Tiny Spoons

Tiny Measuring Spoons

Are these the cutest, tiniest measuring spoons you've ever seen? They measure 1/4, 1/8, 1/16, and 1/32 of a teaspoon, but the labels on the handles read tad, dash, pinch, and smidgen. Adorable!

I'm a good cook so I can measure a tad, a dash, a pinch, or a smidgen with my fingers. But Chicken Grrrl and I were making cheese last week--mozzarella and ricotta, OMG, you should taste it. so yummy--and I decided I needed a set just because they're so fucking cute for making cheese, because cheese recipes call for tiny amounts of things like cow stomach enzymes and....well, I don't even know what some of that other stuff is. It's only used in tiny amounts though.

I wasn't sure where to get them though so I told Chicken Grrrl I supposed when I got home I'd have to ask The Drug Dealer Down the Street. Some people use tiny spoons to snort tiny amounts of drugs into their noses. I've seen it in movies. I figured he'd know where to get those tiny spoons and maybe even some tiny vials to keep small amounts of cow gut juice.

I'm kind of annoyed at the drug dealer down the street, whom I call Snoop Dog, though. He's not always very polite. First, he has back-up beepers on his Suburban and he comes and goes at all hours

of the day and night. He always backs down the street from the corner, so he makes this annoying beep, beep, beep ....... at least 15 times a night. It's ridiculous how maddening that sound is, but I heard through the grapevine other neighbors complained about it at a neighborhood meeting.

He also likes to think that end of the street belongs to him, but since there's a gate across my end, I have to turn the corner at his end to get to my house. He hangs out in the street, which is wide enough for me to turn my van around in. In the evenings, he leads lots of prayer meetings people drive up and sit in their idling cars talking to him. Sometimes he and his friends just stand out there in the street and socialize. I don't mind that. I actually like people socializing in the street, and do it myself sometimes. What I do mind is that they don't like to get out of the way and let me go home.

The first time it happened I was on my way home at about 2:30 am. I was feeling a nice, warm glow and I wasn't looking for trouble. As I turned the corner, I saw Snoop Dog standing in the middle of the street, facing the corner I'd just turned. Just standing there by himself in the middle of the street. He could barely lift his head--and it wasn't because he's got lots of braids and he's so thin I really doubt he eats enough--but when he did, his eyes glowed red like someone in a Stephen King novel who will die soon or a Halloween store novelty item. Not an attractive look.

I slowed down, but I didn't stop. I just crept toward him in my mini van, the epitome of cool, and he just stood there, his red eyes glaring at me. I kept creeping along, my house in sight on the other side of the crazy son of a bitch. Finally when I was about a yard from him, he moved off to the side and leaned against his truck, still staring with those fun red eyes. I drove on, turned around and parked in front of my house. I was a little scared to get out of my van because I couldn't see him, and I wished I still had a big dog waiting in my house for me. But I got out and quickly walked to my house and went in, locking up behind me.

It happened in minor ways a couple more times. And then it happened one night when I wasn't driving; my date was. One of his friends was parked in the middle of the street and Snoop Dog and 5-6 other guys were talking to him and leaning against other cars. We pulled around the corner. They looked up at us and then just ignored us. We sat there. They glanced over now and then, but the car didn't move. I said something like, "Don't worry. They're just posturing. They'll move." I was thinking, He'll probably never pick me up for a date again. Fucking drug dealers. Finally, just as I was about to get out of the car and tell Snoop Dog I really had to pee (which was true) so could he please let me through to my house have a stern talk with Snoop Dog,  he leaned in and said something to the driver of the car, who slowly pulled his car over to the side of the street. We passed and went on to my house.

I didn't go down and talk to Snoop Dog  but I did tell Melvin, the former drug dealer and active alcoholic who lives across the street and is in love with me, what had happened. I told him that shit had to stop because we really do live on a safe street and it gives an impression of our little neighborhood here we don't want to give. Because it really is a nice street, mostly families and a few singles like me. Hell, we even have a daycare and a resident gay couple. I think Melvin talked to Snoop Dog because he and his friends didn't get in front of me like that again....until the other night.

