovely other bodies out there. Hell, or even desirable.
I wonder if it's possible to learn to think my body is beautiful. There's only so much exercise will do for me; childbearing was pretty harsh on my form, and there's only so much you can do for being built like a brick shithouse. Not even anorexia will ever make me slender. I keep hoping that I'll find beautiful photos of women like me, and that I'll look in the mirror and see the possibilities in myself, but... well.
I was so excited by the Dove campaign. There were women who looked like me! I was hoping it would spread, that we'd see more and more of the same, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Hell, the media attention over Jessica Simpson putting on a couple of pounds horrified me. I mean, come on. She looks like my goal... but it's still not good enough. (And that's completely leaving out the fact that my fat distrobution is rather odd for a woman. I WISH it went to my hips - I might look more... well, womanly.)
Is it ever? Really, guys. Is it ever good enough? In a world where HWP isn't, and sex appeal is unachievable by anyone who can't work out 4 hours a day every day on a 600 calorie a day diet, is it really possible for normal people like me to be beautiful, too?
Or maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe everyone has that thrill of fear when they get naked in front of someone, just waiting for the horror to creep up on their faces, wondering for the millionth time if they shouldn't have just waxed from the neck down and turned off the lights.
I think what confuses me most is how my unbiological brother can call me pretty and make my day, but some faceless asshole sending me a photo of a cow and calling me "fugly ass fatty" can instantly undermine months of building self-esteem.
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I wish I could go out running right now. Unfortunately, even as out of shape as I am right now, they're still too little to even remotely keep up with me. Nobody available to watch them, either. Really, the only time I have to myself is after they go to bed, and quite honestly even my asskicking self is nervous about the idea of going jogging after dark. My neighborhood is surrounded by barely-developed areas, despite being pretty close in to the city (just a trick of the terrain, I guess!), and since I don't have a car, I can't just go somewhere better-lit and populated to get my run on.
I might have to resort to getting a treadmill, but darnit, I was kind of hoping to get out and, I don't know, see other people for a change.
I hate being stuck at home.
In other news, I'm heading down to San Diego for a little under two weeks starting next week. I won't go into the full details of why -- I'm not sure where the TOS rules are exactly regarding any talk about the fruit of one's loins -- but we'll just leave it at I'm being far nicer to a certain genetic contributer than he necessarily warrents. Really, I'm just doing it for said fruit.
I'm going to be SO BORED.
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Oh man, I'm sick. I hate being sick. I was supposed to be starting my running routine, but then my lady-time started and left me cramping worse than usual, and now I have a massive cold. UNFAIR!
So, in the midst of all my sicko angst, I decided to try my luck at setting up a G4 running OS X as a media server. ... It's an adventure, I'll tell you. I've never owned a Mac before, much less tried to scare one into being a media server. Hell, that's fun enough to do with my Ubuntu box! (Poor ol' Yachiru developed way too many hardware issues and had to be turned into a doorstop.) I picked up the G4 (now known as Jenny) from my days at the print shop. She's been sitting in my garage, unused, for... ages.
Took me three hours to fuck 'er up. SCORE! \o/
Now I'm an hour into torrenting a copy of the OS X DVD so I can un-fuck Jenny and get her working again. I'd love to dual-boot her with Ubuntu, but don't know if I'll get around to that. I'm having enough fun putting it back on Asmodai and dual-booting him with the Windows 7 beta.
For the curious, my other systems are an XP laptop known as Gerald, the ancient tower of evil that is Sauron (who is a Win2K box because the idea of trying to install anything else on his cranky ass scares me), and Rook, my Palm Centro smartphone that I've used so often as a mini-computer that it kind of counts. I love my babies!
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Ugh.
I was going to update, but damn, I'm just a big ball of down tonight.
Sucks. Finally figured out what I want, and wouldn't it figure that it's the kind of someone I'll never have? I don't think he exists.
Rather than go into detail, though... I'm going to go knit for a while.
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So yeah, I've been a little busy.
The other night I did a photo shoot with my sister and her friend. Honestly, I use the term rather loosely, since the equipment I was limited to was really, REALLY limited. Like, we're talking using a couple of my dark-colored blankets for backdrops, a point-and-shoot digital camera that HATED having to focus, and (I shit you not) a halogen floor lamp for lighting.
Y'all, I figure I'm pretty damn incredible, because I actually got some really nice shots. (Sorry, not sharing here -- I'm a bit worried about crossing my streams, so to speak... I really prefer to keep my private life and my working life separate, at least for now.) Not only did I have loads of fun, but now I'm really feeling the itch to go back into photography on a more professional note. Only... this time? NO WEDDINGS. UGH. BRIDES.
It was really interesting photographing my sister and her friend. They're very different body types; my sister is a very socially-acceptable body type: slim, toned, just the right amount of hip and breasts, while her friend is very plump, curvy, and just... lush. The camera even wanted to work with them in different ways. With my sister, it was like teasing, flirting, the hookup at the bar that you're smiling and making all the right moves for. With her friend, it was like a mutual seduction, dark and slow and rich and sensuous.
My sister has already indicated she wants me to keep working with her. I'm hoping I can talk her friend into doing some more shots, too. She's really shy, though, so ... might be difficult, and I may end up never showing them to the general public. It really would just be a pleasure to capture her for herself and her husband, though. She really is gorgeous.
I wish the camera loved me like that. Alas, cameras only like me on the operating side. I try to take photos of myself, but it's like the camera laughs at me, mocking me and finding all my flaws and somehow magnifying them even beyond what I see in the mirror every day. I'm still determined to do a shoot with myself as the subject, determined to get at least one good photograph of myself, no matter how many frames it takes. Someday I want to take that photo that describes me, the way I see myself when I'm not being fooled by the mirror or the camera or the ugly things people say about me.
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Oy.
