TastyTrixie.com

Archive for the ‘family’ Category

Have you noticed us getting up earlier and going to sleep sooner on our cams? That’s (partly) because starting September 3rd I’m going to get up early to head over to the cabin we’re (good news!) officially renting to do off-cam no-internet work sans distractions. Normally I quickly grow disgusted with a morning-person routine, but now it seems totally different knowing there’s a purpose to it.

It rained heavily on Thursday. If I hadn’t gotten up at seven in the morning, excited about the possibilities of such early rising once the cabin time begins, I’d have never known there was any blue sky to be had that day. I’d have missed seeing this moon:

Blessing Bestowed from the West

There’s a place – a real live place – where women artists can apply for residencies. Actually, there are lots of places like that, where those kinds of people can get free lodging in inspiring locations to focus on their work, but the one I’m thinking of is SUPER DREAMY . . . fucking storybook-land perfection in terms of its tiny private artfully-crafted houses (each resident has one all to herself) and woodland setting.

Most shockingly dreamy of all is the way the women are catered to; the small handful of residents (women, all of them!) have a chef who prepares crazily wonderful dinners for them every night. There are pictures proving how thoroughly stocked the kitchen is with racks of zillions of containers of spices and rows of carefully labeled provisions and specialized pots and pans used to make what appears to be an ABUNDANCE of food every night just for these six or seven women. Meats and comforts and fresh green things and berries and sauces and fanciness and desserts and lots of colors and textures on big plates and side dishes.

On top of all that, the chef ALSO prepares individual baskets for each resident full of her favorite foods to help sustain her throughout the day while she works in her perfect little house. And there’s a garden full of plants someone else tends that each resident gets to pluck and cut flowers and leafy things from. FOR INSPIRATION AND SHIT!

I know that being there wouldn’t be actual utopia, but it does provide a model to ooh and aah over. I think it’s awesome that a very teeny-tiny percentage (wish it were more) of talented women in the world get to experience opportunities like that, to be told that their own self-directed art is so valuable as to warrant a few days . . . maybe even a whole month(!) . . . of concentrating on nothing BUT the work she most wants to do and that she will be sheltered and reliably fed to delicious excess if she likes so she can take care of her work while someone else takes care of her basic needs with sensual generosity.

Same time as picture above, but looking 80 degrees to the south.

What an exquisite fantasy! But it seems so decadent, like I know that I personally could never warrant such treatment. It’s a nice daydream but it actually makes me nervous to think about having such a giant privilege bestowed upon me. I’m nervous enough about the idea of renting this cabin, feeling like I need to prove that I “deserve” it. That I’m worth blowing more money on when I already have so much.

And then I remember that my grandma made my grandpa dinner every night to his specifications. Dished it up and brought it out to him. It wasn’t fancy, but she SERVED him. And every day she fixed him a box lunch even on the days when he was only working in his garage out back, a one minute shuffle away from the back door. I know times have changed, but when I was growing up I never fucking once saw a man prepare and serve a grown woman food. NEVER ONCE outside of restaurants (which I rarely saw) and pancake breakfasts at the Masonic Lodge where it was a wonderful novelty to see the men with aprons on, coming out to the long tables to pour coffee and bring us our hotcakes.

It wasn’t just my family that was like that. Most people my age and older grew up seeing men (and children) waited on at home and women NOT.  I suppose gender-blind egalitarianism is the ideal I should desire (and I do in some ways) but part of me needs to experience the balance of intimate privilege tipped dramatically towards women to undo what I learned by watching. I wasn’t brought up to BE that kind of woman who waits on men — not at all; I wasn’t taught with words to do it  — but that’s what all the women in my family DID to one extent or another and the men DID NOT. You have to be crazy to think that kind of learning is something you can just erase with your intellect when you grow up or even along the way with words of “you-go-girl” encouragement.

