dee eye vee ohh are see eee

My life has had its twists and turns, of late, which I guess should not be unexpected, given the relative oddity of it, ipso facto. From a conversation with my dear kid brother on the always touchy subjects of national politics, to the failed relationship with SO, as it has come to pass, i now have two crystallized examples of the meaning of the sometimes thrown away term “irreconcilable differences”. With SO, the end result of four or five years of struggle, unhappiness, gargantuan effort and my mad attempts to hold on to something that may never have been all that real as I imagined is the crushing reality of separation, and the endgame of the “equitable distribution” and ultimately, a support obligation that will extend far beyond the actual end of the relationship. If women had to give bj’s to their estranged supporting ex-spouses for the duration of the support period, you can bet the concept of spousal support would take on a different hue altogether.  I am only now beginning to understand the depths to which she is willing to drag this mess.  Suffice it to say for now, she is angry, out of her mind angry, and intends to do what she can to ruin me over my crossdressing, my use of one illegal substance in particular (I am actually clean, just passing 60 days of freedom from the weed this week), and my frequent self-gratification as my daily attempt to make the best of being caught in a loveless marriage with no intimacy or even friendship lo these several years.

So there you have it.  It has been too heavy to write, but I suppose I’ll have a book ready by the end of all this.  I think I can say with some clarity of hindsight that I am not really the reason she is so angry.  If I may be so bold to suggest that her anger wells up from a lifetime of slights and disregard from her self-absorbed, narcissistic father who does not know how to love others, and too, too much resulting damage from such unhappy beginnings.  She has betrayed my confidences, she has shit on everything that I tried to make good, and loving and kind and understanding.  She wants to throw my life open to the outside world, having “outed me” (in a pointless lashing out) to her mother the doormat, and to a brother she doesn’t love and his latest in a string of dead-end pretty girlfriends, for no apparent reason than to have someone else to dump on.  She professes to be ready to disclose anything she needs to wreck my career, my reputation, and she mentioned she has video of me prancing around in women’s underwear.  I asked her if she hid a video camera in my special room — dead silence, the one true giveaway with her.

So to those cheering for this outcome, there you have it.  To those of you who can identify, you’ll understand my grief in this latest, palpable betrayal by the one person I thought I could trust in my life other than myself.  Guess it’s just me now.  At least I am taking it well.

Lost my grandmum two weeks ago, we had a lovely memorial gathering this holiday weekend.  I didn’t really share my sad times with anyone there, I really wanted the focus to remain where it should be, so I kept my mouth shut.

Kisses – KM

In the interest of national security (sorry, election year politics time)

I was pondering the other day, in the midst of the contraception hullabaloo in our Nation’s Capitol, and realized after a couple of hours of MSNBC news that this week’s issue is energy policy, rather than contraception.

Before we leave the issue, though, one odd footnote to the issue of contraception was the unbelievably bumbling effort of the Virginia legislature to enact a law requiring women to subject themselves to an invasive medical procedure as part of the “informed consent” process before being permitted to obtain a surgical abortion.  That is, Virginia’s legislature actually introduced, and its Senate passed a bill requiring any woman seeking an abortion first to undergo an involuntary transvaginal ultrasound (an ultrasound probe is introduced into the woman’s uterus via vaginal penetration so that the doctor can force the woman to view ultrasound images of the wiggling fetus inside her womb AT THE WOMAN’S EXPENSE.  The Commonwealth’s Governor Robert F. McDonnell promised to sign the measure into law , before being pummeled into a hasty and ham-handed retreat by his (especially his former female) constituency in the Old Dominion.  Former (let me be the first to say) Governor McDonnell will be lucky to escape his term with both testicles intact, at this rate.  Governor McDonnell really wanted to force women to undergo vaginal penetration against her will as the Commonwealth’s “special” tax on a woman’s right to control her own womb.  Maybe the Guv’nors adoring wife will do us a favor and suffocate him in his sleep – there’s no help for someone that craven.  So, helluva week in the Old Dominion, at least for women of childbearing years.

