Life Altering Decisions.

This has been scheduled to post and I hope it works well. I'm not going to be around to check it because...

Well, here's the dirt. If everything went well with the Blogger delayed posting thingie, Michael and I got married about two hours ago. It's a semi-elopement in that family were told at the last minute and friends still don't necessarily know about it.

We're off to Toronto for overnight and then Jamaica for a week long honeymoon. I won't be posting during that time. I had great intentions of putting together a few posts to cover me the week I was gone but that didn't happen. I'm sure even my most devoted readers will understand that I'd rather spend the upcoming week with my new husband (God, just typing that word thrills me) doing things other than typing out blog columns.

Have a lovely week. I certainly plan to.

~~doll~~

Feels like spring…

The weather has been very mild of late. We've had some snow, of course, blown in from the storms that have battered the American mid-Atlantic coast, but today you can smell spring in the wind. Winter is the time for the earth to hunker down, to rest and rejuvenate before bursting into the splendor of new growth.

I feel like spring these days, even though the calendar tells me it's still officially a month away. I've spent the past few months saying goodbye to my history, unshackling some of the bonds that held me back, discarding fears that no longer serve a purpose. It's been the mental equivalent of closet cleaning and other rituals of spring.

For the first time in ages, I feel restored and ready for what new adventures await me. I feel healed. And I feel whole for the first time in many, many years. There's been quite a metamorphosis going on for me. For a long time, I've been stuck in the chrysalis stage of development – no longer a child but still not fully an adult. It's been rocky, and confusing, and I've made more than a few mistakes along the way.

I've also been guided and helped by the kindness of strangers. I feel the shell of my old existence, the fears and the self-doubt, starting to crack. It's been ongoing for a while but I know that very soon, I'm about to spread my wings and fly into comfort of my womanhood.

Have a wonderful day everyone. I certainly am.

~~doll~~

Signs and Symbols

Santiago El Grande, Salvadore Dali, 1957

Recently, a friend and I had a chat about the use of symbols and rituals in TTWD (this thing we do) and we found ourselves on the opposite ends of the spectrum. If I'm interpreting his position correctly (and I might be overstating it or just plain wrong on it), he finds much of the ritual aspects of BDSM practices to be a somewhat silly affectation. Sir This, Lady That; he's quick to point out that American citizens are prohibited by some law or another from accepting foreign honours. Canadians are as well. Just ask Lord Snivelpuss of Cross Patch Beaver Harbour, aka Conrad Black. He had to renounce his Canadian citizenship in order to buy his British Lordship – fat lot of good it's doing him now as he serves his jail sentence for fraud in an American jail. If you're looking for a real life example of a silly affectation, Lord Snivelpuss is the poster boy for phenomenon, but I digress.

Equally, my friend finds conventions about capitalization, collars, and the use of honorifics such as Sir, Master to be vaguely ridiculous. And you know what? He's right. And he's wrong. To me, you have to use the right tool for the right job. Since the 1600s, we have had two remarkable inventions brought to us by the development of the science of optics: the microscope and the telescope. One allows you to see things that are very small and close at hand. The other lets you see things that are very large and far away. Don't mix the two up. A telescope will not reveal the internal structure of a plant cell any better than a microscope will show you the mountains of the moon.

To me, there's two ways of looking at something. First and the most prevalent in our current culture is rational consciousness. This is the realm of logic and reason. It's very linear, extremely structured and analytical. It uses words to convey meaning. Alternatively, there is symbolic consciousness. It's not foreign to our Western culture. It was certainly prevalent as early as the medieval period. Arguably although most citizens of Western Europe were not literate in the sense of being able to read printed language, they were almost universally literate in the symbolic language of their culture, be it the rituals of the Church, or heraldry, or the sacred geometry of cathedrals, etc.

Symbolism and ritual speaks very deeply to me. It moves me in ways that the poverty of linear language can never do. Paraphrasing the Britannica Concise Encyclopedia, a symbol is a communication element used to represent or stand for a person, object, or idea. Symbols may be graphic (a red cross for humanitarian relief) or representational (animals in heraldry). Symbols are used to transmit ideas between people sharing a common culture.

Followers of Jungian psychology would take it one step farther. I'm hardly an expert on the subject but my understanding of their premise is that our subconscious minds (the Collective Unconscious) are populated with universal human symbols (archetypes) that are cross-cultural. Examples would be The Great Mother, the Hero, the Sage, etc.

To me, symbolic consciousness really is the stuff of life. It is the lifeblood of communications because it is our direct connection with soul or spirit whereas languages, mere words, are intellectual constructs that sate the mind alone. Largely, our education system reinforces analytical thinking. We're expected to convey meaning through words alone. Logic and rationality are the be all and end all and classes that teach and reinforce the skills of symbolic representation are usually the first ones sacrificed when there's a budget crunch. It's easy for administrators to justify cutting art, drama and music classes in tough times because symbolic consciousness has such little standing in our society.

Trying to understand big concepts without the use of symbolic consciousness becomes a fruitless exercise pretty quickly. You'll be totally missing the point if you try to reduce the Roman Catholic sacrament of the Eucharist to a mid-service snack of bread and wine. Wedding rings are not just decorative metal objects adorning the fourth finger of the left hand. They are symbols of a legal and emotional commitment taken freely between two adults.

All this is a rather circuitous preamble to the point I'd like to make. BDSM rituals and assorted accoutrement don't make sense outside the realm of symbolic transactions. Rationally and logically, the presence of a collar around a woman's neck is well, let's face it, it's just plain weird and vaguely creepy. From a symbolic point of view, it's very rich with meaning. It speaks about connection and commitment and obligation and ownership, and freedom. Feel free to add your own concepts because while there is this big idea of The Collar, each of us carries our own little interpretation of the collar. The point is that at the level of symbolic consciousness, a collar is not a silly affectation because it has been deeply imbued with meaning.

Now, let's be perfectly clear about something. There's no one symbol that's going to speak universally to all of us. A collar, for example, does not do anything for me emotionally. I've worn one in play. It had the same emotional relevance as a bracelet or any other piece of jewelry – basically none. That does not mean that there are no symbolic objects between Michael and me. There is one that has factored into erotic play many times and the fact that I'm reluctant to tell you what it is, tells me that I've imbued this object with symbolic meaning. The fact that I don't want to talk about it other than to state that it exists tells me that it represents some element of the sacred to me. It's deeply personal. In other words, it's no longer merely an object (the realm of rational consciousness) but has become a representation of some element of our relationship (symbolic consciousness).

Looking at this from the perspective of the rational mind, it's all a little ridiculous but if you stop there, you miss the point. The image at the top of this blog is Santiago El Grande, painted by Spanish surrealist Salvadore Dali in 1957. It hangs in the art gallery of my home town (The Beaverbrook Art Gallery). Once a year or so I just need to sit in front of that painting for an hour or more and just soak it in. What is it? It's a very large piece of canvas stretch across a frame with some pigmented paints smeared on it. What does it mean? I've looked at this painting at least annually for the last twenty years. It means something different every time. You know, kind of like BDSM.

Boy, it ain’t easy

Mentally, I'm sweating bullets here. A while back, Green Girl mentioned she had difficulties writing about sex – the "S" word as she put it -- and I found myself vigorously nodding when I read her post. From the looks of the comments, I'm not the only little darling who was in agreement with the sentiment. It's an idea that's been driving me slightly nuts every since.

