Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Prendre le congé

OK, I’m not going to go back and post-edit like I usually do, second-guessing myself and trying to make sure every sentence makes sense. I’m just going to put this up.
OK, here’s what’s up.
About a week after my last post (yes I know it’s been two months, but there’s a damn good reason and I’m getting to it) Monsieur and I went to dinner, a very lovely romantic one in Austin at a place that looks like a tree house. I got manicotti; ; he had the fish.
After dinner, I didn’t want dessert and he rarely gets it. We went outside and sat under a huge oak tree. Then he handed me this big freaking diamond ring.
“It was my grandmother’s,” he said. He asked me to marry him.
I suddenly had to pee – really badly.
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“You are,” he replied.
Damn, he’s good.
We talked a lot. Most of what we talked about will remain private, readers. I’m sorry but it has to be that way. One of the things we talked about was this very blog, which I didn’t know he was even aware. But, he was, and he told me it bothered him that I was showing myself to the world, and talking about deeply personal stuff between the two of us, and generally not safeguarding my privacy and respecting our relationship.
I was embarrassed, and as a result I did two things: deleted picture posts, and didn’t add anything else.
Telling my mom that we were engaged created all kinds of grief between her and me about the wedding and how big it should be and what should happen and where it should be done. Also, among the aunts in my family. I didn’t want that, so about ten minutes later we decided to elope. Which we did, about two weeks ago. So now I’m Mrs. Monsieur.
(A very good friend of mine calls this “burying the lede,” and I suspect he hates it when I do this.)
I don’t know if I’m going to continue this blog, given how it’s public and all. I don’t want to make it Blogger ID-only; and taking it down would be the right thing to do. (I’m definitely not putting up any pictures again!) If I do another blog, I’ll do two things: I’ll hide it from the world, and make it “invitation only”.
In any event, I will at least leave it up for a while. Thanks for reading. You know how to get hold of me, unless you aren’t supposed to.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007


I pushed.
I didn’t really want to, but I guess I had to know. And it wasn’t easy to ask, so for courage, I opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. Then another. Then I offered one to Monsieur, and then I poured myself another.
I was nervous. Of course, he knew it.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just – there’s been something on my mind,” I said.
“Tell me,” he said gently.
“Well, I don’t know if you remember, but, well, I wasn’t supposed to bring up us getting married until after the first of December. Of last year,” I added.
He nodded.
“Well.” I took a deep breath, and just said it like I practiced it in the mirror. “I want to be married to you. I’m not going to ask you; I want you to ask me, when you’re ready. Don’t decide right now. Think about it carefully, but I really do want to spend the rest of my life as your wife, looking after you, raising your boys, and being a family.”
He toyed with the stem of his wine glass. “The reason I haven’t brought it up,” he said, slowly, “has most to do with the debt.”
“The bills?” I asked. “You’re worried about bills?”
“Not just that,” he said. “I don’t think we’d have the ability to do a ring and a wedding, and I know you deserve both.”
“How much debt is there?” I asked.
He told me.
“Well, okay so there’s a lot. But we’re handling it now, right?” I asked.
“Yes, we’re doing well, making payments and handling it. But to add to that a wedding, a ring, a honeymoon...”
“Which I never said I wanted,” I replied.
“You don’t want a ring?” he asked.
“Not a big one. Not even a diamond. I’d be perfectly happy with two gold bands. One for me, and one for you. I don’t need a big wedding, and I don’t need a diamond. Maybe a nice dress, one that I could wear out anywhere. Not a bridal dress. Just something nice. That’s all. I’d feel ridiculous if you spent $5000 on it. Do I look like I need a big chunk of Africa on my finger?”
“It always seemed to me that you would want more than that,” he said.
“Of course not. Am I really that high maintenance?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“Okay, I am,” I admitted. “But not in that way.
He was quiet, in an uncomfortable sort of way, and said, “Let me figure out a way. There are more things that we have to agree on, as well.”
“What? It’s because I snore, isn’t it??” I asked.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said, smiling. “Let me figure out a way, and I will let you know.”
“I will need sex tonight, Monsieur,” I added.
“I understand,” he said.

Monday, July 02, 2007

after the flood

We had DSL out, or intermittently off-and-on, for the last week. There were horrible floods downhill from us, in Marble Falls especially, and other places. Skip and Monsieur were out there; Skip was hauling in debris on a backhoe, and Monsieur coordinating some emergency networks for the locals.

the creek, flooded.

Low-water crossing. When you see a road look like this, turn around, people, and save a rescue worker.

The Little Blanco, just downhill from us a couple miles. It’s usually narrow enough to throw a paper airplane across.
When it was really bad last week, Monsieur was checking the radio and the radar on TV and then had me go upstairs and clean all the bathtubs with bleach, then fill them up with water.
“Is it that bad?” I asked him.
“We may lose water at any minute, not to mention electricity and phone. DSL will be the first to go, on these lines,” he added.
He was right. DSL went down last Thursday, and it didn’t get restored until Monday.
On Saturday, Monsieur was down by the little staging area where people were setting up a Wi-Fi network, and providing equipment, especially batteries, and wireless cards to the coordinators.
It’s a mess: boats in the trees, houses in the river, and concrete culverts down in the creek washed in from who knows where. We’ll be cleaning stuff out of the pastures for months.
On the good side, we’ve had homegrown tomatoes into July. In Texas, which is unheard of.
Also, we’re on voluntary water rationing, which means no high-water use until after 9 pm. Laundry and the dishwasher must wait until evening, and we wash dishes by hand if we need them. That rather interferes with my resolution to have all the day’s laundry done by 5 pm. Also, 5 minute showers are no fun.
“You could shower with me and we could make it ten minutes between the two of us,” I suggested to Monsieur.
“I showered already tonight, as soon as I got home,” he replied.
“Well, at least check to make sure I rinsed all the conditioner out of my hair?” I asked him.
Monsieur gave me that look.
“Pretty please?” I said, batting my eyes.
“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll check on you after the animals are locked down.”
Later, as I was showering, I heard him come into the bathroom. He pulled the curtain back.
“Turn around,” he told me.
I shut off the water and complied.
“Hm,” he said, looking over my hair. Finally, he said, “It looks like you missed a spot,” and then dumped a large plastic cup of ice water over my head.
I screamed, then, dripping wet, I chased him out of the bedroom with a rolled up towel. He moves fast.

