el tercer ojo

Countdown to London

After a weekend spent caretaking an elderly friend so his wife could have a bit of a break (they have a pool so it's been fun as well as a bit challenging), Paul and I are off tomorrow for a trip to Britain. We're leaving in less than 24 hours and I'm not even packed.  Though we're only going to be their two weeks, the time seems packed with an almost disorienting combination of visits with relatives, scene friends and a trip to the Edinburgh festival.

It will be important not to mix the scene friends and the relatives up -- I had a dream last night where in a jet lagged blur I absent-mindedly wore my new gymslip to a dinner with my inlaws. This  couldn't really happen only because I'm not taking my gymslip. (It's with me after all at the request of my beloved -- so the danger persists.)  Otherwise I'm completely capable of such a mistake.  The only bright spot in the nightmare was the knowledge that Paul would be even more
embarrassed than me.  Trust me, that doesn't happen very often.

I'm not planning on bringing my laptop -- my mac powerbook is a creaky 10 this year and I can't justify the 8 pounds of excess weight (maybe Santa will bring me a macbook air) so my internet access will be only as frequent as I can pry Paul's laptop out of his selfish, hard and large hands.

It's been a great weekend though.  My birthday present finally came. It's a new bike -- a hot pink Hello Kitty beach cruiser (picture here -- you can click for a larger version).  This very special gift, even cooler in person  and speaks to my Hello Kitty desires which I will try and remember to write to you about another time.   

Sadly, I've barely had a chance to actually ride it yet and only just around the block, but whenever he's missing me, Paul goes into our friend's garage and finds me stroking it in a loving yet slightly disturbing fashion.

Anyway, we're about to leave for London as I write this.  I'm bringing a journal so with any luck I'll be able to write some dispatches as computer and 'net access allows.  In any case, if I go silent for a few weeks, you now know where I am.  If you miss me, tell Paul to share his computer.  (Note: he's not selfish.  We share everything else.  But our computers seem to be a share too far.

When we get back it will be almost time for Shadow Lane in Vegas.  I'm looking forward to getting together with some of PB authors (Iris, sparkle and Bridget will be there) and (hopefully) getting to call the others at the same time so we can all wish Iris much happiness in her coming (and happily spanko) marriage.

August looks to be a very good month. 

Normal For Norwich?

And now for some news from our friends across the sea.  In the Daily Telegraph today, an article about a 19 year old girl who found a bat in her bra. 

"In her bra" as in "in the bra" she was currently wearing.   At work. 

Abbie Hawkins, a hotel receptionist, thought her mobile phone was ringing when she felt vibrations coming from her clothes.

But she later discovered the tiny creature tucked away in the padded pocket of her underwear.

As staff and colleagues crowded around, Miss Hawkins, 19, produced the frightened bat, which was the size of her hand.

Yeah. 

I once had a cockroach on my foot at work, but this definitely trumps it.  Young Abbey seems very kind hearted as well, commenting that

"Once I realised it was a bat I was shocked, but then I felt quite sorry for it really.
It looked very snug in there and I thought how mean I was for disturbing it."

I'm not sure what I'd do if I found a flying rodent in my bra, but I suspect I wouldn't spend time feeling guilty about removing it.  If my reaction to the roach is any indication, I'd be too busy screaming.

Childishly heartbroken

The question "what's really bothering you?" springs to mind.

Last night I had dinner with my closest graduate school (though she's Dr. Friend now having already completed her PhD) and her small son. She and her family are headed to Chicago for her first professional position. I'm thrilled for her -- it's a great job.


Anyway, last night they came over to our apartment after we'd eaten. I was doing my best to amuse her small son (our apartment isn't the most kid-friendly place) by pulling out whatever (vanilla) toys I could find. When they left, I gave him all sorts of cheap plastic toys I'd collected via McD's Happy Meals. He was beyond excited by them and I was pleased to see them go.

And then he asked if he could have Theo. Theo is my plastic bite-y T-Rex dinosaur. He's from the Natural History Museum in London and I tend to use him (at least in my imagination) to attack those who thwart me. I've had him for 5 years. On the other hand, the child asking is four years old, has a father who's been unexpectedly away for two weeks due to a family emergency and had just this past week had to see all his things including toys, packed up and shipped away in a truck to some place he's never been. So of course I said he could have it. I was glad to give it.

