Do I have a problem. This blog has been compromised by family. (Yes, Jules - my sweet? Scott, Sarah? It goes without saying... ) So Darlings, would you please just understand this is rather trite conversations I have with myself and the keyboard and maybe those few darling people who email me directly asking why the fuck aren't updates posting now now now. Not for family gossip or distribution in the annual Christmas Letter.
Under this situation, one can't really ponder blog-wise about the current location of one's BDSM gear freely when Mum is reading. Because she will ask what sport BDSM is and what kind of equipment one would need. Over Christmas dinner. While we aspirate our squash soup.
We should mention that the extended family (Mix, Ben, Ty etc.) are always welcome. Actually this is exactly the intended audience when I am just not making shit up to just unkink my knuckles. You perpetuate my self-involved mythology of being more fascinating than I really am and for you I will save my very best affection and cooking. As always the Leiderhosen phone lines are always open for you. (Be prepared to be addressed as sweet cheeks and cumpetoni.) Thanks for understanding and comments and please don't rat me out to Mum.
My crazy perpetually stoned mono-vocal corded landlady had her birthday yesterday: she got a cupcake with candle and an appointment for a mani/pedicure, while still in her pajamas at 4 PM in the afternoon (she wears these to her therapy appointments). I hope she picks a dashing and outrageous color for her nails.
We've had a bit of wind here and the persimmon tree in the back yard has lost most of its leaves and is now a very artistic arrangement of dark wood with enormous giant shiny orange gobs hanging from them. The squirrels are very fond of the remaining fruit and make daring jumps from the oak tree directly onto the persimmon fruit and coil about them for a nosh, swaying in the wind. Persimmons make the nicest squashy sound when the hit the lawn.
Fred the Hummingbird seems to have taken the hint of the weather (ooo 58 degrees!) and headed at last towards South America, where he will no doubt spend his mornings berating some poor chica who is just stumbling out the door at O'Dark-Thirty, grateful to have her boots on the correct feet. She will be pleased to know she is not invisible and that a 25 grams of avian attitude seems to be commenting on her choice of scarf, lipstick, posture in a somewhat derogatory tone. I look forward to Spring when Fred will return the Hansen's olive tree, causing me to stumble back into the house carefully to find extra hairpins and the emergency earrings.
And for Your Holiday Pleasure: Ze Frank's Santa Hotline (a source of that helpless, soundless laughter during which one ponders "How close is the bathroom?")
I've just finished Florian Henckel-Donnersmarck's The Lives of Others. It's brilliant as well as being the director's debut. The lead actor Ulrich Muhe came to a meeting with the director with his own re-claimed Stasi files that included the information that his own wife of six years was a Stasi informer. The commentary, for those geeky enough to get off on commentaries, is fantastic.