"What the hell is the problem here?" I ask myself. By any reasoned definition, we're not women who are timid about sex. "Tie me up, spank me, and fuck me up against the wall. Harder. Yes. More. Harder." are all expressions I've employed on more than one occasion. So what is with the hang up about writing about it? I don't have a freaking clue. It's not that my boyfriend is going to be surprised about any of this. He's more or less twigged to the fact that I'm not a virgin (although I can play one if necessary). TMI? Probably but this isn't the Sunday school bulletin so no one reading this should be shocked. I'm not particularly ashamed of my 'bent' although I do consider it largely a private thing between Michael and me.

Word to the wise, girls, little darlings should not ponder these things within earshot of their Dominant partners. They tend to take this musing stuff seriously. So last weekend I found myself with a new writing assignment. I'm supposed to write a "publishable" erotic short story – theme, characters, setting, and details, entirely of my choice. The one restriction is I can't be mamby pamby about the language. No "penis" where "cock" is more appropriate, etc.

That was last Friday. A ridiculous number of hours of writing later and I'm about 1300 words into it. No kidding. Thirteen hundred and I've sweated buckets over at least 800 of them. Worse yet, some of them were conjunctions!

It's not that I can't write. I can construct a grammatically correct sentence with the best of them. Subject, verb, and object; watch your comma splices; paragraphing counts: It's not rocket science. People do it on a daily basis – some in more than one language, I hasten to add. I can knock off one of these blog columns, which often checks in around 1000 words or so, in about an hour, including editing time, once I get warmed up to my theme.

Sometimes really personal ones, like Changing Red Tides, took me longer because the subject matter made me slightly uncomfortable. Even then, it was only about three hours to write that. Actually, it was 40 minutes to write it and two hours plus to edit it to death. The point is, I got through it at something better than a glacial pace.

If nothing else, my writing has become more fluent since returning to school. I have a fair number of writing assignments and I don't want to spend the rest of my life doing them. I'm all about the "Wham, Bam" method of writing. Get the basics down fast and furious, fill in the gaps later, and edit the crap out of it later still. I can knock off a rough draft of a decent size term paper in less than five hours.

So where's the hiccup here? I don't think I'm a prude. I'm probably more adventurous and open when it comes to sexual exploration than your average Tinkerbell. I do have troubles talking about it, particularly outside the confines of my relationship. It's just not the topic of polite conversation, now is it?

Isn't that why we come to these blogs? They're a way to express ourselves without having to own all the consequences. It's a safe, sane way of working through ideas and issues without ostracizing the neighbors. Or having your boss taking you off the list of people he can promote because you're suddenly a little "suspect".

So what's my hang-up? Part of it and this is embarrassing to admit, but I've come to the conclusion, I'm a snob. I've rolled my eyes at so many tawdry attempts at erotica that it's a miracle I'm not cross-eyed by now. Descriptions of women that start with her bra size make me giggle. Mr Eight Inches of Throbbing Love Muscle makes me guffaw. And please, when describing sex acts, can we at least keep them in the realm of anatomically possible?

My unjustified sense of superiority is coming back to bite me. If nothing else, this assignment has been humbling. In my defense, I will insist that, to date, I have avoided all references to throbbing love muscles. Every other cliché appears to have made its way to the work.

Writing erotic fiction is just bloody hard work. It's a fine, delicate line between prissy and flamboyantly tasteless. Clichéd and clumsy seems to be what is coming most naturally to me. It's a little discouraging to read back what I've struggled to produce and think the words "Tiresome. Awkward. Stilted. Pedantic. Juvenile. Ostentatious. "

And before some kind hearted soul out there tells me I'm being too harsh with my self-criticism – I WISH. Actually, there have been long paragraphs that are actually all of the above and more. I will finish this story, preferably before my 80^th birthday. But for today, I'm going to put it away. The effort that's needed to avoid the throbbing member clichés is starting to make my head ache.

~~doll~~

 

PS: and for the record, this blog clocked in at 954 words including this postscript and it took me 47 minutes to write it. Good grief, that's sobering for me. I may have to rescind the "before my 80^th birthday" claim.

How do you know?

In the last few weeks, my mind's activities keeps being drawn to the questions of relationships, particularly love relationships. Why do we fall in love? What are the things that 'do it' for me with a man, in the bedroom and out, I might add? Why I have I fallen madly in love with men only to be cool on them a few months later? Was that love or merely lust? What are the elements that transform the heady moments of lust and longing to a mature and stable love? And sadly, what makes love go away?

For years, I looked to my parents as a shining example of how to have a successful marriage. For 34 years, they appeared to be a happy couple, devoted even. I always said that I wanted a marriage just like my parents and yes, I probably on some subconscious level made dating decisions that reflected that. To me, they were perfect. They were different from one another and had their own interests. Both had very successful careers. And it was obvious to all observers that they loved each other deeply and with mutual respect.

I was born late into their marriage. They had given up hope that they would have a child when "surprise" showed up on a pregnancy test. I am their only child and I grew up in a very adult centered, adult based home. The children that their friends had were teenagers when I was a toddler. I think they were both at a bit of a loss of what to do with a child, so they just made it up as they went along. They more or less treated me like an adult with special needs. I needed to eat more frequently. I needed to sleep earlier and longer. I wasn't capable of making rational decisions so they had to do that for me but for the most part, I grew up in the company of adults with expectations that I was perfectly capable of behaving in adult company. My parents, and I will forever be grateful for this, didn't dumb things down for me. There was no baby talk and the assumption was that if I wasn't old enough for a topic, I wouldn't understand it in the first place.

I don't think they changed much about their behaviour when I was growing up. Either consciously or otherwise, they exposed me to a million examples of "how to be an adult". I watched my parents disagree and argue. They never fought. There was no yelling and screaming and the smashing of dishes. But they certainly disagreed and I'd witness their back and forth negotiations as they tried to accommodate both of their divergent perspectives. For the most part, they were successful. I learned how to 'fight fair' from childhood. I learned a lot about how couples make decisions about time and money. I grew up a baby negotiator. In high school, I was the "fair one", called upon by my contemporaries to listen to the problem and find something for everyone as a solution. I helped people 'save face' and move past their grievances with one another with some semblance of dignity.

So, it's no exaggeration when I say that my parents' decision to divorce last year was a surprise. The reasons for it are many and complicated and largely irrelevant to anyone save themselves. . For me, the dissolution of my parents' marriage was the emotional equivalent of repealing the laws of gravity. I kicked me into a spin and sowed a lot of doubt in my mind.

Here I was, early into a wonderful and rewarding love affair of my own and suddenly everything I thought to be true about "love" was called into question. Michael was a huge help in steadying me in those first initial weeks. He's been through a divorce – one marked with bitterness and acrimony. Fortunately, there were no children so they were truly capable of finalizing their divorce unlike parents who can never fully end their relationship with their former partner. Michael and his ex-wife can ignore each other with impunity except when they meet in professional circles.

In the initial shock of it all, when I would get into one of my very reflective modes and am questioning everything, Michael reassured me that our relationship is 'night and day' difference between the one he had with his wife. Firstly, we don't compete with one another. He says that's the biggest difference. My natural instinct towards deference is an advantage here. He finds himself seeking out my opinions rather than trying to batter down arguments with another skilled debater. When we talk, even about contentious issues, there's no winner. We converse even when we disagree.

