An admission

I do not find the female body beautiful, sexy or erotic. Breasts in particular, I have a decided aversion to. Maybe because mine have always, since puberty been large and pendulous, and I am not comfortable in my own skin. I find human breasts to be so ugly. They remind me of cow udders or teats. Hanging down, so droopy and weighty, just serving no purpose after bearing children except the titillation (see what I did there?) of your lover. I do not find them cute or lovely; even the sassy perky ones just don’t turn me on in any way. Maybe if I had ever once in my life been able to go without a brassiere just once – to experience the wonderful freedom of being braless and running with no pain, it would be different and I could feel otherwise. Instead I feel forever imprisoned in a detestable tight underwire garment with straps digging in my skin, leaving marks and lines and even causing me to perspire underneath my breasts.

Then, I had the misfortune of being diagnosed with breast cancer 13 years ago. It was early stage, but back then it meant I went through two surgeries, chemo, and radiation. I should have had the sense at that time to have a mastectomy followed by reconstruction, and a lift or reduction on the other breast. Sir said we would investigate doing reduction later, and we never have. I’m not asking for, nor do I need sympathy. Okay, rant done.

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Reflection of a Fantasy

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Way back before I even knew what sex really was, let alone D/s, I made up a fantasy world I would “escape” to when I was feeling low, upset, or out of sorts. I guess it was similar to having an imaginary friend, except this was an entire land with characters and a story line. You see, like many young women, from childhood on, I never thought of myself as pretty or desirable. Oh, I wasn’t fat or heinous looking. But when everyone else had beautiful long hair parted down the middle, mine was still short and awkward-looking. I’d had three eye surgeries as a young girl to correct cross-eyes, and my eyes never did look normal until much later in life when a surgeon finally corrected the lax muscles.

I wasn’t athletic nor did I enjoy sports. I was very good in school and enjoyed reading, which I did constantly. I was very much a home-body and didn’t have many friends. I considered most kids silly. And so they didn’t really like me either. I did have (and still do to this day) one bff I met in third grade and we immediately knew we were kindred spirits. I think much of my behavior had to do with dysfunction at home and the fact my father was a career Air Force officer and we moved a great deal when I was young. I believe I became afraid of making friends; that I might lose them. It’s fascinating what repeated trauma does to a young child (she says analytically.)

…It was a silver world, where women were royalty, and I was but a common, callous slave. There was little darkness, the daytime hours being much longer than ours. Therefore night became a very precious thing. I remember in this world, which I knew not the name of, being too low to be given the honor of knowing it, I was whipped regularly for minor infractions. (Remember, this was well before I knew I was submissive, which really strikes me now.)

The women, especially the Queens (and there were many of varying levels of rank, were the most incredibly beautiful things I’d ever seen. Not icy cruel-cold as Tilda Swinton as Jadis in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe film, but very similar, and silver, not white, of course!

I had all types of menial, boring, tedious tasks set to me. Now I can’t even remember what my brain dreamed up. Most of this I imagined in middle and high school when I was bored out of my mind, but now and then, a gleam of silver – such as the chrome on a shiny bus or car, would draw my attention, and I would hear the Queens calling me. No, I’m not nor have I ever been schizophrenic, but it was such an outlet for an imaginative, bored, maybe depressed child.

Sometimes I miss it. Which is why I turned to writing. You’d think I write fantasy or sci-fi, but honestly, the genre has been so totally overdone that I’m no longer interested in it. Now I have my own world with a house and Master to occupy my time. I have three dogs and a grown girl to think/worry about. When I have spare time, I have my writing. All in all, real life has become much more entertaining than that gleaming silver world. That’s not to say I don’t miss it! It’s strange too, sometimes a crumpled bit of foil or a flash in the mirror catches my eye, and I can hear one of the Queens faintly calling my silver world name…

All the feels

Those who’ve read my blog know we moved a little more than a month ago into a house we’ve owned for over five years. It’s 1500 miles from where we previously lived, and we were eagerly anticipating this move for over a year. The most recent tenants who leased from us (the third set of renters) were by far the worst. The other two took immaculate care of our house, treating it as if it were their own. They notified us when things needed repair and inquired if they could make changes. They paid rent early or on time. All was well. The last family was another story. From day one it was apparent they did not care one bit what we or anyone in the community thought. They broke the lease by having a cat (my husband is severely allergic and we had specifically said “no cats.”)  They allowed their two young sons to ride bicycles in the Nature Preserve behind the homes on our street, forbidden by the HOA CC&R’s.  They painted a baseball diamond on our street with permanent paint, also against the CC&R’s, and we were repeatedly called by the HOA office that WE, not they, would be fined because of our unruly tenants.

Upon moving in, we discovered broken and/or damaged appliances,  rusted BB’s in our backyard water feature as well as the light bulb in it broken (gee, I wonder why… all those BB’s…) and our mailbox dented in several places from BB’s and golf balls in such a way it hardly opened. The freezer part of the refrigerator was filthy with sticky red residue which was from a drink that exploded in the ice maker and ran down the door, seal, and onto the floor. The stovetop vent hood was dripping and coated with grease. Nail polish had been dripped on the stone tub surround and tile in two bathrooms. The dishwasher was so heavily encrusted with hard water lime deposits we actually did not know the inside door was stainless steel, it was all white. Every sink faucet dripped. Sprinklers were either turned off or broken and many bedding plants have died. One garage door is badly damaged and will need to be repaired. We had to replace over 40 light bulbs which were burned out.

To top it off, although we have had a service to treat pests (we live against a hillside so it is necessary) the house is crawling with ants. They told us they paid to have the home professionally cleaned.

I don’t understand.

