TPE or TLC?

You know what the biggest killer of power-exchange relationships is?

It’s not lies, doms acting like a-holes or emotionally unstable subs.

It’s complacency.

I had a moment this morning when I thought I’d well and truly crossed the never-to-be-crossed-again line that separates the comfortable from the complacent.

Master was ravishing me and I let rip the biggest, most carefree fart of my life. It felt great and I didn’t care.

Master said to me,

‘You wouldn’t have done that three years ago would you? Now you know I accept you warts and all and you’re so comfortable that you don’t give a second thought to stunning me senseless with your gas.’

So I lay there after that – as I am wont to do-  frantically churning what he’d said over and over in my mind. Had I really become so comfortable that expelling violently smelling things from my body in front of him was completely acceptable and even natural? Or was I just a hop, skip and a jump from that slippery slide into friend-like cohabitation?

If the truth be known, four years ago when I first moved here to be with Master, things were very different. I didn’t crap for two weeks. I slept with one eye open in case I drooled or did something else as equally as embarrassing while I slept so that I’d have a few seconds to compose myself if I saw him coming.

In short, I lived in fear and it was the perfect power-exchange relationship.

It took me months before I got into a normal sleeping pattern and almost as long to have regular bowel movements. During those months he still had me regularly on the verge of tears by yelling at me or by telling me I’d done something wrong and it took me a while longer to get used to his louder-than-normal voice and brusque comments. But I did and now I don’t even give them a second thought.

In short, I lost my fear and now keeping up that power-exchange thing is really hard.

As a result of that discovery, I have a bit of a theory about why being obedient and staying in the slave mind-set is so hard when it should get easier over time:

Fear=power. If you’ve got nothing to fear, you’ve got nothing to exchange.

In those first few months, for the first year even, Master was virtually a stranger to me. Sure we’d talked for hours on msn and discussed this, that and the other, but I didn’t really know him. We’d never met face to face until I came to live with him and people tend to be a bit different in real life to how they are in chat anyway. Being a stranger, I had a lot to fear. I didn’t know how he would react to things, I didn’t know his thoughts, his feelings. It was all new ground and more than anything I feared rejection.

It was easy to stay in the head-space back then. I felt like I was constantly walking on egg-shells and expected any moment to get bundled up on a plane and sent back to where I came from because I was lacking in some way. Every day that I made through remaining as his slave, was a victory for me.

As the days rolled into months and the months rolled into years, I started opening up more to him. I told him all my embarrassing stuff – my secrets I’d told no-one else. I told him about all the bad things I’d done and thought. We talked about anything and everything and somewhere amongst all that he told me he’d never let me go.

So I’d laid all my nastiness on the table and he’d looked it over, picked up a few things here and there and after a few seconds of scrutinizing, laid them back down. There wasn’t anything about me he didn’t know and he took it all in his stride, almost as if to say, “That’s all???” Nothing fazed him, he judged nothing.

And more importantly he still wanted me.

So now I have unconditional love. I know regardless of what I do or how bad I am, he will still love me. He will still want me as his slave and he won’t let me go.

The fear has gone, but the love remains.

Maybe we don’t have TPE, but we have TLC instead.

Stuffs

These last couple of days I’ve been feeling like I was hit with a tranquilizer dart. I just want to sleep and when I sleep, I just want to sleep more.  I’ve been sleeping on the bus all the way home, laying down and going to sleep as soon as I come home, then waking up for some food before going to sleep normally at night. All that sleep and I’d still like to order a side of sleep with my sleep. Did someone put a blowdart in my ass or something when I wasn’t looking?

All this sleep has meant that blog posts have been few and far between this week, but there is some good news! My boss is going to be away for all of next week, so I’ll have plenty of time to blog…at work! Yay! It also means I can go to work in bogan fashion (i.e. tracksuit pants and a t-shirt) and with glasses instead of contacts! Yay! I keep telling Master that I’m not really a slut at heart and that there’s no denying my bogan roots, but he won’t believe me.