Except I woke up this morning feeling deeply sad about the loss of Theo.

Huh?

My only hope is that I'm really mourning the loss of my dear friend who's moving away. I think that's the case. I couldn't really care this much about a plastic dinosaur head on a stick.

Could I?

What is it about robots?

One way in which my dad and I are alike is that we both love to go to movies. In fact, growing up, I remember us as going to see a movie and then out to dinner every Friday night. I'm sure we really didn't go every Friday, but enough so that's what my memory is. He's always liked to see whatever the newest, hottest movie is the weekend (if not the first night) it opens.

I do too. The first / midnight showing if possible.

When the first Star Wars film came out in May of 1977, my family went on the opening Friday afternoon. Or rather, we would have gone except that when we got to our local San Diego theater, it was already sold out. My mother suggested we pick another film. My dad had another idea. He bundled us all into the car, went over to a pay phone and made a call. When he came back, he announced that we were going to get an early dinner at McDonald's (a huge treat in itself as we rarely had fast food) and then we were driving to Palm Springs for their evening show. The manager had apparently promised to set aside 4 tickets (and besides hardly anyone was in Palm Springs in May). So we drove an hour and a half to another city just so we could see this great new thing. It was great too.

I mention it not just to point out why I love film and take it seriously, but because I fell in love that day. Unlike so many of my friends, it wasn't with Han Solo either. I fell in love with R2-D2. So much so that it's hard for me to feel menaced by the Doctor Who Daleks. After all, they do have the same sci-fi I'm-a-robot-not-a-trash-bin look about them. Part of me is still in love with him and was even pleased that in his more recent incarnations he's been able to fly. (Why "he" is male is yet another question, but perhaps one for another blog entry).

With all this in mind, I'm very pleased that Pixar has created another film robot to fall in love with. His (and it appears clear that "his" is the correct gender) name is WALL-E ( for Waste Allocation Load Lifter – Earth Class) and he's a great character. The film, also called WALL-E is delightful too.

Paul told me before we went that it was being hailed as "the best" film Pixar has ever done. That's setting the bar pretty high as far as I'm concerned as both The Incredibles and Monsters Inc. are amazingly good. After seeing it this afternoon in a (warning: celebrity sighting alert*) Westwood audience that included Jamie Lee Curtis, Christopher Guest and their children, I do think it's a unique Pixar film. Why? Because it doesn't rely on voice acting to carry the story-- in fact there's very little dialog for much of the film. The animation has to carry the emotional weight of the story, and it does it beautifully.

Maybe that's a reason (other than his basic cuteness) that WALL-E reminds me R2-D2. Neither robot can speak, yet they manage to convey enough emotion and goodness that as a viewer I became completely attached. Oh yes. They also both manage to save the world.

Okay, R2 helped save the universe, but you know what I mean.

---
* Before you ask, no I didn't go over and talk to them or ask for autographs. This is Los Angeles and that sort of thing just isn't done. Especially when famous people are somewhere with their family. That said, this is as least the 6th time I've run into Jaime Lee Curtis in Los Angeles or Santa Monica over the years which is definitely more than any other Hollywood person that I don't actually know. Weird.

Tired of Talking About Me

I should qualify that title statement a bit -- don't get me wrong.  I find myself utterly fascinating.  After all, I spend a lot of time with me.  I write about me (what else is blogging after all?).  I sometimes meet friends for coffee and talk about myself at least some of the time (at least during the time we're not talking about their children).

So what do I mean?

Basically I'm complaining about having to go to the doctor.  Or rather, about going to doctors for the first time.  As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I've been seeing a psychiatrist.  He's great -- I like him a lot.  But he's not a long term therapist.  Rather, he's the one who's diagnosed me (bipolar I with anxiety disorder in case you're keeping track) and keeps track of my lithium dosage and blood readings.*  Anyway, he's been great and wants me to find a therapist.  Ever the obedient patient, I determined to do as told.

However, rather than just taking a referral, I decided it would be far easier to use the student counseling services on campus.  This would mean, thought I, that I could just go to therapy once a week on my lunch hour.  So I made an appointment (explaining the situation on the phone to the intake person), filled out yet another pile o' forms with statements about my feelings, past treatments, family history and the like.  When I got to the office yesterday, I was met with yet another pile of forms.  This is a university and I work here so I knew better than to argue.  I just filled the damn things out out and turned them in.