Thursday, June 21, 2007


We’re home. Everything went great with Monsieur’s procedure. (Read here, here.)
The only bad thing was that we had to wait to get in. He had to be there at 8:30 to get the TEE ultrasound and it didn’t get done. The catheter part was scheduled for 1:30 pm, and it didn’t get started till 4:00 pm.
He was done in an hour, and a little while later the surgeon let me come in to the recovery area and see him.
He was doing fine. The nurses in the recovery room were on their laptops with not a lot to do, and apparently their system kept them from their favorite crossword puzzles. They said Monsieur walked them through hacking around the controls.
He must have been pretty far gone to do that, since he’s all about network security. But it does say something about his recovery time that he could keep it together well enough to show the nurses how to hack the network.
He also looked over at me and whispered, “You know, we should be married.”
I looked over at the nurse, who looked away.
“I know,” I said.
He closed his eyes.
“You know,” the nurse said, “when that anesthesia wears off, they say things that they might mean but might not remember.”
“Oh, you heard that, did you?” I said, with a little grin.
She grinned back. “I don’t hear anything that they say in here, know what I mean?”
He had to be monitored for a while. Since they started so late, that meant an over night stay. I asked him what he needed from the house, cause Grandfather was going to visit with the kids.
“Bring the Linux notebook, okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. But the surgeon said not to bother bringing his computer, as Monsieur needed rest and wouldn’t remember asking me for it anyway.
By the time he was totally awake, the kitchen was closed. I went down and got him a spinach salad (no bacon) somewhere. We watched old movies on TCM, which made me nostalgic for cable or satellite TV. It was nice.
His pulse and BP got checked by the automatic monitor every 30 minutes or so. He had little plastic things taped to his chest with wires coming out of them.
Grandfather and the boys called to say they were better off staying at home if everything is okay, which it was. He talked to all the boys and told the Bigglest Boy that he had telemetry sensors on his chest, just like the astronauts did on Apollo 13.
He tried calling some of the people that work for him at his office, but I had called ahead and told them to watch the caller ID and not to answer if it was him, or from the hospital phone. He needed to be still. Everyone followed my orders and no one answered. He left some voice mails.
He sat back and watched On Dangerous Ground, some Ida Lupino film noir. I nodded off in the reclined chair next to his bed.
Around 2 AM I opened my eyes. He was out of bed, and still, Ida Lupino was on the screen. “Is this still the same movie?” I asked, sleepily.
“No,” he said, “it’s Beware, My Lovely.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“This damnable BP cuff is inflating every 30 minutes, keeping me awake. I turned that off, but the alarm went off. I’m disabling the whole thing so I can get some sleep.”
“Oh,” I said. Then, “Are you sure you should be doing that?”
“If not, they can put it all back,” he said.
I didn’t argue. He switched off various switches, removed the cuff and the little red light clip from his finger, and wrapped it all up neatly into a coil and set it on top of the monitor.
The night nurse came, I guess at about 4 AM to check his vitals, I suppose since he was unhooked from the monitor. She wrapped the cuff around his arm, took his temp, checked his pulse. His eyes stayed closed.
“Pretty low,” she observed. “Ninety over fifty.”
“Normal, for when I am at rest,” he said, his eyes still closed.
“You gonna bury us all, honey,” she said to him, smiling.
“Not an attractive prospect,” he muttered, then turned over as she quietly slipped out the door.
The next morning, he was awake before me. The nurse had come in and told him he may as well eat breakfast, and there were no limits to what he could eat. He ordered an omelet with no cheese, then looked over at me and ordered me some juice and bagel and coffee.
We finished all that when the surgeon came in. He is from Spain, and Monsieur and he chattered in Spanish a bit, then in English, the doctor said that Monsieur would check out in about forty five minutes.
Monsieur got up, removed all of the sensors from his chest, and went into the bathroom.
I listened but didn’t hear any sound.
When he came out, he was started getting everything put into his over night bag. I helped.
“Why is it I never hear you in the bathroom?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he said, getting out his toothbrush.
“I never hear you pee. It’s like, silence. You can always hear guys pee.”
“Oh. Well. I sit down when I do that,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“You sit to pee?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Standing is a filthy habit, and I don’t do it. It splashes everywhere,” he explained, finally.
Hm. I wondered why the seat was never up.

Friday, June 15, 2007


I did something totally sneaky, duplicitous and behind the back.
No, I didn’t screw the mailman. Ours looks like Mayberry’s Floyd the Barber. A nice enough guy, but not my type.
OK, you know about Monsieur’s little heart flutter. Well, he will go in to the hospital on Tuesday for a transesophageal echocardiography (TEE) and then a radio frequency catheter ablation (Google links all, you sort it out) and his doctor says he’ll likely go home that day. Monsieur says he could easily handle getting a ride there and back all the way into South Austin Hospital. If he ends up staying the night, well, he’ll get a ride the next day or I and the boys could come pick him up later in the van, after school.
The hell he will.
I said someone could watch the kids while I run him in and back. He says it’s not necessary, as I’d have to find both a substitute for school plus a sitter; besides what if he ends up staying the night if the procedure runs long? Better for him to get a ride than have me tie up school, the kids, run the risk of getting stuck in Austin with him, etc.
The hell it is.
So, I went behind his back. I called J with 2 N’s and got her to take the class for the day. I told her what was going on and that I would make it up to her by taking her girls and my boys to the park or to the pool. J said forget about it, but she’d love to have us all over for a backyard barbecue picnic. I love J with 2 N’s.
Next mission – the possible overnight stay. I called the boys’ Grandfather, Maggie’s dad. I told him what was going on and that Monsieur said I should stay home while he went into South Austin Hospital for the day.
Grandfather’s exact words: “The hell you should. What’s he worried about, being a bother?”
“I think he’s worried about child care,” I explained. “It may run to an overnight stay.”
“I’m sorry, I like the guy but he’s a damn mule sometimes. Okay, Beautiful, [he always calls me Beautiful] here’s the plan.”
He would tell Monsieur that he’s visiting his friend in San Antonio the weekend before, and wants to visit with the boys on Tuesday and stay overnight, and leave the next day. He wouldn’t mention any hospital or anything to indicate that he knows what’s going on. Grandfather would be there, though, in case of the overnight stay, and is reasonably responsible enough to handle three boys for 48 hours if need be.
I laughed. “Sure you can handle Bigglest Boy?”
“Hell,” he snorted. “I raised Maggie; she was worse than ten boys and a wet wolverine. I’ll be fine. We’ll play musketeers and spaceships. Easy as pie.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Beautiful, the hardest part will be convincing their dad. You leave it to me. I’ll see you on Monday night. He won’t turn out their grandfather if I just show up.”
“You’re my hero,” I said. ‘I owe you one.”
“Oh, you hush,” he laughed. “I owe you seven ... thousand. Or more. Leave it to Grandfather. That’s what we’re for.”
I could cry.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

How can you mend a broken heart?

I hadn’t mentioned here that there is one thing that I really, truly, and totally hate about Monsieur and about living with him, and it is this:
He does not get sick.
Really, and I mean never. This is frustrating, especially to me. I am beset by allergies, flus, viruses and the occasional heat rash. I get sick like clockwork every November, usually the 1st or 2nd week before Thanksgiving. I get the grass allergies in Spring and the mold allergies in December.
Monsieur, the mutant that he is, does not even get chapped lips.
For this, when I get a cold, I despise him and am forced to listen to him walking around and smugly not being sick while he wraps me in blankets, takes the day off to teach my class, and is generally so wonderful I feel like putting the toe of one of my Skechers straight up his genetically perfect ass.
A couple of weeks ago, he decided to do what he called a “cost-benefit analysis” of his life insurance, and consequently my health insurance, and see if he could pay a little bit more for a lot more coverage, and to start planning to use that policy to sock away a bit for the boys’ higher school.
I don’t know why, but I was thrilled. It made me feel like it was more real or something. I swear, once the seduction is complete, the way to keep hold of a woman’s heart is through including her in a regimen of sound financial planning. Try it sometime, guys; open up your portfolio to your lady, name her as a beneficiary, and see if you don’t maybe “get a piece of the rock” or two in exchange for it. If you know what I mean.
And of course, the extra coverage required a health exam. I’d just had mine last year and besides the colds & flus I mentioned above, I don’t have any health problems, so I wasn’t worried. I don’t smoke, I hardly ever drink anymore, and the last illegal drug I ever did was a hit off of a joint five years ago, and it put me to sleep faster than watching “The McLaughlin Report”. Monsieur, of course, chops firewood with a putty knife, lifts 14-point buck deer over his shoulder and can bend iron fireplace pokers with his bare hands, so I didn’t think much more of that, either.
The insurance company had me set an appointment to have a medical exam. The gray haired EMT lady who came to do it was almost apologetic that she had to take my blood and my pee, which I had to provide into a cup and then pour into three little test tubes. I did okay with that. My blood pressure was normal and all. I’d get results back and find out later. I still haven’t actually heard from them about that.
Monsieur had the whole work up at his regular doctor, since he is over 40. I don’t know that he has gone to the “regular doctor” in the whole time I’ve been here. I was actually surprised to hear that he had one. He had to do not only the whole blood/pee ordeal plus full medical exam, which I presume included the prostate (a gloved finger up the booty! you guys are so lucky), but also the doctor had him take an EKG.
Well, it showed he had this irregular rhythm. Specifically (and I heard this a few times) he has an “atrial flutter”.
Monsieur says it’s not a big deal and a lot of people go their whole lives with that sort of thing and it doesn’t affect them and often, like Monsieur, they show absolutely no symptoms at all.
His doctor referred him to a cardiologist, and the cardiologist had a specialist look at him, and he had to wear a little monitor for a day with wires taped to his chest, to record his heartbeat and see if it was a regular thing or just a freak thing.
Nope, said the little monitor, it’s a regular thing.
So, he went back and the cardio surgeon says that the best thing is to try a (I’m looking at this report to make sure I am spelling it right) “radiofrequency catheter ablation” on him, and see if that fixes it right up.
I’m okay, I really am. Mostly. Then I get this panicky feeling, like, what if it doesn’t fix it right up? Before they do that they’re going to do a bunch of ultrasound tests to see if he has a clot somewhere that’s causing it. What if there is? Well, depends on where it is, but likely they’d do a different kind of catheter procedure, yadda blah blah yadda.
It makes me see things in front of my eyes and not any of them are any good. If something were to happen to him what would happen to the boys? I mean, I’d be their guardian; we’d signed that stuff with the lawyer a while back and I am their guardian in case something like that should happen.
But that’s just not right. I’ve seen heart patients down at the gym and recently, at the cardio’s office. Those guys are either old, really old, and they can’t get up out of their chairs without a walker. Or they’re clinically and morbidly obese, and can’t get up out of their chairs without a forklift and a bit of petroleum jelly to unwedge them from between the arms.
Monsieur mows an acre of lawn with a reel mower. The old-fashioned kind. Not because he’s an environmentalist so much, but for the exercise, he says. He doesn’t have a leaf blower; he sweeps the driveway (which is about a quarter mile long) with a push broom. For The Exercise. Most people cut firewood with a chainsaw around here, but he uses a hand saw and an axe. Like, a full cord of cedar wood. A full cord of wood is about the size of a travel trailer. Monsieur cuts that much. By hand. Again, (say it with me) For The Exercise.
His procudures are scheduled for next Tuesday.
It’s not fair. Let me explain my reasoning:
Guys with his abs aren’t supposed to schedule procedures at the best cardio facility in central Texas at the age of 44. Guys with his abs are supposed to go like his grandfather did, until they’re 98, full throttle, after a full life of fighting the Kaiser and the Nazis, the Communist Chinese and Singapore Pirates and the freaking Green Goblin, building a family and raising them right and seeing them all go off and do the same, and putting in a full day of work Every God Damned Day until their kids make them go home and give it a rest, because they’ve earned it after securing the safety of the Free World, the blessings of liberty and the welfare of their loved ones.
Monsieur isn’t worried, and I shouldn’t be either, he says. Well, that’s easy for him to say, because he’s a fucking super hero. I’m just an ordinary mortal, and I will worry every minute until Monsieur’s done with this thing and three doctors say he’s all better and his hitherto fluttery heart is not being all emo and fluttery, and instead is beating like Danny Carey’s bass drum (from Tool – that’s a band, for you old and/or country guys), and just to make double sure, I will require that he cut down a forty foot cedar tree with one cut from his big Japanese saber. Then I might stop worrying.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

