We sat up until about 1am this morning watching the Olympics. I think the reason we stayed up so late was that the psychedelic purple and pink backgrounds in the venues were sending our brains into some sort of seizures – whoever thought that was an easy-on-the-eye colour combination was obviously gay (because we all know that any colour that does not have ‘neon’ at the beginning of it is easy-on-the-eye according to the gay colour palette. And remember that because I have a gay family member, I’m officially sanctioned to make gay jokes so please don’t send me hate mail.)
The only sports that I will watch willingly during the Olympics are pretty specific – diving, gymnastics, sporadic parts of the marathon (I have a short attention span) and anything that involves horses. I’m not sure where my fascination with horses came from. I’ve been a bit horse-mad since I was wee young ‘un – covering my walls with horse posters, taking weekly riding lessons, squealing with delight at getting new riding boots and a crop for Christmas (maybe that’s where my kink stuff came from…lol). My horse riding came to a fairly abrupt halt after I fell off quite dramatically once, but my love for horses as beautiful animals has stuck with me for one reason or another and one of these days I might get back into it (and for the record, I’m totally ignoring M’s attempt at an explanatory comment about my love of horses a.k.a ‘because every girl wants to be a princess on a pony’).
I find some of the Olympic sports to be quite bizarre. I mean, synchronized diving??!!? Come on…does that shit need to be synchronized?? And why is 10m air rifle seen as a suitable sport, while any form of dancing isn’t? I’d love to see countries face off against each other doing the robot. I’m sure that would do more for world peace than any ICBM ever would.
We were watching the archery last night (more so because I was in aching after my run and couldn’t sleep than because it was on my list of ‘approved’ sports to watch). South Korea was playing the USA and the commentators informed us that South Korea usually owns the archery because they have corporate archery teams in South Korea and they do nothing but get paid to shoot arrows all day, every day. I thought Starcraft was their unofficial country ‘sport’ but apparently it’s archery.
Lord over all we know,hail be to thee Google tells me that the number of sports in the summer Olympics has now been capped at 28. So the only way we’ll get something new is to kick something out. I say we lose synchronized diving and/or BMX (how many bike-related sports do we need to see?) and add something more exciting and popular like…internet snarkery. Drive-by comments and memes will award basic difficulty points while insulting someone with grammatically correct language will gain the highest points.
Start training now everyone – it’s only a matter of time.
For the last three and a half months I’ve been running five times a week. That’s 70 runs.
That’s 70 times I’ve had to haul my ass out of my chair, get changed and head out into the wild where birds try to attack me and I have to dodge cars, dogs and dead bodies (by the way, that last one is an exaggeration because I only run where a dead body once was, but is no longer and I just used it because dodging cars and dogs isn’t very exciting, but then again, whoever thinks running is exciting needs to get a life).
My Nike running app tells me I’ve covered 512.69km – which is 314 miles for you unmetric folk. Although, I often set it all up with distance and appropriate music, have my earphones in, armband on, go for a run, come back and then realise that I forgot to press the god damn start button so my distance covered is probably a bit more than that. Let’s just round it up to 1000km to sound really cool.
Anyway, my point after all this trivia, is that I’ve been considering what the hell I’m doing it for. I was having lunch the other day and one of the guys I work with asked me how my training was going. I said it was hard and not getting any easier. He was a bit surprised that I was committing so much time and energy into something I didn’t enjoy.
I suppose if I was a normal person, I’d be wondering why the hell I was paying money to do something I didn’t enjoy as well. But I’m not a normal person and I know that what I get out of things like this is praise from all the people around me and a feeling of being no.1 martyr in my world and those two feelings motivate me more than enjoyment ever will.
I’ve always enjoyed people saying, ‘Oh, my god, how could you do/eat/undergo/endure that?’ I’ve always interpreted that to mean that they are impressed in what I’ve done and in turn I feed off their awe and admiration. I lap up this ‘praise’ like a hungry dog and praise of my work and efforts is what has kept me going all these years.
I’ve never really felt good enough through my eyes. I’ve got impossible targets (dreams?) within myself that I will never reach and therefore I feel a constant sense of disappointment in myself. It’s only with the praise of others that I get a sense of self-worth.
Unfortunately, I’m terrible at giving praise. I will pick fault at everything and even if I praise something I’ll always follow it up with a nitpicky Masterchef comment along the lines of, “It was good…but it lacked acidity.”
A large part of why I write a blog is to get praise as well. That’s probably why I get very defensive when people tell me I suck or leave comments that are anything but praise.