Looks promising upwards and eastwards

Even though I never grew up wanting to be a woman who takes care of a man, once I outgrew the entitlement of childhood I came to FEEL that having someone take care of me wasn’t something I deserved or could expect the way a man in my grandparents’ and parents’ generations could and that the only way to live my life just-so, to my specifications, was to live alone. I didn’t think this on a conscious level, but I think the past ten years (and then some) of webwhoring have involved more conscious efforts to recognize and reconcile this conflict; I want to work — to do MY work and do it MY WAY — and have someone else take care of the housekeeping and cooking. For my work to be the most important thing I do and everything else to be relegated to the distraction pile which I should be able to demand someone else pick up and put away. To believe that my work is so important that I should be angry and frustrated when I do not have the tools or environment to do it properly. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN OLDER THAN I AM GREW UP EXPECTING AND DOING. And so what if their work wasn’t important or they would bankrupt the family with their business schemes? You didn’t fucking criticize the work, jobs or dreams of men. You just didn’t unless you wanted to be the evil villainous bitch in the story.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have as many places to do my work alone as my grandpa did: a garage, a basement, a toolshed, a closet where he kept his Black Velvet and other private treasures, and a windowless office he hardly went into that nobody else was allowed into that was always at least 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house. My grandma didn’t have any place in her house that was her own like that, just like my mom didn’t have a special place in our tiny house for herself like my stepdad had a whole room for his model train. And if Grandma fucked up some shit in the kitchen Grandpa would go ballistic on her ass. So I guess maybe I SHOULD feel guilty about wanting all that man-privilege since being an abusive asshole came with the territory. I don’t know. But on Friday morning I’m going to work alone in the cabin AND I CAN HARDLY WAIT!!

Also? I’ve drafted a new personal ad for a slavey-houseboy type. Not putting it up for awhile though as that’s a whole time-consuming process in itself. I also keep wanting to blog more about how going to college totally distorted my idea of money and assessing the worth of an investment in myself, perhaps making me approach financial risk-taking in a more “manly” way than I would have otherwise.

More morning moon pics to come?

*****

So. I don’t anticipate members and fans seeing a noticeable change in focus on our sites because of this and will probably see more exciting stuff on cam rather than less since we have to cam more to pay for everything. One of the good things (in terms of “earning” my cabin keep) is it’s already making me more disciplined and focused in how I prioritize things, clarifying what needs to come first (which is really REALLY challenging when you have boatloads of everything to do and have an easily-overwhelmed mind like mine). Right now at the top of the list is simply getting ahead on shooting and getting updates lined up, so that’s what I’m going to get back to work on right now.

Bug necklace dangling near Trixie's ample cleavage

Delia knows exactly what kind of thoughtful presents to give me; she brought home the most awesome present for me:

Scorpion gift box

Nevermind what’s inside . . . the box is super cool!

Opening my little bug box

Look at the shiny, iridescent beetle necklace my girlfriend got me!!

A symbol of true love!

There is a special reason why this pendant made Delia think of me; once upon a time I was a beetle breeder.

In elementary school I was always interested but totally lost and intimidated when teachers sprang special projects on us like building rockets, making volcanoes or constructing cameras out of milk cartons. It’s like I was always absent on the days that the secret instructions were handed out telling us to bring money for those brown motors or maybe it was always the OTHER class that got to do those things. I think the mealworm project studying beetle life cycles was one of those things the OTHER class got to do that I was totally jealous of.

So I did the mealworm project at home. Purely for fun.

My mom would never let me have a pet snake so I guess bugs were the next best thing. Not that I was ever totally unafraid of spiders and such, and I *hated* moths, but I was also fascinated by insects and all the little dark nooks and crannies and tunnels they could explore.

I consulted with my friend Ruth (she was in the OTHER class) to determine what supplies I needed: jars with airholes, oatmeal, apple chunks. I captured my own beetles from the base of our old apple tree in the backyard. It grossed my out a little, the way they skittered around so quickly, but I viewed overcoming this fear as a healthy challenge and soon grew to enjoy the tiny tickles of their little black legs scurrying up my arm.