So, I get to give the "oopsie, we're just friends... I'm not into you that way" speech to one of my guy friends tonight. I hope he takes it well. I'm a little peeved that he wasn't up-front about the way he feels and stuff... I was under the impression that we were just friends hanging out, and cheerful-drunkenly taking advantage of a little FWB action. I had to find out through two mutual friends of ours that this isn't the case.
I don't know. Maybe I really am just that dense, but I really didn't see this coming, and while it wouldn't have entirely deterred me from last night's recreation... well, I would have at least made it clear that I didn't mean I wanted anything more from him than good company and a great shag.
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So, why am I putting myself back "on the market" now?
Damn, good question. I'm not entirely sure myself! I mean, on the surface it's a bad idea, but at the same time... even po' folk like company, right? Well, in general. I've known a few Morlocks in my time.
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No, I haven't died.
I'm terrified of the upcoming days. Tomorrow is my last working day at the shop (Friday is moving day), and while it's been tense and unpleasant in general there, it's still been my home away from home for a while now. That, and... unemployment.
Christ.
I have sent out about 120 applications and copies of my resume. Nada. I mean, I know things are bad, but... damn. I seriously couldn't get a job at McDonald's. I tried. I heard about a retail store that posted a single job opening on Craigslist. By the end of the third day, they had received over 300 resumes. People, this is insane.
I watched a lady get on the MAX with armfuls of bags full of stuff from BCBG, Saks, bebe... I wanted to punch her. The combined retail value of those bags would have fed my family for a month. Irrational -- I have no idea what her life is like, and it's not my place to judge whether or not she's earned it -- but difficult to see, still.
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Craigslist has the most wonderful way of making me feel like the ugliest, most repulsive being on the planet.
*sigh*
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The Continuing Adventures of His Majesty
So, I engaged in a short-term TOTALLY scientific study of my reactions to my dildo and the varying conditions I use him under, and have come to a very important conclusion: I am allergic to cat hair in my hoohoo.
REALLY.
I never did mention that His Majesty doesn't seem to give me any issues if I use him in the shower (besides the normal HOJEEZ BIG reaction and post-play funnywalkin'). So, I started tracking my reactions both in the shower and out of it. I discovered that yes, I really have issues with him outside the shower (to varying degrees), but rarely in it. Like any good scientist, I then started tracking the conditions both inside and out, looking for that difference that would explain the unpleasant itching and burning (with no unusual discharge, darnit, I know how to check for infection), and I very quickly hit on it. Goddamned cat hair gets on my dildo if I use it outside the shower, no matter how carefully I clean it before using! Also, UR3 seems to be a material that LOVES picking things up on contact and clinging to them.
No wonder I was having itchy poon issues! Also, no more His Majesty in bed. Sadly, I can only enjoy our encounters in the shower now. ... Better than nothing, though!
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Know what sucks?
Getting into a religious-based argument with your parents while you're trying to work.
Know what else sucks?
NO U is not a valid comeback in said argument. Not yet, at any rate.
As if I don't have enough issues battering my brain right now...
(And no, it's not something I can just brush aside right now. My parents are deeply religious, and the things that are being fought over right now are things that will impact the very foundations of our relationships with each other.)
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It's really hard to get up the drive to clean without a vacuum. It feels like wasted energy. No matter how much I pick up, no matter how I shuffle and sweep and organize, the place still looks dirty.
At least I'm getting laundry done, and the new vac should be here next week.
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I should be writing. My roommate, aka My Biggest Fan, keeps giving me those looks, the ones that say you wrote every day in November. You wrote an entire damned novel in November. KEEP WRITING.
I want to. I just don't know where to dive back in, I guess. There are some ideas kicking around in my head, but other than a few vague story ideas... well, let's just say writing sex scenes has never been one of my strong suits.
Bleh. I can barely write here. Might be time to just let go of the keyboard and find some charcoal or my Wacom instead.
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Touchy subject time! Today's topic: race.
I've been asked several times in my life about whether or not I'd date a black guy. (Why it's always black guys, I don't know. Why doesn't anyone ever ask me if I'd date an Asian guy? (Hint: the answer is maybeyes.)) Each time, I'm almost physically stunned by the question, and more than a little confused.
Why not?
I will admit right here and now that I hang around 4chan and Craigslist for kicks, and have been known to swap less-than-PC jokes with equally-humored people. I've heard it all, laughed at it all... but I don't genuinely get it.
Now, personally, I don't find many black guys all that attractive. Nor do I tend to find Russians attractive, or Swedes. There's certain characteristics that I'm just not attracted to. On the other hand, show me sharp features and long, dark hair, and I go positively stupid. Drooling and incapable of speech oh-God-thank-you-for-the-eye-candy stupid. (There's one profile I ran across recently that had me staring... until I saw he was 18. Why, God, why.)
There's exceptions to everything, though. Barak Obama is smokin'. Ditto Will Smith and Denzel Washington. ... Can't think of any Swedes, though. Damned pale Swedes. I also can't think of any Russians off the top of my head, but there was this one figure skater that had me staring at his... form for a while.
There's exceptions everywhere. So, to answer the "would you date a black guy" question: sure, if I found him attractive. Same as every other ethnic and racial group on this planet.
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8:30 AM. Still drunk, which is a new experience for me. I've never managed the pass-out-drunk-wake-up-drunk trick before.
Yeah. Definitely still drunk.
I'm relieved to note that, although I seem to have managed to change my profile picture while skipping in the hazy dreamland of Tequilaville, I didn't change it to anything I'm going to be embarrassed about. I can't exactly come up with a logical reason why I am so jumpy about photographs but have no qualms about telling the world of my experiences with my giant purple schlong .
Anyway, Happy New Year, CM! Time to make breakfast and ... I bet I'm going to be taking a nap not long after breakfast.
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OK, I'm like a little drunk.
Maybe more than a little. I see a distinct lack of typos in the past sentences, though, so I haven't hit the pint ... ha htere... oh boy.
