Thanks for the Backup!

My favorite books are generally serials that have a kick-ass protagonist with a complicated love interest and a team of quirky side-kicks for backup.
Now, if life were to imitate art...

Well, I certainly have the complicated love interest part down pat.
*cough*
And a veritable cornucopia of quirky people to play side-kicks...

But although my friends are rare and wonderful beings, deeply sensible and highly individual, you could never claim they are a team. They are far-flung, and not just geographically. Almost none of them know each other and those that do never hang out. They have their own lives, they head off in their own directions. Rather than a team, my friends are more like a collection of independent franchises.

Sometimes, I think it must be nice to have the comfort and security of a tight group, to be surrounded by that kind of love and support all the time. Because when your friends are scattered like grapeshot, it can be easy to feel marginalized, living on the periphery of your own inner circle.

On the other hand, there's something huge to be said for having a large, random, and disparate placement of friends:
You've always got backup.

("About A Boy" -- "two people isn't enough. You need backup. If there are only two people, and someone drops off the edge, then you're on your own. Two isn't a large enough number. You need three at least.")

I've been particularly aware of the benefits of backup during my oh-so-long (and still on-going) recuperation. Very few of my friends have large amounts of time to spare but between them all, they've nickel and dime'd me into days full of affection and laughter.
And you, dear bloggyreaders 'o' mine, have been an integral part of this support. Your comments, emails and limericks (of distinct if occasionally dubious quality,) have meant the world to me.

Thank you all. You guys are the BEST!

(Notice I entirely side-stepped the "kick-ass protagonist" portion of the comparison...)  ;-p

I Snort Derisively

Well, my old UPS guy is back.
Except he now brings backup whenever there are Victoria Secret deliveries for me.
I saw them both sprinting toward their truck after ringing my doorbell.
Dude, it's just pants, for cripes sake!

   chicken-shit man...

If he only knew he's already delivered this to the house!

(LoveFifi is just more discreet in their labeling...)
:-D

At My Grandpa's Knee

My brother's memories of our grandfather are of a vibrant, active man, someone who took him fishing, or boating, or blueberry picking, or for long rambles in the woods  -- all the while imparting knowledge and wisdom through yarns and tall tales -- because Grandpa was one heck of a story-teller.

Or so I'm told.

By the time I knew him, the wiry body gained through years of stone cutting had been broken by a stroke. Grandpa had curled in on himself -- become a question mark that had lost it's ability to ask. The stroke left him mute and lame -- I never did hear his voice -- but it didn't matter. Vocal or not, he was the center of my universe.

I was the grandchild of his old age, the one who kept him company in his much-reduced world. We would hide and seek my dolls, play Uncle Wiggly or checkers for hours on end, or sit in companionable silence. Sometimes, I'd even tell him stories. Undoubtedly even more pointless and rambling than the ones I tell these days, but he'd smile and twinkle at me and all would be right with my world.

So my memories of Grandpa are those of a patient, gentle man, quiet but for the puffing of his pipe and the creaking of his rocking chair.

But at some point, I realized just what a gift he had given me with his silence. Something wonderful and intangible -- yet incredibly valuable.

Because I learned how to hear what he was telling me with his lack of voice. I learned that you do not need words to communicate, that what exists between letters and sounds is every bit as important as the utterances. I learned how to trust those things that I know without having been told.

Some of the best relationships of my life been rooted in this type of understanding -- for which I am profoundly grateful.

Thank you, Grandpa.
Happy Birthday.

To Lean or Not To Lean...

While I was convalescing away from home, the dog of the house was my frequent companion. (Yes, that dog.) He would push his nose into my hands, stare mournfully at me until I petted him, and then relax his whole weight into my legs before sliding down to trap my feet, whereupon he would sigh happily. Until I shifted him -- which elicited more mournful stares.

"Doggie hugs" grinned his owner. But I didn't really need the explanation. I well remember doing something similar as a child. I'd hug my folks and then completely loll into them, getting as close as it's humanly possible to get. And, like the dog, I frequently found myself being shifted away, accompanied by, "Honey, don't lean!"

By nature, I like to lean.
By nurture, I expect to be pushed away if I do.
So my whole experience with human interaction has been this sort of Battle of the Wobbles, trying to integrate my desire for closeness with my need to protect myself from hurt. "should I?, could I ... lean...? maybe... just... Whoa!! Too much! Pull back!! Back, Back, BACK!!"

This dance of advance and retreat is so deeply ingrained, I'm hardly even aware of it anymore but every now and again, I'll realize it's there -- and how very tired it can make me.