My next step was a meeting with Rebecca, a graduate psych student doing clinical practice (like, she'd be practicing on me).  That's cool, she seemed nice enough.  We went through 45 minutes of discussion about why I was there, questions about my history, my goals and then my feelings.  I had no thoughts for her on my feelings -- I felt fine (other than being a little hungry due to the lack of lunch). 

Then she started talking in that very gentle, I-hope-you're-not-going-to-be-angry-or-melt-down way.  Rebecca told me she wanted to refer me off campus to a counseling psychiatrist or psychologist.  That the center now had a policy of only doing 12 sessions with any student in a given year and she felt I'd be better off with someone who I could see in an on-going fashion without needing to worry about running into the that limit.   Plus, since I have a medical diagnosis of a specific disorder, there would be no problem with insurance coverage even off campus.  As I listened, I wasn't in danger of melting down, but my first thought was "damn, I so don't want to introduce myself again."

There's nothing for it of course.  She's right -- a private therapist is definitely the way to go.  Before anyone says it, I know I'm really fortunate.  I live in Santa Monica where there's no shortage of mental health professionals and I'll be able to take my pick.  My insurance coverage as a student is good.  Pablo's coverage as a university employee is even better.  But even when I'm feeling good, this sort of intake is agony.  I hate talking to strangers**, especially about myself.  Especially about what's going on in my head, which is my own private domain.  I keep myself feeling safe a lot of times by making sure to let people talk about themselves and not talking about the things that I feel are private and important to me.  I'm not just introverted -- most of the time I'm shy too. 

This blog entry is just a little whine, there's nothing for it and the appointments will have to be made.  I'm just glad that I won't get the referrals until Thursday.  With the Friday holiday that means the earliest I can even start making appointments is July 7.   

---

*this is apparently very important as there's a rather fine line between the therapeutic and toxic blood level of lithium.  Knowing this does not help with my anxiety issues, but the lithium does seem to be a helpful mood stabilizing drug.

**writing to strangers in a blog is apparently a completely different matter.

A Short Story Entry: The Chesterfield

The Craigslist Ad

"86"lx36"dx27"h oxblood leather, excellent condition, $1000"

The advertisement's text looked simple.  But the delicious picture, combined with the word "Chesterfield" tipped Annie into a fantasy realm.   Paul, noticing her distraction, asked what she was thinking.

She sent him a link, pointing him to the Craigslist ad.

Then Annie told the story.

A.'s Memory

I remember reading something about a Chesterfield sofa when I was 12 or 13.  I'm not sure where, an anon book, probably one of the BlueMoons.  I didn't own it - I read it standing in a bookshop, trying to look like I wasn't reading porn.

There was a scene in the book where a man, an artist I think, punishes a woman, maybe his model.  The man made her bend over the Chesterfield in his study and began to strap her hard.  But the woman wouldn't or couldn't stay still.  Her moving distracted him -- broke up the image of punishment and submission he wanted to create.  She made his strap fall in the wrong places and leave marks he didn't intend. 

Finally the man stopped.  He left her there, crying and man came back with some of his old ties, tying her down so tightly she couldn't even lift a foot, let alone get out of position.  Then, when she was utterly helpless, he told her he was beginning the strapping again.  I remember feeling of horror at the strapping starting all over, only this time with her tied so completely.

I loved that.  His beginning again.  Loved that she had to be still, totally and completely controlled.  His lack of mercy a strange mercy in itself.

Their Conversation

A: It's a beautiful sofa.  The oxblood leather is the color of tramlines.  It reminds me something from a headmaster's study.

P:  And you as a naughty girl?  You'd definitely be bent over it, gymslip lifted high up, almost over your head.

A:  I could bend over it without a stool, but my bottom wouldn't be the highest point, unless I was standing on something or my feet were off the floor.

P: Yes, your hands would be tied in front and you'd stand on a stool.

A: So I'd be all stretched out and up on my toes?

P: Yes.  It looks like it would be comfortable enough to live with too.  That's an important, if secondary, consideration.

A: Yes.  We'll definitely need to be able to live with it as our sofa.

