A Quandary

Every now and again, it becomes neccessary to work on my posture.

It's not totally wretched… both Mom and Dad were sticklers for comportment so it's pretty ingrained in me to straighten up. It's not like dowager's hump is imminent or anything quite so dire… But when I get stressed, my shoulders tense and pull up toward my ears. 

(C'mon, raise your hands. I know I'm not alone in this.)

This gives me bunchy neck muscles, which segue into headaches, plus it's plain ol' unattractive. But when things are hectic and stressful, relaxed trapezius muscles are the last thing on a person's mind. So a vicious circle of tightening, hurting, and tightening more ensues. (lather, rinse, repeat…)

These past couple of weeks, I've been practically battering my earlobes with my shoulders, I've been so frazzled and wound tight. 

Time for renewed action!

  I broke out my nice little cron script that reminds me to drop my shoulders…, but that only works when I'm smack in front of my computer.

  I've pasted little sticky notes in various strategic points around my house.

   I chant, "Down and Back" as often as I can remember to, trying to embed the mantra into my subconscious.

It all helps, but only for brief periods at a time.

I triumph in small battles but stress may yet win the war…

Then Date Night rolls around…

Oh, good! This should help me relax, right?

Let me ask you, oh fellow subs…

What do your shoulders do when he has The Grip of Death on your breasts?

*sigh*

I'm certainly not about to ask him to stop -- that would be both silly and counter-productive. 

I enjoy all the other stuff that comes along with the pain, after all.

But it would be nice to figure out a way to respond that doesn't undo all my hard-fought efforts of the previous week...

Do you think he'd mind if I put a sticky note on his forehead?

Summer Pleasures #6

Wearing white t-shirts…

A Typical August Weekend

Friday evening:

I decided that cooking dinner was just not on the books after the week I'd had and took myself off to the local restaurant. (Yes, I said "the" local restaurant.) I was quite prepared to have fish and chips but the food gods smiled on me and I was able to gorge myself on chowder and fritters, instead. (*Happy Girl*)

When not snarfing my food, I enjoyed watching the other patrons, particularly the "mature" family matriarch who marched in wearing spanking clean polyester pants with matching windbreaker -- and equally dazzling sneakers  -- and the biggest set of headphones I've ever seen outside a recording studio. 

   Which she did not remove at any point during the meal. 

   Her family simply conversed around her.

That kept my imagination occupied for a while...

Saturday:

I lingered over my two cups of coffee and peach muffins before finally deciding that I really could not miss the farmers market again. The thumb-sized snacking blackberries were nearly out of season, plus I wanted to make another batch of peach muffins to stock the freezer. (Veggies were not needed, as I'd stopped by my favorite, "Everything for Fifty Cents!" roadside table the night before and picked up $5 worth of fresh corn, squash, tomatoes, and green beans -- which filled two bags…) 

After stowing all produce safely away (and consuming a restorative tomato sandwich,) I headed out to the grocery store, taking the most circuitous route possible in order to avoid beach traffic. 

Came home via the iced cappuccino place, because weekend.

Commenced cooking.

   Sauteed Corn with Bacon and Balsamic Onions

   Squash, Bacon, and Mozzarella Quiche (with new crust recipe)

That evening, I contemplated going to the county fair but realized that I had already missed both the horse and ox pulls. Could not whip up enough interest to justify paying an $8 entrance fee simply to eat my annual corn dog and look at chickens and pigs, even if they are wearing blue ribbons. 

Altho' I could also get strawberry shortcake, too...

   Hmmmm… thinking, thinking…

   Nope. 

Dined healthfully at home instead, then spent the evening finishing a terrific book which had me laughing out loud. (Laughter is good for a person.)

Sunday:

Made more peach muffins, disposing of any misshapen ones immediately. o:-)

Then tackled The Lawn -- a thing which could no longer be ignored.

I pushed, puffed, panted, limped, and cut for 3 hours, cursing my fractured/sprained ankle and wondering why the heck I haven't just fixed the rider. (I know the answer but thinking about my lack of financial wherewithal does not improve my mood, so I feign ignorance…) 

Left the back field for another day. Too hot and my ankle was screaming.

Cleaned up and ate another restorative tomato sandwich 

   (accompanied by cold cucumber soup this time.)

Grabbed an iced coffee and another good book and retired to the chair under tree.