the hardest, part ii

You remember last time:

He took me in his arms and picked me up, putting me over his shoulder and carrying me to the bedroom.
I was completely undressed and Monsieur still fully dressed. He even had on his shoes and tie. I kept pulling at his clothes, trying to unbutton or undress him. He would push my hands away, reaching for me. It became comical – we were actually wrestling over his clothing. I giggled and he pressed his advantage; finally he took my two hands in his and, taking his bathrobe from the hook on the closet door, he pulled the robe tie off and lashed my wrists together. He pulled the tie taught, stretching my arms over my head. I held my breath. My eyes were looking up at him, and he tied my wrists to the headboard.
I pulled at the bathrobe tie. It held.
“Shit,” I said. I looked up at him.
Monsieur got off the bed, leisurely. I tried to flip around to get up and get to the knot that held me down, but he growled, “Oh, will you, now?” and pulled my legs down. He took his necktie and tied my left ankle to the foot board, pulling it taught enough to straighten my leg as well.
“I might rip that,” I warned him, pulling at the necktie around my leg.
He removed his belt. “That would be most unfortunate,” he said, with a chuckle. He slapped the end of the belt against his palm.
“Oh, god, no,” I gulped, knowing that belt could sting. I didn’t want him to be angry at me for ripping his necktie. I held still.
“Fair enough,” he said. Yet, I still wanted a spank or two.
One leg was free and I moved it around to attempt to leverage the other one. I still thought I might undo the knot on my wrists. His back was turned and he was unbuttoning his shirt, fussing with the collar. I was flipped over and wriggling to the headboard with my free leg pushing me towards it.
Monsieur turned around and, seeing my escape attempt, pulled me down by my leg and tied my other ankle to the foot board – this time with the tie to my bathrobe – stretching me out face down with my arms tied up over my head and both my legs stretched out.
“Shit,” I said again.
Monsieur opened the closet door to put his belt away, then stepped into the closet.
When he came back, he held my new vibrator in his hand.
I turned and stared at it. I had no idea he knew I had it, as I keep all of my toys hidden away, under my winter clothes, in a box that’s wrapped up in a bag. Especially this one, since it looks so … indulgent.
It had been a gift from a blog reader, who will stay anonymous, and who remembered that my birthday was in May. The reader had looked over my wish list, saw the vibrator I picked out, and sent it to me. It had come with a note,
Dear Yearning Heart,
You’ve turned me on so much I just thought I’d return the favor, with much appreciation.
I loved it, the gift of it and the thought behind it. I even wrote a short review for Amazon for it. But of course I never mentioned the gift, or even the vibrator, to Monsieur. And now he held it in his hand, and I was tied to his bed.
He pulled me up to my knees, which stretched my arms out. My wrists were starting to hurt, but I didn’t care.
He felt at me, very gently touching my swollen vulva, pressing his hand against it. It burned, and the cold air hit my wetness as he opened me up. He looked at the vibrator, which has a set of controls, and turned on the vibrating part to a low setting. He touched it to me.
Normally when it’s on its lowest setting, I can barely feel it. But when he touched it to me it was as if I had been shot out of a catapult. I came suddenly, biting the pillow to stop from screaming, and feeling that I looked ridiculous, I was so embarrassed, I blushed bright red. Then I sneezed.
Salud,” he said.
Merci,” I replied.
He shoved the toy into me.
My legs pulled at the restraints and I tried so hard to push back against it, but I was well bound to the headboard, and quite at his mercy. He didn’t show very much. My body was out of my own control, and when he put it inside me, he turned it on high. He made the probe part turn on, and the little beads went around and around, and the probe twirled up and down, spiraling into me. Occasionally he would push it into me, which brought the little rabbit up to my clitoris. Then he would pull it out … and it would barely be inside me, hardly touching me at all.
In ten minutes I was almost out of breath. My entire sex was so swollen I could barely handle it being touched.
He turned the toy off, and set it on the night stand.
Standing up, he began to undo his shirt and and remove his shoes. He put his shirt and socks carefully in the laundry hamper. He folded his pants neatly and considered them. “I could wear those again, I should think,” he said to himself.
I pulled at the bathrobe tie that held my wrists. It held fast.
He opened the closet door, found a hanger and hung up his trousers. He retrieved my vibrator from the nightstand and set it on the counter by the bathroom vanity. Then, he finally slipped off his boxer shorts.
He was magnificently hard, and It pointed at me, curved up like a boomerang. I could see his pulse in It, the flare of Its head, and my mouth felt dry. I licked my lips.
He leaned over me, brushed the hair from my face and kissed me softly. I responded hungrily.
“You know,” he whispered into my ear, “I just might take you now.”
“Um, okay” I croaked weakly.
He leaned over me to lower the lamp, and I pulled my leg mightily on the necktie, and it finally ripped away from the foot board. I could then move up to the knotted bathrobe tie that held my wrists and bite at it, pulling it apart with my teeth. He watched as I did this, amused at me, but I worked quickly and got my wrists free from their restraint.
“Nicely done,” he said, admiringly.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said softly, pushing him back and attacking his cock with my mouth. Up and down the shaft my mouth went, but in trying to suck the head in I soon found that it wouldn’t fit at all in its state.
He turned me over, face down, untying the other bathrobe tie that was still on one ankle, and he lifted my butt up and held me by the hips, and It slid into me so slowly and so precisely, like a glacier moving. He held me by my hips, partly for leverage, and partly to keep me from impaling myself on It all at once.
I could hear myself slish as he went in, and I was so sensitive and swollen from before, that it’s tight down there. Very tight; so tight it hurt. Then, as he had It in as much as he could go, he held It there. He held me by my hips, preventing me from moving. He reached under me and found my right nipple, and as he held It buried inside me, he pulled on that nipple with two fingers, stretching it out, not using his thumb, just holding it between his middle and ring finger, letting it pop out between them lazily. He did this three or four times, letting the nipple pop out. He then pulled It out halfway, and positioned his hips so that we were only making contact at one point.
I let go with my hands, and reached down between us to feel that point where we joined. It felt so stretched. I started moving back, then forward, and he held It there for me to use like a toy, and I moved against it and let go totally and buried my face in the pillow and writhed and pushed back, until I felt something bump inside, and I knew there was no more to go, I couldn’t go any further, and I rubbed myself and moved my hips, sort of shimmying my ass up and down, totally being selfish, thinking, well if he’s not even going to try to get himself off, fuck it.
It started to feel like it might be getting sore down there, like it was getting dry or something, and I said, “Something’s hurting.”
He held his hand on the base of my back, and began to withdraw it.
“Noooo!” I cried like the brat that I am, but he got behind me and put his tongue in there, and OHHHH it was so good, like water on a hot griddle.
I came again, very hard, and I thought I may have accidentally wet the bed, but I was too far gone to care.
“Are you done?” he said.
“NO!” I said sharply, then, more gently, “I mean. Not if you’re not!”
I turned over and pulled him to me, and my arms went around him, and my legs went around him, and then I reached between us and put It back where It belonged. It felt so good. The hot sensation was gone and it was just perfect.
He finally took me and he let go, as I buried my face in his chest, watching his stomach muscles clench and flex, as I whispered to him encouragingly, “Take it … take it … you’re so good, so good, so wonderfully good... can I be yours? Let me be all yours,” and he looked at me and said, “you’re mine,” and I rubbed myself and whispered hoarsely ‘vraiment? Encore?’ and he said, ‘toujours’ and I came again as he put my legs over his shoulders and just let go as I had my hand around the base of It; I could feel the pulse of his orgasm bubble up through It and into me, and I thought to myself, whatever happens, I am not going to forget this. Not ever.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