I also see how he put my needs ahead of his without hesitation. Our plans for the holidays this year had been pretty simple. Thanksgiving was spent with my parents. Christmas was going to be with his family in Florida. It was a pretty big deal for him. Professional obligations in 2010 are pulling one of his brothers into one of the world's hot spots for an extended period of time. There's the unspoken understanding that Christmas 2009 might be the last Christmas for "the boys" to come together with their parents and families. "The Boys" have a part golf/ part grudge match they ritually indulge in on Christmas Day and I know Michael really wanted to be there to 'terrorize a few worms" with his brothers.

Yet, when the full ramifications of my parents' divorce were felt, his immediate and first reaction was "We can't go to Florida. Your dad can't be alone this Christmas."

I was completely torn because Michael was right. My father really shouldn't have been alone last Christmas. He needed, for the first time ever I suspect, his family and a third of it had just left the country, literally. And since I'm the only child, that left me to step up to the plate. It all ended well. My father came here for Christmas and on the 27^th, he flew to his holiday destination and Michael flew to Florida to join his brothers. For the record, Alexandre is this year's winner of the grudge fest.

I'm unnerved. I thought my parents had the keys to a lasting and loving relationship. Clearly, my assumptions are wrong there. Once upon a time, Michael stood in front of his friends and family and with all the sincerity in the world, pledged his love and devotion to a woman until the end of their lives. All these people embarked on marriage thinking they had found the one they could spend the rest of their life with and equally as sure, they were wrong. A friend of mine is married, more or less happily in most of the areas that count, yet he recently surprised himself to find himself very much in love with another woman and truly, he is a torn man over this. Yet once upon a time, he believed his wife would fulfill him for their lifetime.

How do you know you've found the person you're supposed to be with? These are the questions that keep me awake at night. How do you know?

~~doll~~

Diligentia maximum etiam mediocris ingeni subsidium -- Diligence is a very great help even to a mediocre intelligence.

Seneca might have said it first, but they are words of wisdom that have stood the test of time. I'm planning on taking reading week off to frolic on the beach without my class notes and text books and other bric-a-brac of the academy. It's been a lot of work and little play for doll this week but wow, I've accomplished a lot in the past three days.

Regular blogging services to be restored shortly… but after the work is done.

~~doll~~

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone

I'm cranky today.

The online world is a bit of a weird experience for me. Yes, I'm fully aware that isn't exactly a secret on the realm of cold fusion or anything. It's been a weird wired experience for a lot of people. I've started writing this blog column about 10 times today. There's a huge amount of stuff pouring forth from me but it's raw, unprocessed, angry, damning, and bitchy. I'm feeling, in turn, attacked and vulnerable.

Anger, I remind myself for the thousandth time today, is directly proportion to our need to be right. Today, something transpired that has indeed made me very angry and resentful. As tempting as it is to exorcise this demon by dumping my heart into this blog, I don't think I'm ready for that today. As always, I'm concerned with causing upset or hurt feelings or misunderstandings or drama .. or.. or… the list is unending.

Time to turn inwards. Time for me to process. Time for me to engage in reflective self-analysis and find the true source of my anger today but I need to sort before I can express. I'll be back Monday or so. Everyone have a good weekend and remember to love the one you're with.

~~doll~~

Ductus Exemplo – Lead by Example

Once again, I find myself in the position of blaming Sir J from A Dominant Character for the creation of this column. In his last forays into the blogosphere, he wrote an argument that's been reverberating in my brain for the better part of a day. Briefly, he argued that truly effective Dominants are gentlemen, articulate, polite, considerate, and logical. I liked his column but there seemed to be some dimension missing in his description that I couldn't quite put my finger on. I rolled it around in my mind for a while and finally, it dawned on me. Dominants, the good ones anyways, are leaders. They have the capacity to motivate others and bring them to the service of a common cause.

Leaders are the people we turn to in times of confusion and upset. We check our own emotional inventory against the ones they display and govern ourselves accordingly. We might feel panicked or frightened, but when we turn to our leader, and find he (or she) is displaying calmness and confidence, our own of sense of stability increases and displaces the anxiety. We see this all the time with children in their interactions with their mothers. Something unusual happens and the child turns to his mother to find out what is the proper response to this new thing. Her response will govern the child's emotional state, sometimes for years to come.

I was about 4 or 5 years old when a neighbour's house, a few houses down from ours, caught on fire. Now my parent's home is in a very historical district of town. There wouldn't be a house in three square blocks that was younger than 150 years old and as was the style in those days, the large wooden houses are very close to the street front on narrow, deep, usually fenced lots. I'm sure any fire in this area is the fire department's nightmare because they're so combustible, and they don't have room to deploy some of their bigger equipment. The street was completely blocked off with fire trucks (lots of them) and police cars (lots of them) and there were hoses and water and squawking radios. In short, for a four year old standing on her porch looking out on the street, this was more exciting than a trip to the circus. All those flashing lights and very important people moving with such purposefulness!

The fire department was concerned that this one house fire would jump from house to house to house. Somebody important came our door and talked to my mother and told her that she should prepare for an evacuation order should it come to that. My mother's response was to calmly bring me into the house and set about packing two overnight bags and very strangely, all the photo albums and put them in the car. I packed my own little suitcase for Susie and myself. After that, we went to the kitchen and made cookies, and squares, and a large pot of chili. And the big party urn of coffee. The policeman blocking traffic at the end of the block very much appreciated the meal and the hot drink, as did some of the other people involved in the chaos. That's where I learned how one deals with an emergency. In the case of disaster, make a casserole and put on the coffee pot. Somebody, some time, is going to need something to eat and one must be prepared. For me, the entire event was rather exciting. All these years later, I remember it distinctly but it's not a source of trauma. I looked to my mother and read her calm, deliberate actions and knew that whatever happened, it was going to be just fine.

Compare this with a little friend who lived down the street, on the other side of the fire and across the street from it. The wind wasn't blowing towards her house and I suspect that the danger to her home was less than it was to ours. Nevertheless, her mother pulled a complete and total freak out. Her mother cried and wailed and had all the kids in a completely state of terror and that has stayed with my childhood friend. Twenty years later, if you mention the word 'fire', she will compulsively tell you about the time her house almost burnt to the ground and the mortal danger she and her family faced. She will tell you this even though she knows you've heard the story before and even if you say that you remember the story, she still needs to tell it. The memory of this event still produces so much anxiety that she's compelled to release by recounting the tale. And it keeps manifesting itself in a growing collection of phobias. Last time I was with her, she had developed a fear of elevators. What happens if the elevator is stuck and the building catches on fire? As an adult, she is completely traumatized and it wasn't by the fire. The source of her panic, even now, is her mother's response to the event.

Leadership is powerful stuff. It impacts the day to day and we see that. What we forget is that it impacts the future. The steadying hand of leadership, even in the small confines of our own individual households, has continuing impact on the lives of those exposed to it.

To my mind, Sir J's description of a gentleman, with his "little logic, a bit of forethought and a great deal of consideration", is the description of a leader. The man who can face adversity and conflict without swearing and cursing and raising his voice is a man in control of the situation. A man who conducts himself with civility and courtesy is a man who is aware of his ability to impact the emotional states of others. A man who maintains his temper, indeed all of his emotional responses, is a man who is purposeful in his approach to the world. This is the man who could forgo the immediate pleasures of the now to concentrate on the greater goal of tomorrow. It's a man who is disciplined in himself and therefore can, in good conscience, provide discipline to those around him.

