Category Archives: la vida

Mija and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day: Advent Day 2

bad-day

[Many thanks to @J_M_A for this most excellent blog title]

5:45 AM Alarm goes off.  Meant for it to go off at 6 — apparently the clock thought I needed an extra 15 minutes to get ready this morning. Perhaps needing to look extra nice for today’s CT scan? Perhaps it’s a warning?

6:45 AM Dressed, coffee’d and ready to face the day. It’s cold outside so I put on a warm jacket, picked up my purse and computer bag and headed out to the car with Dad. On the drive in we chat about incidental things, planning to meet back at his office at 4:30 to head to my great-aunt’s where I am to help her decide between an iPad and Macbook.  All seems well.

7:15 AM On the way into work Dad realizes (because I tell him) that I have had coffee but no breakfast (who can eat at 6:30??). He suggests I go up to his suite and have breakfast with him.  I’m mystified (is there a cafe up there?) only to discover he has yogurt, granola and tea.  There is much yumminess and I feel happy despite the hour.  Everything still seems well. 

7:30 AM Go to use the restroom (or loo depending on where you are).  Things start going badly. After being used, the ladies executive toilet refuses to flush properly.  It’s not backed up, not overflowing (thank goodness) but stuff isn’t going down properly either.  I flush about 10 times before the situation clears up.  Now, Paul will tell you (with great amusement) that I have issues about using public toilets, partly for just this sort of reason.  This helps confirm my grandmother’s teaching — which was that if at all possible, one should only go at home.  Deep calming breaths.  It turned out okay.  Don’t freak.

7:35 AM Leave for the metro redline station across the street from my Dad’s office. Buy a ticket (machine works fine) take the stairs down down under the ground. Check the board and see that metro red line is delayed 10 minutes.  No biggie, not worried about it.  I’ve got plenty of time before CT appointment.

7:45 AM: Didn’t take the wrong train and get lost myself lost. Worse. I sat quietly in my seat, watching two young ‘uns arguing about a third who wasn’t there. The train reached Union Station and I got off, taking with me my jacket and computer bag.  The train refilled with people and headed off as I headed up toward the bus stop.  As I got toward the top, I realized my mistake, why the day was going to be crap. Have you noticed yet? Jacket, computer bag and…. and…. Right. Pardon me for shouting but I LEFT MY PURSE ON THE METRO.  Oh my God.  Breath, breath, OH MY GOD, breath, PANIC!

8:00 AM: Find MTA security guards and beg for help.  They shrug off my “lost item” (It’s not an item — it’s MY PURSE — for UK people that means handbag + wallet).  They tell me to call the MTA lost and found office.  I can, apparently find the number online.  Visions of them somehow calling the train evaporate.  This is bad. Very bad. Ever so bad. 

8:30 AM Take the shuttle (fortunately free) to the hospital.  Connect to wifi and find the number of MTA lost and found.  Listen to recording enough to hear that they aren’t open until 9.  Begin calling credit cards. Realize I’ve lost the debit card to Paul’s account as well as my own.  Oh God! Panic. Xanax is in my pill box in my purse.  Panic hurts.

8:35 AM Send Paul a message to let him know what I’ve done.  Want to be rescued. Call Chase (Paul’s bank).  Try to make the computer that answers understand that I’ve lost my debit card and don’t know its number.  Nor do I know the account number. Beg it to give me to a human being of any sort. Am repeatedly told to enter debit card number.  Anger mixes in with panic.

8:45 AM Begin to rant at Chase computer and randomly push buttons on my phone.  Computer becomes offended and hangs up on me.  Call back. This time just keep hitting “0” until the system surrenders and gives me to a person.  Person is helpful. Claim purse was “stolen” rather than “lost.” Card is cancelled. Embarrassment mixes with anger mixes with panic.

9:03 AM Call MTA lost and found.  Again get recording which this time I listen to all the way through. Recorded message tells me their office hours (9-5, closed for lunch between 1 and 2), location and a warning that I must wait at least three working days after losing an article before coming in, in person, to ask them if they have it.  No, there’s no way to call the office and check before you come.  Thank you. Heart drops into stomach. Feel as lost as purse. 