I was coming home from one of my adventures and turned the corner to find Snoop Dog talking to someone idling in a car in the middle of the street. I stopped and waited. The street was clear for the guy in the car to pull over and park on either side. Snoop Dog smacked the roof of the car and walked up to his house. The driver then did something totally illogical. He put the car into reverse and started to back up. He expected me to back around the corner and let him out. Not this time, asshole, I thought. I just sat there. He backed up some more. I sat. He backed up. I sat. He was about two feet from my front bumper. Finally he put his car in drive and pulled over to the side of the street like he should have in the first place. I drove on by, turned around and parked in front of my house. The guy in the car backed out to the corner, did a K turn, and sat there under the street light giving me the fish eye for a few seconds. Fuck him.

Oh yeah. Tiny spoons. I found some and ordered them from New England Cheesemaking. Aren't they adorable? I still don't know where junkies get theirs.

Getting Back in the Saddle

I thought I'd follow up on my post about my bike wreck. Because the headache has continued to linger, I went in yesterday and saw cute, young doctor--so young he's still a captain. As my MD Facebook friend already had, he diagnosed a mild concussion. He said there wasn't anything more I could do than what I had been, and that the headache should be gone in a week or so.

I said, "What I really want to know is if I can get back on my bike."
He said, "Yes, as long as your head just hurts and you're not feeling dizzy. Just don't hit your head again. And wear your helmet."
"I will. So, no restrictions?"
"You can do anything that's normal for you."
.....
.....
.....
My internal editor went into overdrive. What could this youngster possibly know? "Did you just read something in my records that incriminated me?" I asked.
"Ha! No, nothing about what's normal for you in your records."
"That's a relief. Thanks, captain."
"Have fun."

So A Man Called Horse, who has been almost patiently waiting for my brain to heal, and I are going out on the bike path tonight. And....I'm feeling a little tentative. OK, I'm a little scared. I don't want to hurt my brain again, even though this time it was so minor I'm not sure why I'm even writing about it. I'm really not a big pussy, but I really value my brain. It's always been my best feature. I've never been pretty or nimble or physically impressive, but I have always been one of the smart kids.

I did buy a new helmet though, one just like my old one. It matches my bike perfectly. When I picked up my old helmet to throw it away today, I noticed what I hadn't seen that night I wrecked. My helmet was damaged after all. It's dented and ripply right where my head hit the ground. I guess maybe it did save me some trouble after all. I was more worried about my wrists.

The worst thing isn't the lingering headache though, and helmets don't cost that much. The worst thing is that I don't feel fearless about riding my bike any more. I don't feel like flying. Maybe once I get out there, I will. It's just like with so many things though: you can be going along all happy and strong and confident and even a little crazy....and then you hit a bump, get a whack up the side of the head, and those good feelings just fly away, leaving only reality behind.

Sometimes I can get back in the saddle after a fall (going metaphorical for two sentences here). Sometimes I can't. I paid too much for my bike--did I tell you I got a new bike?--to not get back on that saddle though. And I was loving riding it too much to not get back on the saddle again. And I'll give in to some things, but I don't like giving in to fear. More on that later.

The Story I Decided Not to Tell

This past Saturday I was listening to a friend’s band play an outdoor concert. Another friend I hadn’t seen for a while stopped by to talk and asked about my bike wreck. I showed off my bruises, told her what happened. And then she said with a wiggle of her eyebrows, “So you were riding with that guy you wrote about on your blog, right? The one you went on your first ride with and then flew an airplane with?” It always takes me a few long seconds to answer that question; it has come up at least a dozen times in the last month in one form or another. “No,” I said, “We only rode together that one time. I don’t see him….well, I see him sometimes… but he refuses to speak to me and he literally turns his back on me and acts like I don’t exist when we’re in the same place…” I didn’t say the last part, even though it’s true and fresh and raw. I just shook my head instead. “Really? What happened?” she asked. My own damn fault. I wrote about him on my blog when I was happy and having fun with him. When I thought I wasn’t falling ... but I was. “He just…he doesn’t want to…Umm, you know I really don’t understand it myself, but he really doesn’t want to be around me anymore.” She nodded sympathetically and let me off the hook by changing the subject.

At times like that I could lie, but I don’t. I don’t like or respect liars and, even to save my dignity, I don’t want to be one. And yet, a good lie could sure help a girl save face in situations like this. I could say those posts were just for entertainment, but he was never really significant to me. I could say he fell madly in love with me so I had to tell him goodbye because I’m a free spirited hippie and I don’t roll like that. I could say he always wanted to hold my hand while we walked and to make out shamelessly in pool bars and he'd cry over movies, and I don't like that kind of romantic bullshit. Or that he had to leave the country on a secret mission and if I told you about it, he’d have to kill you. Or that I was going to meet him after the concert at my place for hot, kinky sex, but he was “tied up” at the moment. Or I could say he’s an asshole and I kicked his fucked up ass to the curb and to please never to bring him up again because he’s dead to me, but….no, that’s not what happened with him. The truth is I don’t really know. Silence leaves a void for only imagination to speak, but it doesn’t bring resolution, peace or clarity.