I think the weariness is one of the reasons I like submission. At least for a little while, I get to lean. Heck, I'm even expected to -- he actually wants me to let go. So I do...
Aaahhhh.... (*happy sigh*)

On the other hand, the wobble dance is also one of the biggest reasons I can't see myself ever in a 24/7 type of relationship. I love the release of submission but after a while, I start anticipating the scolding and I pull back before I become annoying.

In situational submission, this is manageable.
In 24/7?
Probably not, but I'm not sure you can teach an old dog new tricks, either.

Perhaps I should just cultivate my mournful stare...?

Eye Candy and a Gripe

Gorgeous, isn't she? (And, thank you, Tom!)
When you've looked your fill, however, please take a moment to read the words on the picture. (Yes, there are words there!) ;-)
Now, take that foolish statistic and compound it with this factoid:

Most stores, if they carry talls at all, don't carry them in anything larger than a size 12.

I'm 5'9" and straddle the line between a 14 or 16 -- TALL.
My shopping expeditions generally end in disappointment.
I finally asked a sales clerk why the larger-sized talls were always sold out . "Oh, they're not sold out - we don't carry them in the store. Unusual sizes are online or special order only."

However...
My BFF stands 5'0" and wears a 0 or a 2 -- preferably petite.
But SHE can find her size in a Tall.
There are a bunch of them.
I've seen them. (And spat on them.)

So, my question is...
How hard is it to understand that the taller you are, the bigger you're likely to be? (and vice versa)
Laws of proportion here, people!

If I had hips the size of my BFF's, I wouldn't have enough body mass to hold myself upright. A good breeze would topple me.
Biafrans would be sending me food...

If she had legs as long as mine, she'd have no room left for many of her vital organs. She'd bypass a torso and go straight from hip to lower breastbone.
Or be headless...

I understand that the fashion industry is busy promulgating an unrealistic ideal but business is still business. The bottom line is money. And wouldn't you make more of that by producing clothing that people can actually wear, rather than wasting your resources on pieces that moulder on the shelves, getting covered with dust (and spit)?

I know, I'm such a dreamer...

Help Wanted?

The sad truth is that my blog's gone vanilla because there is neither sex nor submission happening around here these days.
BG has staged another retreat (of yet-unknown duration.) Could be just the latest in his many fight-or-flight responses or maybe this will finally be "The Big One, Elizabeth!"
Whatever the reason, he's not around - but promises an explanation "soon". (That would be the Y-chromosome definition of "soon" -- as in, "I'll call you soon" -- says she of the X-chromosome's "yes, I am ready to go" misstatement.) ;-)
I have learned not to hold my breath.

Instead, I'm focusing on being grateful that the timing is better with this one. Right now, I'm feeling too low-level cruddy to get particularly worked up about his disappearance. Vertigo, dizziness, and nausea aren't exactly libido boosters, after all. And I'm having a hard enough time taking care of me at the moment to want to worry about serving him. So I'm not nearly as bothered by this run of the doldrums as I have been by some.

But between it, enforced work hiatus, no reading, and limited TV, computer, and company, I can't say I have much to talk about, either.

So, dear readers, I turn to you...

Quick! 
Somebody throw me a topic!
A question to answer?
Naughty limerick to complete?

Just remember, I gave you all the chance...

Lucky is Good

My new best friend the neurologist looked me in the eye (once it had stopped doing it's vertiginous twitchy dance) and told me I was a walking demonstration of how it's better to be lucky than good.
Which kind of stopped me cold, because I have never considered myself "lucky".

Fortunate, yes.
I am well aware that I have been genuinely fortunate in many aspects of life. But lucky?
Luck has always seemed to me to be reserved for those who happen to be in the way when manna drops from heaven.
Those people who win door prizes, lotteries, who find true love...
But realistically, that's splitting hairs.

Good fortune is luck, even if it's not the random and unexpected bounty that the word connotes in my own mental dictionary. And just because I haven't won the lottery or found love does not mean I'm not lucky. I have family, friends, good health (fractured skull and temporarily compromised vestibular system notwithstanding,) a roof over my head, and sufficient funds to be warm, clothed, and fed.
I have absolutely NO cause to feel I'm not lucky.

Yet it tends to be the "don't have's" that we dwell on.
Our disappointments do not outweigh our fortunes, but goodness, they can really mask them sometimes.

Note to self: Remember to check the big picture periodically...

Please Stand By

Not quite the holiday I'd envisioned.
Instead of the warmth of hearth and home, I had hospitalization, fractured skeletal bits, and 10 straight days of debilitating nausea.
I'm better but still far from well, so please bear with me for a while longer.

(And I devoutly hope the rest of you had the fantastic holidays to provide the karmic balance to mine!)

Happy New Year. :-)