9:15 AM Realize I’m running out of power and go to bagel place that has outlets. Continue calling credit card companies with lie about stolen purse. Will not cry. Will not cry.

10:00 AM Go to radiology department to check in. Realize I don’t have my insurance card anymore.  Tell the very nice receptionist about distress.  He is horrified for me in the way only a very gay man can be, bless him. At the sympathy I start to cry. It’s stupid to be so upset. This is all my fault.

10:05 AM Sit and fill out generic hospital paperwork about allergies and past illnesses.  Get to section on mental health and cop to mental illness.  Section on drugs makes me realize that I don’t have my morning dose of mood stabilizer to take at the given time (it’s actually supposed to be taken at 1PM but is still deemed to be “morning”). Wonder how adding withdrawal to the mix is going to go.  Starting to calm down. Maybe everything will be okay. 

10:20 AM Nurse comes over and says my name. I look up to see her standing with two paper tumblers (they’re huge) full of what looks like punch.  It’s apparently “contrast fluid.”  I have to drink it all, wait a hour and then she’ll come back to put in my I.V.  Suddenly realize I should have researched what a CT scan entails. Had thought it would be more like a sonogram.  Look at the contrast with disfavor.  Take a picture of the two cups for Twitter. Wonder what’s in this stuff? Will it kill me? Who cares? 

10:30 AM The first sip wasn’t bad but the taste gets worse as I try and drink to the middle of the first cup. It’s like koolaid made with bad pool water.  I try and use the straw so the contrast misses my tongue and make myself gag.  Oh my god there’s a whole other cup of this stuff. Feel queasy.

10:45 AM Finish the second tumbler of contrast.  Feel sick but determined not to throw up for fear of them giving me two more glasses of the stuff.  Try and think of happy things but fail. Go back to calling credit card companies.  Remember I have therapy this afternoon and feel glad.  Getting messages from Paul who reminds me that I still have my phone, promises to meet me for lunch.  Thankful he can see the bright side. Tries to join him. Fails.

11:30 AM Nurse comes to get me and pass me to the radiologist. He tells me I’ll change into gowns and then he’ll set up my IV.  I ask what the IV is for. My mind blanks when he says “radioactive something”.  He gives me forms and I sign my life away. He takes me to a little room to change and points to the locker where I’m to put all my belongings, including my iPhone which I’ve been holding like a lifeline.  Wonder where my fear of the radiation is. Embracing the idea of going nuclear.

11:45 AM CT scan is fine, though I was made nervous by them pumping radioactive iodine through me, but have been assured it’s harmless despite it burning throughout my body (that’s normal).  I’m out with nothing to show for it except a bandage from the IV prick and a slightly woozy feeling.  The sun is shining. Maybe everything will be okay. 

12:30 PM Return to bagel place. Search through computer bag for a stray dollar to buy a cup of tea to give me a reason for taking a table. Discover two pennies in the bottom of my computer bag. Shamelessly stay at table. Realize I no longer have a credit card I can use to charge my medications on today — call parents and ask them if they’ll charge them for me and I can pay them back in January. They’re sweet and agree. Paul promises to come and claim me for lunch.  Feelng a bit better.

12:45 PM Lunch with Paul. Refuse his debit card as I don’t trust myself but let him give me $20. Realize I don’t have a wallet to put it in. Paul points out that I have pockets and that I’ve only lost things, nothing important.  Comes up with way my having lost my purse could cure cancer. Am shallow enough to want my things and purse back anyway.  Tell Paul I’m going to talk to my therapist about my forgetting and losing things when I’m stressed out, see if she can help me become more mindful.  Get a sugar-free hazelnut latte at Starbucks and am comforted by the warm beverage. Feeling a big bit better.

1:45 PM arrive at therapist’s for 2:00 PM appointment. Discover therapist has had an emergency and can’t see me today. Am understanding — at least as far as anyone can see.  Feel that I should count as an emergency today too.

2:00 PM Have returned to bagel cafe and decide to blog about today. Dad arranges to meet me at the hospital at 4:30 PM, collect me, pay for my meds and take me with him to have dinner with my great-aunt who wants my advice on buying an iPad (no I don’t have one, I’m bringing my mom’s). Consider that if I sit very still nothing else bad can happen to me.  Begin to write this epic. Numb.