It’s at this point that I could explain that my father was an emotionally-closed, messed up person who found it very hard to say two words to me, let alone give me any praise. And I could probably explain that that’s probably why into my adult life I’ve got unfulfilled yearnings for lashings of praise, but that would be predictable and boring and we all know that I’m much more entertaining than that (you know you want to leave me a comment telling me how entertaining I am, don’t you? go on…you know you want to…)
So instead, as a conclusion I give you cantankerous office notes. You really should read them all, but don’t drink beverages while you do it as there is a high chance of spray.
It seems many people who come to my blog, come to gain answers to the burning questions they have inside.
Burning questions such as, “How does one talk dirty to a masochist?” In answer to this, might I humbly suggest such things as,
I want you to wear my ring…and I don’t mean on your finger!
I love nine inch nails…through your tits!
As for the names of the girls doing the grinder at sexpo, we’ll it’s been approximately 4 years since I last went to sexpo and I found it a big yawn fest so you’re asking the wrong person. And in case you don’t know what sexpo is, think about an expo for newly awakened people who have just read Fifty Shades of Grey and are titilated by a guy drawing pictures with his cock and you’ll have a rough idea.
How to suck cock if you’re underage and homeschooled?? Well, I don’t even know what advice to give except, if you’re Amish, wait for your Rumspringa and then the world is your oyster.
“In houchi play do you see the girls naked?” Well, that depends on how houchi you get. The idea of houchi play is to leave someone in a public place in a predicament. It could be naked, it could be dressed up as something embarassing or you could even leave them in handcuffs somewhere.
And finally, I wouldn’t recommend using a stilleto as a gag…for one, drool is a bitch to get off shoes – so too is cum (just in case you were wondering…) and secondly, the only things that truly gag are tape over the mouth and a wad of cloth in the mouth. To stop noise you’ve got to cut off all air and that’s not very safe, so don’t even bother. If you want to give them something to chew on, how about some jerky?
Well my two weeks in purgatory are finally over. On Monday the logistics guy comes back and I get to go back to my normal job of having Japanese people whine at me and coming up with new ways to sound apologetic.
It’s been a really, really stressful two weeks. I had a twitch in the corner of my right eye and although this may be TMI, my period unexpectedly came back and said, “Hi!”
I’m not good with stress generally and I’m particularly not good in a ‘driving seat’ position where everyone comes to me for answers and expects me to sort all the shit out. I don’t have a very ‘logistic-style’ brain so I find coordinating stuff difficult and it’s made even worse by my general inability to be decisive. You just can’t dither when everything is time-sensitive and I enjoy a good dithering over decisions, just so I can be sure that I’ve considered things from all perspectives and made the best choice. Nine times out of ten if I rush a decision, I will fuck it up.
Several times this week I was ‘this close’ to losing it, so when my Japanese colleague decided to come and complain to me about how she can’t be expected to do things that are ‘outside’ the scope of her job i.e. I didn’t sign up for this shit!, I had to restrain myself from screaming, “Well how the fuck do you think I feel!!??!!”
As it was, I responded to her with the same bordering-on-a-shouting-match tone that she used with me and as a result she then started to give me the cold-shoulder and avoid me at all costs.
If you have dealings with Japanese people, you will notice that they have a tendency to keep going on and on about the same thing, repeating the same thoughts in slightly different ways until they get the response they want. In Australian culture, it’s not a good thing to keep saying the same stuff over and over again and you’ll generally be met with a comment of ‘Crikey! Give it a rest mate!’
(Well, you would if you were talking to Steve Irwin, except he’s dead, so you won’t hear that from any other self-respecting Australian. Instead, you’ll probably hear something along the lines of, ‘FFS, will you give up on that?!?’)
It’s the same with meetings, Japanese people will hound you with the same things over and over again, extending a meeting for double the necessary time just because it’s their way.
So my colleague had been hounding me for the entire last two weeks about this thing that she felt wasn’t her job and therefore not her responsibility. My response to her had been, “We’ll get together and discuss it when the logistics guy comes back and work out what we will do in the future”, but apparently that wasn’t the response she wanted. So she kept bringing it up and bringing it up and bringing it up.
On Thursday, I’d just about had enough when she moved into caps lock territory,
I CAN’T BE EXPECTED TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT THIS. IT’S NOT MY JOB. I CAN’T TAKE ANY RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS. I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THIS. I’VE TOLD YOU ABOUT THIS SO MANY TIMES.
So I moved into caps lock territory,
WE’LL GET TOGETHER AND DISCUSS IT NEXT WEEK, OKAY?!!