But I digress.  Energy — Doesn’t the price of precious gasoline depend on a balance between relative demand/consumption, and supply?  It should.  In a perfect system.  But supply doesn’t just mean oil supply, it includes gasoline supply too, which comes from refining crude oil, which depends on refining capacity, which is inadequate in the United States because we are wanting for new refineries to make enough gas to meet demand/consumption.  We also have a speculative commodity market in oil that prices crude oil largely on computerized quantitative analysis/futures trading models, with little regard to the supply-demand equation.

As to refineries, no new refinery has been built in the US in years, because they are heavily regulated, dangerous and environmentally damaging facilities that private industry has apparently decided are not worth the first few years of unprofitability, especially when the higher gas prices caused by a shortage of refining capacity create bigger profits for the big oil companies.

Doesn’t this point to a no-brainer solution of our government simply building a few state of the art refineries in strategic locations in the name of national security and a stable supply?  If a private builder can’t stomach the environmental regulation, initial startup cost and lengthy permitting and approval process for a new refinery, doesn’t that cry out for the government to build it and operate it on condemned wastelands within 100 miles of a pipeline, rail or deepwater port?

The oil companies could not claim that this “government takeover of our refining capacity” creates a non-competitive environment when the companies themselves have thrown in the towel on investing in a network of refineries that could meet present and future needs, citing the high startup costs as non-starters.  Hit me up if you have a better idea.

Cazart.  KM

Sweet 16

Sweet Alexis turned 16 this week, so tonight we celebrate. Underdressed in pink lace-trimmed panties, mostly in drab.  Did a photo session monday, need to shave my legs again. blah blah. kisses! km

Out on the road again

I spent a number of hours on the road these past several days, seeing family far away as is customary this time of year. On the ride home this afternoon, I stopped at an abandoned erstwhile office park-to-be, and changed from my jeans and t-Shirt, with trustee Adidas t6 Nights, and stripped down and changed into ribbed black tights, Guess Jeans miniskirt, black motorcycle high heel (3 1/2″) heel boots, black 40D bra with forms, my wig, my Jones New York sunglasses ($16 Marshall’s) a black camisole top, and no makeup. I have taken, when possible, as a closeted CD, to trying to think ahead and pack the necessaries for an out adventure before I leave so I have the option to dress out in a different place if I feel comfortable enough to do it. OMG it is so nice and natural to be able to get in the car and drive dressed en femme, and it made me feel good and relaxed.

I am working on my makeup again this evening, I washed my face and had a very close shave, and I found a neat trick with my eyebrows that makes me more passable as a dark brunette. It involves drawing a dark brown eyebrow line high on my existing browline (near the top) to draw the viewer’s eye up. For some reason this creates a more feminine faceline and narrows the focus of the viewer. Good for me, anyway!

Merry Christmas, everyone –

Kisses! KM

so much to catch up on

I enjoyed boot season a little last night, modeling here at home my “look” with painted on girl jeans (“mudd” stretch 14s – cute!) tucked into knee high brown pleather boots with 4″ heels.  A simple shelf bra, and a ribbed a-shirt, a pair of simple silver necklaces that look good together, and I felt sexy, anyway.  I shaved my legs last week, time to shave them again – they look spectacular all toned and muscled up from soccer.  I’ll try to share pics, they’re worth bragging on.

Enjoying some Kentucky grass of late, a timely resupply as it were.  I haven’t been in much of a writing mood for while, much of it all swirling around in my head rather than being expressed.  Lost a colleague at work to a latent issue of poor judgment, that one is still smarting.

Hopefully more girliness tonight, stay sweet

 

kisses, KM

crowes, live

a beautiful, crisp autumn morning in Conover, nc, attending a futbol match. blowing down the interstate with a fresh $1000 clutch, the black crowes live in amsterdam (second show, july ’11) maxing out the suby sound system. I may stop on the way home and check out a ’79 yamaha as a possible cafe project.

on a good day,
no, not every day,
we can part the sea

on a bad day,
no, not every day,
glory is beyond our reach . . .
-rich robinson, wiser time

kisses, km

Some personal notes.