I thought my ability to unflinchingly let bugs crawl on me was an enviable trait to cultivate that would impress people, like when nobody else in my class wanted to hold and stroke a small, velvety black slug during a field trip to the zoo. I don’t remember why the fuck this zookeeper was teaching us about slugs, but I do remember feeling that I’d found a niche where I could jump straight to the top. So what if I failed at rockets and wanted to cry on field day? I could save face by being an imperturbable slug and bug handler! Plus I kind of liked making girls scream and giggle.

In no time I was observing beetle life in all of its stages. The alien-looking pupae were the most disturbingly mesmerizing. I had to increase my containers to hold all of my grubs, pupae and mature beetles. I didn’t have enough covered jars so I just used different bowls from our kitchen and loosely covered them with plastic. Pretty soon the bedroom I shared with my sister started to smell like dusty oatmeal and decomposing apples, but in my role as omnipotent overlord of the beetles I could watch the beetles’ frenzied mating. They were exposed and vulnerable, driven by instinct to procreate in the open on beds of Quaker Oats.

They were also developing genetic defects because of inbreeding. This was a lesson the limited research of the OTHER class never got around to learning! I tried introducing new beetles to the population, but the rate of abnormalities increased. Soon there were albino beetles, pupae with black lesions, slow-moving beetles that failed to thrive and aggressive, kamikaze beetles hell-bent on escaping the bowls of oatmeal.

One day I looked at the bowls full of beetles spread all over my desk so close to our beds and was suddenly horrified by them. I could learn no more from them and they were on the verge of mutiny.

I had to get rid of them FAST before they overran the bowls and poured out in black waves (dotted with albino white) all over our bedroom. I pushed open a window and started flinging beetles and oatmeal outside. I couldn’t dump them quickly enough . . . they were trying to climb back up the wall outside to get in and seek revenge! I kept throwing bowl after bowl of beetles in various stages of life out of the window, shrieking when they clung to the bowl and started climbing up my arm. I cruelly flicked them off with my fingernails, trying to launch them as far away from the window as possible.

It would have been perfect if I could’ve graduated to snakes or lizards because then I could have fed my beetles to them instead of wasting them all like that. Once, when I was a little older, my mom got mad at me when I screamed after reaching into a bag of potatoes in our dark pantry and pulling out a few maggots on a damp spud. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to point out her hypocrisy, having the balls to chastise me for reacting to a handful of maggots on our food when she had a snake phobia precluding me from having the best pet of all: a beautiful legless reptile to hang around my neck while reading.

Busty buglover still wants a snake!!

Believe it or not, this is not my only story about bug-keeping. I’ll try to tell you about my other bug endeavors one of these days. . .

I can’t believe that the days are starting to get shorter again.

June full moon at twilight

I should be happy that the nights are getting longer and darker again because I haven’t been sleeping well at all. Part of it is that Delia in her post-operative state is having a harder time than normal sleeping, but mostly my brain and body chemistry is torqued again causing the chaos in my head to be ratcheted up too many notches. I have really loud, disturbing, repetitive thoughts and dream WAY too much. It hasn’t reached peak nightmare state (yet), and having been through this a number of times now for extended periods AND BEING ABLE TO GET BETTER/recover with no symptoms I’m not too worried, just annoyed with myself for not maintaining my health better.

I have way more pleasant things to blog about, but just thought I’d throw out a photograph and make it a quickie.

The good news is that I’ve done a lot of camming the past couple of days including some private shows which was pretty thrilling – it’s been a long time and I really enjoyed it, especially the longer one-on-ones. It’s such a relief to be able to immerse myself in someone else’s fantasy and do a totally concentrated job on satisfying one single person and know I did it well. It’s rewarding to bring people pleasure and have evidence of that in their gratitude, compliments . . . and the immediate payoff. It’s a welcome change from putting so much time and energy into promoting our sites and doing nerd work where the monetary payoff is very very detached and delayed from the investment of work and time. On the other hand, I can’t keep up with blogging and site maintenance and promos AND do a lot of camming AND stay healthy recover my health.