2:30 PM Realize I can now afford a tea as table rent and pick out an English Breakfast blend. As cashier rings me up I consider how I’m feeling and get a camomile and lemon. Realize the day still has 9.5 hours left in it. Gulp, afraid.

3:15 PM Have written 1200 words and am still writing about the morning.  Wonder if anyone will read this post. Keep typing.  Seeing the humor in it all but hoping, even for the sake of narrative that things turn around.

3:30 PM Discover that cozy bagal cafe with outlet and wifi is closing for the weekend.  Am the last one to leave. Start to search for warmish place to spend the next hour until my dad comes. Find a waiting room near the pharmacy. Become aware I’m going through early withdrawal (head and jaw ache) from not having my dose of geodon (mood stablizer). Thankful my dad will be able to get me my medications. 

4:40 PM Dad calls and I meet him outside the pharmacy building. We decide that I should wait in the car while he goes in to pay for the drugs (that way we don’t have to find parking).  While he’s gone I idly wonder what the odds are the car will be ticketed for waiting in a loading zone while he’s in there. It isn’t. Am safe in the car and determine that the day is going to improve from here.

4:50 PM No ticket and Dad is back with drugs. He suggests I take missed meds (guess even he could tell I needed them). Head over to great aunt’s discussing where to pick up dinner on the way.  While we’re talking, my phone rings. It’s my doctor who’s reviewed the CT scan and determined I have a hernia under the cyst and need surgery.  Tell dad and together we consider whether it will be possible to do surgery before I head to Portland for Christmas. Try not to feel bitter. Wait in the car while Dad picks up El Pollo Loco. Unsurprised that news is the worst of the three posibilities, seems par for the course. 

5:15 PM Ask Dad not to tell great aunt about lost purse. He seems surprised I’d think he might. To make me feel better Dad stops and buys an sugar free apple pie. I assure him the day is looking up.  Sure pie makes everything better.

5:30 PM Arrive at great aunt’s and admire Christmas decorations. Chat a bit and then serve and eat dinner. Let Dad handle everything related to the stove with the thought that I might cause my sleeve or the house to catch fire. Feeling oddly better. Surgery news puts the lost purse out of my mind for now.

6:30 PM Demonstrate to great aunt how my Macbook works (not so different from her old iMac except for the touch pad) and then what my mom’s iPad does.  iPad does some wonky re-size thing it’s never done before and it takes me 10 minutes to get it back to where it should be.  Encourage great aunt to do stuff on both machines. Hit by a flood of despair that even Apple products aren’t working for me. Wonder if my iPhone is going to die too. 🙁

7:15 PM Dad asks great aunt whether she wants an iMac, a Macbook or an iPad. She mulls it over, looks at me and wonders if she needs any of them, wants me to come back and show her them again.  I smile and say “of course.”  Dad agrees to leave iPad with great aunt for a week so she can play with it.  I can see her fear and wonder how much tech support even an iPad will require.  Feel affection for her. Fear I can and do understand.

7:45 PM After some chit chat, great aunt begins to talk about her mother (my great grandmother – Lita) and how I was her first great grandchild.  Reminds me that like Lita, I was born in July.  Says she wants to do something tonight that she knows Lita would want and that she’s in heaven smiling at us all.  What the hell? Mystified, embarrassed and excited.

7:50 PM After what felt like a drum roll, great aunt pulls a ring box from her pocket. She tells me it was Lita’s and that she would want me to have it. And that she wants me to have it too.  Inside the box is a beautiful ruby ring. Oh. My. God. 

[For sense of ring, see bad iPhone picture below. ]

ruby-ring

7:51 PM Am overwhelmed, suddenly remembering my great grandmother and what a brave and amazing woman she was. Given what she did, what she experienced in her life, how could I think of today as a bad day? Stammer as I thank my great aunt and promise to wear the ring on my first day teaching as a Ph.D.  Ashamed. I am so fortunate in so many ways.