I’ve decided I’m not going to argue with S.O. anymore.  Just worn out with it.  She wants to confront me, accuse me, argue and complain at me all the time.  So I’ve had it.

I smoked all the cured bud from my botany experiments, and it was fabulous.  But all gone.  Not sure whether I’ll attempt a grow again.  A cooling-off period in order, perhaps.

After being out in Durham for the vintage bikefest, I’m a little more comfortable going out next time.  The one alternative club in W-S reopened under new management, same place, probably the same crowd.  So a trip to the CO2 is now in order.  My figure has really improved with continued fitness and weight loss.  Oh, and all the smoking, I guess.

I have oral herpes, and have had since 1994.  I contracted it taking a few drags off a big fat joint at the Steely Dan Alive In America performance at Merriweather Post Pavilion in Maryland.  Since being diagnosed a number of months later, and by taking prophylactic doses of antiviral every day, I rarely have an outbreak.  Except when I am run down, overworked, overtired, and I push it just a little bit more.  A quick cross-country trip for work last weekend, a redeye flight back in our nation’s grubby, nasty, germy air travel transit system, and a raucous soccer match wherein I played 80/90 minutes in the heat, and WHAM!  Outbreak city.  No outward signs except my fatigue, but my Lymph glands under my chin become tender, my throat feels constricted and a little numb.  It came on me suddenly last Saturday afternoon, I did not recognize my symptoms at first, it having been 3-4 years since my last outbreak.  I thought I had caught a simple cold from traveling — I probably have a cold, I still have the runny nose, and sneezing, a dull headache.  Sometimes I can kill a cold by getting out and engaging in some vigorous exercise.  Oh, my, this time, it tipped me over the edge.  I knew when I woke up Monday morning that this familiar feeling was an outbreak.

Thank god this is very occasional, as it is unpleasant.  Before finding a medication, I would get large white open sores in my throat.  It was torture, sheer torture, I couldn’t stand it, my doctor saved me from that.  I have been so cautious about my condition with S.O. that in nearly 20 years of marriage, she has not been exposed.  I love her, after all, and wouldn’t wish this on her ever.  the dirty dogs that did this to me have no soul.  Sure, I took a couple drags from a stranger’s fat doobie — my choice, my bad.  Deserve this for that?   Ha.  If you think so, you’re a really unhappy, sadistic person that has  no empathy for ordinary human suffering.  Sorry, call it like I see it.

Wearing some simple black bikini panties with cute lacy legs under my jeans tonight, and my Amsterdam earring in, otherwise very drab tonight.  Not because I’m not feeling it – I am, but because I just didn’t have the energy as much as I want to.

So, a little treat from behind the curtain for you tonight.  Moi, en le couchez, as it were.  I could be accused of trying to make it worth the wait, probably some truth to that.  Mostly I have no one else who will listen to me.

Kisses – KM

Grilled cheese, then the nicely cured

My recipe du jour, a little gift:

2 mid-loaf sandwich slices of sourdough bread

butter softened by room temperature

cheddar cheese (2×1.0 oz slice, or cracker barrel extra sharp sliced to preferred thickness

feta cheese — 2 oz. sliced (not crumbled)

1 fresh late-season (often red in color) Jalapeno pepper, sliced on the diagonal, latitudinally, and seeded

black pepper

thin onion slices (optional)

Slice cheese as necessary, cut peppers with a sharp knife (best to wear a gauntlet unless you are handy with a blade) into 1/4″ diagonal slices.  With a butter knife, lightly butter outsides of sourdough slices (one side only on each slice).

Gradually heat well-seasoned iron skillet to just above “medium” on the stove setting, until water droplets sizzle when sprinkled on cooking surface of skillet.

Lay slice of sourdough buttered side down on the heated skillet, and carefully lay cheese, one layer, then the other (does not matter which order the Feta or the Cheddar are placed, don’t think too hard) across the (unbuttered) bread.  Add onion slices on top of cheese, if that is your thing.  My SO so digs them on the grilled cheese sandwich.

