Aug 062015


Dumb Domme TMI:
The Sort of Information You Don’t Want from Anyone Else

I’ve had a ton of work to catch up on, and believe it or not, that’s good for my overthinky brain (until it isn’t — the tipping point always sneaks up on me). Lots of work also means I’ve been less out-and-about than usual, and that’s been good for my not-yet-healed metatarsals (and, I suppose, physical rest is good for that new clicky sound in my knee — it’s different than the usual soft crunching sounds).

In addition to working, I’ve been catching up on sleep, reading, and working through my backlog of media — largely comprised of podcasts, a few documentaries, and stand-up specials. What’s surprising is that I’ve also done some binge TV watching, and that’s not something I usually do. My general ignorance of popular television and film is a strange point of pride, so admitting to binge watching feels a bit shameful.

Granted, I always do other things while consuming media — housework, gardening, lawn-mowing, admin busy work, etc. Usually it’s podcasts, but anything that keeps my brain occupied during menial activities is good. Binge watching (/listening to) TV shows fits the bill. Buying a few sets of “wireless” Bluetooth earbuds was one of the best impulse buys I’ve ever made (damn you Kinja Deals!). With Bluetooth earbuds, the iPad stays put and I can go about my house or yard work untethered.kale-nutrition-facts

I’m a happy homebody, but I really need to get out and do some actual grocery shopping. I’ve been living on Greek yogurt, kale, and a few frozen mangoes for more than a week. While that sounds terrifically healthy (and delicious), it’s actually kinda awful.

The yogurt keeps my digestive system running like clockwork, which is great (I have a notoriously sloth-like digestive system). However… the only thing going through that digestive system is kale.

Kale is 5% vitamins and minerals and 95% fiber. Actually, it’s worse than fiber. It’s roughage — the tough stuff — like mulch, dried brambles, fibrous shrubbery, or brittle tree branches.

Basically, the combination of yogurt and kale have turned my body into a wood chipper.

My butthole is very angry.


more about my asshole…

errant ass worship

J is both orally fixated and completely indiscriminate. He’s a mouth slut. If his mouth is on it, in it, or around it, he’s a happy man. For that, I am a lucky woman… [read more]

to shave an asshole

I picked up the razor, looked over my shoulder, and HOLY SHIT. Biggest. Asshole. Ever. My makeup mirror is 10x magnification, so my asshole was about the size of a baseball… [read more]

up(date) my ass

My cat’s name is “Asshole.” I did not shave the cat, but I suspect it might have been easier than shaving my asshole… I imagine the risk of blood loss is roughly the same… [read more]


Jul 282015


I’m back. I traveled — by land, by sea, and by air — and now I’m back.

The trip wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t great, either. All things considered, I wish I had stayed home. My foot isn’t any less broken, I have a bunch of work emails to catch up on, and on the whole, I did not enjoy seeing old friends.

My friends suck. Or maybe I suck. Or maybe nobody sucks because we’ve just grown apart and friendships are hard to maintain. To be fair, perhaps I should say friendships are hard to revisit (rekindle?) since there’s been little maintenance.

Most of my oldest friends (from high school and university) fall into one of two categories: 1) the marrieds with kids, or 2) the singles.

The Marrieds

The marrieds with kids (or married with dogs, or trying for kids/dogs) are WAY into being married (and/or raising kids) — their lives are ABOUT being married… for better or worse. Marriage and children are either the best-thing-in-the-whole-fucking-world or the worst mistake of their lives.[1]

The marrieds drink a lot… mostly cheap wine and shitty domestic beer.

The Singles

The singles can be divided into three subcategories: a) the ones who desperately want to be married, b) the ones who are now hatefully divorced, and/or c) a few who haven’t gotten the memo that college is over, we’re not in our twenties anymore, it’s time to grow the fuck up.[2] For the record, subcategory “c” has nothing to do with relationship status or sex partners — it has to do with lack of passion or ambition (for anything — work, love, hobbies, etc).febreze-flavored-cocktail

The singles drink a lot too… but they’re all over the map. They drink everything, including, but not limited to:

  • cosmopolitans in unbalanced martini glasses garnished with unnaturally spiraled lemon twists
…fuck Sex in the City… seriously.
  • two-for-one well drinks, drafts, and happy hour specials
…are you familiar with the shame that comes with ordering a “bucket-o-beer”?
  • weird, complicated shots named for body parts, sex acts, and general nonsense, e.g., Buttery Nipple, Blow Job, and Duck Fart.[3]
…drinks that scream “I’m holding onto youth with both hands” or “I’m holding onto youth with one hand… and I’ll jerk you off with the other.”
  • layered cocktails of exotic fruit liqueurs delicately dripped over gigantic spherical ice cubes, infused with herbal aroma vapors, garnished with edible flowers
…is it supposed to taste like lavender Febreze?

