The Domme. Maybe?

Struggling to find a subject matter that would entice more viewers. Struggling to identify anything that would pique my own interest right now, let alone some one else.

My research has shown me that there are plenty of blogs about D/s, which is something new I am absolutely obsessed with...more in theory and less in practice. And being wildly inexperienced...meaning, not experienced whatsoever in any explicit way, I really have no right to write about it here. Besides saying, it's a compelling lifestyle. And that I don't know what I am. Interesting right?  To package all the things you are into a one or the other. I find it fascinating for a number of reasons...one of which is I have always been a proponent of recognizing and embracing our dynamism. We are like moving water, constantly changing, sometimes murky, sometimes pregnant with various forms of other life, sometimes crystal clear, sometimes churning, and sometimes sinking forever in the muddy shores. And that's a good thing. So, calling yourself a D or an s, and exploring that is NOT a bad thing, but it makes me confused. And I guess that's ok. I guess that's actually a really good thing. Confusion is flux. Motion. It's churning thoughts and rejecting the notion that things are what they are and taking them at face value.

But I digress. Or do I? So, am I "D" or am I "s?" Do we all fall into a category whether we act on the feelings or urges or needs or not? It's about perspective. And perspective is impossible to capture. So I say fuck it, I'm gonna drink some wine.

There's also a rat that lives in our apartment that has been ravaging all of our food. One room mate caught it in the act which prompted rat poison which has prompted me to question my own humanity. I immediately held my index finger to the side of nose and screamed not it. Not it in poisoning it and REALLY NOT IT in looking for and removing its decaying stinky carcass. But things would change if it touched one of my cute little chickens.

I'm exhausted. I have to write a media advisory (DON'T EVEN PRETEND YOU ARE NOT ENVIOUS MY LIFE) and eventually finish this beer and pass out on my couch in the most classy way possible.

Michael Buble sucks and keeps popping up on one of my pandora stations which leaves me outraged and angry that Canada is so close and that they allow so many douchebags to exist...and make a career around being a douchenozzle.

Blah.

Chicken Shit and Cougar Country

To indulge my white liberalism further, I bought chickens, not fior eating, but for the production of eggs. My dream...to walk into my backyard nude and gather eggs...cook said eggs in the buff, eat said eggs in the buff...then address my room mates who may or not at that time be balking at me in the kitchen.

It's cliche, but they grow up so fast. 3 weeks ago, they fit in the palm of my hand (chickens, not the roommates). Yesterday, they flew out of their box, shit all over the floor, then flew back in their box. For such dumb creatures, they sure are brilliant. Following the crapping catastrophe, after cleaning it up, I closed the door to relax on the couch to philosophize about life, love, and cougardom. I was aroused from my brain thoughts by their frantic chirping and finally after minutes of wishing it away, went to check on them. Somehow their heat lamp had gone out and the little poop machines were reacting to the darkness....my scientific assessment of the situation...they are afraid of the dark. I have a lot in common with chickens.

My online dating experiment has yielded many stories, a few worth mentioning. Earlier today, a gentleman asked me if he could "brutalize me." Out of morbid curiosity, I asked what that meant to which he responded (wait, I need to check and make sure this is accurate....) ok...he responded with "Slap you, spit on you, and fuck you." Hot. I responded, I cannot wait for you to meet my parents...and he said "you're lucky I don't pee on you." Sure am buddy...thanks.

There are more stories like that, but the one I want to focus on right now is the evolution of my cougar core. I met (ok, have been messaging) an adorable 23 year old. ADORABLE. Problem is, he's 23. I just turned 30. The question I am toying with is, am I cougar? When does a woman become a cougar? How does one know if she is a Cougar? Who determines Cougardom? Are there support groups for cougars? I'm most likely getting ahead of myself right now. Who knows if this delicious little morsel will want to touch my sagging lady parts, but it's something that's been occupying my mind for the past two days. It's more complicated than just aging (though that in and of itself is a sordid subject and I still haven't come to terms with my oldness), it's that he invigorated this part of me that's been dormant....NO, not like my sex drive or anything dirty like that...ewww...It's the me in my 20's...The girl that picked up and left when things got tired, or boring, or I wanted to see Crazy Horse's monument...just cause. I cannot really say anything here that hasn't been said before about aging, and the particular changes that occur (menopause and under arm flabbiness), but in experiencing it, I sure as hell feel like I have to talk about. There's an tradeoff, wisdom for ignorance/bliss, "stability" for abandonment and selfishness, and belly fat for....well ...not belly fat. Nonetheless it's made me nostalgic. Nostalgic for things that I can absolutely have and experience again...as long as I'm not willing to settle. 