8:10 PM We say goodbye, taking away the old (and broken) iMac, leaving behind the sexy iPad. I call Mom to tell her about the ring and share a picture of it on Twitter. Purse suddenly seems unimportant and I tell Dad that. He says he’s sure it will be turned in and I’ll get it back next week.  I may be broke and unemployed but I have a beautiful ring that belonged to my beloved great grandmother. Find out from Mom and Dad that this ring was one of the first things my great aunt bought when she started working for the teamster’s union, using her first three months pay. A gift for her mother. Humbled, honored and deeply responsible to care for this ring. Must never ever ever ever lose it.

9:00 PM Arrive home to tell Paul about the ring (though he saw it on Twitter). He says it’s so big I’ll rarely wear it. I tell him I’ll wear it often. He suggests my finger will get removed by someone after the ring. I argue that it won’t because no one could imagine this ring is real. Am slightly giddy.

9:15 PM Sort though medications only to discover that my anti-anxiety drug, buspar was apparently low and that they owe me 87 of 90 pills (they left a note). Refuse to allow that this is in anyway a bad thing.  Paul promises to pick up the rest on Monday.  Determined not to have the day end badly. I am fortunate damn it!

9:30 PM Make cup of peppermint tea and settle down to finish writing about the day. Everything is going to be okay.

11:00 PM Finished writing indulgent and extremely long blog post. Wonder if this can count for 3 days of Advent blogging. Bed. Bed is safe and cozy. Bed. Tomorrow is another day.

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Advent bloggers so far (they made today better):

padme & Anakin – Journey to the Darkside

Marie – Life, Lemons & Spanking

EmmaEnchanted – This Kinky Life

Quai  –  Spanking Discussion

Poppy St. Vincent – Poppy’s Submissions

Sharon – The Evolution of a Pin-Up Model

Tiger – Innermost Me

You can join anytime — think of it as getting your calendar a bit late so opening a couple days all at once. This is fun, not a holiday stress!

What Type Are You? (Eye-En-Ef-Pea)

light-bulb
Have you ever taken the Myer’s Briggs personality test? It’s based on Jungian personality types, sorting people by four different categories.  My type, which I test at every time on every version of the test is INFP (introversion, intuition, feeling, perception). I took it the first time my freshman year of college and have taken it and administered it to groups a number of times since then. It isn’t the be-all or end-all, but is a useful way of understanding that people are different and they value different things.

What’s my type like?

The Idealist / Healer

The polite, reserved exterior of INFPs can at first make them difficult to get to know. They enjoy conversation, however, taking particular delight in the unusual. When INFPs are in a sociable mood, their humor and charm shine through. Disposed to like people and to avoid conflict, INFPs tend to make pleasant company.

Devoted to those in their inner circle, INFPs guard the emotional well-being of others, consoling those in distress. Guided by their desire for harmony, INFPs prefer to be flexible unless their ethics are violated. Then, they become passionate advocates for their beliefs. They are often able to sway the opinions of others through tact, diplomacy, and an ability to see varying sides of an issue.

INFPs develop these insights through reflection, and they require substantial time alone to ponder and process new information. While they can be quite patient with complex material, they are generally bored by routine. Though not always organized, INFPs are meticulous about things they value. Perfectionists, they may have trouble completing a task because it cannot meet their high standards. They may even go back to a completed project after the deadline so they can improve it.

INFPs are creative types and often have a gift for language. As introverts, they may prefer to express themselves through writing. Their dominant Feeling drives their desire to communicate, while their auxiliary intuition supplies the imagination. Having a talent for symbolism, they enjoy metaphors and similes. They continually seek new ideas and adapt well to change. They prefer working in an environment that values these gifts and allows them to make a positive difference in the world, according to their personal beliefs

Want to take the test? There’s a version here.  Let me know what your letters are — I’m always curious about people and their types.

Just a Hand Spanking

swirly-hand
Last night I was handspanked. Not for any reason but because it seemed like a good idea. Paul had promised it early in the day but bedtime had come, complete with clean sheets on the bed, and I slid between them not feeling disappointed.  It had been a good day.

Paul came in and urged me out of bed. As it always seems when it comes time for a spanking, it suddenly seemed all quiet in the neighborhood. I mentioned that it was kind of late. Paul said there was no one to hear (meaning my dad and mom). I mentioned our upstairs neighbors — God knows we hear what they’re doing on their bed often enough — I cringed but wasn’t surprised when Paul replied that he didn’t care whether they heard or not.

