Weekend Update.

Hello Monday! I have the house my myself and if I wanted, I could masturbate all day long.

Friday night was Mexican take-out and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Even better on its second showing. Lyrical, beautiful, poignant. Afterward, we decided to listen to some records but my husband could not find the a/c adapter. This made my blood boil. The (not inexpensive) phonograph was his father's day gift and already he's lost a crucial part! Arwagh.

Then, to make it worse, I found the adapter plugged into the wall, from the last time it had been used. Full blown bucket of blood now, folks!

This led to a long, long conversation about Our Marriage. I asked if he was ever fed up. He confessed, Yes, and began to cry. We talked. When he talks to his friends about our relationship, he tells them of our horrible Halloween blow up and they say that he should walk away. I tell my friends about the Bagel Incident, and they tell me to walk away. He said he feels more optimistic these days because he realizes that if our sex life doesn't get better, we'll go our separate ways and he'll have sex with someone else. I laughed and said, Somehow, by someone, you'll get laid again! It was funny and surreal. I mean, do healthy spouses talk this way with each other? I told him I dread our date nights because we sit there supposedly having a nice time, and I'm mostly distressed by what I don't feel.

So we're having this frank discussion and I wonder, why aren't I more upset by all this? I'm still trying to work through that.

Saturday was a housework day. We got along great. At one point, however, he was meddling with my supervision of the boy, so I offered to trade. This meant that I mowed the lawn. It's eleven thousand degrees, I'm sweating through my jog bra, cars are driving by ogling...did I mention it's a reel push mower and our front yard has a hill? (no you pervs I didn't get any pictures).

And I wondered what must my neighbors and the passers-by be thinking? I think the most likely is "What kind of pansy-ass husband lets his wife mow the lawn?" But really, I enjoyed the exercise and the exertion.

Sunday was a mellow brunch with friends and then getting out of town to see friends and drink beer. It was a fine day.

However, Sleep Wars with boy these days.

Overall report for Monday: Tired, glad to have the day to myself.

Excerpt.

"...while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it said. "Think of his misery; think of his danger...soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for you? or who willbe injured by what you do?"

Still indomitable was the reply -- "I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself."...

Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

Part 2

Well.

I gave the boy a jelly sandwich at the dining room table and turned on NPR.

I said 'I'm going upstairs to pee-pee.'

Grabbed my modest purple vibe, lube, batteries. Went to the bathroom and locked the door. Turned on the shower radio. More NPR about convicts in solitary confinement. Spun the dial to country. O mercy. Well, whatever.

I drizzled lube over the vibe and pulled down my shorts and panties. I leaned my forehead against the wall.

Rode the vibe along my clit and cunt, but not in. Back and forth, harder and harder. Bore down. A rippling orgasm zaps up and out. I pause, ease up, breathe. Bear down again for a second, smaller one.

Five minutes start to finish. A miracle of the body.

Weekend Part 1

Here comes the weekend. Time will be short, so I'll write this now and post it later.

It's Friday afternoon. I spent the day at the pool with the boy and friends. Came home to find I'd missed a call and opportunity to talk that I really wanted. Took a shower. Got on-line.

Well everything seemed fine up until then.

But now?

I just caught up with Hopelessly Bad. She talks of spankings. She talks of submitting to the will of someone else. She talks about ass fucking and sex toys.

And I'm ready to go. I have that wiggly panicked feeling of lust in my belly. As I type, I'm sitting here clenching my pussy (around nothing) with the pathetic hope that it will help. I'm going to check something, hold on...hmm interesting, not very wet. It's not even an issue: I have to cum.

But here is the boy wanting something to eat. Shit now he's sitting down to Legos on the coffee table.

So how am I going to get off with this kid around?

Is It In You?

Look, we know each other pretty well by now. Almost eight years of marriage after two years of dating...how could we not? I think I have a good idea of who you are.

But I thought I'd ask: do you think you could ever be the guy who holds my face to his cock as I kneel before him? How about the guy who growls and bucks when he comes? Think you could ever, gladly, spank me? Could you risk hurting me in order to give both of us what we want? How about my ass? Think you could love my ass? I mean love my ass. Any chance you'd lick it? Think you'd get all slutty and get your tongue up my asshole as far as you could? Would that be possible? And what about slathering me with lube, riding my ass crack until I moan, then sliding inside? Hmm. Oh oh, what about hair pulling? Could there ever be the day when you roughly grab a handful of my hair and pull my head backwards, hissing into my ear 'Oh you're a slutty girl. You like it.'?