Carefully lay Jalapeno pepper slices across cheese bed, taking care not to burn oneself on the heated skillet.  Mill black pepper over Jalapenos to taste (I like to be able to taste a little pepper), then place remaining buttered bread slice (butter side up) on top of sandwich.  Compress the sandwich firmly with a spatula, before placing a cover over the iron skillet, in order to hold in the heat of the pan, and to direct it toward the food.  Cook for two minutes covered, leave sandwich in pan.

Monitor the cooking carefully, you may need to adjust the heat down slightly, try not to scorch the bread or over-brown it too soon.  Flip the sandwich after it has cooked about 2-1/2 to 3 minutes, you may wish to hold the sandwich firmly between two spatulas to keep from spilling precious fresh ingredients.  No one ever said cooking was for the faint of heart.  You may cook the sandwich ultimately for 7-9 minutes . . .

Soldier on, with each turn of the sandwich — every two or three minutes — compress it firmly with a spatula.  Before long, as the cheese begins to melt, it will squeeze out from the interstices of the sourdough, and begin to cook in the hot surface of the skillet as it gooshes forth, thusly.

Only you can determine how you best like your grilled cheese, but I like some grilled cheese in my grilled cheese, so I let it brown up a little before I quit.

It is heaven with Jalapenos, and they were not too hot for me last night.  Unlike the botany experiment, which is gone swimmingly.  It’s really a crying shame one can grow a nice stash with such minimal effort, and it is so verboten and unacceptable as to be banned.  It cured up nicely, and I mean that most sincerely.

We were literally stomped in soccer tonight.  Poor us.  They were all these huge people with a good 20 years on most of us.  They abused us, some of our players went home.  But we gave them a good run for it, terrific effort, everyone.

Kisses – KM

Out

It took some modest planning, but i am fully dressed en femme 2nyt @ the bar in Durham. Media hopefully to follow, but the purpose in being in Durham tonight was a motorcycle show, so i am attired in tight, supple black leather pants, high heeled black leather boots, my favorite paramore 40d bra and ez 8 forms, topped with my black stretch (form fitting!) rock the vote spangled tee, silver necklace and earrings. i am fully madeup, red lipstick and shoulder-length ash brown wig for a free-flowing wavy natural look. How well am i passing? I kid you not, I was rather ham-handedly propositioned by an older dude at the bike gathering. I told him I really was just here for the bikes! I must be looking a bit like a prostitute . . . but barlesgirl liked my hair, and I feel spectacular.

kisses! km

chicken

I had a few issues with my luggage on my trip, and I was really truly worried I’d never see my suitcase again.  I packed my girly things with me for my week abroad, including my favorite panties, my size 8 breast forms, best (Paramore) bra, the Old Navy Classic (stretch) little black sleeveless dress, a new wig, makeup, jewelry, tights (to cover my presently furry gams), and my Sarah Jessica Parker black high heels.  I even brought an alternate outfit, and my sexy-when-pegrolled Lee jean cutoffs to boot.  In other words, I was prepared to go out “out” in frothy Amsterdam.  But my suitcase was not with me when I landed and went to retrieve my baggage from the claim.  Waited, waited waited.  Turned in a claim with the lovely Icelandair personnel, and traveled on to my hotel with the promise that my bag would be sent to my hotel.  I landed Friday, Saturday was to be my “out” night in town, Sunday and Monday were concerts (one of which I hoped to attend en femme), and Tuesday was going home night.  I didn’t get my suitcase back until Sunday evening just before the show, having spent three days in the same pair of jeans and some cheap, kinda girly tshirts from the H&M universally cheap clothing store (props to Darren and Alli for the tip, wherever they may be!).  I chickened out on going “out”, and dressed in private in my room, and enjoyed that a lot (I did not self-photograph), but I was quite shy about having the hotel staff, as well as people I met within 24 hours of being there (and who I’d likely never see again), see me dressed to the nines.  Weird, right?  A totally anonymous situation in a different country across the pond, and I lacked the nerve to be myself.  Ugh.