What happened Saturday has happened so often I feel compelled to write about it so I don’t feel like I’m leaving the lie of that relationship hanging out here on my blog, this place where I try to be as honest and authentic as I can. And I guess I hope something will happen… maybe writing about it, telling the condensed version of a long story, will help me get some clarity, let go, stop trying to figure out how someone I loved turned into someone I don’t even know. So far nothing else has worked. And I also can’t say I’m writing an honest version of my life here unless I do include the end of the story here. He surely has another story, probably unrecognizable in comparison, but this one is mine; it’s my story to tell. So tell my story I will……

…Except after writing the long story that came after those introductory paragraphs, I didn’t hit the publish button. I realized this time writing isn’t going to help me, isn’t going to change what’s happened and will happen. As for clarity, I just look like an idiot in this story, all the way to the end and beyond. In a story about romance and perplexities, trust and manipulation, I came out the dupe. I stayed in a situation that I predicted could only end up the way it did: one person's heart broken, another person confused and maybe angry or hurt, and somebody else perfectly content and purring. Guess which one I am.

So I don’t think I’m going to post that story, even though it would be riveting to anyone who relishes my humiliation and heartbreak. I’ll just return you to your regularly scheduled programming and write posts about sex and recipes and other funny things that happen in my life. I’ll try to come up with something like that tomorrow or the next day. Maybe something funny will happen at karaoke tonight or tomorrow night when I go for my first bike ride since my little tumble. I’ll let you know. Thanks for reading.

An Aside

In my last post I mentioned that I'd read Whip Smart: The True Story of a Secret Life by Melissa Febos after I heard an interview with her on NPR. It sounded intriguing and I needed to order some stuff from Amazon anyway, so I ordered it as well. Hard cover! And then as I always do, I forgot about it within three minutes.

About a week later I saw a big white SUV swerve into my driveway a little sideways and stop behind my van. I thought it might be a turn-around, but a slim, dark-haired woman in her 40's got out. She looked like three-fourths of the women in my fancy suburban neighborhood, but I didn't recognize her truck or her. Leaving the door open and the SUV running, she hurried across the yard holding a cardboard box in her hands. She was holding it out in front of herself as if it contained a bomb or a dead mouse or the head of John the Baptist. The flaps were up on the box, so I could see it had been opened. Interesting. I waited for her to ring the bell, which is only polite, and then answered the door. Here's how the conversation went.

Me: (smiling, I open the screen door) Hi.
Suburbanite: (frowning, she pushes the box to her arms' length toward me) This isn't mine. It's yours. It was delivered to me by mistake and I opened it. But I didn't look at it.
Me: (curious now, but not smiling so much) O....K?
Suburbanite: (shoving the box into my hands  and then backing up a step or two) Just take it. I promise I didn't look.
Me: (taking the box and looking inside  I see a book. On top are two packages of black nylon ukulele strings. I read the title of the book and the label on the strings and start to laugh.) So you didn't open it, but yet it's open?
Suburbanite: I opened the box. I didn't look at anything in it.
Me: (laughing harder) Oh, you opened the box but you didn't look in it?
Suburbanite: That's right. Obviously that is yours, not mine. That is not.....mine. That is yours.
Me: (still laughing) Yes, these are definitely mine. (I look straight into her eyes and smile. I probably look like a crocodile to her.)
Suburbanite: (seeming a bit flustered for some reason) I'm sorry I opened your box. I have to go.
Me: (still laughing) I'll bet you are. Thanks for dropping it by.
Suburbanite: (lowering her eyes, she mumbles something and hurries back to her shiny, white SUV. She bumps out of the driveway without looking both ways and speeds down the street.)


I was still laughing as I let the door close and pulled the book and the strings out of the box. I really had forgotten I'd ordered this memoir about the heroin-addicted dominatrix who put herself through Sarah Lawrence by working in a dungeon. I'd been eagerly waiting for the ukulele strings because Chicken Grrrl and I were playing a paying gig the next week. Paying gigs require more than just showing up with a guitar and some lead sheets. People expect extras like ukuleles and melodicas and shiny black electric guitars when they pay money for tickets. I'd bought a ukulele for just one song we were doing, and I really needed to change the crappy strings that came on it so I could keep it in tune long enough to learn to play it. The ukulele, I mean. I'd never played one before.