I suppose there's that whole mess of cougarishness and confusion....and then there's the practical, "are you fucking kidding me?? you didn't grow up watching ALF?" But that could be a cultural divide too, not just a generational. So, here I go, justifying my way into dating younger men..much younger men. I anticipate that after having to change his diaper and get him home before 9pm, this will become a little tooooo awwwwkward, and I'll have to call it quits.

Then I'll have way more time to obsess over the chickens and write wildly boring blogs about them. So, there's that...I have that going for me.

To all ma PEEPS!

Hey Egypt! Thanks for the Pyramids and stuff

At a time when EVERYONE is writing, blogging, following, taping, and harboring desires to emulate Egypt....I would like to write about something else. But I can't.  What Egyptian citizens did over the course of the past 3 weeks, has been earth shattering. I cannot go through the laundry list of implications, globally, for the Arab world, and of course America's relationship to Arab world, Israel, Palestine. I cannot go through this, mostly because I lack the brain cells, and let's be honest, there are far more articulate, brilliant,  analytical and more trusted journalists and academics writing about this daily.

I suppose there's not a lot of humor that can be pulled out of the situation in Egypt. A repressive dictatorship has never been "funny," and not even I, someone who has made it their life goal to be wildly inappropriate and make people uncomfortable, cannot create any framework for the uprisings in Egypt...and yes you too Tunisia, that would be gigglable.  So I guess this post as most of these have been, is merely an opportunity to just write something because it's been so long. And to at least be able to tell people, I wrote about Egypt. 

In all actuality, I have a deep amount of admiration for the organic flow of the Tunisian, then Egyptian uprisings. I celebrated my 30th birthday in Acapulco a few weeks ago..I was actually in Mexico when all of this "started."  This is just to say  I WAS IN MEXICO WHILE EVERYONE ELSE HAD TO BE HERE IN BUFFALO..and I'm 30 and this is the first time I've seen a movement like this (not to say it hasn't happened, only that maybe this is the first time I've given a shit) The shared collective consciousness that launched them into action is something we could learn a lot from. The ability to say enough is enough...not just from the comfort of their living rooms, their arm chairs, their cafes or places of employment. I am not saying we live in a dictatorship, but I am saying that the banking industry rules our worlds and I am pretty sure that they are not necessarily doing to ensure that we collectively benefit.

Point is, I was in Mexico, you were not, we have an obligation to speak truth to power in oppressive situations, and I think that we can learn a few things from the individuals and communities in Egypt that finally said Ya Basta! It's an inspiration to watch people essentially defy gravity and in a few short weeks, shift the course of her/history.

So, Egypt thanks for your uprisings and thanks for those pyramids...I havent seen them yet in real life, but I saw the Mummy with Brendan Fraser.

Joy to the World and Boob reads a book

I drank a bottle of wine waiting for Rico to get through the iron clad fists of the US/Canadian Border Patrol on the eve before the eve of Baby Jesus day. Thus began my holiday festivities, which only got more merry and more exciting as the bottle dried and was tossed in the recycling with care as thoughts of DADT, Frida Kahlo and how I could put the Chris back in Christmas danced in my head.

Really though, I had some wine, drank some beer, Rico arrived (that order may or may not be accurate, I was a goner by 8), I gave him a labatt (cerveza) and other festive holiday appropriate fare, like eggplant, garlic, and pita, (comida)  and we watched a movie. The movie wasn't great.  But I do want to say this...the most impressive part of the film was not Rosario Dawson and Rico so quickly squealed with delight...it was the fact that Will Smith's character committed suicide using the most non traditional method I have ever heard of....Jelly Fish. A singular jelly fish....his pet jelly fish. I totally give that a well deserved golf clap. A for effort in thinking of the most bizarre way to kill off a beloved and conflicted protagonist.

After driving west for a bit from Buffalo to New Jersey, one of the less intuitive moments of my life, we finally got on the right road, going in the right direction and by way of Georgia, made it to New Jersey in time to say good night to my father and make some weird comment to my father about Activia and constipation.  Rico headed to NYC to challenges I cannot possibly relate to (you go boy) and I to my parents home in Smoosh town, USA (please use this moment to google "South Park" and "Jersey Shore" if you are confused) to inevitably fight with my mother, ignore my father, and hopefully get into a fist fight with my younger brother.

In this household, thanks to my leadership, no holiday is sacred or safe from family battles. I think this occurs in other households. I imagine if I were to look at other blogs or flip on the tv, Everybody Loves Raymond or some other self indulgent ego maniac would express similar musings. It's nice to know I'm not alone.  Nonetheless, this family is a nest and source of much of my happiness and much of my pain and I respect both most of the time. 