All her interactions with me after that were unsmiling, bare minimum, avoid if at all possible, Danger Will Robinson, danger!
I felt like saying, “What the fuck do you want from me? I’m not the logistics guy. I’m not a manager. I was hired so customers could whine at me. I don’t have all the answers. My job originally had nothing to do with your job or the logistic guy’s job. I shouldn’t be doing any of this, but some how it’s all been piled on my plate. I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS SHIT!!!”
But I restrained myself and ignored her cold shoulder routine and just kept interacting with her like I usually do.
And because I’m me, I started feeling all guilty about raising my voice to her and so I started thinking about giving her some food out of my Japanese stash, apologising and making peace, but then I thought, why the hell should I have to?
So I didn’t. I’ll just wait until she comes around. The unfortunate thing for her is that she needs me to do shit for her so she is going to have to suck it up and come around at some stage.
It was an interesting day on Thursday because I’d had that shit at work and then I came home and M was in a foul mood. He was cooking something and asked me if what he’d pulled out of the cupboard was cornstarch. About a week ago I’d pulled the package out of my Japanese stash, showed it to him, said ‘This is cornstarch. I’ll put it here in the cupboard so you can find it easily.’
So in response to his question, I said,
“Haven’t we had this discussion before?”
Then he asked me if we had noodles. About a week ago he’d asked me if I had any noodles in my Japanese stash and I said that I only had bean sprout noodles.
So in response to his question, I said,
“Haven’t we had this discussion before?”
And that set him off shouting at me and throwing things across the kitchen. I just ignored him and asked if he’d finished.
It was not what I needed after my day at work.
He apologised a couple of hours later, but it’s times like this that I get really shitty. I don’t ask anything from him. I don’t nag him about getting a job and it’s only rarely that I ask him to do specific things like wash my clothes because I haven’t had time to. I could point out that I work my arse off to make money to pay his mortgage and put food on the table and in return, I don’t specifically ask him to do anything. While there are plenty of things I think he could be doing during the 12 hours I am out of the house everyday, I don’t go all Japanese on him and keep pointing them out, pointing them out and pointing them out.
I’d like to think that he would do them of his own volition, in return for what I do for him. Or is that not how this give and take stuff works?? Do I need to go all Japanese on him?? and by that I don’t mean chopsticks on nipples…
I saw an article last week about NY’s Mayor Bloomberg starting a competition to develop 30-square-metre apartments in New York city. Great!, I thought. Affordable housing for people who don’t need much space!
And then I had a little giggle about the cries of, “Thirty square metres??!?? Is that fit for human habitation??” (and the fact that it was a UK newspaper doing the crying and we all know pommies live in cardboard-box-sized houses, made me giggle even more.)
Just for the record, I’ve lived with another person in 33-square-metres (which also included the balcony space for hanging out your washing and futon and all the thickness of the concrete walls so the living space was more like 28 square-metres). And the person I was living with had a.lot.of.shit.
Because he was a man.
And men, I’ve learned, like to hoard things because it makes them feel immortal.
(At least, that’s my theory anyway.)
Of course, I was living in Yokohama at the time of the 33m², but in the ten and a half years I lived in Japan, I never lived anywhere that was bigger than 40 square metres. Actually, I don’t think I would have known what to do if I had more than 2 rooms to live in!
It’s quite possible to have a whole family living in 40m² in Japan (particularly Tokyo) but I’m sure most people would interject, “Yeah, but that’s Japan! You can’t expect Australians or New Yorkers to live like that!”
Well, actually you can. And you’d be surprised how uncomplicated your life can be when you don’t have so much stuff (because we all know, the more space you have, the more stuff you accumulate).
I’ve talked a little about housing in Japan before in my quirky japan series, but just as a recap, here’s a nice ‘one room’ studio apartment in a suburb of Tokyo that you can rent for 100,000 yen per month:
It’s 18m². You’ve got your bath & toilet, kitchenette, storage space, a shoe box (SB), balcony, two windows and 7.5 tatami mats worth of space (with wooden flooring boards). Here’s a quick vid of what something similar actually looks like inside:
A great deal of Tokyo’s 40-odd million people (at least most of the single ones and quite a few of the couples) would live in something similar to this. It’s more than habitable.
Honestly, us folk here living in the lands of space aplenty, have no idea what can be achieved in a small space with proper use of furniture that multitasks and good storage solutions. Oh, and don’t forget that a nice bit of danshari will work wonders.
I suppose the difference between say, Perth, where I live and Tokyo is that most people here spend a lot of time in their house. They do things at home, people entertain at home, weekends are often spent at home, whereas in Tokyo you go out. You meet people out, you eat out, you find all your entertainment out. Your house is really nothing more than a place to sleep and a place to store your stuff.