These are solid men of true character and determination and they're the men I've responded to the most quickly. The capacity for self-discipline is probably the first characteristic I seek out in a man. I could never submit to man who was unable to conduct himself as a gentleman, for the same reasons I could never get involved with a man who is addicted to cigarettes or is a habitual drunkard. If he can't control his own vices, how can he presume to make decisions for me? He can't even look after himself.

Sir J, as well as many who commented on his blog, seemed to regret the loss of the gentleman archetype in our current culture, for indeed, these men are rare in a society that equates bluster and bombast with masculinity. I disagree with the sentiment. These men are rare. I'll give you that. But so are diamonds, the pink ones more so. If they were common place, I don't think we'd value them as much.

Besides, the gentleman's very scarcity makes him easier to pick out in a crowd. Let the other men be louts. A gentleman will always stand out in the crowd. I've always said that one of the first things I check out on a man is how he treats the waitress when we're dining together. It says volumes about how a man handles power and conflict, especially when his order comes from the kitchen incorrect.

So, from an adoring little submissive doll, let's celebrate the gentlemen of this world. Each and every one of you is the frosting on the cake that makes Life just a little bit sweeter.

~~doll~~

Note to reader: This is a part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when I was struggling with writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to use as inspirational fodder. This is one from that series.

Be Still My Heart

Valentine's Day is right around the corner. It's hard to miss since every store, from major department store, to grocery store, to convenience store is knee-deep in red foil wrapped, heart shaped bric-a-brac For the guys who rely on shrugging their shoulders and looking sheepishly with the excuse "I forgot" -- Forget about it. No one is buying that lameness anymore.

I don't know when we started doubling down on the expectations around Valentine's Day but I can certainly appreciate where the whole she-bang could be a man's worst nightmare. There's so much piled onto that one day, well…it's just a little nuts, don't you think?

The Globe and Mail had an interesting article today on the entire subject, illuminating how expectations can ruin an otherwise perfectly good evening. Couples finding themselves forced to perform some kind of uncomfortable mating ritual that's outside their normal back and forth communications. I can remember a few years ago watching a young man in a mid-scale restaurant, obviously uncomfortable and looking slightly panicked, like a man being strangled by his tie. That might have been the case actually. Just looking at him, he didn't strike me as the shirt and tie type. No, he was definitely the jeans and t-shirt kind of guy who was putting himself through the paces, trying to make this special night wonderful for his girlfriend. For the record, I don't think she was very comfortable either. I'm sure if it wasn't for the commercial pressure and ever advancing expectations, both of them would have been much more comfortable eating a pizza in bed, preceded and followed by wild, crazy, lose yourself in the moment, lovemaking.

Not that there's anything intrinsically wrong with "over the top", I hasten to add. Last year, I was wooed and seduced with every cliché in Casanova's playbook. Drinks in a nice lounge, dinner at one of the finest dining establishments in town, flowers – you name it. He even went to the lengths of having a girlfriend pack an overnight case for me, so the whole issue of toothbrush, contact case and cleaner, and make up remover was looked after. While we were dining, she delivered it to the hotel, delighted to be temporarily appointed his official co-conspirator. Instead of the "your place or mine" ritual, I was whisked upstairs to a suite where I spent the rest of the night sipping champagne and making love to the man who's turned out to be my dream Dom. When I murmured something about it all being too much, M. Suave whispered "When you look back on your life, I want to know that your memory of your best Valentine's Day ever was the one you spent with me." Yes, he really is that competitive.

Can I expect a repeat of it this year? In a word, No. Early last month, he was sitting at the breakfast nook, reviewing the paper while I was making dinner. We often have some of our best conversations there.

"I'd like to go to the World Pond Hockey Championships next month. Up in Plaster Rock."

"Sure, when is it?"

"Hmmmmmm" and I could tell he was dancing. "That would be the actual problem. It's February 11 to uhhhhhhhh.. the 14^th."

"Fourteenth, eh? That wouldn't be February the 14th, would it?" I couldn't resist the tease and he always falls for the bait. He got very serious, intensely looking at me, trying to get a read on me.

"Is that something that's going to upset you?"

I couldn't carry on any longer and just laughed. "Sure, I'll go visit Poppa and you can go freeze your butt off at an outdoor hockey rink all weekend. Serves you right, Mister."

We joked and talked about it a bit more and he really did understand that I don't consider this some huge sacrifice on my part. I'm not being noble about the effort. Last year, he gave me a fairy-tale Valentine's Day that really will last a lifetime. I think that it's only fair that this year be about him. Besides, if he doesn't go, who will cheer on the team from Egypt? No kidding – Egypt. Now, if the idea of a pond hockey team from Egypt doesn't give you pause to think, nothing's going to do it for you today.

I know there are some in this 'lifestyle' that would make the claim that he should have TOLD me he was going to the Championship and that it was just my job to accommodate his wishes. He could have taken that tactic but what would it have cost him had celebrating Valentine's Day with him been really important to me? It would have eroded my sense of security and trust that he'd take care of me. And, if he did go off for the weekend, knowing I was hurt or distressed by it, would he have enjoyed it? His mind would have been wrapped up, reviewing the decision to go and how to ease the consequences. I'd rather have him go with my blessings, so he can fully enjoy his time with his beloved hockey. Just perish the thought that I should have to join him...brrrrrr.

The other thing is we've matured as a couple since last Valentine's Day. He dropped a brick load of money on that evening, partly to impress me, mostly because he thought it would make me as deliriously happy as it did. Now, given the same choices, both of us would look at that kind of extravagance and think it's better put towards making an extra mortgage payment on the condo. Good grief, in a year, we've morphed into our parents!

Besides, the whole Pond Hockey Championship has its own unique themed gift-giving opportunities. He's getting a new toque and a full set of Stanfield's Polartherm winter underwear. I'll probably get a box of Ganong chocolates.

So that's Valentine's Day in our house: Ganong's chocolates, Stanfield's underwear and Pond Hockey. I ask you this -- Can it possibly get any more Canadian than that?

~~doll~~

Nunc Scio Quid Sit Amor – Now I Know What Love Is

I can't sleep. It's past my bedtime by at least an hour and my mind is doing laps around the Universe. I thought perhaps if I wrote some of this out, it might exorcise the demons. For the love of mercy, please don't expect this to be logical.

For several reasons too boring to go into here, I've spent a lot of the last few months reviewing the lessons of relationships past. It hasn't been a particularly easy exercise to undertake because it's forced me to doff the rose coloured spectacles I'm so fond of and examine my biography in detail. Other than that, I'm going to completely blame Green Girl and Spirited One for instigating this. You don't actually expect me to take responsibility for any of this, now do you?

Let's start with Green Girl's contribution to my hyperkinetic mind. She has the same 'problem' I have – a Dominant partner who considers her happiness to be the lead item of his priority list. Doing things for other people makes me very happy inside. Service to others is a huge part of my identity, my ethics, my values and my history. Even as a little girl, I took pride in being "Momma's little helper". It gave me a sense of belonging inside my own family.

I have a friend who did a lot of development work in Africa. He says that the number one lesson he took from Africa was the value of service to a person's well-being. In his words, "Africa has every problem that the developed nations have x 10: pollution, disease, poverty, trade, etc, with the exception of one. Africa does not have our issues of teenaged alienation. Children, no matter how small, know that they make important and valuable contributions to their community. No matter how little you are, you can still feed the chickens. You can still stir the pot. Even when you're little, your family is better off for your presence within it. African children grow up knowing that they count."