Here’s hoping I catch up on my sleep tonight so I can do more webwhoring this week! I’d like to be able to afford some time to spend with my family soon. I feel physical grief to my core at not having seen my nephews in MONTHS. They grow so fast and change so much, I hate missing out on all of that time and all of those changes.

Gah! Sorry this post isn’t more uplifting. If you keep up with my twitter I *think* you can tell I’m not the constantly miserable sad sack I sound like here.

In the wake of her breast augmentation surgery, Delia wasn’t supposed to lift anything over three pounds, raise her arms above her head, or really do anything at all for at least a week. But the first thing she did when she got out of the wheelchair and into the taxi cab was grab my heavy backpack and try to lift it into her lap (bumpy cab ride, sore boobs, she wanted a cushion). I was like, “noooooo!! What are you doing?!? You’re supposed to ask me to help you with things like that!!”

Clouds & sky the color of a Maxfield Parrish Painting

It wasn’t just that she was loopy from the surgery and still slightly sedated; during the time we spent in the hotel since then when I’ve been supposedly “taking care of her”, I’ve finally been able to see how extremely unlikely it is for Delia to ask for help. She just doesn’t do it. After more than eight years together you’d think I’d have noticed this before, and I have to an extent, but it never made the big impression on me it has in the past week.

I don’t know if it’s that she doesn’t think to ask for help, or doesn’t like asking for help, or is just doggedly determined to do everything herself. Or if it’s just ME that she doesn’t like to request help from. That would make sense, given the way that we met and our relationship was structured at the beginning with her as my “houseboy”; I told her what to do and she did it.

Normally I think that was a game that we stopped playing a long time ago, but I think I’m very wrong about that in some ways. It was never a game. Maybe it was a stylized way of expressing needs and personality traits that we’ll always have, that will always be a huge part of the dynamics of our relationship. And it was never about sex as much as it seems to other people or might have seemed to us at the time.

I have tried over the years to DEMAND Delia make demands of me when she needs or wants something or feels I’m not contributing enough in some ways. “Just TELL me if you want me to get off my ass and do something!! You don’t even need to say please — it’s not efficient! I don’t care!! Just tell me what you want me to do!!” It’s pretty stupid to hope for that (both because it is unlikely and because neither of us probably want to operate that way), and this past week is helping me see that.

Again, I don’t know what goes on inside Delia’s head and what the main obstacle(s) is/are to asking for help, but I can more plainly see through this experience that I really don’t like being interrupted to assist people. I don’t like nursing people enough to want to do it except on very rare occasions and in very limited capacities. I like the IDEA of being sweet and kind in that way, but mostly I’m just not.

It’s not that I don’t like physically attending to people or taking care of them — sometimes I love it — but I prefer to do it on my own terms (when *I* want to, not so much every single time someone requires it). I’m a very receptive person to people’s needs and demands and emotions and hurts and vulnerabilities and desires. Except for when I’m not, and then I’M REALLY NOT, and it’s very difficult for me to censor my impatience. I don’t like for people to feel like they’re putting me out, but I just hate being interrupted. My reflexive assholeness during these times continues to be a challenge for me to contain and a mystery to me of how deeply it may or may not effect my relationships with people close to me and their emotional safety around me: with Delia, most importantly.

These past few days I have asked her a million times if there’s anything I can do for her and checked in with her a billion times with how she’s feeling (for fear she won’t express it otherwise and I won’t know whether or not she’s healing awesomely or in total pain; she very very rarely tells me she is in pain, even when she IS). But maybe a lot of my millions of questions are my own anxiety-riddled way of trying to avoid being interrupted when it’s less convenient to me and just expressions of fear that I will not have enough control over the situation (whatever the situation is) if she doesn’t tell me what’s going on. I am not always being totally genuinely helpful or selfless, and I catch myself being irritated a lot. I don’t know how to explain this without sounding like more of an asshole than I am — I’m not irritated with her and I totally understand her needs and WANT her to express more of them, but I’m just really incredibly shitty about controlling my annoyance, no matter how tiny it is (if you know me at all, you know that LOTS of very little things grate on my nerves, things that other people don’t even notice; you should hear how much I freak out about florescent lights, for example, so it’s nothing personal).