Anyway.
(Patron Silver + Tuaca, for the curious. It's my way of saying "2008 sucked hard enough that I want to drink it away, but had enough good times that I'm going to at least send it out with my happyliquors.")
OK, so, I'm a bit of a dumbass. I gave a ride home to a complete stranger that I met on the train. He was hopelessly lost and new to the area, and I figure I'm at least schooled enough to do damage, and enthusiastic enough to hospitalize an attacker (if not kill), so why not. Besides, I get a HUGE kick out of helping people. It's like my cocaine. Anyway. Gave him a ride home, and gave him a business card because he wanted my digits but I protect my cell number like it was the fucking Arc of the Covenant or something.
Yeah, it's kind of funny to me, too. And the screen is starting to blur and I can't feel my face so I'd better keep typing or I'm going to be kissing the carpet, and not in the lesbian kind of way.
Anyway. So. I get a call today at work about his wallet. Apparently he dropped it last night at a busy intersection, and my card was in it, so they called me. So I called a number I found in his wallet (the first I saw that looked promising, actually), and not only was the number connected to someone he knows, but he was THERE when I called!
Either this guy has some serious good karma coming his way, or ... I don't know.
Anyway, he's kind of cute, I guess, but definitely a drifter (or, worse, one of those wandering homeless guys). He wants to take me out to dinner, and I'm guessing something more, but... eh. Not sure about that at ALL. I mean, I'm horny as hell (and too drunk to properly censor myself whee) , and my toys just aren't cutting it anymore (goddamn I want to SMELL a man oh my god men smell good and they feel good and mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm)... but no, I don't think I want to even entertain the idea of fucking some guy who has itchy feet and is gonna leave sooner than I'd like. Hell, the sad truth is, I attach easy once I've gotten it into my head that I want to attach to a person. Oy. Man-smell, though. It's admittedly tempting to throw caution into the wind (or the Willamette) and just get LAID already. God damn all you good-smellin' guys.
Lost my train of thought. That's OK. I'm not wasted until I can no longer spellcheck.
5 1/2 of the Patron, 3 of Tuaca. In tequila veritas. SO.
I fell in love this year, and it SUCKED. I mean, it was awesome, but it also sucked. It sucked because I got hurt, but it was awesome because I got hurt -- it meant I have feelings too, and am not the evil non-feeling-having robot my ex accused me of being. Awesome. Less awesome for the whole ow-love-hurts thing, though.
Almost fell in love again, but hey, for once I held on to my head and kept myself from doing anything stupid, like letting myself get hooked on someone thous.. hundr... SOME NUMBER OF miles away. Close call, though. He saw a tiny bit of boob, which is more than most get out of me without subsequently forming some kind of committed relationship with me.
Time to stop. I'm having to correct every other word, I can't feel my hands, and my vision is doubling. Also, gotta pee. Which is going to be an ADVENTURE.
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I. HAVE HAD. ENOUGH.
I AM ALLERGIC TO MY DAMNED DILDO. UNFAIR, UNIVERSE, VERY UNFAIR. I LACK FUNDS TO REPLACE THE DAMNED THING.
It just wasn't enough that it smelled funny and made me walk funny because of the size. No. Just as I was getting to like playing with the damned thing, I finally made the connection between 'hey, that's like some uncomfy burning going on, and it's not because it's too tight down there after all' and 'hey, uh, this feels like my latex allergy did, duh'.
Oh my god this is massively unfair.
Right as I need it the most, too. Freakin' stress is driving me to the point where I'm starting to lose my ability to function, and dammit, now I'm back to hands-only. I sure picked a great time to put a moratorium on my partner-searchin', didn't I?
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What the hell.
I take myself off the market as a show of solidarity for my brother's resolution to stay out of a relationship until at least April, and suddenly I'm deluged with interesting opportunities? Figures.
This time, though, I really am my brother's keeper. It's going to be rough for him -- I think the longest he's gone without a girlfriend in the past eight or so years is three weeks. I know he's gonna want to slip, but unlike his smoking, I'm not going to just let him slip up with a snort and rolled eyes.
Besides, he's a pain in the ass to work with when he's in a relationship. Girls make him STUPID. I'd try hooking him up with a guy if I thought he'd go that way, but with my luck it would be WORSE.
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I think it's utterly charming how I manage to go through one of the worst days of my... well, month. The kind of day where I have to sit on my hands to keep from throwing my laptop at the wall, tearing off my clothes, and running naked and screaming through the shop. The kind of day where I don't want to even look in a mirror because all I'll see is acres of flab and mountains of dry skin, and every pore looks like a vast, dark chasm of old age. I slogged through yesterday with as much grace as I could summon, even managing to smile at customers when I inadvertently left my office and was seen. (I hide from customers, especially on days like yesterday. I can only manage to be cute and charming for so long when I feel like the burning infernal pimple on a demon's oily backside.)
Even in the midst all this rage and self-loathing, I got hit on while I was waiting for the train.
Granted, I'm a major sucker for musicians. He was busking with his guitar, and doing a pretty shitty job of it, too. He'd start a song, manage to forget the lyrics, and he had an AWFUL singing voice. I tried to ignore him for a while (even though he was pretty cute), but then he busted out with "Wish You Were Here" (one of my favorites), and he didn't really even sing it -- he did this Dylan-esque take on it, and it kind of worked. Enough that I only rolled my eyes and giggled when he skipped lyrics. (It was throwing me off. I was trying to sing along, and he kept skipping lines and mixing verses and screwing up the tempo!) I finally decided he'd earned at least a dollar for amusing the shit out of me, so my roomie-slash-coworker and I walked over to drop off some money.