Boo advised that I blog about my hope that "my little brother remain flacid for eternity" or "that I smother him in cow dung," but it's incredibly challenging to write funny things about family sometimes, particularly when you're in the thick of it. I'm sure soldiers come back allll the time from Iraq and laugh and laugh and laugh at stories of being in the trenches and the other pleasantries of combat. So, maybe when I'm out of the trenches....

The spoils of the battle are pretty fucking good though. I scored a coffee mug, soap in the shape of a crab, soap made out of seaweed, coffee, a book, chocolate, a nuts and oats bar my father bought at Marshall's, some more soap, and a glass paper weight....with a transparent corgie in the middle of it. There's a story to that....My mother, a 60 something year old art teacher, mumbled something about how they just sort of turned up, a lot of them, as my sister also received one with a Golden Retriever in it. Sounds a lot like the all the stuff that "falls off the truck" just in time for a sale in a truck at Main and Utica at 11pm. I love that store.

I am reading a book and its been awhile. I've barely moved off the couch save coopting my sister's computer to write this gem of a yawner.

It's about Katrina and the War on Terror.  JOY TO THE WORLD

Boo is currently in 'Zona, so let's all wish her a Feliz Navidad and Felizy Felizy Neuvo Anos. Or something.

Dear Boo...thought you'd never ask!!

The onset of winter in Buffalo ushers in wonders such as shinny hockey, Tim Hortons Christmas cups, the requisite office holiday festivus, Santa…and a deep, brooding depression which I will lament and wail about til mid summer. You’re welcome.

So I began to write a me-tox plan. But alas, I am me…therego/I go ergo self-imposed timeouts are the extent of the rehab. So I have chosen to be proactive...I did not intend this to be an advice column but alas here goes everything I wish I had known or realize now. Do as I say, not as I do.

Boo’s List of Everything a lass in her mid-twenties should know, understand and practice

# 1            How to change a tire, how to change your hair color without going to a salon, and how to change a man. (Regarding the dude: Tell him what you want him to do, reward him when he does it, and ignore him when he doesn’t do it.)

#2             Go play with your dog. Your dog is the one creature on earth you can make insanely happy by playing “hide the cookie” in the living room. If you have neither cat nor dog (nor bird, nor fish), it’s not essential, but if you want to lead a more enjoyable life…why not?

#3             Don’t read blogs written by unhappy, spiteful people. Bad blogs will mangle your mood. Instead, spend an hour a day with your Precious Moments notebook, connecting deeply with your own spiteful thoughts. At least they’ll be original. And P.S.: Anyone can make history. Only great women can blog it…not necessarily frequently J

#4            When addressing a man’s penis, if you want it to get huge, tell it it’s huge.

#5              When you’re in college, don’t worry too much about grades. Other than getting into a decent grad school and associating with the cream of your generation, getting straight A’s means diddly-squat in the real world, where it’s all about hustle, determination, focus, dressing right, sucking up, and who you know. Also if you did not go to the actual school, but its sister school or some degenerate cousin of the school…do not say you went to the school. Desperation never wears well.

#6             Bad grammar never wears well…nor does butchering any language with abbreviations…neva eva

#7             Women say they want a “nice guy,” but show them an asshole who treats them like dirt and they’ll trample over their own therapists to get to him.

#8             If you suffer the heinous habit of constantly saying “I’m sorry” (a real career killer, right up there with downing a flask of vodka before important meetings), take your pathetic “I’m sorry” and start adding three words: “I’m sorry…I’m so brilliant.” “I’m sorry…I’m so stunning.” “I’m sorry…I’m so miraculous.”

#9             Nobody would have sex if they thought about it for five seconds. It costs too much money – i.e. children, mortgage, therapy – makes you stupid and ties you down. Sex makes you crazy and causes nothing but pain, but that moment of pleasure is worth it all. Sometimes we can’t help ourselves.

#10             The three tragedies of life: (A) not getting what you want, (B) getting it, (C) seeing your best friend getting it. Don’t you know we were born to feel competitive with our friends? Jealousy is a little whip given to us by the queen bitch Mother Nature to push us to excel above our own expectations—to be better than our selves. Via nip, tuck, bedazzled nails, conquests, whatever! Rivalry brings glory to the human race. This is just an excuse for my self-indulgence in judging and narcissism but at least I'm honest! Some times...and I am getting better at that!

Ta da.

It’ a start…but I never said I was committed.

I must confess I had one about family, and the old idea of the one we’re born into versus the one we select, but I’m waffling so it’s best not to make too many inane pompous statements in one blog.

