Homeward Bound

How, in a house of my brethren can there be so few pens? And then maybe, I think, they aren’t my brethren in that way. In the pen and the paper and the ink and the ideas swirling away into bits of paper.

Maybe they’re my brethren simply by blood. Which isn’t simple, is it? Never is. Brethren by blood or by choice. Considering epigenetics, in this case the two are inseparable. But that’s considering epigenetics, and I am far too looped out on Ambien to do so coherently at the moment.

Consider Phlebus.

Or don’t. I rarely do.

Consider Ragnar taking up a quarter of his bed, watching me whenever I move in case I leave while he wasn’t looking. He won’t even eat his breakfast anymore, he’s too busy watching to make sure I don’t duck out while he’s eating.

I owe him something. An environment where he can relax. Where I am less stressed. Where it’s okay to not always be on the run, always getting things done by the skin of my teeth. Always on the verge of collapse because, in addition to my personal goals, I want to give those around me whatever it is they want from me. That last one…. that needs a full on revamping.

With J, I could not be the out doorsy, studiously productive cynical girl he needed. I tried. I managed cynical. Instead of studious I did obsessive; he didn’t like me when I was obsessive.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love him a great deal, and probably will for a long time. And I still miss him something fierce. But I’m much happier on a day to day basis, able to recall the fun we had, how madly & quickly we fell for each other, how so many things about us just *fit*.

But if you’re trying to be what the other person wants… and you don’t even know who you are… sigh… The person he wanted, she’s a good person. Someone I’d have fun with, someone I’d admire. But not me. I’m not interested in scuba diving, or getting drunk, or week long camping trips.

I owe Ragnar, and I owe myself, a home. A safe space in which only our interactions matter. And the cats. A home, together, the three of us. I owe us all a home without constant judgment and criticism. Without a constant looming disapproval. Without the sense that the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet. A home that is ours. It will be my home by all outward measures. But ours. No one else gets to complain when Kayla projectile vomits off the top of the bookcase. No one else gets to point out how many knots are in Marx’s fur, but then refuse to help shave them out. No one else gets to look down on Ragnar — on *my* dog — and complain about his behavior.

Because, for fuck’s sake, he’s a dog. He gets paw prints on things. He sometimes smells funny. He eats things you don’t even want to think about. He wants to sniff your butt, and your butt, and everybody’s butts. But. His home. Where he will not be punished for being a dog. He will be trained and disciplined, and the fact that he waits for permission before getting on the bed will be acknowledged. And that he rings bells when he wants to go outside will be admired for the awesomeness it is.

He will be appreciated in his own home.

I would like to be appreciated in my own home.

I would like my own home, and I haven’t had any space I could truly call mine since college. For a while, I thought I had that at Tortuga. But, no. Shoes dropped. Judgments got made. Suddenly, it wasn’t a safe space to come home to. It was a place to walk on eggshells and then attempt to read tea leaves to figure out whatever the fuck was going on.

And so. I want a home of my own. And it’s looking like I’ll have one, soon.

Pending signing the lease and handing over the deposit, my family and I will be moving into a three bedroom house in the east bay. One with a ginormous backyard where Ragnar can bound and leap. And there will be cat shelves. Oh, yes. I will put up cat shelves in every room so the cats can circumnavigate the house without ever once having to be on the ground with Ragnar unless they want to.

I will have a home.


Oh. And my home will be entirely gluten free. No gluten shall enter. Ever. So I will never have to fear contamination and illness in my own home.

All of which is a rambly and emotional way of saying I may have a place for the menagerie and me within the next week or so.


On BDSM, Feminism, and Silly Statements

Apparently there is this erotica novel, 50 Shades of Grey, that’s causing a kerfluffle. I have nothing to say about that. Haven’t read it, not sure if I will. But then I read this article, and really, I have to rant. Let me share with you the section that provoked my ire:

Amy Robach for NBC News says that the novel answers the age old question of what do women really want. Never mind being left breathless or captivated, says Robach, this book makes it clear that domination and submission are on the minds of most American women (emphasis mine).

“We had the women’s movement which really was about empowering women not to be submissive to men anymore. Now we’ve moved onto a new generation where women are more empowered than ever before, the glass ceiling has been broken and we have as much control as we want. And what are we longing for? A little bodice ripping,” answers author Laura Berman to NBC.

Sounds possible, right? But the problem here is perspective. This analysis is focused entirely on women and sex (both of which are fascinating topics and hey, who can blame a journalist for wanting to talk about either, much less both?) The idea is that somehow this desire to be personally dominated contradicts the desire to be professionally powerful. But that’s an incredibly short-sighted view, even assuming the article is correct in the generalization that the majority of American women want to be dominated. It’s about power and responsibility. It’s about freedom.

Did you know, the vast majority of clients for dominatrices are powerful men? CEOs, VPs, managers, venture capitalists. Men who make decisions all-fracking-day long. Men who are in charge. They pay good money-sometimes excellent money-to be dominated by someone else. Sex is often a component. But the sex isn’t the point.

The point is freedom. Not having to make decisions or take responsibility. The point is escaping pressure and guilt. When you’re the one in charge, your decisions matter. They affect everyone around you. It’s your fault if the company does poorly and you need to lay-off one third of your employees. Your responsibility, your guilt. In that context, the fantasy of letting someone else dominate you makes a hell of a lot of sense. For that brief span of time you don’t have to make decisions or take responsibility. Someone else gets the blame. Someone else decides whether you deserve punishment or reward. All you have to do is follow orders.

BDSM isn’t only about freedom, but that is a huge part of its appeal.

If, in fact, there is any correlation between women having more power now and wanting to be dominated, it is in no way a reversal of feminism. If anything, it’s an indicator that women truly are gaining more power, whether that be corporate or personal power. It means that powerful women have the same fantasies as powerful men. That looks a heck of a lot more like equality, to me.