My mother, to her credit, has more or less readily accepted the poly part of my life. She met previous girlfriends and currently considers Stuart another son-in-law (as does my stepfather). When they come to town, they demand to see all of three of us. If Stuart elects not to go, I am questioned thoroughly as to where he is. She's been trying to get me to bring him "home" for Christmas (which we are finally doing this year). Our Sunday phone calls almost always include questions are how both Edward and Stuart are doing followed by an update on the animals. My mother is in her 60's and for her to accept all of this is pretty fucking cool. I know that. But...
She still thinks I'm a swinger.
I have explained to her countless times the difference between polyamory and swinging. Yet she refuses to believe that I'm not having sex with my friends.
At my 30th birthday party which was held at a very nice Mexican restaurant with people from all parts of my life, she leaned over and whispered "Who else are you having sex with here?"
Most recently, as I was telling her about some folks we camped with this year at Burning Man who happened to be swingers, she asked "Did you swing with them?" (Even more stunning was that she asked this after I had already told her that they were "her age." But, my mother has very selective hearing so I suspect she didn't hear that part.) OY.
(As an aside, I feel compelled to note that I was rather impressed with our swinger campmates. They have been swingers for years and there was absolutely NO drama. That is a rarity with anyone who chooses to have some type of open relationship.)
They say good fences make good neighbors. And good boundaries make good poly relationships. This is precisely WHY I have very firm boundaries and do not step outside them without lots of discussion and forethought. Sure, there are times when it would be nice not to have to get signed permission slips from both husbands.... but this works. And it's honest and ethical.
I think swinging is my mother's deviant "baseline". She understands swinging which is probably why she always goes back to that. I try to keep this in mind but it's still frustrating. I have explained to her over and over again that this whole situation is really rather wholesome - it's very much Little House on The Prairie with an extra Charles and animals instead of children.
It's interesting to think that in spite of the sense of family the three of us have, my mother has just assumed that The Lady Garden is open for business.
Eh, not so much. New gardeners don't get hired very often. And there's a LOT of paperwork...
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
I Know, Right?
I hate being wrong. Or more accurately, I love being right. You'd think, as an adult with many "adult experiences" under my belt, I'd be a little more lax with the whole being right thing. But, no. This is one of those areas where the five year old continues to thrive inside of me.
Perhaps I fear not being taken seriously. I remember acutely how it feels not to be taken seriously. So maybe, the more tally marks I can accumulate under being right, the higher my You-Should-Take-Me-Seriously score will be.
I find it the most difficult to control myself with my partners and this is not a good thing. I've read the therapy books about "letting go of being right" and I TOTALLY AGREE. It just causes problems. If adult-brain could just put child-brain down for a nap during those times, it would be smooth sailing. But it becomes almost a compulsion. That last bit of information that proves I was right sticks like a thorn in my side until I pull it out in a fairly embarrassingly triumphant way to claim my last bit of rightful victory.
Do I really win anything? No. Cognitively, intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get a tick mark on the I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. Except, there is no I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. So even beyond the evidence, I still recognize that there's no real prize at the bottom of the box. What the fuck?
During a somewhat emotional conversation, a friend recently said "I'd be willing to scrap with you but I'm not sure I'd come out alive. You have a very strong do-not-fuck-with-me aura about you." While statements like these always surprise me a little bit, I am aware that I can come off as a pretty strong person. I have been described as intimidating and while I have a hard time seeing that in myself, I accept that others do. You'd think someone who apparently wields as much psychic power as I do would not worry so much about which specific childhood acting role made Jason Bateman famous.