I slathered myself with cortisone cream before going to bed last night in an attempt to stop myself from scratching my pussy off like I have for the last two nights. It seemed to work…for about 0.29 seconds…so I went back to the wet facecloth between the legs and this morning when I woke up, it appeared that things down below are finally on the mend! Yay! I’ll be thinking long and hard before having any future waxings though.I don’t know why everything has to be funky for me, but the sad fact is that it is. Master says I’m special, but I just think it’s really fucked up when I can’t wear the uberly cool pair of leopard skin tights I bought because every time I do I end up with an itchy ass for days (investigation into the ass-itching incidents lead to the discovery of a member of the latex family being part of the material). Laundry detergents, soaps, clothing materials all have to be scrutinized and sometimes it’s pot-luck as to what I will react to and what I won’t. And do you know how hard it is to be kinky and have a latex allergy??? Special? I don’t think so.

In exciting news, I harvested the first fruit of my veggie garden labours on the weekend. A cucumber! Yes, it’s taken me approximately six months, endless hours and $200 of assorted seeds, fertilizers, garden stakes, shadecloth and other assorted sundries, but I finally managed to grow something edible:

(Is it a coincidence do you think that the only thing I was successful at growing was phallic?)

Considering that I could buy a cucumber at the shops for less than a $1, I’ve decided that the garden idea has been a bad investment, so I won’t be continuing it once everything dies, which, looking at the rate that everything has died at so far, won’t be long now. I’m guessing that everything will die anyway while we’re in Japan without the TLC it needs.

This is one of my corn babies that is stunted and totally not worth the effort I’ve put into it:

I did get a few lettuces but no tomatoes, onions or anything else out of anything I planted. Ho hum. I guess my death-to-all-things-green aura and my bogan roots are here to stay. Perhaps there’s just no escaping what you are.

Quirks & Dried Squid

Master said he was sorry. But I’m not sure whether he actually meant it or whether he just said it so I wouldn’t kiss him with my squid breath. I had the munchies yesterday and after sucking the marrow out of several squid bodies I got all close and personal with Master. He had a wild look in his eyes as I approached and the apology was quick and uttered like a man with a gun to his head,

‘Sorry, sorry, SORRY!!!’

Normally I’m not allowed at the same end of the house as Master when I’m eating it as the smell is quite vomit-inducing pungent, but when you want some tv with your squid, and the Master is where the tv is, what’s a girl to do?

So ladies, if you ever need to get a man to do something, just nibble on some dried squid. Guaranteed, every time, you’ll get what you want in 0.42 seconds.

We’re having a waxing and finger food party at our house today. I’m still confused as to how it turned into a group pussy waxing session on our dining table with crustless sandwiches, but hey, shit happens. As a result of the impending party, I’ve been doing my usual clean up job which basically involves collecting all the crap, dumping it into my bedroom and closing the door. Martha Stewart, I ain’t.

Apparently all the boys are interested in seeing girlies get brazillian waxes. I’m thinking that perhaps they are imaging it as something much more exciting than it actually is. I haven’t had a brazillian wax since the last unfortunate one I had where the wax got stuck on one of my rings and the chick nearly ripped it out. Suffice to say, I wasn’t a happy camper after that experience and took matters into my own hands using depilatory cream from then on. I also found it really hard to find a decent waxer who could deal with my rings and who was good. Normally I’d end up getting regrowth 3-4 days after being waxed (which means the hairs were being broken off instead of pulled out) and since it was costing me $50 every time, I just didn’t see the point.

What I’m interesting in is seeing one of the guys get waxed. I’m as much a fan of the smooth boy genitalia look as boys are of the smooth girl pussy look. It’s so much nicer doing a job in that area when you can see what you are doing and although I kind of appreciate the opportunity to floss my teeth while down there, hairlessness is much more pleasant. I find it amusing that you’re a mutant these days if you’re a girl with a bush, but guys just won’t reciprocate even though the ratio of pussy munching to cock sucking is probably somewhere around the 1:100 mark.

I’ve heard that video and photos will be taken of the event so perhaps the wax fetishists will be in for a treat.

In the meantime, I’ve done another quirky Japan post here.

I’m on strike

What is it with owners and their ass-hole-ish ways???

Seriously I think that once they get the word (dom) after their name, their asshole level sky-rockets through the roof. I know I wear the shiny thing and I signed up for the slave stuff, but I don’t remember agreeing to be owned by an asshole at all.

Case in point:

I make Master something and it’s never right. I ask him specifically how he wants it and I make it like that and it’s never right. I tell him if he wants it made right, he should make it himself, but he wants me to make it so I make it. And I tell him that if it’s not right, to not say anything about it because I warned him I can’t make it right no matter how I make it. So I make it. Of course he complains it’s not right.

I yell at him saying I told him not to complain if it wasn’t right (because it’s never right).