Fine. So he doesn’t care what the people upstairs think. I tried to relax and put them out of my mind figuring it would be easier if I didn’t care either. This was a nice spanking in that I was arranged comfortably on the bed, my head resting on my arms. I had visions of a blissful spanking where I was brave and sexy and all that.  That’s not the way it goes for me though, part of me has to struggle to escape, has to feel subdued somehow. I wish that weren’t the case, but there it is.  Before he started, Paul pinned my legs with one of his and wrapped his left arm tight around me. I focused on breathing, reminding myself this would just be a handspanking.

Just a handspanking but Paul has a heavy hand. Even though my panties the first few smacks stung. The thing about a hand spanking, especially one through ones panties is it feels pretty whimpy to complain about it. So I tried not to whimper and was just getting to the point where it all seemed bearable when I felt his hands tugging my panties down. I’ve made the argument in the past that I should get to keep them up because it hurts just as much through them, but honestly that’s not the case.  That thin layer of cotton protection acts as a sting baffle.  When it’s removed the smacks feel sharper and burn more.

I struggled a bit and then something in my brain relaxed. I could feel my body stretch out, welcoming the spanks, trying to match my curves to his hand. It still hurt, but only in a good way. I felt powerful as a bottom/submissive/spankee/whatever and was sure there was nothing that Paul could do to me that I couldn’t accept, no pain I couldn’t embrace. These feelings are rare for me no matter what’s being used, but it was the first time it had happened from a handspanking.

Part of me wanted it to go on and on.

But it was late. I wasn’t feeling crazy so didn’t ask for the hairbrush or anything more painful, instead relishing my bottom’s gentle throbbing soreness. The lotion afterwards felt lovely — everything felt lovely.

And then… and then… and then it was over. Nothing dramatic. Just a hand spanking.

Día de Los Muertos

[I’ve broken with my promise to blog every day this month. In my defense, I did start this entry last night, but I collapsed into sleepiness before I finished writing it. There will be two blog posts today.]

dia-de-los-muertos
Here in Los Angeles, people are starting to build alters for Día de Los Muertos — literally translated as “day of the dead”.  Day of the Dead is on All Souls Day, November 2nd. It’s a national holiday in Mexico where the dead are remembered and celebrated. Traditions connected with the holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased using sugar skulls, pictures and including their favorite foods, drinks and hobbies.  In Los Angeles it’s become something of an arts festival with artists making alters both to deceased friends and family and also to famous people who’ve died over the past few years.

My family didn’t really celebrate Día de Los Muertos in a traditional fashion, but my grandmothers always kept alters to the dead in their homes. Photos of their dead parents and siblings were always surrounded by flowers and watched over by candles and statues of Our Lady.  It was something I didn’t think about much — one of those things I saw without really registering an opinion. Looking back, I think I didn’t appreciate the value of Día  de Los Muertos because I hadn’t lost anyone close enough to me to understand the importance of celebrating memories.  You might say I was very fortunate in that respect, not losing anyone very close to me until quite recently.

As I’m getting older, that’s changing. My grandparents’ generation is gone on my mother’s side and disappearing fast on my father’s. These are people who’ve embodied family for me, who always made me feel valued and loved. Even more importantly, they clearly knew who they were and what they stood for. Through them, I knew myself.

I don’t think I’m going to make an alter this year — as I said, it’s not really a tradition my family held with — but I am going to buy some pan de muertos (yes, that’s bread of the dead), eat it with a cup of good coffee and remember some very wonderful people.

Financial Dependence

unemployed
I have a part time teaching job at a local university starting in January, but right now I’m unemployed. Or rather, I have a lot of work to do –that’s the way the academic job market goes — lots of writing, tailoring of texts and submitting– but I currently have no income. In fact, applying for jobs generates a number of expenses associated with dossier services and transcripts, not to mention the coming costs of the MLA convention in Seattle. Last month was okay because I still had some savings, but this month, as bills are coming in and I’m not getting any freelance work, I’m feeling more and more dependent on Paul.