Do you think you could do all, or even any of this? Do you think you could love it? Could you make me grateful to have you in my bed? Grateful to be fucking you?

Oh now I'm beginning to laugh. You can't even talk dirty. The word 'fuck' makes you giggle and sounds as unfamiliar coming from your mouth as Armenian.

There's just no chance.

**What's that? You want to know where I got these ideas? Um. Well. Ahem. The internet! Yeah, that's it.**

HNT: Under the Wire

Fine, fine, demerits for tardiness. Spank spank spank yes ok whatever. I'm a bad girl blah blah blah.

My husband sits downstairs next to the digital camera, doing Sudoku.

Here's one from the archives.

Now, I usually don't reveal ass crack, but I thought this was not plumber-y. The most tasteful of the ass-crack genre.


**I think I've broken my pinky toe. Any suggestions -- do I tape it? Bind it?**

Maybe I Shouldn't...

Maybe it isn't the best idea to let my toddler play with batteries.

It's probably not smart to let him eat sour cream for dinner.

I let him play on the computer for more than an hour today (ok closer to two hours but it was PBS. PBS!!).

Shouldn't I be old enough to stop biting my nails?

I definitely could be more frugal. Did I need six more t-shirts and a new dress? [always!]

This is the kind of mental dialogue I have everyday. It sucks to be constantly scolding myself, so here's a list of recent accomplishments.

I got myself off anti-depressants.

I didn't drink a sip of alcohol for the entire month of June.

I am a rock-n-roll mother.

I've been kinder and more accepting of my husband's quirks.

I helped my grandmother with her eyes, even giving her (ugh) eyedrops.

My husband gave me a hideous necklace but I wore it anyway to be kind.

Twice this week I've left the house without makeup or even curling my eyelashes.

There. That feels much better.

State of the Union.

I feel like a fool.

Here is the man I live with:

Patient, kind, sweet, conscientious. He's spent the last ten years muddling through every problem and every tragedy with me. He hasn't known what to do many times, but he's always offered a hug. My mother loved him, even took him travelling and left me at home. She told him, on her deathbed, to take care of me. He does. He's a terrific father, present and fun. He always gets up with the boy in the morning and lets me sleep another half-hour. Always. He buys me books he thinks I will like. Sometimes I still get breakfast in bed. He calls just because he's thinking of me, and says just that. Over and over he offers himself, all that he can of himself, to me.**

And when I complain to him, he always tries to fix it. Everything. He doesn't always succeed, but he always tries. He truly wants our marriage to work. He adores me. He wants me. He wants to fix our sex life. He can't remember how to please me, but he wants the chance to risk failure. He feels as though wherever I am, that is home. I am the love of his life, he says.

And here is how I feel:

I cringe from his touch. I reject him physically at every turn. I don't respect him emotionally or professionally or socially. I feel as though, for many years, I haven't had an emotional peer. I've been so disappointed by his emotional remove over the past few years, that I've closed myself off to him. I don't adore him. I love him as an old friend with whom you've been through the wringer.

There's something I don't feel. Call it passion or enthusiasm. I feel no emotional drive to make this work. I think of my son, and of what a good man I am married to, and the commitment I made, then I go to couples therapy. I try as hard as I can to refresh my thinking, to get out of our old bad habits. But there's something missing. Have I already let go?

I condemn myself for what I don't feel. I am a fool. An idiot. What woman, in her right mind, would forfeit such a partner? Wouldn't fight tooth and nail to keep him, to salvage the marriage?

**I know this is black and white: he is good, I am bad. It's not that simple, but what I'm writing here is the most frequent script playing in my head, despite the lack of balance.**

All Hail...

...the Pink Taco.

I just think this is the funniest name ever for lady parts.

Here's the place for gear.

Here's the official site but I can't make it do anything.

haha.

My pink taco is broken, I guess.

Boner -- uh, Bonus Photo

As you are reading this, I am visiting my in-laws. I am probably eating some sort of breakfast meat and/or a lite beer.

More about that later, but for now, here's a little something that had been suggested a while ago.

Hope it does the trick.

HNT: Throes.

Shake hands and say hi here.

Hollaback Girl.

AAG and I were chatting recently and it got me thinking, remembering, postulating.

There was this one time that I was secretly being fucked and we had to be absolutely silent. Certainly no slappity-slap of skin, not even heavy breathing. Couldn't let the sheets rustle, even. It couldn't be helped (the fucking, I mean). So we proceeded slowly and very very quietly. I couldn't even gasp as he slid delicously inside me. I bit my lips. To avoid creaking the bed, he deliberately ground into me. Not being able to speak his name or give him even a whisper of encouragement. . .I only burned hotter. I'm usually a bit of a dirty talker, egging him on, telling him how much I like it, need it. It's not staged for his benefit; I'm just expressive.

