Remote Control

Readers who know I am in a long-distance relationship with a dominant man may assume that the title of this post refers to Mr. C.
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It doesn't.
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The sort of 'remote control' that's on my mind is the control that Haib, my ex-husband, still exerts over my behavior and emotions. More than two years after the legal end of our marriage, he still knows which buttons to push, and worse, I still allow him to push them.
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Last week one of my kids didn't feel well and wanted to stay home from his normal weekday activities. He is a young teenager, but a teenager nonetheless, and very responsible. I had to go to work, so he was going to be at home alone. My feeling? No problem. No reason to worry, and no reason to obligate him to get up and out when he clearly needed a little rest.
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But I knew Haib wouldn't see it that way. He would object to our son being left alone. He would accuse me of being irresponsible, uncaring, and selfish. And I let my irrational fear of an irrational, insignificant man completely color my response to my son's needs and desires.
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I am ashamed of how I acted. I am ashamed of my utter lack of backbone. I am ashamed that I let my son stay at home but urged him to do one or two things that would make it appear that he had gone to his activities, and done what his father would have wanted. I am ashamed that I am teaching him to be a coward and a liar.
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Like his dad.

And worse still: like me.

No Sweat

I've had a stressful day. Worries at work, the weather, and Haib, my ex-husband, laying on guilt and accusations.
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By the time six o'clock rolled around, the accumulated stress was seeping from my pores. Mr. C. has an idealized vision of femininity that does not include perspiration, so let's say, as he does, that I was 'glowing'.
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Just as there are several types of tears, there are different types of sweat (the actual chemical composition changing depending on the stimulus). Heat. Exertion. Fear. Stress. In my experience, perspiration caused by heat or physical exertion, on a clean body, results in either a neutral sort of odor, or an attractive one. Fear or stress, on the other hand, results in an unpleasant odor.
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Today was simply one of those 'Hope no one gets too close because I definitely smell bad' days.
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Which got me thinking about the way animals smell fear. And that humans are, after all, animals too. And that's when it dawned on me: Mr. C. is the best smelling person I know. He's meticulously clean, and he uses a really nice, lemony soap, and there is the slight lingering smell of pipe tobacco on his clothes...but that's not it. That's not why he always smells so good, all over, no matter what.
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It's the lack of fear.
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He smells good because he's fearless.

p.s. Single submissive women looking to find a suitable dominant partner might want to keep this in mind....

For My Father

I can't watch this without tears streaming down my face, but it's a good day for crying.

This Made Me Smile

The feel good (and laugh your butt off) post of the day.

(Oh, and in an entirely insidious way, it also gave me a lot to think about. Thanks, Sal.)

A Scuffle and Its Lesson

It is a nearly universal truth that when husband and wives argue, the wives follow up the argument with a phone call to a friend who clucks knowingly over every nasty, selfish, horrible thing the man has done or said to his long suffering wife. Women seek each other out for the very purpose of having someone to listen compassionately to all our complaints, and the most sought after friends are often those who agree with our position 100%.

The 'other woman' who leads to the end of many a marriage may be none other than the wife's own best friend, and her crime is that of simply commiserating.

Yesterday Mr. C. and I had a row. The cause is irrelevant, and we have sorted it out and moved on. But during the period after the initial spat, and before the complete reconciliation, I found myself seeking out a friend because I felt the need to talk.

As I told my friend that Mr. C. and I had argued, I was very aware of my commitment as a Taken in Hand woman to be respectful to him, at all times, no matter what. As I explained, a bit vaguely, what had transpired, I found myself being extremely cautious not to lay blame. Rather than reverting to my old habits of presenting my partner in a bad light, I was careful to be as even handed as I could, and in fact to acknowledge my own share of the blame. The conversation took place by IM, and before I wrote anything I asked myself "How would Mr. C. feel if he read this?" He is a fair man, so I knew that he would be accepting of fair comments, as long as I never showed disrespect.