He yells at me saying I do everything in a ‘sloppy fashion’.

Asshole.

Me? Miss Anal 2004, 5, 6, 7, 8 & 9??

So I’m on strike. I ain’t making nuffin’, fetching nuffin’, or doing nuffin’ for the asshole until he gives me an apology for being a complete asshole. And even then I’m going to think long and hard about whether to forgive him

I don’t care about the, “You’re the slave, suck it up” crap. I’ve always said being a dom doesn’t entitle you to be an asshole and I stick by that.

Oh, and I’m probably hormonal so he picked a very, very bad time to be an asshole.

The reason I know I’m hormonal is that I wrote a reply to my ex’s email last night and I couldn’t stop crying while I did it. After thinking about what to say for the past couple of days, I decided to lay it all out on the table and tell him how I felt i.e. very complex and not sure at first whether I wanted to meet up with him or not because it would stir up a lot of memories and feelings, but I told him when we’d be in Japan and that it would be good if we could meet up. I also wished him happiness and said I’d always be his friend. I don’t know whether we will actually manage to meet up or not, I guess a lot will depend on his work schedule (he drives long-distance buses) but we will see.

It took me ages to write the email and as I said, I had a really good cry while I was doing it. Afterwards, I had one of my best night’s sleep for ages. It appears it was a bit cathartic in many ways.

It’s funny, not only do I feel complex about my ex but I also feel incredible guilty about feeling complex about him. If the situation was reversed and Master was brooding over a past girlfriend, I’d be incredible pissed off and be feeling rather inadequate. Master saw me crying last night and asked if I was okay and has been his usual supportive self during the whole thing. He’s very good to me like that, but that doesn’t make up for him being an asshole to me today.

I wonder if he’ll inform me after reading this that it’s unlawful industrial action that I’m taking?

Quirks and Fires

Well, I had a full, busy day. I set fire to the kitchen and watched the last episode of Dexter season 4. What did you do?

I have to say that episode was a killer (pun intended) and I wasn’t prepared for it at all. Damn…Even though I’m uberly glad that particular character has been disposed of, it was still a shock. Now I have to wait for a year (???) before the next season makes its way down under. That’s reason #352 that I’m not enamoured with Australia – shit takes forever to get here.

Oh and the setting fire to the kitchen bit. Yeah, well, the jury is still out as to whether the cause was actually me or not, but all I can say is that it was disturbing to see flames licking around my spice rack. Just for future reference, don’t keep your roll of kitchen paper over your gas open-flame stove. Not a good idea – ever.

Fortunately Master was here to douse the flames and everything was good. We now need to repurchase our entire spice collection though and that will be a slightly costly exercise. So maybe keeping your spices over your gas open-flame stove is also not a good idea.

 

Wild kingdom in my bedroom

Sometimes I feel my bedroom should be featured on the discovery channel. Not only does it contain a plethora of habitats from mountainous piles of clothing to a jungle of shoes, but it also harbours a diverse selection of wildlife.

I was laying in bed on Tuesday night tossing and turning as I tried in vain to get to sleep. It was hot and stuffy so I had decided to sleep naked. After watching several episodes of SaTC on my iPod and finally managing to drift off to sleep, I was woken up not long after by the pitter-patter of tiny feet across my chest.

Once my sleep-fogged brain registered that the pitter-patter of little feet was not something I was supposed to be feeling in the middle of the night on my naked body, I frantically brushed whatever the hell it was off my chest and switched my bedside light on to see what who the offender was.

And I came face to face with a cockroach.

I scooped it up in a dirty sock that was floating in the bed-adjacent swamp of crap, tied a knot in the top so it couldn’t escape and settled down to get back to sleep.

Then the buzzing started.

The nearby swamp of crap habitat while being handy for dumping crap when the bed habitat is over-flowing, is also unfortunately a breeding ground for mosquitos (actually the mosquitos make their way into the house through the gap in the doggie door, but just for the purposes of the discovery channel metaphor, I’m going to go with it…)

I pulled the covers over my body and just had my nose sticking out so I could breathe. Being that it was hot, the situation was not conducive to sleep but I figured it was better than being bitten and in pain and still not being able to sleep.

So that was my night in the wild kingdom that is my bedroom. Do you think maybe someone is trying to tell me I should clean my room?

The Mole

I’m congratulating myself on not having seen one iota of the olympics. I didn’t watch the opening ceremony, have no idea what the medal count is, have no idea what day it is (Day 3, 4?) and I didn’t even see the video of that poor guy that died.