I suspect it has something to do with marrying a very strong person. He's louder than I am, quicker than I am, and could successfully cross examine the pope into admitting that he fudged a miracle. In short, he's a tough opponent. While I mostly consider the two of us a team, we do go head-to-head fairly often in both The Mundane and The Important. Disagreeing with him is a stressful venture because I am nowhere near as good at making my case as he is and also because my emotions often go into cruise control and take the nearest exit known as Oh Great, She's Crying Now. So perhaps I try to gain leverage wherever I can in order to boost myself up a little bit the next time
Which, really, is illogical. There is no carryover. There is no video game score floating above my head to announce that I have more Validation Points for the next argument. (Although, I would kind of like that. Measuring and organization of points appeals to my OCD.) I know this. Somewhere, in my adult brain that pays bills and owns property, I know this.
However, Jason Bateman's first significant role was Little House On The Prairie. I knew it.
Perhaps I fear not being taken seriously. I remember acutely how it feels not to be taken seriously. So maybe, the more tally marks I can accumulate under being right, the higher my You-Should-Take-Me-Seriously score will be.
I find it the most difficult to control myself with my partners and this is not a good thing. I've read the therapy books about "letting go of being right" and I TOTALLY AGREE. It just causes problems. If adult-brain could just put child-brain down for a nap during those times, it would be smooth sailing. But it becomes almost a compulsion. That last bit of information that proves I was right sticks like a thorn in my side until I pull it out in a fairly embarrassingly triumphant way to claim my last bit of rightful victory.
Do I really win anything? No. Cognitively, intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get a tick mark on the I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. Except, there is no I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. So even beyond the evidence, I still recognize that there's no real prize at the bottom of the box. What the fuck?
During a somewhat emotional conversation, a friend recently said "I'd be willing to scrap with you but I'm not sure I'd come out alive. You have a very strong do-not-fuck-with-me aura about you." While statements like these always surprise me a little bit, I am aware that I can come off as a pretty strong person. I have been described as intimidating and while I have a hard time seeing that in myself, I accept that others do. You'd think someone who apparently wields as much psychic power as I do would not worry so much about which specific childhood acting role made Jason Bateman famous.
I suspect it has something to do with marrying a very strong person. He's louder than I am, quicker than I am, and could successfully cross examine the pope into admitting that he fudged a miracle. In short, he's a tough opponent. While I mostly consider the two of us a team, we do go head-to-head fairly often in both The Mundane and The Important. Disagreeing with him is a stressful venture because I am nowhere near as good at making my case as he is and also because my emotions often go into cruise control and take the nearest exit known as Oh Great, She's Crying Now. So perhaps I try to gain leverage wherever I can in order to boost myself up a little bit the next time
Which, really, is illogical. There is no carryover. There is no video game score floating above my head to announce that I have more Validation Points for the next argument. (Although, I would kind of like that. Measuring and organization of points appeals to my OCD.) I know this. Somewhere, in my adult brain that pays bills and owns property, I know this.
However, Jason Bateman's first significant role was Little House On The Prairie. I knew it.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Burning Me
For many, Burning Man is an opportunity to let loose and let the proverbial hair down (or for some, let the junk air out for a week). For me, it's something of a test to prove that I can in fact do this. I can survive in the desert for a week and remain nourished, hydrated and marginally sane. Mostly. This may not sound like an accomplishment for those that run screaming to the playa with their Red Bulls in one hand and a handful of ecstasy in the other. I get that others see it as an escape, a grown-up playground, and chance for reinvention. I just have difficulty applying that to myself.
Perhaps if I could take a new set of neuroses, hang-ups, and quirks with me, it would feel more like a reinvention. But I take me. And regardless of whether I'm snuggled safely in my bed or forcibly removing playa from my body with a baby wipe, I'm still me. At Burning Man, I'm still the person who gets cranky when people move my cheese, bitchy when I'm not sleeping enough, and stabby when I get too hungry. I do my best to prevent these things *all* the time. Which means that on the playa, I try to hide my cheese so that others cannot touch it, I go to bed before the party has ended, and I make myself eat even when I don't feel like it. In other words, at what some call "the greatest party on earth" I'm still a fucking square. (Incidentally, I will punch the first person who suggests I take a bite out of my dusty cheese.)