Watched my neighbor's pig snuffle at the freshly agitated denizens of my lawn. 

   (See? who needs to pay entrance prices?)

Had quiche for dinner, followed by a trip to DQ for a banana cream pie blizzard.

Because I'd mowed for 3 hours on a bad ankle, dammit.

Listened to the crickets, wished that weekends could be longer, and went to bed.

Dreamed of next weekend already.

Oh, and! Apropos of nothing….

I just realized:

not quite a corn dog but still,
a thing well worth eating!

Here She Goes Again!

So…

He's added something to his wish list for the future… and much like when he broached the “slut under the table” scenario, I'm struggling.

Unlike the table thing, however, I find no heat in this wish at all. Usually, even if I can’t jump right on board with his ideas, I can at least understand them. I can see them as hot, even if it’s a heat that doesn't touch me.

This one leaves me cold, however.

He's looking at a hood.

A very pretty lace hood, I grant you.

But a hood.

And that, once again, is sufficiently objectifying that I’m really not comfortable. 

Yet, on the other hand, it’s not the kind of thing that I feel I can fairly call “Limit!” on, either. I've always believed that anything short of a hard limit needs to be tried before I squawk too loudly. (You know, like a child with a new vegetable…) 

BG says the point of the mask is not objectification, it's the mystery, the hint of forbidden naughtiness that it evokes. Which I guess I can see… sorta.

SP offered an explanation with a slightly different slant: 

"The anonymity is fake and is sexy only because it is fake. If my woman came up to me wearing a mask and started to blow me, it would be very sexy. If it were someone I did not know, I would politely retire, and certainly would not have her blow me." 

Yeah, I guess I can see that too…

Still, this is dancing on the trigger edge of a whole bunch of sensitivities. 

There's distressed vanity, fear of lashing out in self-protective defense, fear of retreating so far into my crustacean's carapace that I might get stuck in the back corner… and fear that something I may find deeply unpleasant might become a regular feature on his request list.

Of course, I also fret that my worries cause me to do a disservice to him, as well. He has never, ever, made me feel belittled or dehumanized during any scene we've played together. I know I've said this before but he is phenomenal at using precisely the right words to keep us both right smack in the mood he wants. 

And after all, look how popular the slut sous la table has become with each of us, despite my nearly-identical initial fears. Proof that my imagination usually paints a picture that is far, far worse than reality.

But still…

hood…

(Remind me of this angst next year when I'm posting regularly about wearing my little hood… probably under the table!)

Dog Days of Summer

It's hot, it's Hot, it's HOT…!!!

        (*whine, whine, whine*)

Too hot for computers, too hot to write, too hot for anything but lounging in the shade.

      (and maybe surreptitiously checking out the scenery…)

"whoa, Trixie's rockin' that new collar over there…"

On Becoming Invisible

This ramble brought to you courtesy of Dubs, who's been pondering ageism over in the comments section...  ;-D  It probably won't ring a whole lot of bells out there in reader-land but I've been thinking about it, so I'm going to share, nonetheless! 

Much like my father before me (and his mother before him,) I'm largely unfazed by growing older. There are moments, of course, when time whaps you upside the head as it rushes past, but for the most part, I trundle along happily, taking the changes in stride and not worrying too much about them all.

One change, however, is a bit hard to come to terms with: 

    Becoming invisible to the men of my own demographic.

Being a single-yet-hopeful woman of middle-age is not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.

The men that you've always considered to be members of your dating pool become less and less likely to notice that you're treading water right there next to them, because they're far too busy eye-balling the women two pools down.

This discouraging fact is particularly evident in the online dating arena, where initial meetings are virtual and prospective dates cannot see how your eyes twinkle or that you move with a fluid grace… (Clearly I'm not describing myself here, but you get the idea.) Nope, online, your hope tends to lie in pictures and numbers… and sheer dumb luck. 

It's not a total loss, of course, Being summarily eliminated because of age takes care of having to weed out the shallow men -- they've already done that that for you. But conversely, it is frustrating not to be given even a chance to dazzle with a sparkling personality! (;-p) After all, it's one thing to not really enjoy a party, but we'd all like to be at least let into the room, to circulate a bit and make up our own minds about whether we want to stay or not.