the hardest part

We were watching something on TV. No, he wasn’t. I was watching something. A pretty awful yet funny movie.
About ¾ of the way through, Monsieur’s arm was around my shoulder, and I’m thinking, just do it. Just take it. Don’t make me ask for it. Don’t ask if it’s okay. Just take it. Did he just take it? He did not.
Monsieur was on my left side. His arm was around me, his hand resting on my right shoulder. I took his hand from my shoulder and moved it to my right breast.
I held it there. His hand didn’t move. I pressed his hand into the firm flesh of my breast. He held it there, and it didn’t move. The movie ended. Just before I got pu to turn off the TV and give up on him, Monsieur flicked my nipple ever so slightly. I froze. I stayed put.
His hand didn’t move. Was that flick an accident? A test? No. It was him, torturing me again. I sighed.
His thumb flicked over my nipple again. I sighed and arched my back. He took his hand away.
Put it back! I screamed in my mind, Put it somewhere!
A few minutes later, he reached across me, in front of me, with his left hand, and gripped my right nipple between his thumb and middle finger. His right hand went around the breast, holding it firmly. He pulled my nipple through my nightshirt. He really pulled on it, stretching it out. I closed my eyes, and just as I was about to tell him to stop, he let it go. Someone on television was singing in some language I didn't recognize.
“What language is that?” I gasped.
“Portuguese,” he replied. “I believe he’s Brazilian, by the accent.”
He twisted my nipple. I gasped, wincing from the pain.
“Did that hurt?” he asked, concerned.
I nodded. “Yes, well, but... “
He took his hand away, apologizing. I put it back. My nipple was throbbing.
He lifted my nightshirt, looked at it a second, then leaned over and licked a circle around it. The tender, light, gentle touch of his tongue burned into me, after the rough treatment he had given in only a minute before. I squeezed my thighs together, and felt how aroused I was.
He licked circles around the nipple, not touching it directly with his tongue or lips, but sucked the areola into his mouth gently. My hands went to his head and pushed his face into my breast. I wanted to scream, but I knew if I had, one of the children upstairs might have awakened. I knew that he wouldn’t do anything if any of the children are awake, so I bit my finger to keep myself from screaming.
He’s going to take me, I thought. Then prayed. Please, please, let it happen.
He continued to suck, then stop, then bite, then stop. Over and over again; just on the one breast. The other one, untouched, was so hard that it looked purple.
“So,” I managed to say, “you like the right one okay, then?”
“Indeed,” he said, looking at me, his eyes a-twinkle.
“There’s the other one,” I said, looking at it, then looking at him.
“Well,” he said, “of course there is.”
“Hint hint,” I suggested.
He did not take that as a hint. Instead he grabbed the crotch of my panties and pulled them off, down to my ankles. My legs opened.
He looked at me, and smiled. He has dimples, and I wanted to lick them. He looked directly at me and licked his fingers, then slid three of them into me at once.
My eyes fluttered and my cheeks flushed. I sneezed.
“Bless you,” he said, and curled his fingers inside me.
“Ohhhh,” I said, trying to keep quiet on the couch. I bit my thumb, then sucked it.
His fingers were inside me, curling and wiggling and I don’t know what he was doing. I came gently. It was a soft, sudden, bubbling sort of orgasm and it made me contract on his hand. He leaned over and sucked just the nipple of my hitherto ignored left breast. It hit me harder, and I came suddenly, my thighs locked on his arm.
“You’re going to take me, aren’t you?” I asked.
“I am taking you,” he said, evenly.
Damn him. I reached for his pants but he pushed my hands away. I know his ways by now, and expected that.
He sucked the left nipple into his mouth, then as it stretched from the suction he began to bite it. Hard. It hurt, at first unbearably, then this warmth spread from my crotch to my chest.
He tortured me like that, for about twenty minutes. I wouldn’t have known except by the digital clock on the video recorder. My shirt was off and my panties were in a wad on the floor. He was still fully clothed, in a shirt and tie. Even his shoes were still on. Every once in a while I would attempt to undress him, and every time I tried he would push my hands away and torture me some more.
Finally he stopped. “You’re being too loud,” he said. “You might wake the boys.”
“I’m being loud?” I asked. He nodded. I realized I’d been begging him to take me, to fuck me, to let me get him naked.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You’ve got to learn control, dear,” he said, kindly.
“I’m trying,” I said.
He took me in his arms and picked me up, putting me over his shoulder and carrying me to the bedroom.
And tarnation!, now I have to stop, as he and the boys are back from the park.

To Be Continued… here.

Friday, June 01, 2007

This evening

I'm going on a date tonight! With Monsieur! and you're not! Neener, neener, neener! Sitter will be here at 6. We're going to see Pirates at a dinner cinema in Austin. Don't wait up.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

History Exam (English Colonies in America)

All of these answers are from the same student.

Short answer

(Write your answers in complete sentences.)

5. When did the Pilgrims arrive in Massachusetts?

The Pilgrims arrived in Mass. after they crossed the Atlantic Ocean, and got off their ship Mayflower. Once all were ashore, they all arrived.

8. What was the Mayflower Compact?

The Mayflower Compact was a deal the Pilgrims made with each other to work together and not run off and they wuld [sic] be English and not just people living in the woods with no goverment [sic].

11. How did the local people react to the arrival of the English colonists?

Mostly the local people died. Some didn’t, though, and they shot at the English because the other English captured or killed their people before. And some didn’t shoot at them but wanted to know who they were.

I counted all questions as correct. I need to learn how to write better questions.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Dear Maggie