He smiled at me and jumped right into flirting. Once I got over the initial shock of someone bothering to flirt with my blobby, snake-skinned self, I flirted back (it's like a damned reflex, I can't quite help it and it took me years to even realize that I flirt) and informed him that I enjoyed his take on Pink Floyd and thought he sounded a bit like Bob Dylan. He seemed pleased, then asked me if I had heard of some song. I told him I hadn't, and he said, "If you like Dylan, you'll like this," and he played it for me.
I am also a sucker for guitarists who make those eyes at me while they're playing. Oh my GAWD.
His voice is definitely made for Dylan-style vocals. His hands are made for... well, I could think of a few more things besides playing the guitar, that's for certain.
My train pulled up right as he finished, and he asked for my number as we were walking away. I yelled back that if I saw him again, I'd be sure to give it to him. He laughed and called me a tease, then waved.
Even though I spent the rest of the night fighting a migraine and generally being exhausted, I was still in a pretty good mood. It's funny how a simple thing like a few minutes of positive attention from a stranger can offset an entire day's worth of crap.
I like to think I do the same for others. You know, when I'm not hiding in my office wondering why I have to swell up like a water balloon every 5th week or so.
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I have to admit, I want a collar a lot more than I have ever wanted any regular piece of jewelry. I get the biggest grin on my face when I see one I like...
A lot harder to find the right person to collar me than to give me a wedding ring, though! Heh. I've had two of the latter, and... damn, I think it would actually be about as hard to convince me to marry someone at this point as it would be to get me to wear a collar.
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Ah, wishful thinking. I'm doing a lot of it this morning.
I'm running into a bit of an issue at work with getting production done vs. getting my job done. Yes, it's important to get our stuff out the door so we can have some money coming in, but at the same time a good-sized chunk of my job is devoted to making sure we're up-to-date on our obligations with the feds, state, and local governments, keeping track of our accounts to make sure we can afford our supplies, and working on trying to get some kind of money in that we can use to give us a little bit of safety cushion. We had the grand fortune to start a business right as the economy was failing, so our plans to secure a line of credit fell through in a big way. Luckily, we have enough coming in that expenses are covered, but just not enough to build up that cushion that would help get us through leaner months.
It's got me a bit worried, and it's getting harder to leave this problem in the office.
I heard recently that there are "bums" around here that make six digits panhandling. Maybe I should have my sales team switch tactics...
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After browsing some of the alternate aisles in this place (in other words, I got curious about the male sub who was browsing my profile, liked what I saw, then browsed some more of 'em), I think I've finally determined what the hell it is I want.
I want a man who is submissive outside the bedroom, but a total Dom inside the bedroom.
No, really, this is the perfect fantasy!
You see, I can cop to being OCD enough to want my housework done a certain way, even though I hate doing housework with a furious passion. I can also own up to the fact that, for the most part, I want to be bossed around when it's time to get it on.
So, the idea is to set up zones in the house for the roles. In the bedroom, for example, he's Master and I'm the servant. ... Yeah, this means I'd have to clean that bathroom to his specifications, but I can handle that. Outside the bedroom, the roles switch! Add in the fun of learning to Domme a bit if we start macking on the couch, and the idea that every once in a while we could agree to switch the zones around for added variety, and suddenly I'm a very interested girl.
Probably going to remain firmly in the world of fantasy, though. I have a feeling there's not too many guys out there who would enjoy this type of situation. *deep sigh*
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I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised that I have the flu, considering I have two small children, I come in contact with other human beings on a regular basis, and I'm a wound-up little stressball. Too bad I don't have a bottle of bourbon, or I'd indulge in my favorite "treatment": drinking myself stupid, wrapping up in blankets, chugging a ton of water, and passing out in bed for twelve hours.
Seriously, no matter how sick I am, 90% of the time I feel TONS better the next morning!
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Another late night at work! I'm taking a break for a bit -- been here twelve hours now, and it's looking like I'm DEFINITELY going to be here past midnight. Might reach the point where I just go to the corner store for baby wipes and resign myself to staying at the office tonight.
We're having good times in spite of the second long work day, though. We walked over to SushiLand, ate ourselves silly for dirt cheap, then wandered our way back. On the way, we were cracking jokes and laughing our asses off all the way back. At one point, we stopped in front of the restaurant of Hotel Lucia, and J (one of my coworkers) and I did the Aquaman dance in front of the windows. The faces the people made had us laughing so hard we literally stumbled around hooting for two blocks.
I adore my coworkers. I adore even more that I'm only their boss while we're at work, but once we're past those front doors, we're all just really good friends that adore hanging out with each other. Believe me, we've had our tests that really put the stress on those relationships, but we've made it through. Now, if J would just lose his psychic vampire girlfriend and E would hook up with a /b/tard and move out? Perfection.
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Why I'm Pretty Sure I Don't Fuck Chicks, by CC, age 29
Many years ago, I was married to a guy who was pretty interested in turning our marriage into an open relationship. I had my hesitations, but I agreed to do it. Turns out what he meant was "I wanna bang a chick in our bed with you there so that I don't feel like I'm cheating on you, but there's no way in hell I'm going to let you sleep with another guy or even bring one home, so you'd better learn to like screwing girls."
"Well, OK," I thought. (This is one of the first of many occasions that have led me to the conclusion that any situation I come upon where my reaction is '... well, ok' is a GET OUT NOW situation. Not that I actually do.) The girl he wanted to bang also wanted to bang me, so it seemed doubly kosher. Except for the part where I don't like girlbits.
It's the smell. I don't like girl-smell. I remember being a very young and impressionable kid, and I was lying with my head in my mom's lap, and I had a moment where I smelled this odd smell, and it dawned on me that I was smelling her crotch. It was a horrifying moment -- I had never realized girlparts had a smell. I wanted no part of this smelly girlparts business, but I couldn't think of any way to get past the part where I had girlbits. I resolved to at least prevent mine from stinking, and vowed to do everything possible to avoid smelling another girl's.
For the most part, I was successful. I've never had an infection of any sort, and until that point in my life, I had managed to not stick my nose in another girl's parts.