His words have stuck with me over the years and to a large extent, I've internalized them. I may not be rich, or powerful, or connected, but I can still do my part to make my home, my community, my world a better place for everyone. It's still an important thing for me. I like reaching out to others. I like the little acts of service I can provide the family whose apartment I rent during the school year. It gives me a sense of connection and it's something that has grown inside my romantic relationships as well.

Yesterday, I was blissfully happy all day. Michael had asked me to host his Super Bowl party. Since I returned to school, he hasn't asked me to do very many things for him and it was such a pleasure to be working for him, for a change. The house was clean from the housekeeping service but I still took some time to make sure things were "just so". I cooked and straightened. I made sure I looked presentable before his first guest arrived. The beer was cold; the chili was hot. When I was sent to bed after half-time, it was with the assurance that his guests were fine, the food had been great and my much appreciated services were no longer required. I slept like an angel last night, completely oblivious to everything until the alarm rang for several minutes this morning.

I know it sounds crazy but I love looking after Michael's needs. I love keeping house for him. I like organizing his home life. It gives me a sense of purpose and connection that neither school nor paid employment can provide.

So here's my question: if I understand my own emotional attachments to service, why do I have difficulties understanding his emotional needs in our relationship? If we're going to put a label on Michael's ego identification, it would be "Provider". He takes a great deal of pride in the fact that he's a 'good provider'. It's a big part of how he defines himself as a man.

When we first started dating, he was living in a dumpy sort of apartment. It had been chosen in haste because it was reasonably close to work and its best feature, in his eyes anyway, was his ex-wife didn't live in it. Now, it wasn't some rat-infested slum tenement by any means but it certainly wasn't the kind of place you'd associate with a successful professional. Perhaps it was the "early locker room" decorating style that made it more depressing than it needed to be. I don't think it was an accident that my first "girlfriend assignment' for him was decorating his bedroom and making it look like something other than a monastic cell. It's just today that I realize the why behind it all. He wanted me to be comfortable and feel at home and relaxed when I was sharing his bed. He didn't care about matched sheets, duvet covers, window treatments or accent pieces. All of that effort and expense was about making me happy and comfortable in that space.

Like Green Girl's hubby, he wants to take care of me. He needs for me to be happy. This is as important to him as service is to me and I need to stop fighting him emotionally on this. I need to start respecting his need to be both my provider and my protector.

Duh, this probably isn't a revelation to anyone with half a clue, but my excuse is I'm a natural blonde. Slow? Holy crap… don't go there.

And as for Spirited One, she's helped me remember that ex's are ex's for a reason. Would I appreciate all that Michael does for me if I hadn't been so demoralized and undervalued in my last relationship? Hopefully, she'll forgive me for snatching something out of her comment section but it really hit me hard the other day when I read her reply to my comment.

What's funny is I didn't even realize how bad things were until I left [emphasis mine]. Asha treated me so well right from the start and that was so foreign to me by that point. It happened gradually. Every time Asha did something or reacted in a complete opposite way to the way my ex would have it just clicked in my head how I had allowed myself to get into a mentally abusive situation without even realizing at the time that it had turned abusive.

I didn't even realize how bad things were until I left. Oh, sister, there is a mouthful there. When I left my ex – well, truth be told, he dumped me – I had no sense that I had been in an abusive relationship. None. In fact, I defended him for months and months. I would still be living in that bit of unreality if it hadn't been for the thoughtful intervention of a very kind American Dom who I had met online whom I call "Sensei" – Japanese for 'teacher'. Let's be clear, he's never been my Dom but he's always looked out for me. Our relationship has been non-sexual, very much a student/mentor one. In those first months, when I so vigorously defended my ex's treatment of me, he very patiently listened to me. It took about three months of just letting me babble before he held the magic mirror of truth up to my eyes and helped me realize I'd been abused for a long time.

Sensei encouraged, actually, he got damned insistent about it, that I seek professional counseling. He knew I needed to heal more fully before I'd ever be able to trust enough to submit again. As I think about my wonderful loving relationship that I have with Michael, I know that it was made possible largely due to Sensei. He helped me understand a lot about myself and on more than one occasion, kept me from making stupid mistakes with Michael in the early stages of our relationship.

And now, as my love and commitment to Michael deepens, I've come to realize what a very fortunate and blessed girl I am to know what true love is.

~~doll~~

Note to reader: This is a part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when I was struggling with writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to use as inspirational fodder. This is one from that series.

Acta non Verba – Deeds not Words

When I awoke this morning, there were two things I noticed immediately. One was the space in the bed beside me was decidedly empty, as in not slept in, and it was late. According to the buzzing alarm clock, Michael's flight for Boston had already left the tarmac, which was decidedly not good, since I was supposed to drive him to the airport.

The second thing I noticed was the large piece of paper propped up beside the clock that once I had my glasses on revealed itself to be a note from the aforementioned missing Michael. I'll spare you the gushy bits but more or less it said:

I reset your alarm. You need the sleep. I took a cab to the airport. Leave the crap in the living room alone. I called [the housekeeping service] last week and someone will be coming over today or tomorrow to straighten up. You and Sugar (the cat) have a good week. I'll see you Friday.

To me, this is love. It's better than flowers or shiny things. This is a man who thinks about me and how things will impact my day, my week. He was pleased with my hostessing efforts. He knows I worked hard to make his party special and he appreciates it.

I was sent to bed last night, long before the Saints came marching home. I'm almost positive the Colt's were still winning during my last moments of consciousness. I had been up since 4 am, mostly cooking and getting things ready. The menu posted earlier was the foundation but I was in a cooking frenzy. There were dips and little munchies things. I'm sure I rearranged the table settings half a dozen times over the course of the afternoon. I was excited to have people in our home and I wanted them to be comfortable and enjoy the space. By half-time, I was starting to droop and I was told to toddle off. Ear plugs in, I never heard another thing until the persistent sounding of my alarm.

Michael had picked up a lot of the stuff, put food away before he went to bed in the spare room. He couldn't have had much more than a nap because he had a very early flight and you have to get to the airport so early these days.

In my former life, I've lived with a man who was not near so considerate of me. I would have still been up at 4 am cooking but I wouldn't have been sent to bed early. He would have expected not only the house returned to its normal state before he got up in the morning but his breakfast on the table as well. In that relationship, his lips said "I love you". His actions aid "It's all about me, and don't you forget it." When I think back to how I used to live, I feel doubly blessed to have Michael in my life. His declarations of love are more than just words. This man loves me with his life, not just his lips.

Recently, a friend of mine has had an awakening of sorts. A series of events and circumstances has given her reason to look at her husband with new eyes. He might not always say the right things or be the most romantic soul. He might not always been perceptive to the complexities of her moods but he has offered her something no other man can. He's offered her a life. It's a life and a home that will be safe for them to raise children; a life and a home they can grow old in. Together, it's a life and a home they build every single day, with those little exchanges over dishes or coffee or the perennial argument of which way a toilet seat should be at rest.

Perhaps this is why Life throws us curve balls at times. Without the Jackass, I would have never appreciated Michael and all that he does. My friend, without the unexpected lessons of unintended consequences, might not have seen her husband for the solidity he offers her. Or maybe I'm just being Pollyannaish again… who knows why the universe unfolds the way that it does? Perhaps it's just incredibly egocentric to think the Universe cares if we "get it" or not. Be as that may, I have learned to listen to deliberate actions over pretty words and I'm a much happier woman for it, not to mention, better rested.