In real life, these things work for me. They help me tolerate the jackassery in the world and I'm able to function in a mostly productive manner. And there lies my conundrum... how in the world does one go about reinvention when you've already got they keys to the castle? Do I experiment with sleep deprivation? Snack on mushrooms instead of hummus? Decide that a small container of greek yogurt will TOTALLY get me through until dinner? Make an intentional bad decision? Deliberately step on a relationship boundary? What's a stable mostly well adjusted girl to do? And why does reinvention have to be so expensive?
Every year, I step foot on the playa with a resolution to simply do more. See more. Experience more. But, the reality of my time there is that I find myself fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, sensory overload, dustiness to an incomprehensible level, and depression. Keeping all of that in check makes pushing additional boundaries rather out of the question because I already feel my boundaries are pushed. My boundaries feel pushed to the point of having my underwear pulled up over my head and sitting uncomfortably in Super Mega Wedgie Land. And I'm not a masochist (usually) so to further flick the envelope seems just cruel.
A friend recently posted something about managing Burning Man expectations. I find that I never have as much fun as I think I'm going to have. But after it's all over, I realize I had more fun than I thought. This doesn't really parse cognitively but it's what I experience.
I'm open to suggestions about reinvention or new ways to do Burning Man. But if you touch my cheese, I will cut you.
Perhaps if I could take a new set of neuroses, hang-ups, and quirks with me, it would feel more like a reinvention. But I take me. And regardless of whether I'm snuggled safely in my bed or forcibly removing playa from my body with a baby wipe, I'm still me. At Burning Man, I'm still the person who gets cranky when people move my cheese, bitchy when I'm not sleeping enough, and stabby when I get too hungry. I do my best to prevent these things *all* the time. Which means that on the playa, I try to hide my cheese so that others cannot touch it, I go to bed before the party has ended, and I make myself eat even when I don't feel like it. In other words, at what some call "the greatest party on earth" I'm still a fucking square. (Incidentally, I will punch the first person who suggests I take a bite out of my dusty cheese.)
In real life, these things work for me. They help me tolerate the jackassery in the world and I'm able to function in a mostly productive manner. And there lies my conundrum... how in the world does one go about reinvention when you've already got they keys to the castle? Do I experiment with sleep deprivation? Snack on mushrooms instead of hummus? Decide that a small container of greek yogurt will TOTALLY get me through until dinner? Make an intentional bad decision? Deliberately step on a relationship boundary? What's a stable mostly well adjusted girl to do? And why does reinvention have to be so expensive?
Every year, I step foot on the playa with a resolution to simply do more. See more. Experience more. But, the reality of my time there is that I find myself fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, sensory overload, dustiness to an incomprehensible level, and depression. Keeping all of that in check makes pushing additional boundaries rather out of the question because I already feel my boundaries are pushed. My boundaries feel pushed to the point of having my underwear pulled up over my head and sitting uncomfortably in Super Mega Wedgie Land. And I'm not a masochist (usually) so to further flick the envelope seems just cruel.
A friend recently posted something about managing Burning Man expectations. I find that I never have as much fun as I think I'm going to have. But after it's all over, I realize I had more fun than I thought. This doesn't really parse cognitively but it's what I experience.
I'm open to suggestions about reinvention or new ways to do Burning Man. But if you touch my cheese, I will cut you.
Monday, August 1, 2011
High Times
Some people duck into bathrooms to snort lines of coke. Other people "borrow" an Oxy from Grandma's medicine cabinet. And yet some hoard Percoset from their own surgeries (or even the surgeries of others) for that special floaty magically delicious high.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Cloudy & Cool
I have never been a "cool kid." At least, not that I know of. I'm making the assumption that if you're cool, you know it. I'm guessing there's some sort of official notification in the form of a certificate, a multi-media text or a super secret ninja handshake that says "Welcome! You can stop trying so hard now."