Just call me “The Mole”.

I’ve spent the last couple of days chatting on and off with my boss about what I want to do work-wise. My 12-month contract finished up at the end of last month and now we’re discussing whether I want to go full-time or what.

To be honest, the thought of me spending more time here makes me want to put a plastic bag over my head and breathe deeply. If there was stuff for me to do it would be okay, but spending all my time *looking* like I’m doing something is just tiring. There are also the 3 hrs a day I spend getting here and getting home again, which is okay three days a week, but if it turned into five, I might be tempted to forgo the plastic bag as not being a quick enough death and get myself a gun instead.

It’s a tough situation. I don’t think I could get a job at any other place where they paid me to do nothing all day, but I also feel like I’m just wasting my time by being here. There is a niggling voice at the back of my head saying,

“You could do so much more with your life…”

A lot of my problem is that I’m a mole. I don’t go out and grab the world by the balls, shouting “I’ve got skills, pay me for them!!!” I tend to hang back and feel intimidated by all the super people around me and get into that head space where I feel worthless and wonder why people don’t realise my potential.

In the scheme of things, I’m well-educated and speak another language. I don’t have three heads or visible tattoos or piercings that scream goth. I’m a well-presented, honest, hard-worker and yet, I end up doing shitty jobs that pay crap money and that anyone who had a pulse could do.

And it happens because I’m a mole.

I expect people to find me. I expect people to reach into my burrow and dig me out. I don’t even have a sign at the entrance to my deep, dark hole proclaiming,

“Uberly employable person here!!!”

And I don’t know how to change it. Can I become some sort of a social, networking, in-your-face person who has connections and lives the  high-life if I’m really just a mole at heart?

Another reason I’m hesitant about going full-time is that I can never manage to balance work and slavery. It’s either one or the other for me and when I’m working five days a week, work will win every time. After working all day I need time for me. I need time to chill and relax and it’s rare for my slave switch to ever be turned on.

Now I work three days and have four days for me and my slavery. I have enough time for me and Master and so I don’t resent my service or his demands on my time. Time-wise it’s a great set-up, but one I knew wouldn’t last for ever.

And now it’s coming to an end and I don’t know what to do or how to change who I am…

The past returns

Today, I got an email out of the blue from my ex-husband. After not hearing from him for about eight months, I wasn’t actually expecting to hear from him again, but today I did and it was the email to end all emails.

We used to exchange emails every month or so and I’d call him every now and then, but over time the emails got fewer and farther between and the calls stopped. Last year, for the first time ever, I didn’t send him a birthday card. I followed that up by not sending him a Christmas card and completed the ‘you no longer exist in my life’ ritual by not sending a new year’s greeting either. I figured after not receiving a reply for my last email and not getting anything from him for xmas or my birthday, that it was time for closure and that both of us were moving on.

Then today the email announcing that he was getting married arrived.

The title of the email – An Announcement – had my heart pounding in a “Oh, crap” kind of way. I’m not exactly sure why but I had a feeling it was going to be one of those earth-shattering announcements like ‘I’m becoming a woman’ or ‘MI5 is revoking my license to kill’. A few things ran through my mind, but none of them about marriage and as I read his words I got a bit teary, relieved, happy and jealous all at the same time.

It was weird. I can’t even understand why I would have a care factor, but I guess the only thing I can say is that some people get under your skin and stay there. I mean, I did marry the guy, he was someone I loved and someone I shared a great portion of my life with, so I guess it’s only natural for me to have some sort of a reaction.

I understand the happiness I felt for him and the relief that finally he’d moved on because I’ve been feeling immensely guilty for the greater part of the last four years over the way in which I ended things, but what I don’t quite understand is the tears and jealousy. What the hell is that about?

Disappointment.

I think the tears are disappointment that he is no longer ‘mine’. He is no longer in love with me and no longer wanting to get back together. For about three of the last four years, his contact with me had always included tantalising morsels of his feelings like, ‘Are you thinking about coming back?’, ‘Do you miss Japan?’, ‘Do you miss me?’ stuff that made me think he was no-where close to moving on and hoping that I would somehow return.

Jealousy.