A: Sorry.   I'm actually still imagining I'm bent over the back of it, wearing my new gymslip, hands tied so I'm all stretched, bottom very high.  I can almost feel you lifting the skirt waaay up on my back, the front riding up too.  Finally feeling you tug my knickers down for a thrashing.  Right?

P: Goodness, what a naughty girl you must have been.  Of course, that's a good position for inserting a nice big plug, too.

A: ::stunned, embarrassed silence::

Final Nagging Question

Will the seller take less than $1000?

Talking With the Doctor

Even though I live in a big city, I used to have a lot of worries about talking to my doctors about my kink activities. How self-conscious was I? Enough that I even made sure to schedule pelvic exams around brazil waxes in case the lack of hair caused questions.

What changed all that was a bad scene that required me to seek medical treatment. I had to explain everything. As I was doing so, I realized that all any of these doctors and nurses wanted was to help take care of my body and get well. There was no judgement (at least none that I could see which is all that really matters), no embarrassment (from them, I was certainly embarrassed enough for three people), just care.

As time has gone on I've learned to take a deep breath and ask / talk about my kinks with frankness as though I don't expect judgement or surprise. Thus far, there's been none.

It's helped to read about other people doing the same thing. Natty, a fellow Punishment Book poster with her own blog, has an especially good account of a conversation on her blog here.

As well as an entry with a great deal of information on what she's learned about spanking and anticoagulants.

Yet another PB writer with her own blog, Dykk Grrl, and her wife W have had conversation about What It Is We Do with their therapists and have written about it here.

So all that said, what happened yesterday?

Yesterday I had my first appointment with a new psychiatrist. New to me anyway -- the doctor himself is probably in his 70s. For the first 15 or 20 minutes, the questions were mostly medical (trying to see what medications I can and can't take). Then they became personal.

But not too personal. Until suddenly, he asked:

"Do you experience hyper-sexuality or "inappropriate" sexual urges?"

Dead stop from me. Sexual urges? Since I don't do vanilla sex, I don't generally think of myself as even having sexual urges.

The doctor misunderstood my shock.

"That sounded like a value or moral judgement, didn't it? I don't mean it that way. Just answer as best you can."

So I had a choice. I could either go into detail about my fetish or just answer the questions basically replacing in my head the spanking fetish for sex. It was tempting, but the problem with being cagey is that eventually truth always comes out and it only gets harder.

I took a deep breath, answered the question and then replied further that I have an alternative sort of sexuality.

He looked up from the notes he'd been writing. I swallowed hard.

"My husband and I met on a sexually oriented internet group."

Pause. In retrospect it was easier telling him than it had been telling our immigration attorney. In both cases though, I sure was glad about the whole confidentiality thing.

"What sort of alternative sexuality?"

The word "spanking" suddenly regained the magical power it had had 11 plus years ago when I first de-lurked. Far too late, I tried to be vague.

"Um, BDSM, S/M sorts of things. Impact play based."

The doctor nodded.

"And what are you?"

"Oh, um, I guess one would call it me a "spanking fetishist."

One? Did I really refer to myself as "one" out loud for goodness sake?

"Yes, I understood," he replied. "I meant, do you spank or get spanked?"

Oh.

"I'm, I'm a bottom, that is, I get spanked. I've had fantasies about it since early childhood."

"And your husband's interests?"

Oh. My. God.

"Okay. Well, he has fantasies about it being done to him but didn't like the reality,. He spanks me."

It's odd, but I find it harder to talk about Paul's interests than my own. Like I'm being disloyal or talking about him behind his back. Crazy, I know. But then that's why I'm here in the first place.

"Does he enjoy spanking you?"

"He says he does," I reply, trying for humor.

"What do you think?"

"I think he enjoys it too."

And that was it. The subject changed, we went on with an equally embarrassing but not kinky line of questions. The interview ended and I walked to the shuttle stop to head back to Union Station.

I'm glad I told the truth. This doctor too just wants to keep me healthy and happy. That being the case, he's not going to be down on me being spanked, right?

And finally, if you have the luxury of being able to choose a doctor and it matters for them to be kink aware, this is where the list is: Kink Aware Professionals.

Yes, I'm Back

I know, I've been gone forever with no word, nothing. I'm sorry.