But every time I thought about the look on that woman's face when she handed me the box holding the BDSM book with the black nylon strings on top, I started laughing again. I wondered how often she drove by my house after that and imagined what I was doing in there--or tried to. I wondered if she told her husband and he suggested they try something kinky. I wondered if he drove by and wondered what I did in there. I wondered if she might have read just a little bit of the book, just the first few pages. Or the whole thing. I thought the story from her perspective would make a great short story if I just added in my imagination.

And I was glad living in that neighborhood hadn't turned me into such a tight-ass that I couldn't find humor in accidentally opening a box that contained a book about a dominatrix along with two packages of black nylon instrument strings. If I'd had to deliver that box to someone, I probably would have introduced myself and asked if I could read the book when she was done. And I certainly wouldn't have left until I found out what she was going to do with those nylon strings. I would have left with her story.

Oh, the suburbs. I miss my house, but I do not miss those suburbs one tiny bit.

Keyword Monday: The Dungeon

I’m so intrigued by some of the keywords people follow to arrive at my blog, I’ve decided to write a weekly post based on the most interesting keyword(s) from the past week. I figure a Google search is a plea for help, and if a googler is sent to my blog, I would be serving a worthy educational purpose if I had written something relevant about the subject. It’s a public service of sorts, and given some of the topics I’ve written about this summer, I think I owe it to the googlers to give them their money’s worth.

The long list of choices included the following possibilities: bike shorts 'position junk,' cheesecake dildo riding, frosting vagina, virgin tries sybian saddle, and cow butt. But the lucky winner found my blog this week by googling the these keywords: “what is going to happen to me when i go to the torture dungeon.”

Well, now. I don’t really remember writing anything that would bring a tenderfoot subbie here to Reticulated Writer. I mean nipples and pasties and vaginas, sure, but torture dungeons? I think I’d remember that. I followed the trail back to learn that Google pulled words from two of my posts, one about getting a mammogram and the other about a little boy whose daddy told him he was a bad boy, and sent the poor, anxious subbie to my blog. Probably not the information she* was looking for. Nothing about nipple clamps or Boy Scout knots or even whips....yet.

I’m hardly an expert on torture dungeons, but after listening to an interview on NPR with Melissa Febos, I did read her memoir Whipsmart to learn how she put herself through Sarah Lawrence and supported a heroin habit by working in a NYC dungeon as a dominatrix. Since I somehow combined words that led a neophyte submissive to my blog, I feel a certain responsibility to respond with whatever bullshit wisdom I can about how the submissive dungeon experience might compare more favorably to situations that cause real-life pain and humiliation, an encouraging and uplifting post to ease those torture dungeon anxieties. Here is my answer to the googler’s question: “what is going to happen to me when i go to the torture dungeon.”

First, take all necessary precautions** to ensure your personal safety in the dungeon. Seriously. I’ve heard people can get hurt in places like that, so listen to the professionals. My advice focuses more on the emotional and social aspects of the dungeon experience and how it compares to real life. This is important so pay attention. You may answer, “Yes, ma’am” …. That wasn’t good enough. Try it again. Better. Lower your eyes…..As soon as you are on your knees, we can continue.

What happens in the dungeon is a game. It’s theater. You know someone is going to humiliate you, order you around, cause you physical pain, maybe all three if you’re lucky, but your dom doesn’t really mean any of it. It's not about you personally, but about your experience there. In fact, your dom  gets paid enough cares enough about you to provide this piece of theater to serve your needs, and will maybe even wear sexy black leather while doing it. This game, this play, is all for you. For example, you might want to lick your dom’s boots, but they aren’t really that dirty. Nevertheless, your dom will act like they are filthy…may in fact accuse you of getting them dirty and will then order you to lick them clean. That’s acting, and you will be happy because you want to lick her shiny boots and she lets makes you do it. Or you may want to be tied up tight with ropes and nipple clamps and a ball gag and….well, use your imagination. Whatever you want, your dom will do it only to the point that you don’t sustain permanent damage. You control the play. Listen, you may even be the type who wants to wear diapers. I can assure you nobody really wants so see you in diapers. Anybody who acts like you’re really a baby is….well, acting. You’re being quite silly and we all know it, but sometimes theater is silly. If that’s what you want, that’s what you get. You are the beloved of the dungeon, contrary to all outward appearances.