My friend, on hearing that we had argued and I was angry, but that he hadn't actually done anything so very wrong and was probably right and I was probably at least partially to blame, understandably asked me why I didn't just call him. She then had to answer a call of her own, and I had the time to realize that she was right.

It would be misleading to say that I called him, apologized, and all was well. It wasn't that quick, and it wasn't painless. We actually argued all over again, and it was rough. But we did eventually get past it all, just as I knew we would.

The point is this: by challenging myself to discuss what had transpired without placing blame (on either of us, because accepting all of it and exonerating him completely would have been every bit as damaging), or being aggressive or dramatic or self-righteous, mean or disrespectful, I was able to look at our argument from a completely different view point than that of the hard-done-by victim or the apologetic aggressor. Instead of working myself up, I calmed myself down, and when I did call Mr. C., it was with the intention of apologizing, talking, and seeking peace.

I'm not glad we had the argument. But I'm glad I learned that lesson.

Housekeeping and the Old Guard

For awhile now I've been thinking I need to tidy up my side bar.

How weird a sentence is that? If I'd said it in 1969 people would think I meant the cocktail mixing station just off the den. "What's your poison, Troy?"

My side bar is an unholy mess, so every once in awhile I decide to post new links on my links blog, and move them all off my main page. Spring cleaning, as it were. One of these days I may actually get around to it. Maybe even today. But looking at my 'Daily Reads' section, I realized that roughly half the authors of the blogs I list there are apparently on extended vacations or in comas or something, because there haven't been new posts in weeks, and in some cases, MONTHS. (Ditto for the 'Influences and Friends' section.)

College Hooker Boy? Where are you? Mora nee Horny Housewife? No 'More'? Olivia??? What's up?

I almost feel like the former roommate who's wondering "Ok, so you've apparently moved. What am I supposed to do with your stuff?"

Do I delete those links? Move them into a special section? Or do I leave the porch light on and hope my friends come stumbling back in eventually, and with a damn good excuse?

Resurrection of the Unread

It wasn't until after I'd posted the song 'I'm not going anywhere' that I realized there might be a message in it for me. My real world obligations of late have been such that I have felt a need to step away from blogging a bit, and in many ways, I feel like I've said much of what needed saying.

This blog was conceived two years ago as a diary of my sexual awakening, and a relationship 'strategy room' of sorts. This is the place that my lover and I have come to in order to talk about what we're doing, why, what's working, what's not. Particularly at the beginning, when we were still so new to this, to D/s and Taken in Hand and Domestic Discipline, and what's more, so new to each other, each post was like another chapter in an intensely personal 'how-to and what not to do' book. Sometimes my posts pleased him because they demonstrated an understanding of what it's all about, and other tmes, they annoyed him because they did the opposite. But he always said "Interesting" and he often said "Useful."

Now, things have changed. If we were awkward partners at out first ballroom dancing lesson, tripping all over each other and our own feet, we now glide across the floor, executing all of the dips and turns and dramatic flourishes that make a dance so beautiful. We still stumble now and then, of course, but we recover our balance and our rhythm quickly now, and off we go for another spin around the ballroom!

I still have things to say. I still have stories to tell. I'm not going anywhere.

But for a little while I'm going to take a sort of sabbatical, during which time I'll invariably poke my head in the door every now and then, and during my 'right here all the time' absence, I'm going to repost some things from the extensive Dabbling archives.

I'll start with my very first post, which explains how the blog got its name and why I started writing in the first place.


The Reason for It
originally published March 30, 2007

Any linear thing has a beginning, a middle and an end. A swimming pool has two ends (one shallow and one deep) and a middle. The title of this blog references both. In my 40's, it can be said that I am in the middle of that linear thing which is life. Middle-age. And in terms of the sexual awakening which I have recently undertaken, I have jumped into the middle of that pool, neither the shallow end nor the deep.

My purpose in keeping this blog is to use it as means of recording my thoughts and experiences, and as an instrument to help me better clarify my thoughts and emotions in my own mind. Oddly, it's all too private for letters to a friend or a diary, hidden under the mattress with the risk that it be found. So I'll hide it in the one place no one will ever look: out in the open.