It’s raining. Rain, rain, rain. I’m home with Littlest Boy, who is now watching Curious George and graciously allowing me to not play Princess Leia to his Luke Skywalker. I get tired of being rescued all the time. So the rain pours down, forming into rivulets and then into streams and the cattle out in the south pasture are complaining about it. I’m thinking about you.
Has it been two years since you’ve been gone? Two years, about a thousand diapers, a few hundred meals.
Your boys, as frustrating as they are, are still the joy of my life.
Bigglest Boy is struggling with dealing with people, those closest to him. He’s still more comfortable with books than with people. I don’t expect that to change but one thing that is changing is that he’s learning to talk instead of yell.
He’s also learning that people love him. Last weekend Littlest Boy was playing with his Jack-in-the-box. He would crank it one way, and the music would play and the puppet would pop out. Then he would turn it around, crank it the wrong way and nothing would happen.
This offended Bigglest Boy’s sense of order, and as I came into the room I heard Bigglest Boy say, “That’s WRONG!” and then thumped Littlest Boy on the head. Littlest Boy burst into tears. I immediately separated Bigglest Boy, put him upstairs in his room, then I went downstairs and checked on Littlest Boy, kissed his head, dried his tears, and told him he could turn the crank any way he wanted.
I then went upstairs to talk to Bigglest Boy.
“Do you know why your little brother is crying?” I asked him.
“Because I thumped him on the head,” he answered.
“Right. Do you know where that hurts?” I asked.
“Um,” he paused, knowing my method by now, “well, on his head...”
“Not enough to make him cry. He’s hurting inside, because his big brother, who he loves very much and who he thinks is the greatest boy in the world, just yelled at him and hit him on the head. So yes, his head hurt for a second, but his heart hurts even worse. He thinks you are disappointed in him, and that he did something wrong.”
Long silence; I stood there with my hands folded.
“Do you know what you should do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Then I’ll tell you. Go straight downstairs, apologize to him, and ask him if he’s okay.”
I expected an argument. His eyes narrowed, and Maggie, when they do that he looks EXACTLY like you. I expected an I won’t or you can’t make me or something.
“Now [Littlest Boy] doesn’t know if he can play with you anymore,” I continued. “He’s afraid you’ll hit him again.”
Bigglest Boy stared at the floor.
“And he’ll probably stay afraid until you tell him you’re sorry and you act like you’re his big brother again. He loves you.”
Bigglest Boy rolled his eyes, but he got up and went downstairs, went straight to Littlest Boy and said, “I’m sorry.” He meant it, too, I think, which is a first.
I don’t know if I handled it like you would have, Maggie, but I handled it.
Middlest Boy is driving me nuts with the food thing. He won’t eat anything I cook except for plain pasta, or plain potatoes. If he doesn’t like anything that’s for dinner, he happily eats bread and water. He eats everything his daddy makes, though. I’m trying not to let it hurt my feelings, reminding myself that I am the grown-up and he is the child.
I had a birthday on Monday. I’m 26 and I feel like I’ve grown up more in the last two years than I did in the previous ten.
I’m getting by, and we’re doing okay. Still, I’d give anything for you to be here right now.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007


It was just daylight, and I was standing at the window in my scruffy old nightgown, looking out to see if it was rainy or not. I stretched, and Monsieur said softly, behind me, “My word.”
I turned around and he was just looking at me. “What?” I asked.
He smiled. “You look like … a vision,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.”
I needed that. I’m still tingling.

Thursday, May 03, 2007


I’m back.
I’m totally drained.
“How was your trip?” my mom asked.
“It was a car and an airport and a wait and a plane and an airport and a wait and a plane, and an airport and a wait and a train and a train and a car, “I said. “And a funeral. Then, the same thing in reverse.”
The boys were pretty good on the flights over. Bigglest Boy nearly had a fit just from being stuck on planes for 12 hours, but one of the attendants on the long international flight recognized it and let him sneak up to 1st class and then let him sit in the attendants’ station and played Yahtzee with him for a little while.
In France, we were staying at his brother’s house, which is this converted old stone monstrosity of a house. When we got there, the boys said, “This is a house? It looks like a castle.”
Then they played pirates and castles with their uncle and aunt.
Monsieur’s grandfather’s funeral was quiet and very well attended. I actually borrowed a dress from a cousin, who was tall and elegant and had really gorgeous clothes. I got to wear a lovely black thing with a lovely black hat. I felt like Lauren Bacall.
There must have been five hundred people in that little church. There was a wake later, that was a bit more private as it only had eighty people or so. I gathered they were only family and close friends rather than business people.
Monsieur’s family is very wonderful. They’re all good-looking. There seems to be two types in the family – tall, dark, and gorgeous; and medium, blond, and gorgeous. And lots of both. The language barrier didn’t affect me one bit since everyone said, “Oh, you’re the American!” as soon as I opened my mouth, and everything was in English from then on.
There was much food and all of it was good; some of it was even identifiable.
There was something brown on a plate which Monsieur didn’t touch but I ate with bread things.
“What’s this?” I asked him, shoveling it into my mouth.
“Pork liver,” he said, and turned away to help Littlest Boy to a plate of fruit.
I looked at my plate, then shrugged, and ate another bite.
“You’re with our American boy, aren’t you?” said someone behind me.
I turned and recognized one of Monsieur’s grand-uncles. I introduced myself in French but he answered in English.
“You know,” said the old man, confiding in me, “[Monsieur’s grandfather] didn’t like to admit to having favorite grandchildren. But, I think his favorite was [Monsieur].”
“Do you really?” I said, smiling.
“I do. But he would never say so, so don’t you tell him. But, it is true. And if you have to pick one man in this family to be the favorite, it would be that one. So, don’t let him go.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said with a wink.
“Good. He is my favorite nephew, too.”

Thursday, April 26, 2007


Monsieur’s grandfather passed away.
He was 98 years old. When he was born in that little village in Gascogne (Gascony), there were no paved roads leading in or out of town. World War I was still five years away, and everyone in his family lived within walking distance of each other.
He fought for his country and for the world in six different conflicts, for three different countries. He also converted the family business from a manufacturer of horse tackle to a global security information consultant firm. He never officially retired; instead he would “advise and consult” with Monsieur’s father by phone from his home. He went from writing with a fountain pen to faxes and e-mails. He was active up until about three weeks ago, when he felt “tired” and went to bed. After that, he only got up to go vote in the Presidential election, and then went back to bed. He died yesterday (Wednesday). We just found out a couple of hours ago.
Bigglest Boy remembers meeting him, but to the boy, the old guy was just an old guy. Middlest Boy was just a baby, and Littlest Boy had not even been born. Middlest Boy rather idolizes both his grand-père and his grand-grand-père - “You know, they both fought the GERMANS.” Like, with their bare hands and a burning tree branch, they held off Panzer divisions or something.
Turns out the old guy was a bit of a spy and resistance fighter in a small way, keeping tabs on equipment that the Germans and Vichy were moving around. His son, Monsieur’s dad, was helping move little notes back and forth, doing what he could too, as he ran deliveries, cigarettes and prescriptions, first on foot and later on bicycle.
The elder was a fun guy, from what I heard, and had a million stories and opinions, and tried to make the most out of every day.
Monsieur’s father arranged to purchase airplane tickets for, the note said, “[Monsieur] (and family), and [Monsieur’s sister Mademoiselle].” I’d thought he would be going with the boys and I would stay home. But Monsieur said that I was specifically invited, and that I must go, if I’m willing. I’ve got my passport.
I’ve got no decent shoes to wear, since my last good pair disintegrated. But, I hear they sell shoes in France.
We’ll be gone just till next Wednesday at the latest.