Now, though, my ex wanted to get another girl naked, and made it clear that he expected this to involve me messing around with this girl as well. I had already made out with her and that wasn't bad, so I blithely assumed that if I just made sure he kept her busy, all I'd have to do is kiss her and maybe play with her boobs a bit.
Wrong. She had other ideas, and was not shy about demanding things once the clothes were off.
I will admit this much -- I really enjoyed her from the waist up. That was FUN. Below the waist? She was all wet and it felt weird and it smelled like... like a girl.
Long story short, things didn't work out, and I ended up divorced. Happily divorced.
I've toyed with the idea of trying again, especially since I've at least come to some kind of affectionate relationship with my own bits to the point where I actually kind of enjoy the way I smell (at least, when I'm clean, and believe me I am a HUGE fan of showering and being clean), and will put up with a hint of my own flavor on a man. (OK, confession: something about my last boyfriend got me to the point where kissing him after he'd gone down on me drove me wild. I don't know how he did it, but he did. He's also the one who taught me to enjoy giving blowjobs so much that he eventually had to ask me to please quit bothering him for sex because I was wearing him out.) The simple fact is, even though I'm cozy with my own poon at this point, the idea of getting any part of me near another girl's makes me recoil with horror.
Maybe it's mostly because I have a sensitive nose. I don't know.
So, there you have it. My sexuality is Straight Girl Who Happens To Think Girls Are Kind Of Hot (From A Distance).
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Another holiday season without a man. Sigh.
Most of the time, I'm truly a happy camper being single. I've learned the fine art of liking myself (and loving myself, hurr hurr but ow still not used to that new dildo of mine), but damn. There's something about standing on a wobbly ladder in the cold trying to use a staplegun to attach your frikkin' icicle lights to the edge of the porch, finally getting them all up, putting the ladder away, sighing and climbing a chair when you realize that you still need to plug in the extention cord to the strand but the plug is much higher than you are but the ladder is a flippin' pain in the butt to drag back out of the garage and you finally get the damn thing plugged in and you giggle as you plug them in and look up expecting to see beautiful white lights hanging off your porch but instead 9/10 of the strand is dead and you're out of bulbs to replace the burnt ones (and the one broken one from last year) but your lights are freaking STAPLEGUNNED to your porch so you can't just pull them down and now you have to buy another strand because you can't find the replacement bulbs to make you wish that you had someone willing to rub your feet and make you a nice hot cup of tea to help you relax.
My roommate makes tea, but uh that's a big negative, ghost rider on the footrubbing. Might as well rub my ass while you're at it and slip me a finger or three, and I neither look at her that way or look at any woman that way, save while watching the occasional Shakira video. (Yes, I am kind of gay for Shakira. And Amanda Palmer. Above the waist gay. ... I need to remember to tell the "Why I Am Very Certain I Only Fuck Guys" story sometime.)
It's also a very cuddly time of year. This is the first year EVER that I've had both a couch and a fireplace, so of course I don't have anyone to curl up with. See above re: roommate. My children cuddle with me, but I'm sure that as adults we all understand why that's not exactly fulfilling what I'm talking about.
On the other hand, I don't have to worry about chasing anyone out of the baked goods, or listen to my own personal live-in Scrooge kvetch about how commercialized the holiday has gotten, what a waste of money it is, etc. etc. ad infinitum.
Anyway, on to reading a few forum threads and then bed. ... I think I'll pass on the dildo tonight. Last night I noticed that it made my fingers smell like UR3, which wasn't exactly the sexiest smell ever, and now I'm worried about having a UR3-scented twat. I already have enough body odor hangups that keep me showering at least once a day. I didn't need another...
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No, you're not imagining it; I caved. That is in fact a photo of me. I was toying around with my cellphone camera at work and happened to get a shot that didn't make me immediately recoil. In fact, I looked at it and thought, "Hm. It's not horrible, and even though it still has that inescapable air of 'goddamnit I'm at work and tired and I need sleep and coffee and am getting NEITHER'... it's somehow pretty close to how I see myself, as well. ... UPLOAD!"
Today has been interesting. We had enough in the corporate coffers that I decided that we needed a mental health day at work, so I called Company Lunch and we headed to our favorite watering hole: The Rialto. I'm a fan of their Reubens (sans kraut, danke), and my cohorts are also rather fond of the food offerings there. Being that it was the Rialto, I couldn't very well go in there and not order something harder than tea, so I got one of my favorites: diet Coke and dark rum. (mmmmmm. liquid candy.) I only drank half of it, which is no problem when you're hanging out with two people who are more than happy to make sure all the alcohol at the table is consumed one way or the other.
Now, the funny part was when we left. I felt buzzed, but wrote it off as a result of not having eaten for... a while, on top of being somewhat ill in the first place. An hour later, I was DRUNK. Like, staggering around the shop laughing and failing to speak English drunk. I had enough presence of mind to drink a ton of water and wonder what the hell was going on, at least. A half hour later, I had my answer, as I looked up at a light and my vision went black. I looked away, and everything had this odd fuzzy glow to it.
"Hey," says me, "I know this. Migraine!"
Happily, it's one of the rare mild-headache migraines instead of the AH GOD MY SKULL IS SUBDIVIDING VIOLENTLY migraines I normally get. The drunk-feeling has mostly passed, but I still have that funny taste in my mouth that I normally get, and it's hard to keep my eyes open even though I'm not sleepy in the least. My vision's kind of wonky, too, but again -- pretty normal.
Well, back to work! I swear, if I had known how much paperwork went into running a business, I would have paused a lot longer before taking it on. So much of it is red tape, too. Oy...
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ha ha disregard that I needs me some David Bowie.
I would do anything for David Bowie. I've had a crush on him since I was six.
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One of my least favorite questions I get asked is, "What is your favorite band/song/genre of music?" The flippant answer is also the only real answer: "Everything."