Real life isn’t a game nor does it take place on a stage. In real life, people who humiliate, manipulate, hurt and use you don’t let you know they’re coming. They may act like nice people at first or at times, but nobody, especially self-centered, selfish users, can keep that up forever. Once you’ve been played into their scam, you’re trapped, and it’s not for your pleasure. You aren’t walking into the situation willingly, and you won’t know the real person is only acting like she or he cares, so you won’t take the necessary precautions to protect yourself—like running as fast and as far as you can. Unfortunately, if you get caught in this play that’s not play, you probably won’t realize it’s happening until you’re trapped in a relationship that requires your continued humiliation and pain to continue. The stakes will be emotionally high, but only for you.

In real life, although there are people who might play with you because you’re so fun to play with and maybe you have cool toys or friends, and they might even act like they care about you just enough to keep you sufficiently happy, it’s not theater. You’ve got on a collar and leash sure, just like you might choose to in the dungeon, but it’s metaphorical and it’s staying on whether you like it or not. This is not about you at all. It’s about someone else’s selfish motivations and desires. You might be emotionally tied up for years—for life-- without even a “get out of jail free” card to end the game. Believe it or not, you are less likely to get hurt in the dungeon than you are in real life.

Because unlike real life, in the dungeon you will choose a safe word. You may use your safe word any time you don’t feel safe or you just want whatever is happening to end or change. As soon as you utter the word, the game will stop, and you can renegotiate or move on to something you’re more comfortable doing. For example, let’s say your bum is getting sore from so much spanking. Utter your safe word and the spanking will stop. Or let’s say your circulation is cut off from tight bindings. Ouch! Say your safe word and your dom will take care of you. It’s that simple. You are in control.

In real life, you don’t get a safe word. People, even those who act like they care about you, might be mean to you, and nothing you say or do will make them stop. You might use many safe, or even kind and conciliatory words, words that work with other people but mean people will continue to be cruel and unforgiving, often humiliating you in public and in private. Personally, I think a safe word for real life would be useful, but those who would use one probably aren’t suffering at the hands of those who would honor one. You’re safer in the dungeon. Don’t forget your safe word and you’ll have fun.

And finally, still on the topic of words, in the dungeon you can expect to hear words that are intended to humiliate you and shove you into your lowly place on the bottom. You may be told you’re worthless in many ways, unlovable, failing at being a human. You will have to work hard to earn praise from your dom. You might be sent to time out away from your dom as a punishment, to teach you a lesson. Your dom may also call you by possessive names that start with “my,” and pet names, like toy, pet, little boy or little girl or little friend, or any number of diminutive names that are intended to humiliate and control you, but your dom doesn’t really feel contempt for you. You have chosen to play this game.

In real life, people should not humiliate the people they claim to care about. They should not put other people in time out by being emotionally unavailable or withholding love to get their way or keep someone else under control. If they aren’t capable of love, I assure you they are capable of humiliation—yours. In real life, people should not use diminutive names as terms of endearment because....do I have to say it? Those funny little nicknames are intended to debase and belittle you. They aren’t cute or endearing; they show contempt. If you didn’t sign on for that, a trip to the dungeon would be less humiliating because you know it’s play there. A dom doesn’t mean it; people who do it in real life really do feel disdain for you--if they feel anything for you at all. Again, in the dungeon these issues are negotiated, expected, and stay in the dungeon when you leave. In real life….well, if you’re being subjected to these things in real life, you don’t need a dungeon. You’re already in one that goes everywhere you go, my little friend.

So there you have it: a short primer on what you can expect in the dungeon compared to something similar, but oh so wrong, you might experience in real life. When you realize how many sociopaths amateur doms there are out there playing games with nice, innocent people, the dungeon almost seems like a safer place to be, doesn’t it?

Go forth to the dungeon and have fun, little subbie. I wish you could report back and let us know how it all turns out....once you can sit comfortably at your computer again. 

*Or he. Pronouns are such an issue. Now I use she. Later I use he. Blogger’s choice. It’s up to you to keep up.

** I’m not an expert on torture dungeon preparedness. Lots of different games are played in a dungeon, so I recommend reading everything ever written by Dan Savage and following his advice to the letter.