But this was all restraint. All control. Inside I was a frenzied tornado of lust. Outside, however, I barely smiled for fear of the crackling my lips would make over my gums.

Then I whimpered. Barely. His eyes opened wide in alarm. He clamped his hand over my mouth. Now was I not only mute, but masked. He could only see my eyes. Being that controlled sent me over the edge. God, I wanted to yell and holler. I wanted to beg for him to pound me harder. I wanted the bed to creak and bang against the wall. I wanted us to rip each other apart with savage lust.

Instead, we silently and intensely continued to drive ourselves mad.

When I came, I thought the top of my head would blow off.

Misc.

Ok so two weeks ago I did a potentially stupid thing and stopped my anti-depress. cold turkey. I know, I know, you don't have to lecture me. It just felt as though I was feeling crappy anyway despite the meds, so why take them at all and lose all ability to orgasm? I want the O!

So I stopped. Strangely, I actually felt my mood lift from feeling empowered. If I'm going to beat this depression I have to beat it. It's felt like a good choice.

Plus, the O. Or rather, O's. Two in a row got me right back on track, rocked my world again.

The only problem is the withdrawal, which I think has given me some insomnia and vertigo. Either that or an inner ear problem or an inoperable head tumor or Lyme Disease or stepping on a bad mushroom. But the vertigo has been very bad for the past few days. I finally put two and two together (thanks WebMD!!) and took a pill to see if it would help.

***

I added some links on the sidebar there. Some hilarious stuff like a group of knitters that 'tag' Houston with knitting instead of spraypaint. And who doesn't love chicks who build robots?

***

Thanks to all of you who visit and comment and/or read. As you'll see below, the counter has turned past 50,000. More spiked punch for all!

Friday

Sick today. Tired, not sleeping well. Calgon, take me away!

HNT.

I had a day off this week. The phonograph played the Replacement's Pleased to Meet Me.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the door. The cat bolted up the stairs. The needle jumped the record. Well, look who's home early trying to carry a suitcase and a case of beer on one trip from the car. The screen door banged shut.

He saw me on the couch. He put his things down. "How was the drive?" I asked.

"Terrible. Horrible...

...Get on your knees."



Give in to your whims here.

HNT Delay

The good computer, the Mac, is locked up with the Spinning Wheel of Doom and I can't post a photo yet.

Dream State.

I had an awful dream last night. My mother was sick, plus a co-worker poisoned her to get her job. My mother realized her food was poisoned, but she kept eating it even though I begged her not to. Slowly she became more paralyzed and unable to breathe. There were many other elements similar to her real death. It was tortured and fraught to watch. Once she died, the dream proceeded rather strangely, involving breakfast buffets, ski slopes, and shower beds.

Anyway, I awoke unable to remember what was true and what was imagined. She really had died, yes, but not like in the dream. Yes, she was gone. I fought the urge to cry; it is a hard way to begin a day.

Meanwhile, my husband was walking around the bedroom getting ready for work. I gave him the dream summary and its resulting effect on me. He gave me some pats and said he was sorry my dreams were so unpleasant.

What I really wanted to do was sob and weep. I wanted him to put an arm around me and just be with me, to stop what he was doing. But he was bustling around. I found myself unable and unwilling to ask him for anything. I'm so tired of having to ask him to clue in to me. Feeling despondant is bad enough, but add to it the burden of having to ask repeatedly for someone to tune in and pay attention...I don't think I have it in me anymore.

Luckily today I have time by myself so I can sit and think and try to figure out what I want to happen next.

One Word....

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Late Night Rant.

It's 3am. My son has kept me awake yelling for the hallway light to be on, the door open, a drink of water...it doesn't really matter. Since the hallway light is on, my door has to be closed. Since my door is closed, the room is stifling hot. So I go to the couch and he comes down, yelling to sleep with me. I take him up to his room. Since the hallway light is on and the door is open, I put a pillow over my head.

I've got an achey left elbow, and that panicked feeling in my stomach. Now I can't sleep. I feel as though my body is a ball of stress. Oh great now I'm hungry too.

You Have What I Want.

Your cheek is scratchy, pure sandpaper against mine. I don't have that. My cheek is always smooth and soft.

Your arms are ropey and muscled, hair up and down their length. I don't have that. My arms are soft and gently shaped.