No, I don't mean the song by Lifehouse. Good song, though.
How can I choose? My listening preferences are determined by my mood, what I'm doing at the time, what mp3s I have available at the time (my external hard drive crapped out and took my collection with it, so I have to rotate my backup in chunks onto my laptop), what story I happen to be writing, and whether I want to perk myself up, bring myself down, feel sexy, feel rebellious, be emo, be angry...
If anything, I feel sorry for people who limit themselves on what music they enjoy. It seems like it would be a very bland existence, like eating nothing but peanut butter toast day in and day out. I had to do that while pregnant for a while. I also go through bouts where all I want to listen to is Tori Amos. I'm talking more about people who ONLY listen to punk rock, or ONLY listen to country, or [insert genre here].
I'm sick but I need to clean the house. Guess I'll throw Depeche Mode in with my housekeeping mix. Ought to be interesting; we'll see if I collapse into moody glares while in the middle of doing dishes. (There would be no discernible difference if I'm doing laundry. I'm ALWAYS irritable and moody while doing laundry. I HATE folding laundry, especially!)
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SEX TOY UPDATE (because I know the world was dying to know this)
SO I managed to figure out a way to afford a dildo, and even managed to get it on sale. Ah, those four letter words do so much to a girl. I decided to change things up a bit; my beloved vibe was a hard piece of plastic with a nifty little bullet thingie attached to it. I went the opposite direction this time, and am now the pleased owner of a purple UR3 dildo.
When I opened the box, I had this moment of "oh wow, uh, talk about eyes being bigger than the... oh boy." I was aiming for something the middle of the road, after all -- ok, to be honest I was aiming for something about the size of my ex-boyfriend. What I got was more along the lines of my one-night-FWB. I closed the box and put it to one side, making sure it was somewhere where the kids wouldn't go exploring and find it. That would be a little difficult to explain...
Sex toy anticipation is almost as fun as partner anticipation. New partners lose out because I don't have to worry about my dildo making faces over my stretch marks, but my dildo doesn't also come with limbs, tongue, and lips. Give and take, and all. However, knowing that I had at least a good chunk of the night now set aside for doing nothing but fucking myself stupid? I was walking funny by the time I got the kids to bed and got myself safely ensconced in my bedroom.
UR3 smells funny when you first open the package. I had done a bit of research though, so I expected it and didn't think too much of it. I washed that thing off (wanted to get the shipping powder off - I've already had my share of cervical cancer scares, thank you), wondering the whole time if I was going to actually be able to do anything with this floppy thing. I admit I giggled a bit when I washed the balls. They just... didn't look like balls. The warm water warmed it up nicely, though, and a quick sniff test confirmed that my new toy now smelled of UR3 and wild honeysuckle. An interesting but unoffensive combination.
I went back in the bedroom, and... well, long story short, I learned once again the hard way that just because you can get it to fit, doesn't mean it won't leave you a bit sore after, just like a real dude. Oh, I definitely had my fun, but... ow. Good ow, but still ow. I also learned that UR3 can soak up everything I put out, so I either need to invest in some lube or continue with the strategy I picked up last night -- bang the hell out of myself for a while, then switch to fingers-only to rewet everything, then back to stuffing myself silly.
The downside to having a fake cock to play with, though, is that even as I was cheerfully marching myself towards orgasm number three, I found myself missing the sight, smell, taste, and sounds of the rest of the guy as well.
So there. If I actually meet anyone from this site, there's a damn good chance that upon meeting me, they'll be able to picture me stuffing a giant... ok, reasonably large purple cock in my twat with an appropriately scientific look of inquiry on my face.
I have also, thanks to this entry, become even more determined to make sure my mother doesn't find this site.
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One of my best friends described me in a conversation the other day, and I can't get it out of my head. "You're a vicious bitch who doesn't know what she wants until long after the rest of us are sick of it."
Awkward wording, but I got the point, and now I can't quite stop thinking about it.
What do I want, anyway?
Well, of course I want to be loved. That's pretty much a given, but I'll be damned if I can focus without getting through the obvious first. *sigh* I... maybe my confusion is due in part to the fact that I don't know how I want to be loved. I've never really felt loved by any of my partners (all four of them... two husbands, a one-night thing with a friend, and a boyfriend of all of three months) -- well, loved maybe a bit, but not really loved. At best, loved as a good friend and appreciated as a lover, but nothing worth sticking it out long-term for. So... I guess what I really want is someone who really loves me instead of the trumped-up fantasy ideal of me.
What does this mean as far as why I'm still writing in a journal on a BDSM site? Fuck if I know. I'm not even experienced. For all I know, I could get scared and swear off it the first time I try anything. All I have to go on is curiosity, a hunch, and memories of REALLY liking being tied up and blindfolded. ...Damn, it's been almost ten years since then, too.
I guess I'm still posting here out of some sense of needing to just spit it all out. Only one person here knows who I am, at least right now. It's fairly safe. It's also a community that's less likely to harass me for daring to want a partner when I've borne two children and don't have an airbrush-perfect physique. I'm honestly starting to wonder if I belong here either, though. I'm afraid of pain, afraid of being abused again... but there's still something. Something about the way even my friend can jokingly snap orders at me and I go utterly submissive, just because she has that tone... and it's not even sexual. It's just... something. I don't know what it is, but if she told me to kneel and lick her boots in that particular tone, I would -- and it wouldn't cause me more than a moment of "what the hell am I doing?!". I wouldn't feel demeaned by her, because I know her, and I trust her, and she knows me. (Same girl who made the comment above that started this insane yappery, actually.)
At the same time... argh. I just don't know. I don't know what I want, I don't know how to know what I want... ...
I just don't know. I know I'm lonely, and that I miss something that I've never actually had... I just don't know.
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Sadface:
My vibrator broke. I only had one, but it was the only one I needed, really, because I also have two hands. Well, now I'm down to two hands, and dammit, I can't afford a new vibe.