Thursday, April 19, 2007


I stayed up way too late last night.
First, trying to sort out this new curriculum, getting the right kids on the right track and making sure that no one falls through any cracks. That’s a job, I’ll tell you. Not a day goes by when I don’t feel bad for how bad I acted up in school, because for the most part, my teachers were pretty hard working, and sincere. They really tried, and they had more than a few kids who were real teaching challenges. It was (back then) a pretty small rural school district. I sometimes want to call each one of my old middle school and high school teachers (except Coach Diamond, the bitch) and apologize. I bet most of them are still listed in the book – the ones who didn’t drop dead within a few years from sheer exasperation.
Next, online. I worked at Lady Ann’s last night. I think I’m addicted. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I can’t stay away from it. Anonymous sex, one after the other, and it’s all perfectly safe, if you don’t count the loss of sleep from staying up all night. For a change of pace, I tried sitting on my purple vibrator and just kept it touching me, roleplaying the perfect whore. Well, I was far from perfect; sometimes the tremors would keep me from typing for half a minute, but I tried to give as good as I got. I finally had to go to bed, and I was soaked by the time I shut the computer off.
I took a shower so I wouldn’t come to bed reeking of solo sex. Monsieur is a very light sleeper, and he woke up after I had laid my head on the pillow.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“I’m fine,” I said, my eyes closing.
“It’s 3 AM,” he whispered. “Is your stomach hurting?” (I’d had cramps a few nights before that woke me up, but I think it was because of the fast food I ate too fast, when I should have waited for dinner.)
“No, I was just reading,” I said.
He hugged me close to him, holding me in his arms. I felt like such an unfaithful person.
He was breathing long and slow. I thought he went right back to sleep. I curled by back up into him, pressing close, tried to relax.
“Is something bothering you?” he asked finally. “Something on your mind?”
Sex, I didn’t say. Cock, I didn’t say. Fuck me, you idiot would have sounded somewhat unfair.
“I’m just out of sorts, I guess,” I said finally.
His hand slid from around my waist and went down to the elastic drawstring of my pajama bottoms. They were tied in a bow, and he pulled on the loose end for a few seconds to try to untie them.
“Actually,” I whispered, helpfully, “they don’t need to be untied to come off.”
He pulled them off and I started to turn over, but he kept holding me in place with one arm. Sliding my bottoms down, he teased me with his free hand and then slipped his hand in my panties from behind.
I moaned softly, trying to encourage him.
He took his damn time. I could feel myself building up, swelling and softening and turning all buttery. The hand around my waist moved up, held my right breast firmly, then his fingers spread so that the nipple was between two fingers, then he pressed his fingers in and held my nipple between his middle and ring finger, just holding it, then he pulled my nipple out, slowly, distending it and gently twisting it.
I bit my lip but I couldn’t keep from sneezing. That broke down some kind of wall, and he quickly turned me face down and lifted up my hips until I was on my knees. He was behind me and I could feel his cock tapping against my panties, pressing them into me slightly.
“Those can come off too,” I whispered the suggestion, but his hands were all over me and he didn’t say anything. I pressed against him. I was trying to will his cock into me, to push past my panties. I reached back to pull my panties down but he pushed my hand away gently. He kept teasing me, as he does, not really being cruel, but certainly not in any hurry.
I arched my back and pressed back against him. I wiggled and moved and spread myself wantonly, wanting him inside me so badly that I almost couldn’t bear it. I made guttural sounds and generally behaved in a way that embarrasses me to think about.
Finally he pulled my panties to one side and ran his fingers up and down my labia. I nearly screamed at the touch but instead buried my face in the pillow and lifted my bottom up higher. He gently touched me from the back to the front, and I squirmed. I knew better than to follow my instinct, which was telling me to just turn around and pounce on him. I knew he’d do what he usually does; he would pull back and lose enthusiasm. But if I just held myself there and was patient, I knew he would enter me and fill me.
Which, he did.
In one
I was blind with lust. I chewed a corner of the pillow, bit my finger, breathed in and out in ragged gasps, and still he kept pushing his way in. I reached back behind me and held myself open, then felt where we joined at the stretched ring of my labia. It was as snug as a tractor tire on a rim. I didn’t think I’d be able to move. It seemed like he was even bigger than he’d ever been. He was certainly hard, and I felt the curve of him, arcing into me, all the way in.
There was still more to go when he started to pull out.
“No...” I begged. His hands were on my hair, and he stroked it.
“Steady, now, love,” he whispered.
He started to move and I don’t think I was capable of rational thought at that point. My entire consciousness was reduced to my pulse, which I could feel in my ears and in my vulva, and my electrified synapses. Every touch seemed to have current flowing through it. I was a switch that had no “off” and his moving in and out, his hands – sometimes on my hair and occasionally on my breasts – kept turning me on, on, on.
‘I can’t last,” he said, clenching his teeth.
“Please, please don’t try,” I asked him.
He reached under me where we joined, his hands moving slowly up from the junction to press against my mons, then he ran his fingers in slow circles over my clitoris until I came almost from desperation. Still, he moved in and out.
“Where?” he asked suddenly.
“Where you want,” I said.
His thumb went in my bottom, suddenly.
I came again.
He withdrew his thumb, then pulled his cock out of me slowly, and I gasped, then collapsed face first into the sheets. I was exhausted.
He turned me over, then began stroking himself. I got up on my knees and pushed his hands away.
“You can touch it anytime. This is my turn,” I said.
I stroked him, getting him wet with my saliva first, then I lowered my mouth to it. I sucked the head a little, then ran my tongue around the rim. I could tell by his breathing, even as measured as it was ,that he was close, so I opened wide, stuck out my tongue, and dived down on it.
It was halfway in when I felt it spasm, swell, and then release.
It filled my mouth with warmth, too much to handle, and I just backed off, pointed it down to my chest and let it soak me.
He held me, kissing me tenderly, and telling me how wonderful I was.
“You should do that more,” I advised him.
“No,” he said. “I like for us to stay just a little unsatisfied. Most of the time.”
“I need more, most of the time.” I said.
“It is when you are at your best. Though you shouldn’t lose sleep over it,” he added.
I thought about my evening at Lady Ann’s and felt guilty. “If you see me up too late, that’s most likely the reason,” I said to him.
He held me for a few minutes, and then got up. The bed felt suddenly too cold and too large.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To feed the animals and start the day,” he said. “It’s 5:30 in the morning.”
I looked at the clock. Damn, I thought, I haven’t pulled an all-nighter in years.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


We’ve had freezing to chilly temps up here on Blue Hill and lots of fog, rain and drizzle.
While taking the boys home the other day, the van would not go out of low gear (second gear? like I’d know) which worried Monsieur. He ended up taking it to a (Johnson City) mechanic, then another transmission mechanic in Austin.
When he got home, he had a pinched look on his face, like someone was pinching his forehead with pliers. The estimate for a transmission rebuild: $1400-$1900 depending on how bad it is.
“Ouch,” I said, and I meant it.
“I’m going to call the bank,” he said, and headed for the den.
I said, “I’ve got $186.26 in the bank. I was going to spend that on meaningless bills and student loan payments, but if it could help–”
“No,” he smiled. “I’ll figure it out.”
I wished I could help. I mean, I know I contribute pretty deeply, and I know it’s his job to worry about the money but I wished I could do something.

Monday, March 26, 2007

I'll just put them all here

I truly have not had a moment to finish a single post in three weeks. Here are the posts I've begun since then, unproofed and unedited, not even spell-checked, for those three or four of you who might still be reading.

Thursday was another gold star day.

When I was in middle school, I thought that all the guys who wore famous football player t-shirts wanted people to mistake them for the actual famous football player. I then thought the girls who wore the t-shirts wanted people to mistake them for the famous football player’s girlfriend.

Littlest Boy (3 yo) is tired of being the baby, and is beginning to push back on his brothers. Really hard.

The sole split on the left one of my nice dress shoes. These are my favorite shoes and the worst thing is I hardly ever wear them. I can’t justify getting new shoes because I really never dress up anymore. I can’t justify the money, and it makes me sad, somehow.

Middlest boy (6 yo) is becoming the snitch. Sometimes it’s a good thing: “[Littlest Boy] locked himself in the closet and he’s pooping himself,” sometimes it’s kind of tiresome: “[Bigglest Boy] (9 yo) called me a ‘bleeding polyp’. I think that’s a bad word.”

We are sick with allergies. Fine, OK – I am sick with allergies, and the Two Bigglest Boys are tired of me and my wimpy self. Littlest Boy has sniffles and swears he’s fine. He says he hopes I get better, every time he hears me talk.

Bigglest Boy: Pepper? [E] (bossy 8 yo girl in school) says you and Daddy are ‘getting it on’. What does that mean?

Yearning Heart: Uh... Um...

Bigglest Boy: Does she mean you’re doing sex?

Yearning Heart: I think she does.

Bigglest Boy: [E]’s such a chancre, sometimes.

Yearning Heart: Well, we all have a lot of growing up to do.