The way I am in response to interruptions (even when I appear to be doing nothing but staring vacuously into space) is very much like normal people are in response to somebody sneaking up behind them when they think they’re alone and screaming “BOOOOOOO MOTHERFUCKERHAHAHAHA!” and tickling them really hard under the arms. It’s unreasonable to think a normal person will ever NOT (or ever SHOULD not) respond to that with an elevated heartrate, unsettling verbal protestation of some sort, and even resentment towards the person who startled them with that fright unless they’ve been broken down over weeks or months in a prisoner of war camp or something. Similarly, I’m not sure that it’s reasonable for me to think I (or other people with wiring similar to mine) will ever train myself out of responding with aggravation to intrusive stimuli. I do work on it and try to be aware of it and try to learn from experiences like this one of being in a hotel room with a loved one recovering from surgery for days on end, but I also recognize that sometimes the best thing I can do is acknowledge what is not my strong suit, try to explain my limitations with sincere apologies, and just avoid the hell out of situations that test me for extended periods of time (and thank the powers that be that I have that luxury).

Still, it’s really depressing to know that people I love have good cause to be nervous about what kind of peevish reactions they may get when they approach me. It’s not like I jump and backhand every living creature that gets within two feet of me — it’s more subtle than that, but still — over time it probably impacts them in unpleasant ways I wish it wouldn’t. I guess I can console myself that other people (even “normal” people) are way worse than I am about this and don’t even acknowledge it as a problem.

*****

Once I expel my initial big melodramatic sigh at being asked for help, I do enjoy helping sometimes (this is another problem I have: I take a really really long time to do things other people quickly rush through — this drives my little sister and my mom crazy, how I will take forever to chop up a vegetable or read a bedtime story to my nephew when apparently I’m supposed to know that you’re supposed to just make simple shit up to turn pages that have more words on them than three year olds can process but those are more reasons I hate helping people sometimes; they won’t let me do it my way or they get mad at how long it takes me or the questions I ask to perform the requested task). This also drives Delia crazy, I think, but she is better at censoring her irritation than my mom and sister are and is more sensitive to me getting really defensive about it.

Sometimes — actually, a LOT of times — I actually enjoy “helping” so much after I get over the pain of switching gears that I’m extremely averse to rushing through it. I don’t know how to do certain things without care or savoring their details. I want to do that thing to the exclusion of everything else, to be totally immersed in it.

You know how Delia’s hair is naturally super curly? She has to put a whole shitload of oils and cremes and conditioners in it to keep it from being a big frizzy monster bush. While she’s recovering, she can’t have her arms up and hands in her hair to do that, so she has sweetly asked me to dry her hair and apply these products.

So I try to choke down my .75 second annoyance with the poor timing of it all, what with me having finally gotten my fingernail properly placed to lift a scab off my scalp or tweet something I think is really pithy, and go into the bathroom where she’s sitting on the toilet. I try to sop up the moisture from her hair gently so I don’t damage her hair or break her neck, but I must be doing it wrong because Delia rearranges the towel to prompt me to go at it a different way. Then I start really getting into slicking my hands with oil and distributing it as evenly as possible through her hair, coating every frizzing spot. Then she has me put in her leave-in conditioner and comb both that and the oil through. She informs me that I can’t possibly apply TOO MUCH of this, but I still prefer to portion out gobs of it in individual handfuls instead of just dumping it on all at once. Then she has me put a clear no-frizz curl-keeper serum and I scrunch it through and shape it and fluff it even though she tells me I don’t need to do that; it will get big all on its own, but I still want to feel her cool, damp hair in my hands and move it around on her head.