At some point, I accepted my lack of coolness. Which I why I carry around a personal fan. (And now that I think about it, that may have more to do with peri-menopause.)
In kid-land, being cool was uber important. It was the life or death of your social status and it was probably fair to say that mine was on life support. And oddly enough, once I was far removed from lunch tables, lockers, and student council elections, I still coveted the "coolness".
I was never able to grasp the concept of being cool as an adult except that I knew I wanted it but didn't have it. And this was annoying. I had a car, a mortgage, cats that hadn't died, co-pay money, and "adult responsibility." Yet, I was still classifying myself as decidedly not cool AND there was no discernible way for me to become cool.
This type of thinking reminds me that regardless of how many wrinkles we have (or don't have because we've Botoxed them away), we're never all that far from that lost kid in the lunchroom looking for a place to sit.
What I also find interesting is how radically my concepts of cool have changed. In the early years, it was having a Liz Claiborne purse, not having glasses the size of my face, and being invited to everything. Now, much of it has to do with the amount of blinky and furry per square inch on your outfit (And I did the blinky/furry thing thing for a while. But eventually, apathy won. Apathy always wins my elections. Even if I don't vote. Which is the really beautiful thing about apathy. You don't HAVE to vote.)
So, even though apathy tends to be my soup du jour, there's still a part of me that wants to be cool. Except, there's a problem. Aside from entering sparkle-pony land (which becomes much easier the higher you are on the blinky/furry continuum), I don't know what that is. So, essentially, I want something that I can neither define in any concrete tangible way or even describe to a blind person. That. Is. Fabulous.
And so I swing in my Hammock of The Undefined. Not a geek because I have a low tolerance for trolls, RPG's, and an impatience for people who think that having a fleshed out gaming character somehow erases social awkwardness. Not a sparkle pony because again, I have a raging case of The Apathy. Not really a dork either... well, I had to look that one up. And apparently it can mean a slow-witted person, a penis, or someone who is silly "at times." I tend to be quick on the draw, have never identified as a penis and would classify myself as silly more than "at times." You, dear reader, are welcome to draw conclusions as you see fit. I'd happily draw them for you, but the apathy wins again.
At some point, I accepted my lack of coolness. Which I why I carry around a personal fan. (And now that I think about it, that may have more to do with peri-menopause.)
In kid-land, being cool was uber important. It was the life or death of your social status and it was probably fair to say that mine was on life support. And oddly enough, once I was far removed from lunch tables, lockers, and student council elections, I still coveted the "coolness".
I was never able to grasp the concept of being cool as an adult except that I knew I wanted it but didn't have it. And this was annoying. I had a car, a mortgage, cats that hadn't died, co-pay money, and "adult responsibility." Yet, I was still classifying myself as decidedly not cool AND there was no discernible way for me to become cool.
This type of thinking reminds me that regardless of how many wrinkles we have (or don't have because we've Botoxed them away), we're never all that far from that lost kid in the lunchroom looking for a place to sit.
What I also find interesting is how radically my concepts of cool have changed. In the early years, it was having a Liz Claiborne purse, not having glasses the size of my face, and being invited to everything. Now, much of it has to do with the amount of blinky and furry per square inch on your outfit (And I did the blinky/furry thing thing for a while. But eventually, apathy won. Apathy always wins my elections. Even if I don't vote. Which is the really beautiful thing about apathy. You don't HAVE to vote.)
So, even though apathy tends to be my soup du jour, there's still a part of me that wants to be cool. Except, there's a problem. Aside from entering sparkle-pony land (which becomes much easier the higher you are on the blinky/furry continuum), I don't know what that is. So, essentially, I want something that I can neither define in any concrete tangible way or even describe to a blind person. That. Is. Fabulous.