He has a ‘normal’ life and is happy, while I’m still here trying to figure out what the hell I am and what sort of a life I want to lead. He has it all worked out and his road is set before him. I imagine after marriage there will be kids, a stationwagon and a dog a three-seater bicycle and lots of overtime to pay for it all (this is Japan we’re talking about remember…) He’ll be finally managing to get all the socially accepted notches in his belt of life, and I’ll be…well…leading a not-so-socially-accepted life with none of the socially-accepted rites of passage to show for it.

I know who he is marrying. She was his girlfriend before he started up with me and she was a guest at our wedding. In his email he said she “understood” my “situation” and that if we met up for a chat it would be as friends. I’m not exactly sure what he means by her ‘understanding’ me, but somehow I don’t think it means that she knows about me wearing a shiny thing around my neck. I’m thinking it’s more along the lines of she has reached an internal level of peace with what I did so that she won’t feel the need to kill me on sight for emotionally fucking him up so much.

Now I’m wondering whether I want to meet up with them while we’re in Japan. I wasn’t planning on it and hadn’t said anything at all to him about our trip. Part of me thinks it would be good closure, but part of me thinks it would be incredibly uncomfortable sitting around chatting with my ex husband and his new wife, me being the slave and my owner. Could you imagine what we’d be saying?

“Long time no see. This is my new wife.”

“Nice to meet you. This is my owner.”

“That’s a nice ring.”

“Thanks. That’s a nice one around your neck.”

“Thanks.”

Bizarre. Just totally bizarre is what it would be.

The one with the shiny thing has the biggest cup?

On Valentine’s Day, I’d like to officially announce to the world that I love Master.

Yes, I’m well and truly head-over-heels in love with him.

So in love in fact, that he makes me giddy with intoxication and the mere thought of being without him gives me chills.

Because he buys me Starbucks beans and shoes 🙂

*snicker*

(You didn’t think suddenly I’d gone all soft and wishy-washy did you?? Pfffftttt!)

He came back from his trip to Melbourne laden down with three bags of house blend beans in one of the Starbucks funky paper bags. I ,of course, immediately felt the need to take a photo of my babies:

We’ve been enjoying a Starbucks cappuccino every morning since then and the morning of Valentine’s day was no exception. I made him his coffee first (as I always do) and then made myself one and sat down at my computer to read the morning papers and munch on my crumpets:

Then he had the audacity to question why his coffee was only half the size of mine like I’d done something wrong! Surely he knows that the she-who-wears-the-shiny-thing-gets-the-smallest-serve rule is automatically superceded by the she-who-makes-the-coffee-gets-the-biggest-cup rule?

Shesh, I thought everyone knew that…

On Friday we went to the outlet shopping place and I was determined to purchase some shoes. I’ve been wanting to get some ‘nice’ – and by nice I mean suitably slutty – sandals because sweating in your boots in summer is just not sexy. I always have major problems buying shoes because I have really wide – and by really wide I mean fat – feet and sexy shoes are always tiny, narrow things that require the services of feet-binding professionals of medieval China.

Normally having Master standing there in the shop with me wearing his best, Are you fucking done yet bitch? look on his face makes spending the necessary time to find great shoes that fit an impossibility, but this time he amused himself by taking endless photos of me trying on the shoes so it distracted him long enough that I managed to find three pairs of sandals that fell within my frugal shoe price-range and magically also fit! Yay!

I got all three pairs for $97 so I was quite happy considering that the original prices were over $100 for each pair.

They’ve all got the requisite 4″plus stiletto heels that make me shuffle along like I’ve got something shoved up my ass, so next to me wearing boots, nothing makes Master happier.

Questions from the deep

Have you ever typed a question into google? I’m betting that if you’re one of the 118,000,000 or so hits that google gets a day, you’re probably asking it questions like I do. My favourite thing to do when I’m bored out of my brain is to start typing a question into google and see what questions it auto-fills for me. Just type “why…” and have a look at the fucked up questions people ask the great google god in the sky.

It’s also highly amusing (in a slightly politically incorrect way) to ask the question ‘why do…’ and then insert the names of various racial/social groups.

If you haven’t tried it yet, please do so now. You have my permission to not even finish reading this…just go and do it. Seriously, it will change your life.

Along with the flurry of amusing search terms I get from people ending up on my blog, I also get a lot of questions so I thought I’d try and answer a few of the questions people have asked over the past week:

1. different name you can call a potato?

Well,  if you are a bit high-brow you could always call it a po-tah-to and then we’d have to call the whole thing off. Then again, if someone puts one up your anal passage, you may also call it a ‘fucker’ as in, “Get that fucker out of my ass!”