This isn’t really such a change. Paul’s almost always earned more than me and generously has paid the vast majority of our common bills. But I’ve always been able to take care of my own credit cards, meds, therapy, lunches, coffee, books and all those necessities of life. Today though I realized I can’t do it again until I start getting paid again. This has left me feeling vulnerable and dependent in a way I’m not used to and don’t like.

It feels weird too. Paul has done everything possible to keep me from feeling bad about it, making sure I have cash to carry around with me, letting me know that there shouldn’t be a problem covering my bills.  It’s not like I have any fear of him somehow using financial uncertainty as some sort of power over me. That’s just not the way we roll. But it’s also not what we signed up for either. I’ve always worked, always wanted to to work.  I’ve had my own money since I was 16.  To not have it at 44 makes me feel like a child — and childhood wasn’t a place I was very happy. I’m looking around the house and feeling like I should be spending more time cleaning since I’m not earning anything (on a side note, my income also paid for monthly cleaners who aren’t coming anymore) as though lack of paid income = housewife, something I know isn’t the case.

Not earning money makes me feel my time is less valuable, that I’m somehow less important than I was when I was working. I know, that sounds twisted but is true. I had no idea so much of how I see and respect myself is caught up in my being able to take care of myself, but it really is.

This isn’t really going anywhere.  Except to say if you need some freelance editing from an American literature Ph.D., you can get me on the cheap. :-/

So what’s up lately?

Lately?  Lately hasn't been very kinky, but not in a bad way.  I've been caught up in getting ready to graduate — planning a huge party for next month.  It's not that I have that many friends, but my extended family, once I get beyond the nuclear, is very very big. Guess that's what happens when Irish and Mexicans marry and both stay in California forever. 

I've also been doing some professional stuff, trying to get myself ready to go on the job market next fall. Fall seems forever away as it isn't even summer yet, but I know from last year how fast it all sneaks up. And then there's looking for a job to tide me over next academic year as my current job runs out in August. As my therapist remarks, who wouldn't be stressed out under the circumstances?  Therapy is going well too, though my therapist keeps remarking on my tendency to beat myself up, or "use a stick" which I always find a bit disconcerting given that she does know about my masochistic tendencies. 

In other news, my dad is still living with us. I'm not sure about Paul but I've made peace with this.  The truth is, as much as I miss our privacy, I love seeing him every day and will miss him when he finally is able to move out. He reminds me how much my family has always loved me, even when, at times, it's felt otherwise. 

So even without regular spankings, life is good.  And see, because of Paul, I live in a world where spankings are always possible even when they aren't actually happening.

This, in fact, suits me fine.  

Life is good. 

It was raining in Los Angeles

It's rained for days.  Not a steady light rain, but downpour upon downpour.  It rained this morning as I went across the city to my therapist appointment (cancelled due to sick therapist). It rained as we went to Chinatown for Pho.  It rained as we drove home and as I cooked dinner. It rained as we watched news coverage about the rain and the coming storm, worse than any so far.

And now? It's raining.

To be real OR What I like about Paul

paul-with-hat
[Note: this feels like the weirdest blog entry I’ve ever written.  Paul‘s dozing in the other room, not knowing I’m in here at my macbook thinking about him.  I’m writing this because I asked on Twitter for ideas of what to blog about and both Indy and Casey suggested writing something about little things Paul does to turn me on or a verbal portrait of him topping me.  This is me giving it a try.]

First I’m pretty sure Paul will not like this blog entry.  He’s a private person and hates hearing good things about himself much more than he worries about hearing bad stuff.  But he’s always said I can write about whatever I like so I guess today I’m putting that to the test.

What I like about Paul is that he’s different from everyone else I know or play with.  Different in every way, including the scene (which is what I’m mostly going to write about here).  How so I hear you ask?

First, he only ever wants to be himself and, consequently, wants me to be me.  Sometimes this is hard as I like roleplay and find it easier to be someone else than to be me.  He doesn’t mind me roleplaying, but as he is always Paul, he always relates to me as me. My scenes with him go very deep very fast and I think it’s because there’s no mask, no tiny part of myself kept outside.  When I roleplay I can take quite a bit, but there’s a little bit of detachment because what’s happening is happening to Girl X, not Annie.   With Paul, he sees me as me, isn’t imagining me as someone else or thinking of me as having done something made up. This is intense and all-consuming.