~~doll~~

Note to reader: This is a part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when I was struggling with writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to use as inspirational fodder. This is one from that series.

About the ~~doll~~ moniker

Dollification is a complicated and nuanced expression of sexuality for a great many people. I think it's safe to say that there's no "one true" means of defining a 'living doll'. There's as many expressions of the concept as there are people practicing it.

As for myself, I've been ~~doll~~ for a very long time. I was born prematurely and weighed just a tiny bit less than three pounds when I entered this world. I had been born by Caesarean section and avoided all the lumps and bumps and bruising those other kids endure. I was in very good health, all things considered. I was pink and rosy and really just needed a little fattening up before I left the hospital. My maternal grandmother saw me about 8 hours after I was born and as she stroked my little belly through the incubator holes, she murmured "Welcome to Life, my little doll". The name stuck.

It probably didn't help that my first wardrobe were clothes for Cabbage Patch dolls. "Newborn" was about two sizes too big for me. My grandmother couldn't abide me wearing the hospital supplied clothing that was too big and rather shopworn after all the industrial laundry cycles they'd been through. Nana bought out the stock at Toy R Us and took them home every night to wash them and return them, pressed and folded, to the hospital each morning.

Now I know some people translate 'dollification' into "bimbo". That's cool but I've never considered dolls as stupid creatures. I am an only child and my dearest and closest companions growing up were my dolls. We had hours and hours of tea parties. We picnicked in the back yard. We had long and penetrating conversations about the state of cookies and milk. We went shopping together. We vacationed together. Susie got swept out to sea one year and is now living happily with an octopus in Tahiti, or so my father assured me at the time.

Even after my 'baby doll' stage of development, I continued to collect dolls, aided and abetted by my grandmother. When she died, I was the grandchild who inherited her expansive collection of dolls from around the world. The dolls are all currently in storage because I don't have a place to display them. The bedroom is out. I'm sure Michael would find it somewhat disconcerting to open his eyes every morning to find 400 pairs of doll eyes staring back at him, watching, and waiting.

Dolls don't talk but that doesn't mean they don't understand. They're the ultimate observer. They bear witness to everything. They see it all and for some dolls, they hear confessions whispered in the night. The one thing about whispering your secrets to a doll; she'll never rat you out. Dolls are discreet creatures by their very nature.

Dolls don't have anything to do, day or night, except to sit and think. They're very accomplished thinkers. They aren't distracted by the hustle and bustle of daily living. They have time to analyze, and they're very good at comparing a person's words against their actions. Dolls understand what other people ignore. I'm like that. I don't talk much. I watch. I observe. I keep mental notes. I rarely share my observations with anyone. I'm actually very quiet, not that you'd know from reading this blog. Here is the place where I never shut up, but in real life, I keep very much to myself. I'm not so much aloof as reserved; not shy, just quiet. I keep people at arm's length for a long time and I'm slow to open up to people face to face. My favourite 'hobby' in the world is to sit in a café and watch people. I can spend hours wondering about their lives and their thoughts, their hopes and dreams and fears, all the while observing to see if my projections need to be modified.

At the same time, dolls are very agreeable creatures. They will allow you to dress them up and mold them to a certain degree. They accept your projections of them rather willingly and will reflect that back to you without flaw. You can dress a doll they way you wish but don't be fooled into thinking that you've changed the doll. You've changed her clothes and that is it. She is very adept at mimicking what it is you wish to behold. The essence of a doll is immutable and few people are ever allowed to see it.

If you're a person who has gained a doll's confidence and trust, you are indeed blessed. She doesn't give her heart easily. Once the bond between doll and owner is forged, it's unbreakable. Neither time nor distance can dampen it. Have you ever watched a little girl with her beloved baby doll? It doesn't matter that baby is tattered and worn, that one leg is half torn of, stuffing is spilling out of the wound, the hair looks like electrified straw and the dirt smudges on her face will never come off. That little girl still loves her doll with all of her heart. It's unconditional and it's pure. She still takes her doll in the car with her for trips to Nana's house, even if there are prettier and newer and flashier dolls out there to be had. Little girls don't trade in their dolls because a new doll was out on the market. Dolls and little girls could teach us all a thing or two about fidelity and devotion.

Living dolls are the most blessed women in the world. When they've finally found their true owner and open their hearts to him, it's a magical thing. Soon, he only sees the essence of the doll, her inner strength and spirit. Time and gravity will make its mark on the flesh of the doll. These processes cannot be stopped. But forever more, her owner will look upon his doll and see her eternal beauty that shines within, that which cannot be tarnished by time or circumstance.

~~doll~~

Do you think the Habs will win the Super Bowl?

Okay, that was one of my little blonde jokes. I know the Montreal Canadiens are a hockey team and the Super Bowl is American football. After that, it's all a little dodgy.

So why am I shelling hard boiled eggs at midnight? It's probably because this weekend is my first hostess duties for Michael's Super Bowl party and deviled eggs are on the menu. The guest list consists of "a few guys from the office and a couple of guys from the hockey team. Probably no wives. Maybe a girlfriend or two."

Thanks for narrowing it down, honey. It's not like an actual number would help the planning or anything. I've served as his hostess at restaurants when he's entertained business clients but this is the first time it's been in our home. Well, not exactly true. My parents stayed over this summer and my father was here at Christmas. I'm really excited about Sunday. I want to it to be perfect. I want his friends to be comfortable in our home.

"Relax", he says. "You'll do fine. It's not hard. Beer. Food. The football's supplied by the NFL. No one can screw up a Super Bowl party unless they run out of beer before half-time."

I contemplate this and try to calculate how much beer is enough beer. It's easier to cheat on this one. "I don't know what you guys like to drink. Why don't you pick up the beer and leave the food to me?" He agrees, so that hurdle is crossed.

"What would you like for food?"

"Nothing weird."

A little further prodding on my part reveals that weird is actually spelled v-e-g-e-t-a-r-i-a-n. Who knew?

"And that stuff with peanuts and pretzels and Shreddies in it". – Translation: Chex Party Mix.

So, the Not Weird ™ menu has been carefully crafted.

Beer

Party Mix

Beer

Deviled Eggs, Chicken Wings

Beer

Ribs, Chili and Lasagna

Rolls

Beer

Mixed Greens Salad (because I have to eat too).

And Beer.

Wish me luck.

~~doll~~

Monstra Mihi Pecuniam – Show Me the Money

For my readers from my former blogging home, this column may look familiar as I wrote one similar to this earlier. It's not a duplicate and I like to think I expanded it somewhat.

A couple of days ago, I was reading Spirited's blog on Defining Abuse within BDSM relationships. I wish I had read it three years ago when it would have saved me considerable grief. It's definitely ~~doll ~~ recommended and not just for the submissive partners. I think it's good for the dominant partner to periodically review these principles so they keep themselves well on the right side of the dividing line. Personally, and this is because I really do have a Pollyannaish view on reality, I believe that most Dominant partners wish to be good towards their submissive partners but sometimes lose sight of the checkpoints. Over time, the creep towards the edge can land both partners into a deep and dark hole.