But the worst thought I had about the missing suitcase, and maybe what affected my confidence the most, was a fear that TSA opened my bag to inspect it, found my queerage — my breast forms — inside, then confiscated, and threw my bag out on the freeway where it could be destroyed in the rush of Charlotte or Boston traffic out of spite.  Cynical, right?  It really upset me by Sunday morning, when I realized my bag was just plain gone.  I worried that someone would send my open bag, incriminating bits inside, to the office address printed on the ID insert card that came with the bag, and my boss, my secretary, the big boss man, would all know my secret.  I was going to have to tell them.  A spiral of doom that drifted away with the proper dose of hash and weed, but a spiral nonetheless.

Yeah, I’m a little disappointed in myself.  But I was really high, and probably more paranoid than I should have been about the whole situation.  But I also got a major vibe from the locals that crossdressing is not big in the Netherlands.  There was a whole section in the hotel-provided local tourist guide on Gay Amsterdam, telling you where you can find the bathhouses where random sex acts are expected, and telling you about the going Euro/hr rate for the hetero hookers (50, in case you were wondering), but no mention of crossdressers except for a once-a-year parade of thongs thing for the transgendered, no mention of a scene, a CD-friendly club, etc.  I don’t use crossdressing as a means of luring in gay or straight men.  I do it because it is a part of who I am, for whatever reason.  I am complex that way.  I wanted to dress out, I really really did.  Eh, next time, right?  This time (won’t be my last to Amsterdam) took a little more confidence in myself/my look than what I had in mid-July ’11.

Sweaty from soccer tonight, and a long day on the road.  Told SO some hard truth tonight, in response to what seems to be an ongoing effort to wind down her career without talking to me about it, and who apparently now feels secure enough in her situation to pretty much become a layaround the house-a-watching tv wife, 4/7 weekly.  And I am a bastard for calling her out on contemplating quitting her current job, and casting about for a “part-time” situation, rather than full-time.  She didn’t consult with me about this move in advance because she knew what I would say.  When I met her, she was very career-focused, and she achieved a high level of proficiency and earned the respect of those for whom she toiled.  So much has changed.  She thinks I am abusive for sharing my pretty sharp feelings on the subject.  If she told me her plan to seek a half-job in this economy ahead of time, she knows I would have told her not to limit her options in that way.  You can discuss days in the office, and possibly some work at home when they make you the offer.  Hey, I’ve walked bricks in my life.  End of story.  She didn’t, instead she sprung on me that she had sent a resume over to someone with whom I’ve worked with and whom I know, seeking essentially a more comfortable situation than she has now (“I’m not driving to Greensboro five days a week.”  Er, ever heard of telecommuting?  It’s 2011 for god’s sake), as opposed to a job.  What a nice surprise to return home to, after I got up at 5:30am, left this morning at 6:30am for a 9:00 meeting in Raleigh, hustled my ass back to the office (rather than take a powder, go home and get high) when my meeting ended early, worked my ass off all day, assisted coaching the youth soccer team coached by my neighbor (her bff’s husband), and rolled in about 8:00.  Let her call me a bastard under her breath.  I love her anyway.  I have our best interests at heart in all I do.  I’m trying to get her there too, but lord knows she got a hard, thick skull.

Hugs – KMs

Travelog

Amsterdam was flat out lovely, filled with willowy tall blonde women, fit and slender from riding miles and miles on their bicycles each day.  The local beers, other than Heineken and Amstel, were pretty awful, bitter pilsens the whole lot of them.  The canals were muddy, filthy yet picturesque at the same time.  Modern buildings intermingled with the canal houses built in the 1680s, at the zenith of Dutch global influence, power, and wealth.  But the Amsterdammers don’t give American tourists the time of day, especially one tending toward the effeminate, with an earring and an  androgynous look.  Nederlander men, apparently, are men-men, not girly-men.