But now forever is over. What's been going on will probably emerge as the blog turns. Or not. Suffice to say the past 6 months has sucked, that they're over now and the future looks bright.

Yes, I've missed a lot. Including anyone and everyone still reading here.

Lurking Out Loud

Well, I'm back after almost a month spent in Portland with my family.  It was an amazing experience I hope to write about later, but I want to thank everyone who posted and emailed their thoughts and prayers.  Knowing you were thinking about this and took time to say so meant a huge amount to me and my family.  I miss her and, as some of you expressed, am sure that I will forever.

I just posted this on the PB -- it's an invitation to lurkers on that blog to come out and post a comment.  As much as it's completely true that all of us who write for the PB want to hear from our readers, I'm even more interested in those of you who read here.  This is a strangely personal blog for me -- sometimes academic, often times kinky, sometimes political.  That it goes quiet here too often is partly a reflection of good intentions gone awry, but also a concern about shocking or boring those of you who come here for one thing with having you find something quite different than you expect.  Except that I can't imagine keeping up with posting on 4 or 5 blogs, there's certainly something to be said for the more single focused blog approach!

Anyway, this is to say that I love all of you who read here.  Whether you've found me via the Daily Kos or one of my too kind blogging friends, are an old friend from ASS/SSS, googled hand strapping or tawsing, chicana feminism or however else you may have landed here, thank you.

And feel free to leave a comment.  On PB I left my favorite book (Pride and Prejudice) which has been a life-long pleasure but here I'm going to leave my favorite song, something which changes often.  This week it's  "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter. 

Many thanks to the amazing Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts for organizing Love Our Lurkers day!   

What do I feel?

This should be an entry to remind myself that at 40 I should know better than to try and set between friends who are either disagreeing or don't like each other.  Especially when I don't know what's going on.  The only thing both people could end up agreeing on is that I should mind my own business.

Why I apparently don't know better and keep making the mistakes the got me in trouble in junior high, why I need everyone around me to get along and to love me are questions that will probably take the next 40 years to resolve. 

I can't muse on my crazy insecurities today. 

Today I'm at work, working in bursts because the mindlessness of my job makes it an easy place to hide..

Today I've turned off my phones and am ignoring my email.

Today I'm trying to find the courage to walk into my boss's office and tell her about the call I just got from my mom.  But I can't do it.  That call which I should have been expecting has somehow ripped a hole in me.   

My grandmother is dying.  She's been going by inches for the past year, but her inches are running out.  At 101 her life is terrible -- even the smallest acts of independence are being stripped away while her mind has stayed horribly alert and aware of every loss.  Over the past year, as it's become clear my nana can never get well, can only decline, I've hoped and prayed for her to pass peacefully.  Dying peacefully is the right thing for me to want here and the kindest and most merciful outcome.  I know this.

But I don't want it and so maybe I haven't really prayed for either.  I'm selfish and I don't want to let her go.  At the worst moments of my life, childhood and adulthood, she's been there for me, making me feel loved as unconditionally as it would be possible for anyone to be.  Her very existence and love for me saved my life, not just once but repeatedly, including one time when I was 10 years old and she confronted my parents about their abuse of me and threatened to take me away from them. 

When I was a child and she was taking care of me, I worried often that she would die.  Back then, 70 seemed very old and she used to play a bit with guilt, telling me when I rolled my eyes at being told to push my bangs out of my face when I read or not to bite my nails that I wouldn't have her to bother me much longer.  One summer when I was 11, the thought of losing her made me burst into tears and in comforting me she swore she would be here with me as long as I needed her. 

That's right.  She loved me me so much and was so distressed at having hurt me by her teasing she swore not to leave until I was sure I could let her go. 

My nana is in Portland -- more than a 1000 miles away from me.  Her weight down to 65 pounds.  She has cancer that's spread throughout her body and for which there is no treatment.  Her younger sister and older brother are both dead now.  Last summer my grandfather, her husband of 70 years, died and left her alone to mourn him.  My mom told me today Nana can't hold down food or water.

She has always been safety and home to me and soon  I have to travel north to say goodbye.  Somehow very soon I have to let her know it's okay for her to go, that I'll be fine.

But I don't believe it.  And selfishly, in my heart, I don't want her to leave me.