I have spent so many hours cleaning (after all the unpacking and organizing) only to have to start over after re-treatment for ants, replacing light bulbs (dust and dirt fall from the recessed fixtures) that I’m mentally drained. The very worst part is, our realtor (and friend) did a basic walk-through before we moved in and told us the place looked pretty good, and so my husband returned 75% of their deposit. Now they have come calling for the last bit and actually have the nerve to think they deserve it, even after we sent a list of everything we found wrong. I don’t know how people can be so mean and self-righteous. They think everything is “normal wear and tear” and they only lived here in my beautiful like-new home three years and basically destroyed it. A glass shower door chipped. A big scratch on the stainless steel finish of the fridge. The glass plate in the microwave oven chipped. Granite countertop edges chipped. Wood finish of my kitchen cabinets all along the bottom badly worn away. Three years. I don’t know about you but that’s not normal wear to me.

This is why I haven’t posted since we moved in. I’m just so emotionally worn down. I have never felt this way before, but I’ve lost faith in my fellow man.

Thanks for listening, if you’ve read my sad saga.

Home at last

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It’s not quite a month since Sir and our three dogs and I drove 1500 miles from east Texas to our house in San Clemente, California. We’ve owned this house for over 6 years and been leasing it out. That is a tale for another day. Our Texas home is for sale. It was a rather excruciating two day trip in terrible heat (the southwest was in the grip of a bad heat wave.) My car had an issue in that the passenger side mirror whistled/squealed at high speeds (reported to dealer the day we bought the car and repaired twice already.) All in all, we were so glad to reach our destination! I’ve been exhaustively unpacking, cleaning and organizing the house. Sir is continuing to do a ten day work shift back in Texas every month and he is there now, returning Tuesday. Last Thursday the TV, phone and internet were finally hooked up.  Most of the boxes are unpacked or have been relegated to the garages. I mopped my floors twice and cleaned all the bathrooms. Today I can stop and take a bit of a break.

We live way up in the foothills near the US Marine Base Camp Pendleton. When I was a little girl there was nothing here. I mean NOTHING. I feel bad man has come in and built so far up in the hills destroying the natural habitat… and look at me. Here I am living right here smack up against the hillside. When I walk my dogs we see lizards and the cutest cottontail bunnies like the one shown. My big boy Boxer wants to give chase, but I will Not Allow It.

I am loving the cooler SoCal weather. Was it a 19 year bad dream, living in east Texas? Yesterday I drove an hour and a half to Santa Monica, near where I grew up, to visit my best friend since third grade. She is getting married (for the first time) at our ripe old age and wanted me to be there while she tried on wedding gowns. As I stood at the door of her place it was as if I had never moved away. I marveled that I was, after 19 years, back home breathing the ocean air and chatting with my dear dear friend. I felt years of stress fade away and I could feel life and happiness fill my soul again.

Thomas Wolfe was so wrong. You can go home again.

Sickness

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I read this today, on Mother’s Day weekend. It made me cry and filled me with rage and made my skin crawl. Can anyone please tell me what we kind of society we are becoming, if we as people really think that lying and covering up what happened to that baby is acceptable? THAT SCHOOL PERSONNEL CAN HIDE SUCH A THING FROM PARENTS??????

Moreover, that this little boy’s schoolmates stood by and did nothing, and/or told nobody what they witnessed – AND THEN POKED HIM WITH THEIR FEET  but did not run for help…

Well, I’m speechless. How do you think HE felt… completely adrift in such a cold, mean, cruel world where nobody cares about him….? Okay… here come the tears again.

Some days this world is just too much for me.

Happy -sad Birthday

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Today is my birthday. It’s also the day before my 91 year old mother moves “home” to California, to a senior independent living center. She’ll have a small two bedroom, two bath apartment-style unit in a very nice place where she will have meal service and anything else she could possibly need or want. My two older brothers live in the same city, less than fifteen minutes away. Her belongings are on that “pod” you see in my photo. It will arrive on April 1st and then the unpacking will begin.

I’m happy because in June, my husband and I will also be returning “home” after 19 1/2 years here. Our daughter will hopefully join us in the fall too. I’m more than a bit sad because not only have we been going through a lifetime of accumulated things, deciding what to keep, part with, donate, trash, etc., but for the first time, I will no longer actually have a home to go to where one or both of my parents live. I realize that this place has been her last real home. The place she is going to, while it will be many important things, will not be a home for any of her children or grandchildren. It’s true I have a home with my husband (and hope I always will) but there’s no substitute for the comforting feeling of knowing you can always go home when times are tough. I’m a grown woman and have been for many years, but whenever I drove or walked up to my parents’ ( or later my mother’s) house it was with the nearly indescribable emotionally secure knowledge that here I was safe and secure and all was well.

I don’t have that any longer.

Quiet and Silence

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There is a big difference in quiet and silence. It’s true that by definition, both involve a lack of sound or noise. Some would say silence is golden and still others say in a very firm tone of voice, “Be QUIET!”

I’ve always enjoyed being quiet and being in quiet surroundings. Maybe all along I’ve had a tendency for migraine, and so preferred soft sounds and silence to loud harsh noises. Some of my favorite places to be are hiking alone or with my loved ones in nature, with nobody else around, either along the shore where ocean waves are gently lapping, or in the mountains where it is still and silent, aside from birds calling. I’ve never been a particularly talkative sort either. Even when I’m home alone I rarely listen to music. I treasure having the still quiet house to myself and enjoying my home, my things, and possibly having the pleasure and freedom to write.

Yet sometimes, Sir has the need to tell me to keep quiet and SOMETIMES out the ball gag must come. Thankfully, those times are rare.

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