I love her so much while I’m doing this and feel so tenderly and totally in love with taking care of her this way and protecting her hair (even though she’s chuckling to herself over how fucking long it’s taking me and how insistent I am that she just let me do it my way I never get to do this when she tries to explain I don’t need to be so careful about it and the way I’m doing it isn’t going to make a difference). And for a stupid STUPID heartbreaking moment I love it so much that I wish we had a child, a little kid with hair to comb and a head to pat and stroke and lavish love on and look up at us while we braid her hair or whatever.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking, wanting a little person with constant need when I’m so easily aggravated, but then I think of all the daddies who are like, “don’t disturb me while I’m in my den/watching the game/working on my hobby car!” And I know everybody loses patience sometimes. And I know that my nephews don’t think I am mean or impatient or unapproachable. But they also don’t recognize that they’ve never gotten to stay over without their mom for more than one night because THAT WOULD BE TOO LONG FOR ME TO ENDURE. Anyway, I can’t even brain my OWN hair and have never wanted to learn to braid anybody else’s. If we had kids I’d probably shave their heads to make things easier.

So I guess thank the stars or whatever that we didn’t get pregnant.

But I confess, we’re still paying for sperm storage. JUST IN CASE.

*****

I remember my sister barging in asking what in the world was taking so long???? last time she was over with her kids and I was in charge of pre-bedtime with my oldest nephew, Mr. Squishypants. I’m like, we’re listening to music! and talking about the tree-guys! and just sitting here watching the candle flame!

She was like, JESUS, Trixie — hurry up! And I whined for her to just let me do it my way! I’m the aunt! I never get to have this special time with him!

She just sighed and was like, “okayokayOKAY!” And it took me awhile to remember that she was waiting for bedtime with me, her sister, too and for both her kids to be asleep so she could relax and I was using up all of our time together because I don’t know how to fucking balance things or rush through what I love even if it’s to get to something else I love just as much.

I mean, just don’t get me started if you need to have something done in a big fucking hurry. And that is why I have such a hard time starting anything at all. Because I know it will take me a long-ass time and I won’t want anyone to interrupt me while I’m doing it.

I thought I’d be blogging a ton and going to museums and reading books and singing on streetcorners to make money to blow on sexy new outfits to clothe Delia’s new boobs while she’s recovering from her Friday surgery, but I haven’t done any of those things (surprised?).

Well, I *have* read some books.

Anyway, her fresh new boobs are looking big and . . . FRESH (that pic was snapped mere hours after surgery/the same day), in the way implants look when they’re new, plus a little gory underneath because of her stitched up incisions lined in blue marker and shiny/wet-looking with silagel steri-strips (I’m always confusing dildo materials with medical supplies).

Anyway, we’re flying homo tomorrow (these typos are what happen to you when you’ve been in San Francisco for a week, apparently) and we will resume our usual schedule of being boring on our voyeur cams, especially now that I can’t touch Delia’s boobs. That’s the part all of the proud husbands and boyfriends don’t tell you about, the way you only get to look at them for weeks or months while the little woman heals.

They’re awesome, though, and I’m so glad that I got that Ativan prescription for the plane along with an Ambien bonus. Even with the anti-anxiety meds I was a little skittish. I only wish I’d have thought to take it for the terrifying cab rides to and from the hospital. I am really just a frightened country mouse and this city is like a big piss-spattered blanket of concrete offering no solace except in the form of expensive foodstuffs. I like it, but after a week my nerves are frayed by all of the people and bustling and the alternating aromas of hot aged urine, delicious grilled meats, and skunky weed. Even the rotation of our room’s ceiling fan in the corner of my eye when I’m trying to read and block out the sound of the hotel’s pigeon mascot is about to give me a fucking seizure. But don’t feel sorry for me, I’m having fun and Delia is the one in REAL pain, not I.