And so I swing in my Hammock of The Undefined. Not a geek because I have a low tolerance for trolls, RPG's, and an impatience for people who think that having a fleshed out gaming character somehow erases social awkwardness. Not a sparkle pony because again, I have a raging case of The Apathy. Not really a dork either... well, I had to look that one up. And apparently it can mean a slow-witted person, a penis, or someone who is silly "at times." I tend to be quick on the draw, have never identified as a penis and would classify myself as silly more than "at times." You, dear reader, are welcome to draw conclusions as you see fit. I'd happily draw them for you, but the apathy wins again.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Dirty 30...Five.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow lands me smack dab in the middle of my 30's. I will be 35. There are no "almosts" or "just a hare past". It's the creamy center of a decade with no room for ambiguity. Edwards says that the only reason that number has any social significance is because we have 10 fingers and 10 toes. While this may be true, it doesn't change the fact that I've held very definite ideas of what 35 looks and feels like.
I think there's a sort of denial that happens around the age of 18. Sure, your responsibilities increase and your landscape may change dramatically but I think there's a self protective mental shift that happens where we unconsciously decide that we aren't REALLY going to get any older. We will explain away wrinkles and aches with poor life choices but certainly not because of age.
And then.... there comes a point where we accept that yes, this is actually happening.
I thought 35 would look like... being a mom and probably driving a mini-van or possibly a less safe but more stylish SUV. I would be "done" with growth and know exactly where I'm headed in life. I would be responsible with a capital R. I would watch television appropriate for my age like NCIS or gardening shows. Better yet, I would read grown-up books with a little light that clips onto the cover. My kitchen would smell of delicious baked goods made for kiddo fundraisers, complete with perfect icing flowers. There would be minimal swearing because my vocabulary doesn't require it.
And the reality? I have two husbands, two cats, 3 step-animals, and I bake for burners who want bacon in everything. I still watch The Real World and Teen Mom. There are days when I still want my mommy. The thought of actually being the soccer mom in charge of small people who need stuff makes me want to give an Oxycontin addiction a try (you know, just to see). I have a decent vocabulary but have yet to find a word that adequately replaces the sentiment of "fuck." I am still learning things about myself and even sometimes feel like the new girl showing up for the first day of work for a job that hasn't been explained yet. I look at my closet and think "More sparkly!". I have a job that I love very much, allows me to set my own hours, gives me control over who I work with, and affords me plenty of free time to do other things (which doesn't feel very grown up at all).
And so here I sit, one day away from mid-decade and think... Really? Wandering into my mid-30's feels like a tour of Willy Wonka's house.... so many strange, wonderful, and horrifying things.
"Candy doesn't have to have a point. That's why it's candy."
I think there's a sort of denial that happens around the age of 18. Sure, your responsibilities increase and your landscape may change dramatically but I think there's a self protective mental shift that happens where we unconsciously decide that we aren't REALLY going to get any older. We will explain away wrinkles and aches with poor life choices but certainly not because of age.
And then.... there comes a point where we accept that yes, this is actually happening.
I thought 35 would look like... being a mom and probably driving a mini-van or possibly a less safe but more stylish SUV. I would be "done" with growth and know exactly where I'm headed in life. I would be responsible with a capital R. I would watch television appropriate for my age like NCIS or gardening shows. Better yet, I would read grown-up books with a little light that clips onto the cover. My kitchen would smell of delicious baked goods made for kiddo fundraisers, complete with perfect icing flowers. There would be minimal swearing because my vocabulary doesn't require it.
And the reality? I have two husbands, two cats, 3 step-animals, and I bake for burners who want bacon in everything. I still watch The Real World and Teen Mom. There are days when I still want my mommy. The thought of actually being the soccer mom in charge of small people who need stuff makes me want to give an Oxycontin addiction a try (you know, just to see). I have a decent vocabulary but have yet to find a word that adequately replaces the sentiment of "fuck." I am still learning things about myself and even sometimes feel like the new girl showing up for the first day of work for a job that hasn't been explained yet. I look at my closet and think "More sparkly!". I have a job that I love very much, allows me to set my own hours, gives me control over who I work with, and affords me plenty of free time to do other things (which doesn't feel very grown up at all).