This doesn’t mean we don’t do school scenes — indeed readers here will know I have more school uniforms than the average bear (or even women in the school scene).  But I’m not roleplaying a school girl when I wear them for Paul.  Rather, I’m wearing a school uniform for someone with a school uniform fetish. He’s not pretending I’m a 16 – 18 year old.  Rather, I’m my 43 year-old self wearing a school uniform for him.  I know he finds it and me attractive and doesn’t wish I could somehow pass as a “real” anything other than what I am.  Having seen so many friends over the years agonize about “getting too old” for the school scenes I know they love, knowing he wants me just as I am in my uniforms is incredibly liberating.   I wear them for him just because, get spanked in them because wearing them makes him want to spank me and me feel like I should be spanked.

When we do do school scenes (which is less often than I’d like), there’s something I need to do, be it a maths lesson, spelling or as we did most recently, calligraphy practice.  I try as hard as I can, the lesson is real and so is the discipline.  There’s a chance I could do it perfectly, not be spanked much at all and I can strive, try, work hard. This is so much more satisfying for me than either making up an offense or trying to get spanked in roleplay.  Paul is into good girls, likes the idea of a girl trying to do well and either needing to be spanked so she knows she’s being looked after or being corrected for mistakes she’s trying not to make.  That’s my hot-button, to know I’m being watched over closely, held to a very high standard and corrected for not quite meeting it, however hard I’ve tried.

And there it is.  Not the only things I like about Paul, but the way in which scenes with him are different than those I’ve done with pretty much anyone else.  That doesn’t even touch on the real life stuff.  But the Punishment Book is full of those stories if you’re interested in them.

Holiday Meme: Question 3

Favourite childhood holiday memory?

When I was nine years old, I wanted a telescope for Christmas.  This was an expensive gift to ask for — not on par with a bike (we got those every 4 – 5 years as we outgrew them) but a lot more than was usually spent at Christmas.  Little did I know that my parents saw this as me asking for an educational present and felt they had to get it.  I didn't believe in Santa at this point and really didn't expect to get one, it was more a wish than a request as far as I was concerned.

But when we got back from midnight mass, when Santa traditionally came in our house (though I didn't believe, my six year old sister was another matter), there it was, all shiny black and white, already set up next to the tree with a red bow around it.  I remember standing in my robe and pajamas looking at the suddenly nearby moon, my dad next to me trying to see if we could see Venus (I'm not sure we ever did).  

That wonderful present should have an amazing story about how I grew up with an understanding of astronomy or physics, but it doesn't.  I was a bookish child and my love would always be literature.  But I still remember the beauty of the moon on that bright cold Christmas night.  It was a perfect moment.

A Ferris Bueller Sorta Day

ferris-bueller
Today is a Ferris Bueller kind of day for me.  You see, I’ve called (well, emailed) in sick to work. I am a bit sick — allergy eyes, ears and throat making me feel a bit like I have a cold. Mostly though I was aware I can’t be out tomorrow and was a bit afraid I’d end up really out sick if I kept pushing it.  Plus, my mom is coming in tomorrow so today is likely the last day I can be home alone with Paul for a few weeks.

Still, I feel too healthy to be home on a sick day and am not sure what to do with myself.  If it were a Saturday, I wouldn’t have been up at 6:30, probably wouldn’t even be up now at 7:45 AM.  But today isn’t a non-work day, it’s a day off work. Part of me doesn’t feel like it should be wasted on being asleep, though a nap will probably make its way into the afternoon time.

I have to admit though, much as I’d like to say I’m off to the Dodger game or even the beach (bit cold for that, but still), so far I’ve done some work from home, had coffee and played on Twitter.

I’m sure Ferris would find it all very dull.

Still, even though my plans for the day so far mostly include working on the revision of my dissertation. I’m going to keep score and try and feel like today really counts.  After all, who knows when the chance to call in sick and not be really sick will come around again?

Bueller?… Bueller?… Bueller?