It's a very good list of things to look at but the one I'd like to target today is Economic Abuse. It's on top for me right now for a couple of reasons. One is because I have a friend who has dug herself into a rather deep pit with a man and one of the key things keeping her from extracting herself is the financial bondage she's place herself in with him. That's not blaming the victim, by the way. It's just a sad reflection on the gravity of this issue. That's a secondary point really. My mind is focused on these issues because Michael and I have been dancing around the whole issue of "who owns what and who is responsible for what" for the past two months. Actually, it's more like six months. We just get one item settled and it seems like something else pops up. I feel like it's Hercules versus the hydra and the hydra has the home court advantage.

Now let's be perfectly clear about a few things. I'm nearly 27 years old, I'm madly in love and when I get to spend some precious time with the man I adore, I want to spend it having crazy monkey sex. I think there are still a few surfaces in the house that haven't been christened. I do NOT want to discuss pension contributions, whole life versus term life insurance and equity stakes. In fact, if I live to be 200 years old and never again heard the phrase "equity stake", I would survive quite handily. Michael has other thoughts on the matter. Not that he has any inherent issues with crazy wild sex in every room of the house but he tends to take a look at the long term plan as well. At least one of us is the responsible adult. Like a lot of women (certainly not all), all this talk of money and asset management is too… well, it's not very romantic, is it? It completely kicks my rose coloured spectacles off my nose and makes me face up to the fact that much of our 'romantic' entanglement is a business contract and the more time passes, the more entangled we become economically.

I totally sympathize with women who have signed off on domestic partnership agreements and prenuptial documents that don't protect their economic interests. I get why women ignore the advice of their lawyer and sign off things just to stop having to discuss it. There's something creepy about discussing how to break up when you're not even fighting about anything. I don't what to think about the future that would involve me being separated from Michael for any reason. That's the romantic girl in me but as my mother is quick to point out, all great relationships end one of two ways: death or divorce. Pick your poison. On the other hand, Michael's been married before and understands all too well how a couple can go from "happy ever after" to "I'm out of here" in the space of five years.

Can someone tell me why it's easier to discuss sex with a partner than it is to discuss money? When it comes to the realm of 'personal', discussing sex is easy. "I like it when you spank me" is a whole lot easier to bring up than "what's owing on the mortgage?" I'm still stumbling with having adult conversations with my partner about money and finances, even within the practices of a safe relationship that I currently enjoy. I can't imagine even trying if the relationship was 'less safe'.

One of the first 'girlfriend assignments' Michael gave me was redoing his bedroom space in his apartment. I drew up a budget and a plan which he approved and I was let loose on the project. In the end, I think he was very pleased that I finished the project under budget with good results. The bed space looked beautiful without being too girly and I proved to him that I was financially responsible when entrusted with his credit cards.

I won't even pretend there's any form of financial equity between us. Michael's a top earner in a highly lucrative profession. I'm a full-time student who picks up some part-time hours here and there. He earns more in an hour than I do in a week. It's his earning power that provides for our standard of living. The choices of where we live and the type of activities we enjoy are set by his economic inputs, not mine. In short, all the economic power in our household is concentrated in his hands. And, for us, it skews the power imbalance too much within our relationship.

I'm sure that it's obvious to anyone who has read this blog that we do not live the Master/slave paradigm. Total power exchange is not our thing. Not that there is anything inherently wrong with TPE but I couldn't do it and he doesn't want it, so why pretend? Something we learned very early on in our co-habitation experiment is that when the natural power imbalance in our relationship becomes too pronounced, our relationship suffers. I react by withdrawing from him and adopting protective stances with him. He was left making decisions on incorrect information. It's hard for him to take care of my needs when I'm too timid to tell him my honest reactions to situations. I wasn't lying to him on any kind of conscious level. I was unconsciously trying to mimic what I thought he wanted from a woman. I was too invested in transforming myself into his perfect woman that I didn't allow myself to be the woman he wanted. The power imbalance exacerbated it all. The more power that slide his way, the more reluctant I was to express myself. My increasing dependency on him did more than make me feel vulnerable. I was starting to feel powerless and with that, feeling victimized. It was becoming a bad mental scene.

Fortunately, a friend who has been very helpful in mentoring me over the past couple of years helped me understand what I was doing to the relationship. He helped me find the courage to talk to Michael frankly and without reservation. To his credit, Michael is a sensitive and thoughtful man. He's very good about giving me a safe space to express myself. He's a good listener because he listens with his ears and his heart. The power differential inside our relationship wasn't something that bothered him. I'm sure that on some level he thought it was no big deal. What was a big deal to him was how uncomfortable it was making me and how it becoming a wedge between the two of us.

Michael's spent a lot of time and thought and effort in trying to minimize the effects of this discrepancy within our relationship. He listened to how I found asking him for household money to be very stressful. He settled it by arranging for a direct deposit into my bank account for my rather generous housekeeping allowance that's mine to manage as I see fit. I don't have to bother him about every little detail. If I want to spend $8 on nice napkins for the table, I can without going to him. As long as the bills are paid, the money is mine to use as I see fit, including saving or investing it. I'm not the wage earner in this relationship, but I do have access to some of the economic resources of it.

My return to school to finish my abandoned degree is part of Michael's overall plan for my future. He sees me as being economically endangered without finishing my education. It's a non-negotiable matter for him. As he's put it many times, any money spent on my education is an emotional safety net knowing that I'll be better able to take care of myself should something happen to him.

In a few years, we'll have another bridge to cross. Should we be blessed with children, will I leave the paid workforce and be a full-time stay at home mom? Michael's a very traditional man and so it was surprising to me that he's not so keen on that idea. He argues that those key years of earnings lost in to a woman have lifetime economic impacts that he's not overly comfortable with. There's a reason why poverty in Canada has a woman's face and loss of time in the work force is part of it.

I know all this stuff is good for me. I just hate it. Again, this is stuff I really don't want to deal with. I want the happy ever after. I want the rose covered cottage. I want the princess hat. And the sparkly shoes. Dolls shouldn't have to deal with these elements of reality but something tells me, I'm better off being forced to confront these issues now instead of capitulating to my desire to sweep it all under the carpet with hopes it goes away. It's empowering on some levels to face it. At the same time, it's a little bit on the scary side for me.

~~doll~~

Note to reader: This is a part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when I was struggling with writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to use as inspirational fodder. This is one from that series.

Addicted to Stress – an answer to the Florida Dom

Yesterday, the Florida Dom wrote about a book that postulates women have more difficulty dealing with stress than men do. Now I haven't had a chance to read Addicted to Stress so I won't even attempt to comment on the particulars of it but I do have something to say on the subject. I've spent a great deal of time researching the subject because once upon a time, my job was all about teaching stressed people how to relax.

And absolutely, there are such things as stress addicts. These are people who have habituated to the chemical high of the adrenaline rush. It gives them a false sense of power and control and they use stress as a way of numbing themselves to the sources of their unhappiness in their lives. That response is no different than using cocaine, heroin, alcohol, food or sex to distract ones attention from internal feelings of personal inadequacy. As any yoga teacher can tell you, the person who leaves their first class gushing about how good they feel, how relaxed they are, is the student you'll never see again. Why? I think it's because they are so unaccustomed to feeling anything but tension that relaxation and release is actually a very uncomfortable experience for them. They literally do not know what to do without the anxiety and hormonal cascades that come with it. They are so habituated to stress that "normal" feels weird and they'll do almost anything to return to that state of high tension. And anything includes generating turmoil and drama in their lives so they can maintain that sense of excitement and there's a whole host of self-destructive behaviours that fall into pot.