Anyway, I just didn’t enjoy anyone’s company (though I did my best to be good company) or conversations… and that feels weird, or a little disappointing? I don’t know. Maybe it just wasn’t what I expected.

Things change. People change. Relationships change. But thankfully, drinking is forever.



1. “I’m married and I’m totally not like that. Fuck you for generalizing about married people.” Did I visit you in the past two weeks? No? Then I’m not talking about you. I’m sure your marriage is awesome, you’re interesting, and if I knew you, I’d have to write a retraction for this post. Also, your kid/dog is ADORABLE.
2. “I’m single and I’m totally not like that. Fuck you for generalizing about single people.” Did I visit you in the past two weeks? No? Then I’m not talking about you. I’m sure being single is awesome, you’re interesting, and if I knew you, we’d totally be BFFs. Also, kids/dogs are ANNOYING.
3. Duck Fart = equal parts Kahlúa, Bailey’s, and Crown Royal


Jul 142015

I’m either fucking awesome or total shit at drunk emailing. One of those.

It is safe to say I’m terrible at drunk dialing since I sent a drunk email to test the waters first. Who does that? I can’t even fuck up like a normal person.

Anyway, (clearly) things aren’t going well between the boy and I. <sarcasm> Quelle surprise </sarcasm> — there are only about a million miles between us (literally and metaphorically…).

email to the boy, text reads: "Tipsy enough to ignore my better judgment about communications.  Let me know if you're around and interested in seeing what epic miscommunication we might have this evening."

Jul 122015
Deep thought?Dumb thought.Thought…
A thing that happened in my head.


Real sadists™ don’t need fetishy torture tools, expensive equipment, or elaborate sexy plans.
Real sadists need only creativity and a genuine appreciation for others’ pain.
… and glitter. I fucking hate glitter.

Image of spilled glitter. Text reads "true sadism requires glitter, an air horn, and patience."

Image: “accidental spill” by y-a-n, (2005). Work licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0). Text by DumbDomme, (2015).
Jul 092015

domme-travelsAfter being on the road (and off road, too), I’m back at home… for the moment (at least).

I’ve been traveling, but I wouldn’t call it a vacation. In my mind, vacations are for doing nothing, and nothing is something I could do at home all by myself.

I’m visiting friends and doing things, though not doing things as well as I could be. My plans have been slightly affected by a slightly broken foot. Slightly.

It’s a familiar stress fracture that’s been annoying me every few years since college. I worked my way through school — I mean, I really fucking worked — at whatever jobs I could find. In addition to odd and temp jobs, I tended bar at a poorly conceived bar / club / restaurant and small performance venue for acts touring between bigger cities.

It wasn’t unusual for me to abandon my post behind the bottles to help bar back or rearrange the room when it was needed. One night while moving tables to accommodate a band that needed more space than we prepared for, a particularly flimsy cocktail waitress dropped her side of a four seat high top table off a riser, crashing the entire weight of the thing down onto my left instep.

Within a couple of hours, it was pretty clear my foot was broken, but I finished my shift. I didn’t have health insurance to get it checked anyway, nor did I have the money to take any time off work — not that night or any other night.

So, I bartended on a broken foot for months and popped ibuprofen like tic tacs. I took a big bag of ice back to my tiny apartment every morning after closing down the bar (sometimes I wasn’t done until 4 or 5 in the morning). I filled a five gallon paint bucket with the ice, added some water, and iced my foot until I couldn’t feel it anymore. After that, on good days, I got some sleep. On bad days, I took a shower and went to class exhausted and clutching a tankard of coffee in shaking hands.

I was lucky it wasn’t a terribly bad break — the pain wasn’t enough to keep me from working. But, as health insurance funded x-rays would show years later, it didn’t heal correctly — so, I get stress fractures every now and then. Some doctor told me that he could rebreak the bone and set it properly, but even that might not fix it for good. Having my bones broken doesn’t sound like an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon (particularly with no promise of improvement), so I live with it.

I’m lucky it doesn’t bother me more often, but every couple of years, I do something to aggravate it, and it reminds me of its existence for weeks (or months).

A few weeks ago, I reinjured it on a climbing wall while getting reacquainted with my gear in preparation for summer travel, seeing friends, and doing things… things like climbing and sailing.

Sailing was easy enough, but I’m not sure if I can climb.

So… I’m home, resting a bit, and trying to figure that out.