My grandmother just got out of surgery. She's OK, but she's not coughing, so they're worried about pneumonia setting in. It did turn out to be renal cancer, too.
I couldn't write today. Too tired from everything else going on.
Happyface:
Novel is over 45K words, which means two more days of writing and I've "won" NaNo. Yay!
Sales picked up for this month, which makes me breathe a bit easier... even if it's still not enough for payroll. Closer, though.
I'm still alive. Tired, a bit beat up, but still alive. ... and I have cake.
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Been a little while!
Work's been... work. The hardest part about being in business for myself is having no real safety net. When I was working for big corps, there was at least some sense of safety net, in that they wouldn't just go belly-up at any moment, and at the very least I had a steady paycheck. I don't have that right now, and with the economy as lousy as it is... I think I've actually left nail-marks in my desk. Even harder is having to maintain a positive front for my coworkers/employees, because dammit things are bad enough without them having to share my worry as well as their own anxieties. It's my job to worry about the business, after all, not theirs.
At the same time, it's hard not to be resentful of them for having less to worry about, and of the fact that they can go home and unwind and have someone to talk to, whereas I go home to job #2 (and I adore my children more than anything, but they are work!) and ... grah. I guess there are some frustrations I'll keep to myself.
HA. Here's one I'll share, though, since nobody really knows me face-to-face: GODDAMN how do girls get by shaving their twats all the time? Every time I go bald, it's usually because I got bored in the shower and just keep shaving once I reach the top of my legs, and I always step out of the shower and towel off and have that moment of dawning horror. "Oh shit, I've done it again." Now comes the toughest decision ever: keep shaving the damn thing to avoid that fucking itchy stubble that makes me walk funny for DAYS, or put up with the week or so regrowing period and be MISERABLE but get past it (at least, until I get bored and grab a razor instead of a vibrator again)?
On a more positive note, I'm going to hit 30K on my NaNo project. Thirty thousand words and not even at the two-week mark! I'm rather pleased with myself.
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Talk about unexpected...
As it turns out, someone I know casually dropped that he was a sub. I mean, there were clues here and there, but I didn't really think about it. The lights failed to go on even when he mentioned liking being flogged. It took me accidentally mentioning how astonished I was that I react so strongly to being commanded to kneel, and him responding with this totally understanding nod and then demonstrating for me to go "..... OOOOOOOH!"
In other news, NaNoWriMo starts at midnight. I'm having a hard time waiting, but I'm being a good girl dammit, and not even opening Notepad until 00:00:00! Not that there's anyone to spank me if I do. Le sigh.
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I've started to notice that whenever I ride the MAX, I automatically wonder whether or not a guy I'm looking at is sub or dom. One of these days, I'm going to be in one of my utterly shameless moods and just ask.
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I have a young kitten attacking my head and my feet, my kids are upstairs in the shower, and there's cheerful music on the stereo. Maybe I'll settle down and write a bit tonight; maybe I won't -- my wrist has been spasming all day, but I'm not sure that's enough to stop me!
I'm about to make some hot cocoa from scratch, and maybe bake a batch of nut lace cookies.
Life is pretty good.
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The Things I Find Myself Looking For
I've had a few enlightening discussions with several people now, and thanks to their responses, I'm finally getting closer to defining what the heck it is I'm looking for.
Things got off to a good start with NotTheUsualSir's recommendation of takeninhand.com. It not only gave me the framework to start defining what it really was that I was looking for in a relationship, but also reassured me that I wasn't the only one interested in that form of power dynamic and partnership. Then today zeb1 triggered a few extra thoughts in a conversation via email that clarified a few more details for me.
Slavery, as I am right now, is so very not for me. I resent the very idea of being property, and when I make comments about being "owned", it's not literal. (Blah blah legalcakes; I realize it's illegal and that it's a choice etc.) I really do want a partnership, and if there's any ownership going on, it's because we "own" each other.
I don't need structure and discipline. Well, I do, or I wouldn't be here looking around. What I don't need is new structure and discipline; I need someone to freakin' take over the structure that's already there, and take the reins so that I'm not the one controlling things. I'm a single mother and I own a business. If I was lacking discipline, if I couldn't bring order into my life, then I would be a miserable failure of a human being, and my family and business would suffer.
I want someone to take control. I am not a natural leader; I'm just a strong enough person that I can do it when I have to (something I actually didn't know about myself until it happened!), and I have the chutzpah to do it well. Ideally, though, once I stepped out of my shop, the responsibility for the direction where our lives are going would be on someone else's even more capable shoulders, and believe me, the gratitude I would feel would pretty much make the question of servant vs. slave pretty damn moot!
It'll be tough to find someone I could trust with that much control, especially when I'm admittedly pretty good at it already and have already lived through the disaster of someone else doing it badly. I've met men capable of it, though (and they're as a rule either married or gay, dammit), so I know they exist.
Oh, and while I'm at it, I might as well state that I'm a total sucker for long hair. My hair almost reaches my waist, and I'm hoping it'll grow out long enough for me to sit on. Ideally, mid-back hair oh my gawd I can barely sit still just thinking about it and bonus points if it's kept enough that I would have to grudgingly admit it's prettier than mine. Tough one, though; I'm pretty damn in love with my hair.
So, Dear Higher Powers, please bring me a long-haired man with a velvet-lined iron fist who loves my kids and thinks that my stubborn ass is exciting and engaging, and wants to tie me up and blindfold me and gag me and doesn't do drugs or drink more than occasionally and likes healthy food and hiking and is willing to help kick my ass into better shape. You can do that, right?
... Right?
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I keep starting and stopping various journal entries, only to be interrupted by the urge to write.
Damn you, NaNo! It's not November yet!