Friday, March 02, 2007


Tuesday, Bigglest Boy was, to put it mildly, having a bad day. He could not tie his shoes – not that he was incapable of it, or forgot how – he just didn’t want them to be tied. It bothered him. One loop would always be bigger than the other, or the ends would not match, or they touched the floor when he walked, or they made too much noise.
His shoelaces made too much noise.
I took a deep breath, choosing my battles carefully, and allowed him to go shoeless all day. He walked around in his socks, even in school. The other kids didn’t say anything; I think they are now sufficiently cowed by his withering intellect and no don’t challenge him the way kids do when confronted with his odd or abnormal behavior. He can be quite overpowering when challenged.
The next day, after school, he wanted to do “a science experiment.”
“I need some charcoal,” he announced, as we were at the kitchen table doing artwork.
“Okay,” I said. “There are some charcoal pencils in the art supply box. Do you want to do charcoal drawings?”
“No,” he replied. “I need some charcoal that I can make into a powder. Also some potassium nitrate. Do we have any?”
“Potassium nitrate … h’m … I’m gonna say ‘no’. What is potassium nitrate?”
“Well, its common name is saltpeter, or niter. We might have some in the shed,” he suggested.
“Wait a minute – what do you need this for?”
“I want to make some solid propellant for my rocket,” he explained. “I think I can adapt this formula for it but I need to start with the basic formula first and then alter it to try to get it to burn at a higher temperature.”
“No burning, [Bigglest Boy]. You know the rules. What is the formula?”
He showed me the formula. It was entitled “Formula for Gunpowder”.
“Um,” I said, “I think that, without talking to your daddy, the answer is no.”
“No what?” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“No, you may not manufacture, possess, or store gunpowder, nitroglycerin, plastic explosives, gasoline, kerosene, or any other highly flammable or explosive chemicals or compounds.”
“I’m not going to blow anything up!” he cried. “I’m just going to make a fuel cartridge for my rocket!”
I took a deep breath, and said, “[Bigglest Boy], you can have a pressurized water rocket, and you do have one. You can do experiments with it if I’m watching, or if your daddy’s watching. But you may not make any fuels, or anything else, than could burn or explode. My answer is no, and I am very certain that your daddy will say the same thing.”
He looked at me. He turned around and by the way his shoulders hunched up I was prepared for an emotional eruption. He turned around again and faced me.
“I’m very, very angry at you,” he said.
“I understand,” I said. “It’s okay if you’re angry. But you still can’t have gunpowder or anything else unsafe. It’s not because I think you’re going to start a fire or blow anyone up. It’s just that I don’t know that much about gunpowder, but I do know it’s pretty tricky stuff, and I don’t know how to work with it and keep everyone safe. My job is to keep you, and your brothers, safe.”
He didn’t say anything, but looked at his formula. I went back to pastel coloring on my art paper.
“Well,” he said, after a while, “I’ll just have to do something else.”
“All right,” I said.
Later when I was checking on him, he was reading about Skylab. “Are you still angry at me?” I asked him.
He shook his head.
“I’m very proud of you,” I said.
“Because even though you got angry, you kept your temper and just told me you were angry without losing control. I know how hard that is for you and I think you did a great job. I’ll even tell your daddy that you did that. I bet he’ll be proud of you, too.”
“Can I make some solid fuel now?”
“No, sir. But you can talk to your daddy about solid fuel,” I suggested. “He may be able to explain how it’s made, better than I could, anyway, and why it’s so dangerous for young scientists to work with.”
“Okay.” He looked at his Skylab schematic, and then said to me, “I am going to make a rocket, you know. A real one, not a water rocket. And I’m going to put it into sub-orbital trajectory.” He seemed to be challenging me to say “no”.
“You know what?” I said. “I think you will, too. But, you’re going to do it with the cooperation of the federal and local authorities. And those authorities include me. Is that a deal?”
“Yes,” he said vaguely, without looking up from his book.
“Hey, [Bigglest Boy], guess what?” I said.
“Chicken butt!”
He tried to keep a straight face, but laughed in spite of himself.
“Guess what else?” I asked.
“I love you.”
He didn’t reply, but looked down at his book. Then he smiled.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Sick Bed

I had the WORST case of flu I’ve ever had this last couple weeks. I am just getting over it.
Of course, I got it from the school kids. E gave it to me, I gave it to Bigglest Boy, then Littlest Boy. Middlest Boy only got sniffles. Monsieur, damn him, didn’t get anything. He never gets sick. I was hating on him so badly last week, laying in bed, coughing up my lungs between runs for the bathroom. He was all chipper and concerned at the same time. I asked him why he never even got a hangnail, and he said, “Don’t you remember? I had a strained back just two weeks ago!”
Oh, right, I thought, I stand corrected.
Monsieur’s maternal grandfather is still alive at age 96. His maternal grandmother probably would have lived as long, but died from complications from a car accident that she was in at age 84.
“Why don’t you ever get sick?” I asked him.
“I’m not sure that I know,” he replied. “I eat well and I work on my feet every day or so.”
“How would you define ‘eating well’?” I asked.
“Well, about food choices, it’s pretty simple: Eat food. Don’t eat very much food. And don’t eat very much of your food as milk.”
“What do you mean by ‘eat food’?” I asked. “Everyone eats food.”
“Food,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down, “means things close to how they were when growing. Don’t cook the vegetables too much. Don’t refine the grains and sugars too much. For example, white flour and polished rice are not really food. They may taste good, but they’re not food. Not any more.”
“I pretty much eat what you eat,” I pointed out.
“Yes, you do, and you exercise often and you stay active,” he agreed.
“So why do I get sick and you don’t?” I whined.
“I honestly cannot tell you,” he admitted.
I grumbled, turning over and putting my face into the pillow.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Quote of the Week

Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths theater. -Gail Godwin

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Do I?

When we got home today the boys, who had been so good I thought they might have been abducted and replaced by alien doubles, so as to better study our life forms. They were so good that they were allowed the supreme privilege of watching a movie on a school night, and I had checked out Bedknobs and Broomsticks from the city library. I love that movie, not just because it has a pre-Murder She Wrote Angela Lansbury doing musical numbers as only she could do (didja know she did musical theatre? well, I did).
Middlest Boy didn’t want that to be the movie. “It’s a grown-up movie,” he complained. “It’s going to be scary. I don’t want to see anything scary.”
“It’s not scary,” I assured him. “Look – it’s got a magical island of cartoon animals, and they play soccer. You like soccer.”
He was convinced, finally, and he watched it along with the other two boys.
Treguna… makoides… trecorum… satis dee. I really did want to watch it, actually, but right at about the time that the Wermacht invaded Pepperidge Eye I nodded off.
“Pepper, hush!” Middlest Boy said, startling me.
“Wha-huh?” I snapped awake, wiping the drool from my mouth.
“You were snoring,” he said. “And you were wrong. It is scary. There’s ghosts!”
“Ghosts?” I looked at the TV. Armored knights without bodies were routing the Germans as disembodied bagpipes played on the crest of a hill. I held Middlest Boy in my lap. “Do I really snore?” I asked him quietly.
“Yes!” all three boys said in unison.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be quiet now.”
The Viking and Highlander costumes resisted the German beachhead, and the Empire was safe.
After helping to put the children to bed, I asked Monsieur, “Do I ever snore?”
He looked cornered.
“Seriously, I just want to know,” I assured him.
“I – cannot remember any instance of you ever doing so,” he managed to say.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Happy birthday, Maggie

You have made three fantastic boys. They learn little details so quickly that it’s a challenge for me to keep up with them. They have all come to learn that I’m not perfect or even as smart as they are; like you did, they have intolerance for people who aren’t as smart as they are.
Well, with me, they are learning patience. That’s something you had trouble with. They are also learning about achievement and disappointment, about this wonderful and terrible world, and (with me as a caregiver), they are learning about how authority isn’t always perfect, but it’s in charge.
With Bigglest Boy’s 9th birthday last week, he is in his last year of single digits. Next year, he’ll be a tween. I may cry when that happens. He got an Erector Set for his birthday, but not the motorized one that he wanted. He has already figured out how to modify an old electric toothbrush to use as a motor, and has attached it to gears to slow it down so it won’t completely shred whatever it is he’s inventing.
Littlest Boy also had a birthday – his 3rd – and he, I am both sad and pleased to say, thinks he is no longer a baby. Except he still needs to be held and rocked to sleep. I guess I do, too, sometimes.
Middlest Boy is the little man. He sometimes gets me to tie a bandanna around his head, so he can wear one like his daddy does, when he has to do dirty work like mop the floor or paint. It’s funny to see them out by the creek, hacking brush, both with bandannas on. He looks so much like his daddy now, except when he is angry or frustrated, and then his eyes flash and his teeth grind and, well, he looks like you, I’m afraid. Terrible and beautiful.
a scrap of Maggie’s music
(Click to view larger)
Above, a scrap of Maggie’s music, which rather shocked me when I found it last summer – the song that this blog is named after: Paul Simon’s “How the Heart Approaches What it Yearns.” Boy, that freaked me out so much when I found it, then as I dug further I realized she arranged about a hundred of his songs. For fun, for a diversion. The way you and I would do a crossword puzzle.
I don’t know what to do with all these notes and sheet music that you wrote, but I promise I won’t throw them out. Girlfriend, did you ever hear of “filing”? There are three big file boxes of this stuff, and as I go through them, finding songs you arranged, notes and outlines that you wrote, and crazy hilarious little snippets of t-shirt ideas or bumper stickers, or bad parodies of Dostoevsky or Robert Louis Stevenson novels, I wonder if you ever slept. There’s enough stuff in these boxes to make twenty movies. And that doesn’t begin to go into the music that you recorded.
I have often thought that you knew what was going to happen and you knew that you only had so much time and so many things to do that you just would go and go and not ever stop until you’d pass out. You have written long manuscripts on the history of the way people think. There are what look like chemical formulas. There are scraps, little bits of this and that. I remember watching TV with you, a Will & Grace rerun, while we giggled and snarked. The whole time you were arranging some piece of music, writing notes and scratching them out, and also you were throwing a piece of wadded up paper for the cat to play with. Oh, and you kept an eye on tomorrow’s dinner in the oven. I have a hard enough time just clearing my head enough so that I can watch TV, but you were doing four – or five – things at once and that was when you were relaxing.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