And so here I sit, one day away from mid-decade and think... Really? Wandering into my mid-30's feels like a tour of Willy Wonka's house.... so many strange, wonderful, and horrifying things.
"Candy doesn't have to have a point. That's why it's candy."
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sex, Skittles and the Poly Paradox of Fair
It's something that's on my mind frequently although I am often thinking about it in a greater-scheme sort of way. More recently, I've been examining my own attitudes about it and attempting to understand not only how I feel but also why.
I hold a fair amount of socially liberal attitudes. Recreational drug use is fine, marrying your best friend, dog or favorite vehicle should be permitted, and I think unconventional families are fabulous. However, I hold sex in a somewhat different regard.
Despite the appearances of my dramatic sitcom "My Two Husbands", I'm fairly conservative about sex. Sometimes my attitudes protect me and sometimes they annoy me, but they are unquestionably me.
Getting back to basics, my mother was uncharacteristically open about sex. She always propped the door open for me to talk about it and there was a veritable parade of men marching through our apartment. The parade also brought much drama and heartache. I paid attention and decided fairly early on I wanted no part of that. To matters more interestingly confusing, I wanted there to be a clear separation between my mother and myself which is why I clung like a drunk sorority girl to my neo-Puritan values. I certainly didn't save myself for marriage (that's just crazy talk), but I married my second sexual partner. And although polyness and my unconventional social life have brought a number of new sexual experiences my way, I still remain firmly judicious about with whom I partake and under what circumstances.
Although it is not my natural inclination to seek out new experiences, the nuts and bolts of our poly paradigm make it that much more difficult. With a few exceptions, physical contact with a new person must be cleared with each partner. So, before I make out with Potential Bad Decision, I must go chat with Edward and Stuart. I must address their concerns all the while keeping my own codependency on a short leash. And then, if Potential Bad Decision is still available and has not moved onto You're Cuter Now That I'm High, I may proceed. Post make-out, I must check-in with both Edward and Stuart and process their feelings, my feelings and the impact of all of this on the 2012 presidential campaign. Most of the time, it hardly seems worth it.
Don't get me wrong - I think our methods are the most ethical way for our family to proceed and I completely admit that your mileage may vary. This is what we've decided works for us and if left to my own devices, I would probably structure it the exact same way. It just makes the spontaneity nearly impossible. And again, with a few exceptions, I'm okay with that.
I like sex very much but am rarely sexually attracted to people. I've concluded that this is probably not terribly normal. So many things need to be in place before I am remotely interested in allowing someone into the Holy Lady Garden. Stuart has said on more than one occasion that I address his bisexual side (meaning that I am, in many respects, a guy) but this is one area where I am unfailingly female. I don't necessarily need Fabio, candles or rose petals on the bed. But I do at a minimum require the illusion that you are a good person, would never kick an animal and that you would ask me before eating the last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. It sounds fairly simple but my vetting process is the equivalent of a menopausal Jewish woman - cranky and suspicious.
In terms of my poly ecosystem, sex has presented some interesting challenges. Maintaining two sexual relationships is a test of my internal processes. Two separate sex lives will never be equal. And for a codependent person, this is very difficult. I have learned (and am still learning) that sex cannot be doled out like red Skittles. Sometimes somebody gets more. And sometimes somebody eats the whole package. As the mayor of Fair Town, I find this rather uncomfortable. I suppose we could forgo the sex thing entirely and just eat the exact same number of red Skittles but eventually, someone's going to want a green one.
I find myself actively working on just letting things be but get tripped up on the oxymoron. I often feel compelled to have sex with one partner simply because I had sex with the other in order to somehow balance an imaginary orgasmic teeter-totter. I know neither partner would want this but yet again, we've arrived at the Red Skittle Conundrum.