2. difference between a cream and a slave?

Well, one is white and made from milk and the other one can be any colour and made from human. I wonder if they meant “a cream pie”? But then again, asking for the difference between a cream pie and a slave is just as fucked up.

3.  how to get off a masochist?

My gut answer to this is, “Just roll off them”, but I’m guessing they meant, ‘How to get a masochist off?’

If we’re talking masochist and masochist=likes pain, pain is a good start. Just bear in mind that’s it’s not always quite that easy and most people have preferences and different things that press their buttons, so I’d always advocate *talking* to them before you start using them as a pin cushion.

4. pronounce strine?

Just say it like it’s spelled and if you can say it through your nose to get the Australian twang, you get bonus points.

5. difference between sago and tapioca?

I think I covered that in my recipe for coconut tapioca but in case you can’t be bothered to do the clicky: sago comes from the pith of the sago palm and tapioca comes from the tuber called cassava. Yes, you should invite me to your next trivia night and yes, you should make sure I’m on your team.

So that’s about it for the Q & A portion of the programme. I’ll leave you with some of the more interesting non-question search terms for this week:

brain surgery for slavegirls

free hamster mature milking slavegirl

self bondage your car

literotica comming gallons of sperm

Homebody

I wonder whether being ‘anti-social’ is part and parcel of being a slave?   I’ve noticed on a lot of other blogs that people class themselves as anti-social and I am one of the biggest confirmed recluses ever, so I’ve had a question in my mind for a while now:

Does it go with the territory or is it just a fact that socially-challenged people gravitate towards being submissive?

I would call myself a homebody. I like being at home where I can be myself without worrying about anyone looking at me or having to make conversation. I’ve always been like this though, ever since I was young. I’d generally amuse myself with very little effort and I’ve rarely felt the need to seek out friends or maintain friendships – which, of course, makes me a really crap friend. I’m the type of person who won’t call you just to chat and who generally won’t reply to your emails. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my friends, I just enjoy my space and silence a little too much and for most people my ‘barely there’ approach to friendship is too non-committal and too non-reciprocal to be worth the effort.

I don’t think I’m rare in the slave world. I think my self-sufficiency is fairly typical of most slaves and I’m swaying more towards the possibility that socially-challenged people gravitate towards being submissive. I don’t think I’ve ever read or heard about a truly extroverted slave in the years I’ve been hanging around the internet and the greater majority of us seem to be inept socially in someway, but then again, it may be that everyone is inept socially but that some people just cover up their ineptness better.

Surprisingly, one of the things I was hoping to get as a…how shall we put it? side bonus (?) of becoming a slave, was that I was hoping to inherit some of Master’s friends. I was hoping to be introduced to a different social circle and to become a part of it, by default, by being his property. The idea was good in theory, but my first owner introduced me to a sum total of zero real people and Master, being originally from the east side of Australia, was pretty much in the same boat as me as far as not knowing anyone here and having a very limited social circle.

Over the years we’ve formed quite a few friendships with kink-minded folk  especially in part to the luncheons and things we have at our house. For some reason I always find it easier to talk with people over yummy food than when I’m tied to something and getting my ass beaten…funny that…. Unfortunately, we still have zero friendships outside of kink due mostly, I think, to my anti-social nature. And, of course, the down-side of kink friends is you’re always restricted by what’s okay to talk about and you never actually know whether the name you call them by is their real name. All that hiding and dancing around the truth annoys me, but I understand the necessity of it for some people. Sometimes I’m just itching to ask, ‘So what do you do?’ – the most basic of questions – but I stop myself because it’s very likely that it’s an ‘off-limits’ topic for many people.

I think generally Master wants to be more social than I am and he is held back by my lack of enthusiasm for anything outside the house involving people I don’t know really, really well. I find also that when I’m working – even part-time – having to be out of the house for extended periods of time makes me want to stay home even more when I have the chance. If I’m home all day, every day the cabin fever will kick in and I’ll actually want to go out somewhere if I can, but when I’m out of the house from 7:30am to 6pm several days a week, I feel like my quota of ‘house-time’ hasn’t been met and when the weekend comes, I ain’t goin’ nowhere until I get my house time fix.