feeling my molly bloom

I only have a few minutes to get this in. sorry no time for spellcheck or good proofreading / editing or anything.
Tonight Monsieur when out to some musician’s get together; I stayed home as it was just for musicians, serious songwriter’s workshop thing. When he got back he showered and got in bed, and I spooned right up against him. He draped his arms around me in a certain way and I knew he wanted me. I moved against him trying not to be too eager but it’s been a week, as usual, since the last time, and I hadn’t had time to pleasure myself in days. I was rarin’ to go; I was a total wildcat, I had to bite my hand to keep quiet. I cooed and wiggled and played with myself and totally abandoned all to the feeling. I was getting close when he let out this sort of sigh/hiss sound and then gasped.
He started to apologize and I said, “shhh… For what?” and then I realized he came! It has been weeks, I don’t know how long since he’d done that, at least with me. He apologized and I told him he didn’t have a thing to apologize about.
With him softening inside me, his eyes burning into mine I kissed him and then he kissed me back, and I clenched on it and he sort of got up supporting himself on his arms so that we were only connecting in that one spot and he just held it there and I needed the movement but he held still so I started to masturbate and I really got into it! it was fun – carefree – and I got to giggling and being silly, not worrying about his orgasms, my adequacy or inadequacy, anything – and finally I stopped giggling and I dunno how, I just had a nice juicy one while he held me, and told me he wanted me to stay with him, for ever and forever, while I clenched my eyes to hold the tears and clenched my pussy, and finally let the tears (and him) slide out of me, and my heart was yearning like mad and “yes...” I said, “yes I will... yes.”
note: edited for spelling, and a link to tell you non-liberal arts majors what the hell the title of this post means.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Ideas that get away are quick, clever and unlikely to be captured alive.

Littlest Boy: Pepper?

Yearning Heart: Yes, Littlest Boy?

Littlest Boy: I had an undea.

Yearning Heart: What‘s an undea, sweetie?

Littlest Boy: It‘s an idea, but I forgot it. So, it got unrased. So, it‘s an undea.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Three Feet High and Rising

Happy MLK's Birthday.
No school today – partly because of the holiday, in which federal, state and bank employees get to stay home and celebrate their black heritage. Also because of the weather, as Canada decided to invade the Plains with 4 – 6 inches of “wintry mix” which froze immediately and downed power lines, trees, and random motorists.
Here’s a picture of the flood-level Blanco River, not far from us:
the flood-level Blanco River
(click to view larger)
the flood-level Blanco River
Water accumulated very quickly in the area, partly because the drought made the ground so bone-hard and impermeable that the water just sat on top of the fields, not soaking in. The water tried to run off but the rising creeks and rivers backed up the runoff, so the water just sat there.
the water just sat there
(click to view larger)
the water just sat there
Then the cold front really kicked in, dropping the temps today from its usual highs of 60° F to about 24° F. From our neighborhood clear up to the Arctic Circle, an ever-thicker blanket of ice is covering everything.
Instead of salting the roads here, they simply stay home, since it won’t last but a day or so. Monsieur is working with Skip the Gay Rancher right now, making sure that the private road is clear to the ranch road. Skip’s tractor is pretty well suited for hauling or towing.
an ice-covered tree
(click to view larger)
an ice-covered tree
I just heard from Monsieur a few minutes ago – he’s still in Skip’s tractor, and it would seem that there is more than one truck that can’t make it up the slippery frozen caliche road. So, Monsieur is a snow-plow operator, a search and rescue worker, and a taxi driver today.
The ground under the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice, so I have moved the chickens from the yard to the basement, and they’re not happy about it. They are pecking and fussing like, well, like old hens. The rooster is trying to argue his way out of his imprisonment. The cat has been locked in Bigglest Boy’s room. Bigglest Boy is up there with him, trying to convince him that it’s not a punishment, and that we didn’t inflict this storm on him out of spite. The Two Littlest Boys are coloring with crayons. Middlest Boy’s drawing is of Hoth, the Ice Planet. There are a couple of ATAT walkers, delivering the mail, and Luke Skywalker driving a John Deere tractor. Littlest Boy is calling his drawing “Brown,” which is a very apt description.
the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice
(click to view larger)
the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice
Where have I been?
Well, I’ve been here. I’ve been busy and all, but that’s not really why I’ve been reluctant to post lately. I think it mostly has to do with the fact that Cat, with whom I went to high school, found my blog.
Hi, Cat!
Even though she PROMISED not to tell the whole world about it, and give away my secrets, I still feel very funny about it. I know that it’s not as if my dad found it, but still I feel funny talking about my feelings to the whole world now. Even though they’re very valid feelings, and nothing to be ashamed of, I have lost that sense of privacy/anonymity that I once had here. I know, with all the detail that I supply, it was bound to happen someday, right? And what was I to do once it did happen? Shut it down? Move it? Or pretend it never was discovered and keep going?
It’s not as though I’m really thinking clearly about all of it.
There’s this … other thing that’s been bothering me.
I’ve been getting the loving from Monsieur about once a week. It’s been very nice, and I really had nothing to complain about, but sometimes he was just getting me off and not getting himself off. I would not have noticed for quite a while but once recently, I guess it was after Thanksgiving. I’d had this mind-blowing orgasm and he stopped, slowing down deliciously first. I was going to flip over and ride him to try and get him off, too. Fair play, right? I mean, it’s his turn and all.
So there I was, cowgirling away with my thighs on either side of his waist. He was rubbing, pinching, teasing and caressing me, but I took his hands in mine and I leaned over him and whispered, “Don’t worry about me, darling. I’m done. Just go for it.”
That’s when Monsieur stopped. “I think I’m done as well,” he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me.
“Did you come?” I blurted out, surprised.
“Well...” he began, and trailed off. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling. He started to get up but I held him down.
“You don’t want to get off?” I asked him. “Or do you need me to do something else?”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I don’t need more.”
So, I’ve sort of noticed that he doesn’t always get off. I guess I’ve been somewhat oblivious to the fact that the wet spot is usually all me, and none of him.
It didn’t bother me at first, but the next time we made love, I noticed it. Then the next time, then the next. No stain, no gain.
I don’t know why, but it bothered me. I was spending all this energy trying to get him to make love to me once a week, and once I started getting that, I guess something in me made me check to see if all was as it should be.
The next time, I said, “You didn’t come.”
“No,” he said, “but I’m all right.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t think I am. I need this, too, sweetheart.”
“You need this, too?” he asked me.
“Yes, I do.” I was being firm, but gentle. “I really do. Now, if you can’t for some reason – if there’s something I’m not doing right, or something, please tell me.”
“Perhaps,” he said gently, “now is not the right time.” He kissed me, and tried to reassure me that it was him, not me, and he was fine with what we had. He loved me, he would take care of me, and so on.
I don’t want to nag him about it. I won’t nag him about it. It’s his body. It’s his choice, and he says he’s fine.
It’s not fine. I want that load. It’s mine, dammit. I earned it. Why does that seem so unreasonable? I feel like such a brat sometimes.
I guess … it’s how men feel if they didn’t get the girl off. Once, twice, it’s not a big deal but if it becomes a pattern I guess it just weighs on me. Sigh.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Xmas Haul

Well, the holidays are over and boy am I glad. It’s exhausting when three young boys are involved.
This year, we started a new concept for the holidays. For one thing, when the children made a Christmas list, it wasn’t about what they wanted to get, it was a list of things to give and people to give them to.
I got five great CD’s, a bunch of lovely books on classical art and classical music, about which I know nothing, but I need to learn it if I want to be in this family. Which, I do.
The other development has been that Monsieur asked me if I had a passport, and since I don’t, he paid for my application for one. I asked him if that meant we were traveling anywhere, and he said, “It is just in case I do need to travel, this time I would like for you and the boys to come along.”
Well, I thought, I can do that. I went to Kinko’s and had the photos made, and I still had an extra copy of my birth certificate. So, I gathered that all together and went to the post office one day, and I turned in the application and affirmed that I was an American. We’ll see if the State Department thinks I’m too dangerous to move freely.