It may sound ridiculous if you've never had to run this particular gamut, but that was one of the things about BG that most impressed me from the start - that he was looking within in his own pool. Because at the time we met, he was newly-single (at not quite a year,) and fifty … tall, trim, intelligent, and good looking. On the surface, he was someone you'd expect to see browsing in the 30-something chicky-babe range that most of his compatriots head for. So I was a bit stunned that he chose to approach this tall, pudgy, kinda plain, and very lippy 49-year old. Pleased, but stunned.

Had he not noticed the part that said I was nearly his own age?

Apparently, he had, however, and it didn't matter-- because he found me "intriguing" and considered it "refreshing to find someone with a personality." 

       w00t!! He's not a cliche!!!

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not saying that age differences are bad or that everyone should stay strictly within their own age bracket. That would be silly and incorrect. After all, I myself have had beaux ranging from 29 years older to 12 years younger. People fit together in the darndest combinations and that's fantastic. 

Nor am I saying all guys do this -- obviously they don't. 

But there is a definite tendency…

And being invisible…? 

That part is hard.

It's All A Matter of Perspective

This pretty much describes how I've felt the past week - 

     and how I anticipate feeling for all foreseeable upcoming weeks, as well.

There are changes underway where I work - changes that impact me enormously; changes that I absolutely hate. For the convenience of others, my job has been turned into something I do not want to do, something I am not qualified to do, something that does not utilize the skills I have to offer. 

Performance expectations, of course, have not changed. 

I'm pretty unhappy about the whole situation, yet I'm stuck with the fact that I'm an adult.

And I live in the real world. 

I am, after all, gainfully employed, which is nothing to sneeze at in today's economy.

The hours suck, I hate my commute, and the pay is only barely sufficient for my needs...

But the people are nice enough, I like my boss, and up until now, I was able to do something I was good at and enjoyed. 

And no one ever promised me a rose garden, right?

So-

I'm trying really, really hard to maintain a positive outlook about this.

     I'm trying to see it as a challenge.

     I'm trying to remain cognizant of the many blessing I do have.

     I'm trying to live my dad's motto. ("Illegitimi Non Carborundum")

     I'm trying to keep a lid on the whining.

     I'm trying to remind myself that it's just work, not my whole life.

     I'm trying to update my resume.

     I'm trying not to run screaming into the night…

Wish me luck.

Subs Overthink The Darndest Things

When he and I first got together, I was corrected a couple of times for attempting to "help" while we were scening. "If I want you to do something, I'll say so, otherwise, just hold still."

       ~fair enough~

Since then, I've been very guarded with my hands when we are en scène. My fingers might reach out to touch and stroke a bit if they can do so without excessive movement, but that's about as far as it goes. No doing anything that might be mistaken for doing something... nuh-uh, not me, sir!

That caution has even oozed over into our more casual, everyday mode. We're very relaxed and comfortable together, but there's simply not all that much touching in our interactions. It's not completely lacking, but I do rein in my hands, a lot.

You might think that wouldn't be a problem for a self-avowed, touch-avoidant Yankee, right? 

The thing is, that reserve only applies to casual, everyday relationships. In the romantic arena, I'm every bit as tactile as the next gal. Kisses, cuddles, nuzzles, and leisurely, open-handed caresses are all part and parcel of my instinctive behavior with a guy I care for.

But for the first five-year phase of our relationship, BG was a Man of Barriers -- and they extended into the physical realm. He never, ever rebuffed my touch -- but he rarely leaned into it, either. (I always had a sneaking suspicion that he actually liked being touched, he just hated dropping his guard more.) Yet without that kind of tacit encouragement, cautious Moonchild touch-phobic types end up figuring that if they run with their instincts, they'll squick the other person out with their pestering. (And nobody wants to either squick or pest!)
So, I exercised caution.

This time around, however, we're restructuring our boundaries. He's more open, I'm more willing to risk a wrong move…, it's all evolving nicely. But we still haven't really altered that touch thing and I'd begun to figure that was an area that wouldn't change. Not, perhaps, my favorite compromise but an acceptable one, nonetheless. (At least it avoids SquickPestery...)

So you can imagine my surprise the other night, when he grabbed both my hands and forcibly pulled them around him and held them there … until I got the point that I wasn't supposed to let go.

Hmmm… Maybe I need to work on that squick/pest thing, after all…

Engaging In A Shoe Activity

I didn't think I'd be doing TMI Tuesday this week but there was one question there that caught my eye…

Condoms: Do you put it on your lover or does he put it on himself?