Ever since the Great Switcheroo of 2011, I’ve had some problems deciding what is appropriate Mistress behaviour and what is not. Looking at most Femdom porn, you’d assume that only ball-crushing and strap-on use is du jour. I always feel like using a strap-on is going to give me a hernia (yes, I’ve seen too many episodes of Sex and the City) and because I don’t have a point of reference for balls, I don’t get much joy from ball-crushing.
That point of reference thing is actually fairly important because I enjoy doing things that I have first-hand knowledge of i.e. I want to do things that were done to me.
Unfortunately for him, I experienced quite a few ouchie things in my stint as a slave.
(Remember what I said about not doing the switcheroo with someone who you’ve dommed? Yeah, I can’t emphasize that point enough.)
I’d imagine that everyone who reads here is very curious about what it is that we do as Mistress and slave. While I have my evil moments, generally speaking, I’m still trying to reconcile my thoughts of being a former slave. And this is not helped by my continuing enjoyment of slave girl porn.
In the early days of the switcheroo I didn’t feel it was appropriate for me to be watching boys playing with girls. I dabbled in Femdom men in pain style porn, but I didn’t really find it titillating.
These days whenever I need a porn fix, I go back to my stock standard Sex & Submission/Fucked & Bound/Pornhub (category hentai or bondage). But I always have a bit of a guilty feeling while watching it.
Can you have latent submissive thoughts while owning a collared slave?
(And this is exactly why I never understand switches…how do you keep things straight in your head?)
I can’t remember where it was now, some chicknet* page that was promising relationship advice to the emotionally crippled or somewhere like that, but anyway there was a wizened woman spouting her advice about how to get a relationship that worked year after year.
You’ve both got to give it 100%. Give it your all. Just giving 50/50 doesn’t get you 100%.
And I had that long thought that only the math-challenged among us can have – that of how can 50+50 not equal 100. Ideas anyone?
(All I’m hearing it crickets so I’m feeling a small amount of comfort in not being the only math-challenged one on the innernets.)
And after pondering it a while longer I realised that because there are two of you, you’ve got to divide it by two to see what each of you get. 50+50 divided by 2 is 50.
Half. You only get half a relationship when each of you only put half in.
Both of you have to put in 100% all the time. That way, you both get 100% out of it.
Food for thought methinks. Have you been putting your 100% in?
* Chicknet is like a chickflick -webpages full of drivel but we still love to while away the hours entertaining ourselves with it.
I have to say that I do enjoy writing here on my blog again. There’s something very cathartic about it – as long as I stop thinking about what I’m writing…lol.
There was a time not so long ago when I felt a very real pressure to write a particular ‘type’ of blog and that pressure came hand in hand with gaining more views on my blog – the more views I got, the more of those types of blogs I had to write. I felt that I had a certain reputation to hold up (as silly as that may sound and completely caused by spending too much time in my head) and because I’d started this as a ‘slave blog’ unless I was writing about slavey stuff , I’d be disappointing people.
All in all, my blog started to become a huge unruly beast that I was starting to feel ‘unworthy’ of.
So when I became busy, it seemed like the perfect excuse to quietly walk away from it all. Except every so often I’d have something that I just needed to tell somebody. My go to ‘person’ had always been my blog, so I had to restrain myself from getting itchy typing hands and just file away the words somewhere inside.
But then a couple of weeks back I reached some sort of an epiphany and had the startling thought that I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone and it was okay just to write about whatever the hell I wanted to write about – be it random Star Wars fanboy chopstick shit or the fact thatI still regularly have a good cry over the loss of our poodle pup.
I figure it’s better getting all that shit off my chest here than paying someone $100/hr to do exactly the same thing. Blogging really is cheap counselling. You’ve just got to watch those vitriolic comments every now and then that make you want to hurt someone or open up a vein or two.
So in summary, I’ll just be writing about whatever the hell takes my fancy. Yay for me.
So, I think it’s time I touched on that hottest of topics, Fifty shades of Grey and I shall hereforewith refer to it as Fitsog because the title is too damn long and boring (and by the way, am I the only one who finds the use of the name Grey for the protagonist annoying because it comes from Secretary and Secretary did it much earlier and much better than Fifty Shades of Grey?)
But I digress.
On July 9th, an Australian newspaper ran a front page digital edition article in which the following was said in relation to Fitsog:
Frankly, in BDSM terms, Grey is a lightweight. He eschews many fairly standard interests, although he is an expert at the “mindf—“. Even novices, however, would know that his use of cable ties is a very bad idea (to avoid nerve-damage and scarring, soft, thick rope is de rigueur).