I also had one about panache…and then fear and arrogance…but those were the battle cries of my now registered sex offender high school English teacher so that might need some rethinking…

Prince Charming ain’t showing up on his white horse in the near future.

This was cathartic and now I’m depressed again.

“Boo’s Incomplete List”

Wait for the remix.

Xoxo,

Boo

Girls in the Buff take Albany by storm

The title certainly doesn't scream interesting. And for some this entry won't be. But, I'm ok with that.

The excitement lies in the fact that this is the first trip Boo and Boobs have taken outside of the warm womb of Buffalo. The bags are packed, the wine carefully stashed amongst the granny panties and sports bras, the computers secured in their fancy carrying cases, and the classy clothes of the underpaid activist stowed and ready for take off.

For what?

Lobby visits? NOOOOOOOOO.

To visit our capital and revel in the historical relevance of the odd and almost alien like sky line? NOOOOOOOO.

We are here for a training. I'll skip the details of the training, however I want to be clear-we are vapid spiteful mean spirited individuals, but there are reasons for that. Boo and I have dedicated our lives to...gulp...social and economic justice. So, we've seen some shit, and we've seen some shit on top of shit, and we've seen that when you wipe the shit off in hopes of finding something brighter, cleaner, shinier, something you can look at and say "this is why we do what we do" there's just more shit.

Not to say we are completely demoralized, though in reading this it sounds that way. I think we are just both aware of the challenges, politically and socially-as aware as we can considering our own intellectual and personal restrictions-that we face today. And that makes us what we are-vapid, spiteful, and mean-spirited. Often judgemental. There are clearly some daddy issues embedded in that as well, but that's for another blog and another time.

Anyway, now that I've drawn you this far down the blog saying a whole of nothing, I'm going to leave you with this. Basically the entire point of this blog was to write something because we've been remiss in our duties to our adoring fan (Hector from PR, I love you baby).

Aside from addressing some of our high school like social awkwardness  and most likely drinking too much wine and making ridiculous plans to get up and use the treadmill at 6am, most likely this will be a conference full of a lot of talking, discussing jobs, the economy, taxes, messaging, framing, blah blah, some brief fleeting conversations with co workers from across the state and a long car ride home. That's it.

So, throw tomatoes at the screen and leave a comment as to how disappointed you are in this entry.

I AM UNTOUCHABLE.

The Ballad of Boo

Fyi…I had a BRILLIANT much-anticipated, national treasure of an entry going and then a little old bat shit crazy church lady made me cry. Just so you’re all aware.

Anyhoo…I heart this to itty bitty pieces:

'we need the excuse of a fiction to stage what we truly are.'

This blog has been a brought on a new emboldened state of self, followed intermittently by states of paralysis. A blank blog presents a pressure unlike anything I’ve experienced before. The anonymity of it, certainly enables a bravado to be open and honest in a sense, but then coupled with the vulnerability of sounding like a whiny brat with bad grammar let alone questionable life choices I go blank. And that just gets me through the title.

Feeling the need to expand the girlinthebuff empire, I’ve taken our show on the road to Tucson back and forth a bit which has provided ample time for self-analysis and people watching/judging…err, I am trying to minimize the judging but I’m also a bitter baby right now…so I judge, a lot. But I digress…back to self-anlaysis, fiction, frauds, and true selves…hooray!

There’s a difference between being a fraud and not even knowing what one aspires to pretend to be…I’m just not sure which category I’m in and vagueness, “nebulousness” are par for the course…apologies, again.

I’ve been settling into this state of unsettlement in my life for a bit now…it’s creeped up on me over this year, & now I have this gnawing suspicion that I have done just that—settled that is. Pick your definition and it will suffice. Being a privileged white girl from the upper middle class I tend to have this massive guilt complex in general, apologizing is the norm.  I’m sorry.

I operate in bubbles. Not literally…not like Bubble Boy or the guy on Allen…but I like to keep the different circles I operate in separate and distinct. When bubbles collide they pop and Lord knows I have an aversion to cleaning things up. Maybe this has been indoctrinated from an early age, but people pleasing was something I regarded as a positive trait up until the last couple days. So now people aren’t happy and I’m at a loss…shocking. Bubbles have burst.

So all of this is to say that I am grateful for this blog. I’m not about to go all Eat, Pray, Love on you (you’re welcome—and I’m off carbs right now) but it’s incredibly refreshing to address no one in particular—hence not having the conversation in my head ahead of time to figure out the path of least resistance and popularity. Welcme to crazy town.

So I’m tired, sad and generally unpleasant. But that’s me, that’s the truth and that’s legit. That’s Boo in a crazy nutshell. No apologies. Sorry.

Now watch out little old ladies!!!

Xoxo,

Boo