I’m not complaining, just trying to make up for all of the crazy I haven’t been sharing during my period of blog silence! Because that’s what you come here for, right? To laugh at my hypersensitivity to stimuli that the rest of the civilized world tunes out? And the silliness of me feeling this way but denying myself the Ativan instead of using it during situations like this?

Seriously, it’s awesome being here I’ve just been having a hard time FINISHING blogging anything worth reading and if I don’t post something reflecting my curmudgeonly PRESENT, I may not post anything at all. Because it’s hard to do quickly-written justice to the sex dream I had about the frenetic pit bull and the way I almost passed out after I woke from it trying to jerk myself off standing up in the bathroom without letting Delia hear what I was doing.

Delia is just beginning to feel up to the challenge to venturing out to dine (just walking is painful after having 650 CC’s of silicone inserted under the muscles on each side of her chest) so we’re about to head out. All I’ve really accomplished over the past few days is 1) refilling her ice packs, 2) putting her hair in a ponytail when she asks me to, 3) helping her in and out of her button-up nightshirt and inspecting her incisions, and 4) taking her hair OUT of a ponytail when she asks me to. And making food runs!

Allow me to say another thank you to Tom for making these boobs and this trip possible, and for us not having to worry for a moment about how to scrape together the money for not just the surgery, medication, bras and stuff, but also the expense of the trip and food and everything for BOTH of us. Delia is a trooper and it sounds like I haven’t been doing anything very helpful, but it would have been really hard for her to be here alone and/or have to fly back right afterward. I don’t know how people manage on their own to deal with surgeries or broken bones, or even more challenging, how single women with children manage such things!

On a more serious note (speaking of ordeals and moms and stuff), AmberLily’s mom was hospitalized not long after having surgery (of the non-plastic/non-fun kind) and I don’t think they know what’s wrong with her so send positive vibes their way. So stressful, in ways that are much more worrisome than the effects of pigeons and ceiling fans on my fragile little mind.

Tomorrow Delia has her first follow-up appointment with the surgeon. I wonder if we should bring him flowers or a box of chocolates or something? I’m not sure what the etiquette of plastic surgery is in terms of thank-yous to doctors. I know presents aren’t NECESSARY or obligatory, of course, but very little in life IS (I mean, we’re dealing with something highly optional anyway, right?). One of the nurses told us he and his wife love pickles, so maybe some of those. That would be totally funny, to walk into his swanky office dripping green juice from one big, wet state-fair style pickle. Totally an uncitified way of giving thanks.

I wanted to get an update (a boobs ‘n masturbation video) posted for members much sooner than tomorrow, but tomorrow it will have to be (along with Delia’s update, a very hot foresty photo set which I still need to edit since she’s in LA).

The reason my videos won’t be ready TONIGHT is that my day was totally interrupted by a couple of PROBLEMS. A fairly large problem with someone being a total shithead to me on the phone and threatening to remove our access to our favorite spycam site that we’ve been broadcasting on since 2002. It could be counterproductive for me to go into the details, but I hope he doesn’t fuck us and our members that way.

My heart was already pounding away even before that extended drama because the pit bull returned and was roaming around in our yard again. Fortunately it was totally chill with our (old, tired, tied-up) dog for the short amount of time they were sniffing each other before I got the owner to come get it, but in the space before that (seeing it first in the neighbor’s yard wondering if it was safe for me to go get the mail and let out our dog, etc.). Then I felt bad for being so fearful even though we have good cause after our first run-in with the dog.

Anyway, the situation with our spycams has been stressful and time-consuming today. I’m glad I started the day out right with some exercise and also some good news that our payment processor semi-fixed a big mistake they made which has been making it difficult to promote our sites the past couple of months. Still, I feel extra guilty now for not getting more work done earlier this week (which is stupid because I was totally sleep deprived and then my sister was here with her beautiful darling wonderful energy-requiring children and then I did REALLY need a day to catch up on sleep and silence and staring into space).