Grey’s lack of competency in his chosen erotic arena is most apparent, though, in the way he fails to assess his potential new submissive’s naivety. Experienced BDSM practitioners are acutely aware of the gulf between cognoscenti and others, and would not dream of terrifying a novice by bringing up such advanced techniques as fire, electricity and gynaecological play.
And I just loled into next week.
I don’t think I’ve ever met someone into bdsm who hasn’t used cable ties at one time or another and as for fire, electricity and gynaecological play (is that icy hot on your pink bits or more like a hitachi with a gonzo attachment?) is that stuff that ‘terrifies a novice’? I don’t know what sort of novices the writer is referring to, but as a novice I’d be much more worried about needles, nails (*waves to kaya*) and cheese graters (*waves to carina).
Those things hurt.
Or maybe I’ve lost touch with what constitutes risqué these days.
Is a forced enema followed by a hard ass ramming an ‘advanced technique’? How about butterfly clamps? Novice? Advanced? Is anything beyond having your wrists loosely tied with scarves while wearing a blindfold as your partner feeds you strawberries outside the jurisdiction of novice?
I thought in this day and age of the innernets and our if-there-is-a-fetish-there-will-be-porn-for-it world, that people were a bit more ‘versed’ in the ways of the bdsm beast. Aren’t we currently raising generations of men who think all women like a bit of slap and tickle and that any hole is a good hole for some dick?
Or am I wrong?
What annoyed me the most about the article though was how ‘nanny’-ish it was. I suppose I’ve never been one for warm-ups, aftercare or the mollycoddling that accompanies some people’s styles of play, and my feeling is that as long as you use your common sense you won’t get into too much trouble. The writer sounds like she is regurgitating some official bdsm manual.
I can imagine the scene now, one willing naked submissive and one cunning domly one. The dungeon is lit by candles and there is an assortment of crops, paddles and canes awaiting their turn. The domly one begins the scene by cupping the kneeling submissive’s chin and tilting her head up until her eyes meet his and says,
“I’m sorry my dear, we can’t do anything tonight because I forgot to bring my soft, thick rope to secure you with and anything else is just not safe.”
I’m pretty sure the scene would more realistically have the domly one saying:
“Shit I forgot my rope! I’m just going out to garage to see what I’ve got out there to use. Failing that I’m sure we’ve got some saran wrap or some belts that would do… Oh, hang on, we’ve probably got some cable ties left over from putting up the Christmas decorations in the kitchen. Just stay there!”
And he’d stub his toe stumbling around in the dark and you’d fall over laughing and eventually get cold so you’d put some clothes on.
Several months back I mentioned that my ex-husband was going to become a father.
I was a bit angsty about it then and when my ex actually sent me the news that they’d had a boy and a picture along with my birthday message on the day of my birthday (not the best timing, I must say!!!) back in January, I got all angsty again.
My first immediate thought was to go and buy him a gift and send it. My second immediate thought was to send him back an email congratulating him on his new arrival.
But in reality, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything – not even send him an acknowledgement that I’d received his email. And now it’s July.
Every time I’d sit down to write something, I just didn’t know where to start. The birth of his child just seemed like the final nail in the coffin that was our relationship and I suppose a part of me was wanting to deny that the whole thing had happened. Out of sight, out of mind and all that kind of stuff.
That doesn’t mean that I didn’t think about it over these last few months. Very rarely has a day gone by where I haven’t had at least a fleeting thought of, “I wonder how he’s going” or “I should send him an email”.
But I haven’t. There’s just something stopping me.
Now that six months have gone by, I’m wondering whether extricating myself from his life was actually the best thing I could have done – in the sense of giving him closure. I didn’t want to exactly say, ‘You’ve got your life and I’ve got mine. Goodbye and good luck!’ and I probably haven’t got the guts to say that anyway, but I’m wondering if my silence has inadvertently given him that message.
It also got me thinking about friends in my life who were once part of my life, but are no longer. Should I still call them ‘friends’ and worry about the fact that I haven’t sent Christmas cards/email/texts to them for months or in some cases, years, or should I just accept that they’re no longer part of my life and move on.
M deleted his Facebook account months back. At the time he said it was because he didn’t think Facebook was ‘doing anything for him’ but I think it was more because it was a constant reminder that his friends weren’t contacting him. I’m not saying that he got less out of Facebook than he put in it, but there was obviously some reason why he deleted his account. I think M actually did much more with Facebook than I ever have, but I’ve never thought about deleting my account.