BG likes to mix this one up a bit. 

Most of the time, he's the one putting it on. But usually, that's because I'm face down/butt up already and he doesn't want me disarranging myself. If I'm upright and my hands aren't tied behind me, he will often give it to me to put on him. If my hands are tied in front of me, he most certainly will hand the task off to me..., because he enjoys a good laugh.

I was eager to answer this question for several reasons.

Firstly, because I giggle every time I think about how he chuckles and teases me by making matters very difficult while I'm trying to open the condom package with bound hands. (Imagine a dominant doing such a thing!)

Secondly, because I get tired of reading people who say, "I can't get pregnant so we don't use condoms." Pregnancy is not the only reason you wear these, people. There are things out there that can be caught - and some of them are pretty sneaky and fly under the radar. 

Protection, protection, protection!

And lastly, I wanted to answer this question because it gave me an excuse to post this video that I just LOVE… (you have to watch this to understand the post title!)

See Who Else is Playing TMI Tuesday!

This One's For 'nilla

Who made me laugh by saying that she'd found it very startling to read my post about face fucking... Because, you know, "Jz said "Fuck"… !!!!!!!!!!! "

Of course, she's not the only one who gets surprised when I drop an f-bomb. 'Most everyone who knows me will go slightly bug-eyed when that happens - and then sidle away quickly, because they know it means I'm very upset… and things will probably start flying at any minute… (Except for the one bold soul who informed me, "I don't worry when your vocabulary slips, it's when your grammar starts going that *I* hit the deck!")

However, as I've said before, I avoid using "fuck" not because it offends me, but because I think it is a powerful word -- one that should only be used deliberately and with intent -- not casually in an unthinking manner. 

This makes it pretty clear that the user has really thought about what they mean to say.  ;-)

And it makes me laugh, too. :-D

Random Vanilla Realizations of The Week

     1- Going to a hoppin' concert by an 80's dance music icon while nursing a fractured ankle (yes, I got a free upgrade on my injury) absolutely sucks.

Appropriately:
I'll Tumble 4 Ya, I'll Tumble 4 Ya...

It is possible, however, to redeem the evening by setting a new standard for chair dancing.  :-D

     2- DO NOT store your cherished stroopwafels near any bananas.

That pervasive banana thang will seep through even the strongest of baggies.

Which isn't to say that I don't enjoy a good banana, but not in my Treat of Treats, please…

(And no, they were not still these stroopwafels. Get real, people. Those didn't last 2 weeks. No, the ones in question were some minis that I can occasionally find at TJ's.)

     3- Yup. I still want a dog...

And one of these would do quite well...

(altho' maybe not the one that looks kinda like Porky Pig)

     4- I really need to spend more time listening to Bonnie Raitt. 

I'm not sure when she got shuffled to the bottom of the pile but that needs to change.

Go ahead, hit play and start your weekend off right!

TMI Turn Around

So, TMI Tuesday asked an interesting question this week:

     Would you take advice from a porn star? 

     If yes, what type of advice would you like to hear? 

What do you think, reading peeps?

I know what my response was… but I think I'd like to hear yours!  :-D

(yes, a bit unfair but hey, my blog…)

In Which I Can't Sit Still

It is not easy to be "slut sous la table" when you can't kneel or sit on the floor -- when sprained body parts reduce you to perching on the world's smallest stool and doing the Quasimodo hunch in order to even *sort of* fit beneath said table. 

And even then, with a foot unable to bend or take too much pressure, there is no way to maintain a stationary position … you simply have to keep shifting around.

The sad fact is, I was the world's squirmiest slut that night -- not at all ideal.

He knew I was doing my best, tho', so squirms, fidgets, and long pauses were allowed, an accommodation which let us successfully overcome the challenges the position presented. 

I figured out how to bobble without using my foot for leverage (mini-pushups off the chair rungs, should you be wondering;) he resolved the difficulty of finding sufficient space in which to whack my push-upping-arm-shielded boobs (I can't even begin to describe the particular contortion required so I won't try -- but it worked;) and I managed to NOT knee him in the groin whenever I shifted foot plants. (<< I am particularly proud of myself for that one, can I just mention? … and touched by his faith in me as well, as I think about it…)

We weren't going to win any prizes for elegant appearance, that's for sure.

But we certainly came out the winners in the Teamwork for Success category!