Neither partner has indicated having a problem with this and I accept that this is all a product of my neuroses. Intellectually, I know that at times, you have to stomp on the Moral Compass of Fair and allow things to be what they are assuming everyone is okay with it. My brain knows this and is continually trying to chloroform the "But...but...but" that comes from the heart.
Perhaps I should stick to candy that is all the same color.
I hold a fair amount of socially liberal attitudes. Recreational drug use is fine, marrying your best friend, dog or favorite vehicle should be permitted, and I think unconventional families are fabulous. However, I hold sex in a somewhat different regard.
Despite the appearances of my dramatic sitcom "My Two Husbands", I'm fairly conservative about sex. Sometimes my attitudes protect me and sometimes they annoy me, but they are unquestionably me.
Getting back to basics, my mother was uncharacteristically open about sex. She always propped the door open for me to talk about it and there was a veritable parade of men marching through our apartment. The parade also brought much drama and heartache. I paid attention and decided fairly early on I wanted no part of that. To matters more interestingly confusing, I wanted there to be a clear separation between my mother and myself which is why I clung like a drunk sorority girl to my neo-Puritan values. I certainly didn't save myself for marriage (that's just crazy talk), but I married my second sexual partner. And although polyness and my unconventional social life have brought a number of new sexual experiences my way, I still remain firmly judicious about with whom I partake and under what circumstances.
Although it is not my natural inclination to seek out new experiences, the nuts and bolts of our poly paradigm make it that much more difficult. With a few exceptions, physical contact with a new person must be cleared with each partner. So, before I make out with Potential Bad Decision, I must go chat with Edward and Stuart. I must address their concerns all the while keeping my own codependency on a short leash. And then, if Potential Bad Decision is still available and has not moved onto You're Cuter Now That I'm High, I may proceed. Post make-out, I must check-in with both Edward and Stuart and process their feelings, my feelings and the impact of all of this on the 2012 presidential campaign. Most of the time, it hardly seems worth it.
Don't get me wrong - I think our methods are the most ethical way for our family to proceed and I completely admit that your mileage may vary. This is what we've decided works for us and if left to my own devices, I would probably structure it the exact same way. It just makes the spontaneity nearly impossible. And again, with a few exceptions, I'm okay with that.
I like sex very much but am rarely sexually attracted to people. I've concluded that this is probably not terribly normal. So many things need to be in place before I am remotely interested in allowing someone into the Holy Lady Garden. Stuart has said on more than one occasion that I address his bisexual side (meaning that I am, in many respects, a guy) but this is one area where I am unfailingly female. I don't necessarily need Fabio, candles or rose petals on the bed. But I do at a minimum require the illusion that you are a good person, would never kick an animal and that you would ask me before eating the last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. It sounds fairly simple but my vetting process is the equivalent of a menopausal Jewish woman - cranky and suspicious.
In terms of my poly ecosystem, sex has presented some interesting challenges. Maintaining two sexual relationships is a test of my internal processes. Two separate sex lives will never be equal. And for a codependent person, this is very difficult. I have learned (and am still learning) that sex cannot be doled out like red Skittles. Sometimes somebody gets more. And sometimes somebody eats the whole package. As the mayor of Fair Town, I find this rather uncomfortable. I suppose we could forgo the sex thing entirely and just eat the exact same number of red Skittles but eventually, someone's going to want a green one.
I find myself actively working on just letting things be but get tripped up on the oxymoron. I often feel compelled to have sex with one partner simply because I had sex with the other in order to somehow balance an imaginary orgasmic teeter-totter. I know neither partner would want this but yet again, we've arrived at the Red Skittle Conundrum.
Neither partner has indicated having a problem with this and I accept that this is all a product of my neuroses. Intellectually, I know that at times, you have to stomp on the Moral Compass of Fair and allow things to be what they are assuming everyone is okay with it. My brain knows this and is continually trying to chloroform the "But...but...but" that comes from the heart.
Perhaps I should stick to candy that is all the same color.
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