But I also don’t delete old phone numbers from my contact list or throw away email addresses scrawled on the back of a napkin that I got from someone I met in a pub 15 years ago.
I find it hard to cut people off. To let them go.
Even though they may have never really been mine to begin with.
And just in case you wanted another gratuitous trip down memory lane photo:
I stopped reading blogs for a period of several months and on the weekend I went back to visit the blogs I used to read religiously. Most of them were bdsm related and some were food porn, but the interesting thing was that when I visited my list of old bookmarks, the food porn bloggers were still all blogging, but a lot of the bdsm bloggers had disappeared into the ether.
Do I sense a theme there?
(That’s probably a topic for another time…)
Personally, my thoughts about bdsm have changed dramatically over the last 12 months or so. I’ve gone from being the look-at-me-I’m-a slave! person to the what-do-you-see-in-that-stuff-people? person. I’m now able to look at things a lot more objectively than I ever was before and I can see now why the ‘nilla folk think the bdsmers are a weird mob.
Perhaps I took things a little too seriously before. There seemed to be a lot of worrying about things like marks and collars and what I was feeling on the inside, but now I’m in a place where I can just treat it like entertainment and take it or leave it.
I don’t think this is particularly related to the switch in our roles. I don’t think being the one figuratively holding the whip in our relationship has changed my feelings about things, but there is a part of me that thinks the evolution in my thinking is linked very much to the switch in our financial positions.
I’ve never had a ‘real’ job before. By ‘real’ I mean a full-time, business-card holding, suit-wearing (on occasion), mortgage and bill-paying job. Everything I’ve ever done before has either been casual, part-time or sporadic self-employment. I’ve never had to worry about paying bills solely by myself before and I’ve never earned enough before that I could be responsible for paying all the bills anyway.
With money comes independence. With money comes growth. With money comes responsibility.
And it’s mostly this responsibility that makes me feel like I’ve somehow got ‘more important’ things to do than worry about ‘silly’ things like cuffs and collars.
A lack of money creates dependence. It makes you feel like you are somehow ‘less’ of an adult and the reality is that you want to make the person who is supporting you happy (just in case they decide they no longer want to keep supporting you…)
I’m not sure what would happen if the boy suddenly gained his financial independence back. I don’t know whether the collar would be off in a flash and all that “yes, Mistress, no, Mistress” stuff would be straight out the window, but I have a feeling that it would make our relationship a little more complicated.
Would I stop working if he started working again?
It’s certainly very tempting – I’ve never been so tired or so stressed in my life than I have been over the last 18 months. But I’ve also fought hard to get where I am and I’d be throwing that all away. Would I be happy being a stay-at-home…ummm…person? To be honest, I don’t think I could ever go back to being a slave, so I’m not quite sure what I’d be.
Maybe a home manager.
That would look good on a business card me thinks.
Hands up if you’ve seen the movie, “Up in the Air”.
If you don’t have your hand up now, you should immediately go here because (a) you won’t get what I’m talking about and (b) it’s a fantastic movie so if you haven’t seen it by now you are even more spethial than I am and therefore do not belong here (btw, I really do recommend going there after you’re done with me because there is much mirth to be had.)
So, back to business…you know why I like that movie so much?
Because it’s me.
Of course, I’m not George Clooney, I don’t have a fuck buddy, nor do I fire people for a living, but he’s got a huge issue with baggage and so do I.
I was thinking the other day why at the ripe old age of 35, I don’t have any big tangible assets just like our dear protagonist. He lives in a furnished rental apartment, uses rental cars, owns nothing that won’t fit in a suitcase and is not tied down to anything. He could go anywhere at anytime because he has nothing to tie him down. I don’t have a house, a car, furniture and I was even very hesitant to buy a desktop computer because THAT SHIT DOESN’T FIT IN A BACKPACK!!
It all made perfect sense to me – finally.
Actually at the time I was thinking about why some part of me absolutely refuses to buy a new mattress for the bed even though my current mattress is totally fucked and I wake up with a sore back every morning. It’s not because I don’t want to spend the money, the bottom line is that I don’t want to have to deal with the baggage. I don’t want something that I can’t easily dispose of or take with me in a suitcase.
Major fear of commitment, I haz it.
It also explains my love of throwing things away and my constant moaning to M about how he has ‘too much stuff’ and the pantry and freezer are ‘too full’. While I like to have a few more creature comforts around me than Mr Clooney does in the movie, the idea of being weighed down with things, utterly and totally freaks me out. I prefer to buy only what I need at the time or what I know I will need in the immediate future. I don’t hoard things and I don’t keep things for a rainy day.