Someday someday SOMEDAY I’ll have a week to just blog. In more interesting ways. Someday, right? I thought this would be a week of either massive productivity or lots of book reading, exercise, and phone sex but it just hasn’t worked out that way. Instead it’s been a week of other mostly-good things (and TOO-good things, like ice cream, garlic prawn rolls, pan au chocolat, potato salad, pasta, and wonderfully stupid movies like Mall Cop and Interview with the Vampire).

Anyway, I’m sorry for not posting new porn for members yet this week and I hope our main spycams are still up tomorrow!

Nico is getting senile. We think her vision and hearing have both become impaired. The good part is she seems in good spirits most of the time. I guess it’s both fortunate and unfortunate that she wants to go in and out of the house about fifty times a day and has taken to WHINING and barking madly if we don’t comply with these requests. You think fifty is an exaggeration? Okay, at least twenty-five times a day. AT LEAST. It’s insane.

Sometimes I do lose my patience with her and feel so frustrated not knowing if it’s our fault for giving in to her or if she has genuine need (or perceived need) to go outside so often. This morning after she woke Delia up WAY too early to let her out and back in she then ate and pooped on the floor. She never does that (poops inside). I think she’s just totally confused and can’t get comfortable so she paces around. Then when she goes outside her rope gets hung up on rocks or stiff tufts of grass and for some reason she can’t pull free of those tiny hangups anymore and just starts going apeshit for  us to come out and rescue her.

Lately she can’t find the doors she wants and we’ll see her in the bedroom waiting at the closet door or the bathroom door (this makes no sense). Last night she was stumbling around in the dark doing god only knows what. This makes me wonder if it’s not really a vision problem, but something else; if it were her vision, wouldn’t she still have the layout of the house memorized?

So I asked Delia, “do dogs get Alzheimer’s?”

Delia’s response: “no, but they do get Barkinson’s.”

*****

In other mundane, un-sexy news of real life, we had to take one of our beater cars to the shop today. It is going to cost over $900 to fix it. We can’t afford it, but the main reason I felt compelled to go ahead with the repairs is that we’ve been really lucky with our vehicles for the past couple of years (aside from getting pulled over for having a stolen car, but that’s a totally different story) so I felt like it was time to pay tribute to the gods of car or whatever. We got this car for free and it should continue running reliably after this so . . . yeah. Goodbye, thousand dollars. Or rather, “hello, maxed out credit card that I was trying to clear room on to pay taxes”.

I also found out my mom went to the hospital last night. She’s (relatively) fine — it was an anxiety attack. One of those things we know is a serious problem for her but that she is in denial about. The only treatment she’s ever had for it was years ago when her way of describing the problem was that she had trouble sleeping. So our pill-happy family doc/gp prescribed her Xanax. Which she became addicted to.

Fortunately she kicked that addiction all on her own. Unfortunately, she has never talked much about that and never did anything else that I know of to deal with her problems that she doesn’t really acknowledge. It’s not that my mom is reluctant to talk, or to talk about problems, but getting to the root of matters and deciding to make really important changes that start with herself? Not so much. Instead she’ll be like, “if I could just catch my breath for a couple of days and get that goddamned garage cleaned out it would help so much!”

How do you get a woman to realize that her problems go ever so much deeper than A FUCKING GARAGE? You can try, but it’s extremely ineffective.

So last night at the hospital she was prescribed Ativan. An anti-anxiety med that’s even MORE addictive than Xanax! And the doctor flat-out lied to her about what it was. He said it was a muscle relaxer she should take when she’s feeling dizzy.

Someone tell me again why pot and prostitution are illegal. I think someone misfiled RATIONAL THOUGHT in this country.

Anyway, I have a billion related and unrelated thoughts on this stuff and life in general and my direction in life and wants and desires and loves and blessings, small and large, and ways I’ve been ministered to online and off in beautiful ways and inspirations and insecurities and religion and porn and coming out and staying in and spycam projects and activism and writing and music and dancing BUT there are so many awesome books and six feet of girlfriend to go to bed with that I’ll leave it at that.