It is true that insomnia is more likely to affect women than men; however, I don't think it's entirely due to the fact that women innately don't handle stress as well as men. In my observations, and there is nothing scientific about this, women are more likely to be aware of their stress patterns and more willing to seek help for the problems. Women, unless they are isolated, also tend to be able to talk to other women about their issues. Just talking with a friend is often an effective means of processing the stresses. In the absence of a good friend to talk to, many women use diaries or journaling as a way of 'letting go' of their emotional issues that may impact sleep.

Generally speaking, people as they age are more likely to experience insomnia than younger people. The brain's production of melatonin decreases with age. It's also been demonstrated that a woman tends to develop more acute hearing after she's had a child – obvious species survival implications there -- but even after the children have grown up and left the nest, women are more likely to respond to night time noise. Women who have issues with PMS often experience sleep disruptions that are based on the rise and fall of estrogen levels. Menopausal women often suffer from fractured sleep patterns (night sweats wake them up). Often these issues clear up in post-menopausal women and the gender imbalance of insomnia sufferers starts to balance out in older adults. .

Insomnia can be caused by a multitude of factors – not just stress and anxiety. Shift schedule changes, jet lag, medications including caffeine, lack of circulation, poor bedding, and overstimulation during the development of the "sleep window" are all potential culprits.

There are different kinds of insomnia as well. Transient insomnia is often triggered by stressful events, anything to a cold with a bad cough to final exams for a student. Normal sleep patterns are restored once the immediate stress is removed from the equation. Short term insomnia can last a few weeks. It's often triggered by the things we think of as insomnia producers – anxiety, worry, difficult problems in life. Long term insomnia – people who have suffered from it for years – are often shift workers, or people who live in noisy environments, or people with poor bedding who can't get comfortable. Sometimes this long-term insomnia is rooted in physical disease. Heart disease, diabetes, prostrate disease, asthma, arthritis, and sleep apnea are just some of the physical problems that can negatively affect sleep quality.

I have some sympathies with this issue as I suffer from insomnia myself. I've experienced all variety of sleep disruption. The classic "I can't fall to sleep" is typical for times when there's a lot of stressors in my life that I'm not processing well. I've also had times when I experienced greatly fractured sleep (awoken many times in the night). I'm a diabetic and when my blood sugar management falls apart for one of a million reasons, I'm up 4 to 5 times in the night. Finally, I've suffered from the 'short duration' insomnia where I awaken fully charged and unable to return to sleep after a very short time (4 hours or less).

My 'recipe' for dealing with insomnia in my life is multi-pronged. First is effective management of my diabetes. Without that, nothing else works. I make sure that my bed space is for sleep (and sex) only so that I'm mentally prepared to sleep when I go to bed. I replace my pillows frequently and I have a top quality mattress in both of my bedrooms (I live away from home during the week). I don't consume caffeine after 3 pm. I don't eat food after 8 pm. I have a daily yoga and meditation practice that is a necessity if I'm going to sleep with any degree of quality. Writing, either in this blog, or in my personal journal, is how I process emotional conflicts and mental 'sticky issues'.

Of all of these, the yoga and meditation practice is the most important. That quality time I spend with myself for myself is what illuminates where other factors of my life have lost their balance. It's also a dedicated time for me to allow my deep inner wisdom to bear fruit with the challenges of day to day living.

~~doll~~

Mellita, domi adsum – Honey, I’m home.

When I read persephone's column about the new developments in her life since her dominant partner has moved in with her, I was reminded about how much routine and ritual has come about in my life since I started sharing my domestic arrangements with Michael (pseudonym alert).

Friday afternoons are my favourite part of my week. I finish classes around 3:30 and I head home straight from campus. There's a little town just outside the city I live in that has a grocery store right off the highway and I stop to pick up the week's supplies. We used to meet downtown on Friday evenings for dinner but that's given way to meeting at home. Usually, I'm through the door about 90 minutes before I can expect Michael. It's a heavenly part of my week.

Michael kept up his housekeeping service when we moved in together and she usually comes on Friday mornings. I come into a house with freshly vacuumed floors and sinks that sparkle. Groceries away, start dinner and it's time to relax. Friday night is our time together. The rest of the weekend might be consumed with domestic errands, hockey games, catching up with friends and fulfilling social obligations but Friday night is ours.

Gesture is a powerful means of communication. Think about all the times we use it to convey meaning to another. A crook of the finger than says "Come here." A shake of the head that says "No."; the nod that says "Yes, I understand" when listening to a friend. The traffic cop's palm out "Stop" interplayed with his "waving" you through the intersection. As children, we learn to speak "gesture' as well as we learned to speak our native tongue.

Some gestures, repeated in the same place, under the same circumstances, become ritual. They speak of much larger concepts, things that if you were to write them out in their totality, would consume pages and pages of text. For the yogi, nyasa or the deliberate gestures of practice are a means of anchoring commitment to the greater goal of unity. It's part of what transforms yoga from mere exercise into a spiritual practice that elevates the physical body and acknowledges its natural divinity.

Both Michael and I were raised in the Roman Catholic faith and I think that's one of the reasons ritual speaks so strongly to both of us. On some level, I think our attraction to BDSM practices is largely a reflection of our joint appreciation for ritual in our life. And slowly, over the months, I've noticed that we're starting to develop patterns in our interactions with one another.

Friday night is our night to reconnect. I'm very much the little seductress. Heels, stockings, corsetry, sheer, body skimming, tight, plunging, revealing is the dress of the day. This is the dance of tease and mutual seduction. Our reunion as lovers is a playful event. We laugh a lot Friday nights. Our play has a lighthearted, joyous flavour to it. And while I'm often bound or somehow restrained at some point in our play, I've noticed that I'm never spanked on Friday nights. I don't want to be spanked and he's never even mentioned it. Tears don't fit the mood of Friday nights.

Sunday nights are a different story. I'm more likely to be completely naked, completely exposed to my lover. This is where I offer my vulnerability and remind us both of how much I need him. I need to weep on Sunday nights. I crave the more demanding mood of my lover, the sense of urgency that exists between us. Nothing is held back and Friday night's playfulness has given way to a different, more intense, deeper need to connect. I need to replenish myself in him, fill myself enough to hold me over the coming days. He needs to claim me as his own. We're only going to spend four nights apart but it always looms like a chasm before me. I need a safe place to release the sorrow of leaving him and our beautiful home again. It's not pain that I seek on Sundays; it's the cleansing flow of tears and the tenderness that follows that will sustain me in the coming week.

And so it moves, week in and week out. Is it predictable? It's become that way. Is it boring? I don't think so. Michael is the head of our little household. That was a decision we made jointly some time ago, to our mutual desire and satisfaction. Our little private rituals are a shorthand way for us to communicate some of these very large and abstract concepts to one another. There's something about this ritualized aspect of our sexuality that elevates our connection from being mere sex to the loftier dimension of sacred communication.

Our rituals, as a couple, have deepened our relationship. While my responses towards him might be characterized as submissive in nature, it's just an expression of the greater submission inside our relationship. The rituals reinforce and illuminate things that are important to us but aren't necessarily easily expressed in words.

I left home this morning with the intensity of last night communion fresh in my mind. I feel connected and secure and already, I'm looking forward to the play and joy that will come on Friday when I'm home again.

~~doll~~

Note to reader: This is a part of a writing assignment given to me by my boyfriend when I was struggling with writer's block. He gave me a list of Latin phrases and expressions to use as inspirational fodder. This is one from that series.