I also have a love for keeping boxes that things came in. You may think that is a bit ‘hoardie’ of me, but actually it’s so I can pack up and move things very easily. There’s nothing like the original box to pack stuff up in again.
While comparing myself to Mr Clooney, I could also bring up my lack of interest in procreation and my very tenuous friendships and family relationships i.e. while I do love my family and the couple of friends I have, I’ve unconsciously gotten as far away as possible from them at all times and I barely manage a facebook poke -but only if the stars align and the wind is just right.
I was in my room the other day and the only thought going through my mind was, ‘I’ve got way too much stuff.’ Actually this is the longest I’ve ever lived in one place in my life (outside of my family home growing up) and it shows. I’ve got two shelves of books and two cupboards full of clothes – not to mention the boots. But I guess really, the boots aren’t all mine. It makes me feel very uncomfortable knowing that there is a lot of stuff around me.
I’m not saying I’m about to take off, but the thought that I can’t easily take off if I wanted to disturbs me on some level.
It appears that my fight or flight instinct is heavily weighted on the latter.
If you’ve gleaned one thing from my ego-centric writings, it’s that I spend an awful lot of time in my head. If you asked me, I would say it’s because I enjoy spending time with myself. If you asked anyone who has lived with me, they would say it’s because I’m psycho.
But regardless of my reason for doing it, I do spend a lot of time mulling things over in my mind and coming to some sort of a conclusion or justification that generally allows me to make it through yet another day.
At work, the logistics guy has just departed on a two-week vacation, meaning that I have to do my job and his job for the time he is away. It’s not the first time I’ve done it and every single time – despite his assurances that everything will be fine – I end up in the middle of a shit storm that leaves me with an aching rectum. He spent the better part of the last week making me cheat-sheets (oh, how I love me some screenshots and numbered arrows!) and talking me through stuff, while I spent the week making jokes about how he should be afraid, be very afraid of what will happen when I sit in the “hot seat” (as I like to call it).
The AAA+++ overachiever in me wants to be able to manage the extra work and do it well, but the reality is that my brain is not logistically wired. I find it hard to successfully walk the tight-rope of transporting schedules, production lead time and juggling interactions with governmental agencies. But more than anything, I hate people coming to me for answers when I do not have them. Which in this case, is all the time because I do not have a clue about most of this stuff.
I had a conversation with myself the other day (which is something I like to do when no-one else can see my mouth moving or my hands gesticulating wildly), saying it was okay to be fail at his job because it’s not my job, it’s not what I signed up for and it’s not my chosen career path. I went on to reassure myself that they can’t expect me to be Miss Perfecto at something I don’t normally do, especially seeing as I am the me speaky Japanese, language-orientated-brain chick, not the make-all-the-pieces-fit-in-the-logistics-puzzle chick.
Then I was also giving myself a stern talking to about not getting myself into the ‘I’m going to fail’ mindset, because setting myself up for failure, generally results in failure. However, this was made harder by the fact that during the week I had every man and his dog in the office asking me in a very serious tone of voice if I was ‘ready’ for the logistics guy’s imminent departure and whether I was ‘okay’ with everything.
Not good people – as if I wasn’t pressuring myself enough already.
Funnily enough, the shit storm I was predicting hit an hour before the logistics guy walked out the door on Friday. He smiled and said, “Sorry, I’ve got to go and catch a plane, good luck!” just as the Hiroshima-sized bomb dropped. I’ve now got this horrible situation to begin dealing with bright and early on Monday morning.
My rectum is beginning to ache. Pray for me people.
I’m also beginning to psyche myself out about the half-marathon next month. I swing wildly between the two juxtapositions of ‘it ain’t that far!’ and ‘omfg it’s too fucking far!’ I’m at the point of running 15km on my long weekend runs and I am so physically wrecked after them that I have no idea how I’m going to manage the extra 6km. I’m sure someone is going to give me the advice of, ‘Slow down! You’re running too fast.’ But unfortunately I don’t think there is a slower pace than the sloth-like, shuffle I can barely manage at the moment. Part of me did think for a while that maybe I was running too slow, but after attempting to run faster one day, I can proudly report that running faster while you feel like shit running slower, does not make you feel any less like shit.
I think I’m at the ‘training wall’, if such a thing exists. I’ve been running 5 times a week for two and a half months now and I’m having a sad that it doesn’t feel any easier after all this time and many hundreds of kilometres. I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard, is it?