This might also sound a bit blasphemous, but I have a little bit of a niggling feeling that people who excel socially don’t make good slaves. I don’t know whether it’s the image I have of slaves being, in some way, incomplete or lacking, but the image of a socially confident slave just doesn’t gel with me. I don’t see them being the life of the party, chatting with all and sundry, with never a ripple to mar their perfect surface. I see them hugging the dark corners and responding when spoken to, breaking into a sweat at the thought of speaking in front of a group and wondering who are they to have anything even slightly worthy of listening to.

Oh wait, that’s not slaves in general, that’s just me.

The Banal

So it was back to work with a bus full of kiddies for me today. I enjoyed my stress-free commute to work during the six weeks of the school holidays so much. It was great to have peace and quiet inside the bus and even better knowing that I would arrive in time to catch my train. When my bus turns into a kiddie-filled bus it takes an extra twenty minutes to get to the station and I generally miss the train I need to catch to arrive at work comfortably on time. It must be the goodie-two-shoes in me or something, but when I know that I’m going to be late for work I panic. Even though my boss generally isn’t there when I arrive and no-one knows whether I actually get there on time or not and no-one would care anyway, I know and I care and I feel guilty being late.

I think that’s one of the reasons why Master calls me ‘anal’.

One of the good things about being in the southern hemisphere is that the school year actually finishes in the same year. Our schools start in February and end in December – usually the week before Christmas. When I went to school in Japan is was so strange to have the year finishing and for school not to be. I could never quite get my head around it and I really didn’t like having a short xmas vacation filled with homework and assignments. Then I went to university and the semester started in September and that messed up my mind even more.

I think that’s another one of the reasons why Master calls me ‘anal’.

And speaking of Master, he is abandoning me at 4:30am tomorrow to head off to Melbourne for a job interview. The lengthy flight is bad and then there’s the three hour time difference; added to that is he is flying Virgin which has crappy small planes that make you feel like you’re livestock being carted off to the salesyard. But it’s a free flight and he’ll get to see his mum and dad (which may be good or bad depending on how much yelling takes place in the house…)

This means that yours truly will be home alone for several days….which may be good or bad depending on how many releases I have to make the long, lonely nights bearable.

I think the last time I looked I had two releases on the fridge chart. One for ‘being fabulously obedient’ i.e. stripping off naked and kneeling on the seagrass mat and answering interrogation questions appropriately when asked in front of friends, and one for ‘being a bossy bitch at the movies’ i.e. for stomping up the back of the cinema in my biker boots when we went to see Sherlock Holmes and telling the kids to STFU.

Oh, did I mention we went to see Sherlock Holmes? I have to say I didn’t like it. I just couldn’t establish any sort of connection with the characters and it seemed to me that everyone talked too fast (maybe that’s just another sign that I’m becoming a fogey though). I don’t know what else I want to see but I can get $7.50 movie tickets through my club membership until March 24th so anyone got any suggestions?

Master being away until Sunday night also means we’ll miss the play party on Saturday night. I’m not overly concerned. Apparently I was to go as pony girl again with head harness and arm binder. Apparently the outfit I’d modelled for him with the mango was all well and good, but he had his heart set on pony girl. Apparently he was going to beat my ass or some such thing. Of course, all of that could just be him messing with my mind.

The real reason I’m not overly concerned about missing the party is that if the employment situation doesn’t start looking up, right about the time we come back from Japan we’ll run out of money to pay the mortgage, meaning the house will need to be sold and we’ll have nowhere to live and life will generally suck. I’ll all for missing a play party if it might mean a chance for employment and the resulting income.

In other news, the weather is starting to get cooler and unfortunately our air-con has chosen this particular time to go bung. When we turn it off, water keeps gushing from the unit on the roof down to ground and as my bedroom window is right where the water outlet is, turning it off is a no-go situation. As a result we’ve had to leave it on 24/7 while we wait for a repair guy to deign us with his presence. The air-con has been on continuously since Friday and it will be this Friday afternoon before the guy can come. I’m wondering if they will have to come and dig me out of the ice floes by then. Seriously, it’s freezing inside the house. I’ve put both of my winter doonas back on my bed and I feel sad and grumpy – because that’s what feeling cold does to me. Master is blaming me for the air-con situation because apparently I jinxed it or something by saying casually the other day that it was  great we’d had nil problems with it even though we use it heaps… and it was about that time it decided to go bung.

Do you think I have some weird funky jinx-like power? *makes mysterious hand gestures and ‘woooooo’ sounds*

So that’s about it for the banalities of my life. Stay tuned for the next episode in which I’m still cold and I’ve run out of releases.