Oh, and I got high.  A lot.  Every day, in moderation, of course.  And Heinekens in the hotel drink machines on every floor (2Euro apiece – a bargain!).  Sampled White Widow, blonde generic hash (didn’t do much for me), and Nepal black tar hash.  That was a terrific, head-clearing potion, to be sure.  Nederlanders roll their weed mixed with tobacco (blech!) in big, cellophane-thin papers that are really difficult to work with.  The white widow’s clean taste was wasted that way, so I repeatedly tried to roll a weed-only j with little hash bombs interspersed, and while effective, I just don’t roll a very good fatty.

More soon – Kisses!

KM

A little excitement in the air tonight

On the eve of the great rock and roll pilgramage, I am up late, making preparations, extremely high on some freshly-dried bud from my early girl.  This has been a bat-shit crazy week from the get-go, and it will be more of the same for the next six days, guaranteed.

I lost a good friend this week to that cunt “cancer”, which beat the shit out of a fine, fine man for years before it got him suddenly.  Because of my trip plans, I won’t be able to attend his services, much as I desire to.  As I grow older, I realize how true it is the old saw that only the good die young.  RIP Gene, I’ll miss you, compadre.

Wistful kisses, KM

Local fauna, -1

The latest score, above, refers to an encounter with a Northern Copperhead the other evening.  It slithered slowly across our driveway just a few feet from where I emerged from the garage to turn off the lawn and garden sprinklers before bed.  I have had several encounters with this common and poisonous pit viper, the first, and the last ones quite peaceful and for my part, compassionate.  We live in the country, a little south of town, and we see a lot of wildlife of all shapes and sizes out here.  Birds of prey, wild turkey, red fox, black widow spiders, bullfrogs, though very few deer (heavily hunted, lots of venison in local freezers) are our wondrous neighbors.

My first encounter with Agkistrodon contortrix occurred one summer afternoon about two years ago, I saw a very large (>3′) Northern Copperhead crawling across my garage floor, toward the rear of my basement.  Instead of feeling an urge to harm it, I “rescued” it on the end of a shovel, and carried it back into the woods behind the vacant lot next door.  Why?  I love and I am respectful to animals, and I am really in awe of nature and the natural world.  I hated to kill it or hurt it, because, well I like living among other living things in their natural setting.  Generally.  But after much thought I decided that while we can have black snakes and garter snakes and other non-poisonous serpents, our dear animals, our cats and our dog, spend enough time in the backyard and around the property that we cannot risk a bite from a venomous snake that could take one of our babies from us.

So when I saw the snake last night, and identified it for what it was, a Northern Copperhead, and a large one — about 2′ and thick as my index finger — it took me only a second of regretful internal debate, but I knew what I had to do.  The only weapon I had nearby (caught me unexpected to see him up on the driveway when I did) was a bag of golf clubs.  I had to act quickly, as the serpent was slowly slithering toward the grass on the east side of the concrete driveway, so the chipping club it was — a shorter club with a 45 degree face, and the cheapest one in my bag that would do the trick.  Very quick calculation, resolved to do the deed, I first had to retrieve him from the grass before he disappeared.  I touched him with the club, attempting to halt his progress, and quick as a flash, he turned tail, and slithered out of the grass, back onto the driveway, headed back from whence he came.  He was trying to escape, but ended up exactly where I could get a clear shot.  Fatal instinct, as it turns out.  Call this unfair, call this an ambush, call it cold-blooded, call it whatever you like.  No, it posed no immediate threat to me or mine.  In fact, per the Wiki, this snake is not particularly likely to bite except when directly threatened, and may even give a “dry bite” containing little or no venom as a warning.  But the threat of a future, unexpected, and potentially less peaceful chance encounter with our pets was and is enough for me to know that sometimes man must dominate his local environment, and sometimes in ways that might otherwise be distasteful or even repugnant to him.  And I am a fierce mama bear protecting my brood.