Or then again, maybe that’s why people don’t run a half marathon every other weekend. I have some serious respect for full marathon runners these days, how the fuck do they do it?
So while talking myself through these thoughts the other day, I had an epiphany. Maybe the running thing is like the logistics thing. Maybe I’m not built for running. Maybe it’s not my thing and it’s always going to feel like I’m swimming upstream against a raging current and I just have to suck it up and move on with my life, accepting that I can’t do everything.
I’m not quite sure how to align that thinking with my AAAA+++ must always be right, must always be the best personality because in that world there’s nothing but,
“Do, or do not”
(with thanks to that small, green Jedi master).
Maybe it’s time I changed that to,
“Give it a try and see how you go. Live with the results you will.”
I have a lot of bus rage during the two hours I spend on the bus each and every day.
My rage starts with people who take for.ev.er to step onto the bus. It then starts to simmer with people who have to riffle through their stuff for five minutes to find their bus card/wallet/money . It reaches boiling point when people attempt to buy a concession ticket and when asked for their non-existent concession card spend five minutes making a show of going through their wallet to ‘find’ the non-existent concession card and finally have to fess up by saying they ‘forgot it’. But my bus rage totally speweth over when people have a complete disregard for the Empty Seat™ rule.
I’m sure you are familiar with the Empty Seat™ rule when it comes to movie theatres i.e. there must always be an empty seat left between you and the person next to you when said theatre is not fully packed, but it appears that you have some kind of a problem realising that the Empty Seat™ rule must be followed when on any form of public transport – especially buses.
It is standard bus etiquette that as soon as an empty seat row becomes available, one must move into that row so that the person sitting next to you, no longer has to sit next to you.
By ignoring the Empty Seat™ rule, you are forcing me to sit cramped up in my seat for my hour-long bus ride, while the whole fucking bus is empty!!!
Move, you turd merchant or I shall be forced to take drastic action…I might just be forced to hog the non-existent armrest for the entire journey. I’ll have my arm on the dividing crack between the seats and you’ll be forced to concede some of your personal space to me!
Looking at my blog, the last time I was here was February.
Wow…I have no idea where March, April or May went…has anyone seen them laying around the place somewhere?
I just had the.most.relaxing four-day weekend. At first, I thought it was a waste just to have four days at home and I was thinking we should go somewhere, but it turned out to be really nice to sleep in, eat all day and just chill.
Except I did do a 14km run on one of the days and spent two of the days performing mass destruction in the garden for our bi-annual green waste collection. So I guess I really only veged for 1 full day.
Did I mention I’m 6 weeks away from the half-marathon I’m doing in August? I’ve been officially training for 10 weeks and spent about a month or so before that attempting to remember how to run and gently breaking my body back into things slowly but surely. Running is one of those things that if you don’t do all the time, you very quick stop being able to do it at all. I don’t particularly enjoy it or get a runner’s high or anything, I just thought it was important to set myself a goal this year and completing a half-marathon was it.
I’ve also been playing copious amounts of Diablo – to the tune of 40hrs so far. I finished normal mode and have started on nightmare. Being the perfectionist I am, I can’t leave an area until I’ve uncovered every single millimetre on the map and killed every single thing there – thus why it has taken me 40 hrs to get this far. I go ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!’ a lot and I also die a lot. There is something very disturbing about playing a game with a fixed camera and accidentally running into hordes of zombie-spewing things/poison-spewing things/things that explode and are full of snakes. I get an aching wrist and index finger a lot. I’m a demon hunter with some pretty bad-ass boots and I’ve got this rapid fire arrow thing that allows me to stand there and pew pew everything in my path.
The other thing of note was that my god-awful, bitch boss popped a sprog out and has disappeared from the office. Hallelujah! I don’t actually mind going to work so much now (although it’s still painful when people call me or I have to act like I have a care factor about anything I do…lol). In recognition of my efforts at work that often felt like large pineapple-like objects being inserted in my rectum, I got a not-so-bad pay rise and a bonus. I still don’t think I’m being paid quite enough (I guess no-one ever does, do they?) but I definitely don’t feel as ripped off as I was feeling before.
In slave boy/Mistress news, the boy has learned to sleep in his steel collar. There was a great deal of whining and moaning about the collar pinching and whatnot, to which I said, ‘You see!!!! Now you get it, right?’ It was a good feeling to be able to say, “I sucked it up buttercup, now it’s your turn.”
I really don’t recommend that if you’re going to do the switcheroo thing, doing it with the same person. Your former slave will make your life hell as your Mistress and the whineyness of former Masters is legendary.