Your neck smells like soap and sweat and basil, of hard work and the world. I don't have that. My throat is sweetly scented as though your breath is its first touch.

Your chest is hard and hairy. I don't have that. My chest is rounded, smooth, breasts waiting to fill your mouth.

You're sunburned. I'm aristocratically pale.

I want the rough. I want your hardness and unyielding frame. I want your dark scents smeared all over me. I want pink-chapped skin from the brush of your face. Your arms contract as you pin my wrists; I'm weaker.

I want what you have.

The Pen Is Mightier Than...

I'd like to be tattooed by an amateur. Some artist-type would hold his pen or his paintbrush over my naked form. His eyes would creep greedily over my flesh as he wondered where to make his first mark. My flesh would tingle under his scrutiny. He'd take visual posession of me in a way unlike usual. This would have the pretense of objectivity. This is an exercise. This is not personal. This is me as an object and this is him as the subject. He would do to me.

Maybe he'd dawdle and doodle scrolls and whorls across my shoulderblades. He could obsess over intricate patterns on my toes. Faces, hearts, fireworks, animals: maybe I'm gradually covered head to toe.

Or maybe he only tells me to spread my legs so that he can touch his pen to the inside of my thighs. I'm turned onto my stomach.

Later on I check in the mirror to see "Mine" beautifully scripted across my ass cheek, and nestled close to my cunt.

Update.

I feel a little dopey after sleeping to 10 am. Not quite awake still. Thick-cut organic bacon has gotten things moving in the right direction. A little Mister Potato Head and then a walk to the playground should get the blood moving.

Last night's bleak, lonesome mood has improved but still lingers. Sleep helps. And the fact that yesterday is finally over. My god, the driving, the driving.

At the same time of feeling kind of stranded in my life alone, I'm also pretty determined to get this fixed. I can't do much about my loopy family and my dead mother. I'm getting moving on the New Year's resolution to go to Paris, getting my money in order, and planting some fucking basil and rosemary (herbs are the shit!).

Ok you'd have to know me pretty well to understand how totally freaked out I am by medical stuff. I can't even talk about a lot of it without getting nauseated. This past week my grandmother went to the eye doctor and had some shit injected into her eyeball with a needle. I felt sick just hearing about it. But I was the one, for the next three days, who had to keep an eye ha, ha on it, give her eyedrops, and take her back to the *gulp* doctor.

I really didn't think I could do it. Like, I was seriously freaked out. But she needed me and I did it. I even wiped the gunk from her eye. And I am a person who has a morbid fear of the blood pressure cuff (the pulsing! ack ack). I am such a baby to be bragging about this. However I do have more faith in myself.

Time for Mister Potato Head.

Hey there everyone.

It's just me. I'm back at my little antique-y desk. It was a painfully long drive in the car today and a hellish return home. Both my husband and I struggled with the impulse to smack our child to get him to just stop screaming and shut the fuck up. No one said or did any such hostile thing as smacking or cursing. We just got through it.

Now it's 12:45am. I have a bunch of bullshit emails to get through but nothing really fun. After so many days without the computer, the web feels like an empty void to express anything. I'm not really known to you guys. No one has ever heard my voice or hugged me hello.

But then again, I spent days with my flesh and blood family and it's probably the origin of my discontent. It's complicated and fraught and weird and dumb and familiar and loving and stressful all at the same time. I was the go-to granddaughter. My son and I went for a walk and spontaneously went swimming in our nekkids. There were some good parts. Ah fuck, the pie. I got fat on pie*.

*peach, cherry, coconut custard, apple.

In the stressful times, I ached to talk to my mother again. I felt all over again the grief and permanence of her absence. God I can't even think of it now without sobbing.

My husband tried to comfort me. I told him everything I was feeling and felt, as usual, the lacking of his response. So I took a risk. I told him exactly what to say to me, verbatim. Words I had heard from someone else that had comforted and calmed me. He said them. It didn't work. Seems I essentially needed that other person and it was never going to matter what my husband said.

It's one in the morning of an impossibly long day in the car mostly in the third circle of Hell that is the New Jersey Turnpike. I'm ranting. I feel nothing but alone. And the thought of your comments to the contrary make me feel cynical and weary. I know you're out there reading and paying attention, and that's worth something, it is. But you're there and I'm here. Your life is your life and mine is mine. I turn away from the computer and I'm alone again with my fucked up family and missing mother and screaming child and on and on and on.

It's my unruly life.

I am in it alone.

Off.

Well folks, in the morning I'm on vacation. You can use the spare time to color-code your rope collection, or stencil your dungeon. I'll see you at the end of the week.