My first encounter with copperheads was at our last house.  I had purchased a bunch of used windows at the local Disabled American Veterans thrift store, intending to use them in the construction of my first greenhouse.  We ended up going in a different direction with the greenhouse, and decided after two years, the windows had to go.  It seems it was a warm day in June when I began to remove the windows from the backyard to go back to the thrift store to be donated again when I noticed a small knot of baby snakes curled up under and in between a couple of the windows.  I had not seen a copperhead before, so was unsure of their identity when I bent closer to get a good look.  I noticed a diamond pattern on the back of slender khaki brown and tan body, and a distinctive copper-penny colored patch on top of the head.  Suddenly exposed, the snakes were fleeing now, disappearing into the grass.  I was able to grab a flowerpot and carefully snag one of the snakes, and he coiled up in the bottom of the pot as I held it carefully away.  I grabbed a long blade of grass near the fence and gently moved the tip toward the snake to see what it would do, and it reared back and struck quickly at the intruding object.  I imagine it was royally pissed, having been awakened and now threatened.  I walked it back to the woods, and eased him out of the pot by turning it over slowly just above the ground.  It disappeared into the brush without turning to face me again.  A peaceful encounter, followed by a peaceful encounter, followed by a deadly encounter.

As to our most recently deceased viper:  mr. viper, my apologies for my crude behavior at our meeting.  However, I am glad you did not have the opportunity to bite me or one of my pets.  Your kin will not be welcome here, please stay away.

Kisses – KM

It’s not that I wanted to . . .

blow my post-a-week challenge this early.  I didn’t really intend to blow it at all, but no crying over spilt milk, I suppose.  Well, with the pressure off (yeah, it was like really heavy pressure too) here I sit again at keyboard.  While I am otherwise covered by manly hair, I shaved my underarms yesterday because, well, I missed it looking clean and neat.  The paint is off the toenails.  The biggest nod to girly I’m giving these days (other than the frilly panties beneath)  is when I come home from a day in the suit, don my daisy duke jean shorts with the cuffs folded up short, my Clark’s sandals, bra, breast forms, maybe a cute necklace, and a T-shirt around the house.  She hates it, tries not to notice if she can help it.  But it feels so me and natural, hair and all, it’s always me inside and sometimes outside.  Saturday evening I dressed just this way most of the day (she went out with a friend in the afternoon), then after she came home and we had a nosh, I took a shower and shaved, donned pink lace panties, a skintight Billabong T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and rode the bike downtown to catch some music.  I came home before 11:00 to find her in bed already, snoring, so I put on some blue eye shadow, some pretty pink NYC lipstick to go with my freshly shaved face, and it really set me at ease.

Three weeks until a solo trip abroad to see a band.  She’s not going.  I have two concerts to attend.  One I will go in drab.  The second one, all by myself in a distant land where no one knows me, I’m trying to think about my wardrobe now.  Thinking my Sara Jessica Parkers, the Old Navy black dress, my breast forms, full makeup, not sure whether I’ll do a hairpiece, or trim and spike up my own, but Krystyna Marie will be stepping out one night only, but one night.

Anticipatory kisses – KM

Hosanna

The reduction in the daily light duration from 24-18-12 hours now has forced my flora into flower.  Okay, I’m not a scientist, although I took a minor concentration of studies in biology.  The reduction in light reduces the photosynthesis  rate (emulating the oncoming autumn in the plant’s natural environment) and thereby changes the chemical balance of the plant.  Most particularly, and most relevant it affects the balance of gibberellins (plant hormones), effectively causing the plant shift its energy production towards flowering, away from vegetative growth.  Ultimately it will begin to reveal its sex through the structures of the emerging flowers (the best part of any plant, I’m sure you will agree!).  Male “flowers” are obvious by what they show when they emerge, as are female flowers, the buds we really crave.

So, Hosanna(!), the seeds from a certain self-pollinating hermaphrodite in fact produced female offspring.  One may have removed a brother, pulled all of his ‘balls’ off – which will be smoked (show no mercy) — and moved him into the anteroom where he will slowly, stickily die and his remains will be further smoked.  One may vacuum the area surrounding the plants to remove any remaining pollen from past projects so that they will not fertilize current stock. And that folks is where “sensemilla” comes from.

Kisses – KM