Sunday mornings right now are my favorite time of the week. I used to attend church regularly, but for various reasons, I stopped. My kids still go with my mom, though, leaving me with three hours completely to myself. It's wonderful. Sheer bliss. No kids, no roommate... Oh yeah. My roomie is also my business partner and one of my oldest friends, but believe me, being around someone almost 24/7 strains even the strongest friendships. We're doing really well so far, but believe me, we're both extremely happy when we can get out of each other's space for a while!
Anyway. I'm off rambling again, and I don't think my brain is going to rest until I write some more. I've been averaging around 2,100 words a day, so I think I'll be fine for November!
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Now that I've calmed a bit...
Maybe I should have been a bit more up-front in my profile about this, but please guys, if your idea of bedroom fun includes drawing blood, leaving bruises, or performing bathroom acts, don't bother to make overtures beyond simple friendship, OK?
Also, I'm going to put this right out here: I don't really respond to "hi lol rite bak" types of messages. I write as a hobby. I enjoy reading, I love engaging in conversation, and while I am a bit of a grammar jackboot, I am capable of getting past bad spelling and/or grammar if the message itself is interesting and engaging. Please, if you're really that interested in talking to me, take a cue from the guys I have responded to: put some effort into it! Most of the time I respond because someone has asked a question about something I've posted. One charming fellow made a joking comment about the wall of categories I've inflicted on my profile viewers, and I had to respond!
Please, fellas. I love talking to you guys. It brings a smile to my otherwise stressful life. I just don't respond well to intimate and aggressive queries about my bedroom habits, OK? (Besides, I think I've talked quite a bit about them already!)
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Hit Me... Or Not.
Look, I understand that some people get off on being hit, and hey, that's just great. It's certainly one of the tamer things I've run across exploring the wild world of BDSM, and hey, I have to cop to liking the occasional playful slap when the mood is right.
Don't hit me, though. Spanking my ass a couple of times =/= hitting me. Blunt force hard enough to leave a mark = hitting me.
I've been married a couple of times now, and my second one for a couple of reasons was... well, he threatened to take off with my baby, and I was sufficiently manipulated and isolated enough by that point that I felt I didn't have any other choice, and was terrified of seeking help. (If you don't get how anyone could end up like that, find someone who's been abused and listen to them talk about it for a while. It's fucked up.) Anyway, back to my point -- I will not tolerate being hit ever again.
There are, of course, exceptions. I've been longing to take up fencing for a while, and resume some form of martial art (took aikido for a while and miss it terribly). I'm even toying with the idea of boxing, even though my upper body strength is downright laughable. I enjoy contact sports, I enjoy the rush of competition, but I swear by all that is sacred if someone tried to hit me outside of the above situations? I would do my level best to break as many bones as possible before the cops arrived.
All this to say "Dudes, if you're looking for someone to leave marks on, slap around, use a hairbrush/paddle/crop/tazer on, move on."
I should probably add "no peeing/pooping on me" too. I have two kids. I've had enough of being peed and pooped on to last until... well, OK, so I'm not against the idea of more kids so I'll leave room for that.
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I'm a little frustrated.
I've talked to a couple of wonderful guys so far (insert shout-out to NotTheUsualSir here, most especially). I've looked through a few profiles that seemed promising, but I keep tripping over the same issue.
Age.
I know there are plenty of people out there who would tell me to get over it and don't let age be an issue, but honestly, I can't get past the idea that these people are the same age as my parents. (I was the result of a teen pregnancy.) I really can't get past that -- I react to my father especially in a way that I wouldn't want to subconsciously transfer to a partner, and age is definitely a trigger for that. Looks too, to a lesser degree; my last boyfriend had a passing resemblance to my father (and were both Cancers, employed in IT industries, and even close to the same height), and you can bet your ass I had to catch myself to keep from reacting to him like he was my dad a couple of times. Thankfully, the reaction wasn't as strong because M is a much more mellow guy than my dad, and MUCH more communicative.
It's not just older guys, either. I find I have trouble interacting with guys more than five or six years younger than me. There's something to the interactions... I mean, it's just off-putting to be gushing about GI Joe and Transformers and Inspector Gadget, and then get this ".... I liked Power Rangers/Pokemon/whatever" in return. It makes me feel old and just not on the same level. Or, if we're talking the other direction, I feel young and awkward and can't damp down the "respect your elders get your elbows off the table 'ain't' isn't a word, Charlie!" reactions.
God bless 'em, these older-than-me guys are wonderful men (well, for the most part). They're also a huge chunk of the BDSM community as far as I can tell (hey, I'm new), and they have a lot of wisdom and experience to share. I just... wish I were older too, I guess.
Enough rambling for tonight. Sleep beckons.
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I think I'll keep this more as a record for myself than any audience, but hey, why not.
Three days in now, and I'm starting to see where I seem to be developing. Since I decided to just go ahead and explore this part of me that I've had nagging in the back of my head, I've started to sort out what it is I want, at least for now.
From the beginning, I have wanted a mix of dominance and equality in a partner, and never quite achieved it. I want the security that comes with having someone else in control, but... I only want it in some areas (at least at first -- I'm trying to stay open-minded). I don't like being in charge, I don't like making the rules, I don't like being the one in a relationship to have to make all the moves and determine the direction things go. I need someone who is at least willing to work with me, someone who is willing to take charge. Someone I can trust and relax with and understand what the expectations on me are and who knows what I expect in return.
The part that keeps me hesitating about whether I'm going to find a fit here is that... well, I never liked making things easy. I can be submissive, but I can't just trust someone right off the bat to be able to master me. Even worse - well, I've been abused, and I worry about putting myself back in a situation where violence and manipulation are once again used to keep me in my place, against my will and to the detriment of my well-being. I know to my core that I want to be mastered. I just don't know if there's a man out there with the right combination of traits to match me and make this work, along with all the other variables that come with me.
Ah well. Even if this mythical man doesn't exist, I've already learned quite a bit about myself in the past few days, and look forward to what I'm going to learn in the future!
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