Magdalene’s Disappearing, Re-appearing Magic Trick

(editor’s note: This is a long ramble, but at the end is an amazing cupcake recipe, so I promise you’ll be rewarded)

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a trying couple of months. I know some of you have been trying to get a hold of me and I apologize profusely for the lack of communication. On top of two of the most trying months I’ve ever had, I came back from a family trip to an email that had been hijacked by persons unknown. All of my contact lists and archives had been tampered with (read, none of my labels/address books are there, and many emails have been deleted) After dealing with the lovely help desk of google I was able to verify my identity and regain access to my account. Let me say right now that Google’s double authentication app is WORTH ITS DIGITAL WEIGHT IN BITCOIN and I have now locked up every account I can with it.

So, even though this blog is supposed to be fun and lighthearted with just a side of education, I’m going to get personal. I don’t have the wherewithal to explain this a hundred times, so if you’ll indulge a bit of venting by your’s truly I’ll explain where I’ve been.

It started it March when I received the news of the sudden death of my grandfather. This man was a pillar of his community, as well as father or step father to a grand total of 12 children (of which there are 12 grandchildren and 8 great grandchildren only on our side) there was going to have to be a grand spectacle. Without going into the nitty gritty, the last half of March was a scramble. For my part, I was supposed to be the AV gal, running projectors, microphones, fix staticky speakers and coordinate the use of the giant hall we had to commandeer for the occasion. This was also used as an excuse for a family reunion of sorts, and I’ll let you argue the merits of that on your own.

This was all happening 3 hours away from me, which necessitated oh so much travel. The recoup time after the event was about a week, and we were finally settling in to deal with lofty issues like probate, wills, and the inevitable consequences of what happens when wills are outdated by decades. (spoiler alert: one greedy part of the family can drag out contests and inquiries for quite some time, at great expense and exasperation. I am so happy I come from humble beginnings and won’t ever have to deal with that special kind of Hell)

So, April comes trucking along, and we have just caught our collective breath when another bombshell hits: my grandmother (from the same side of the family) has been hiding her cancer diagnosis from everyone for upwards of five years, and now it’s progressed to a point that she can no longer function on her own. She has not treated it (I don’t count homeopathic remedies that have no basis in science) and now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, she still refuses any kind of medical intervention. She lives in Phoenix, so end of April I’m called upon to travel to her, spend a few weeks down there and see about transferring her person and her cat up here for possible treatment and most likely end of life care. Seattle has better climate, better doctors, and most of her family is here anyway. That was one of the longest drives I’ve ever taken (also, I recommend traveling with a cat. She was the best part of that craziness and it was great to have something warm and fluffy to snuggle) The entire stay in Phoenix felt like, to me, an act of futility (as nice as it was to reconnect with my grandmother and show her how I grew up, as we hadn’t spent very much time together since I was 19) I was useless in jumping on the bandwagon of snake oil, secret miracle cures, and “cancer busting” diets. My offers to help research these claims for any sort of scientific backing were slapped down with scary buzz words like “big Pharma” and “Medical death Care” and conspiracy theories of people silenced and grass roots research destroyed in the name of profits and keeping people sick. The one thing I felt like I was doing better than anyone was treating my grandmother with the dignity and respect she has always shown me. Her children (with all the best intents) were quick to infantilize her, talking about her treatment as if she wasn’t there, and allowing her to lay and wallow without a thought to muscle wasting or the concept of movement helping move along blood and oxygen that she needs. I was able to sneak her out for a smoothie and pedicure, which she really seemed to appreciate.

Two weeks later we were planning her eventual journey up here. She arrived at the end of May. As one of the only people in my family who is mobile, sets her own schedule, and has no children to take care of, I have been helping with her palliative care while she seeks out whatever treatment she feels comfortable with. It’s been a lesson in patience and love that I can engage with her on an adult level without blasting about the damage she is potentially doing by drinking glorified bleach water and slow cyanide poisoning to help cure her cancer. Granted, chemo isn’t a walk in the daisies, but at least it comes with a side order of doctor supervision.

So that’s been May. June is now half over, and I am just burned out. I developed a sinus infection on top of my worse-than-usual allergies, and I’m fairly certain that the stress of the past few months have done a little number on my immune system. The shiny cherry atop this glorious sundae is the new drama in my life: root canals. I’ve finally found a dentist, and like a good girl I went in for a cleaning and x-rays, as it’s been a few years. Over the next few months, as finances allow for it, I will be undergoing at least three, maybe four root canals (and their subsequent crowns will be needed) an extraction of one tooth, which will need a bone graft for a later implant, and if I’m extra special lucky after all of these surgeries are done, I’m hoping to be a candidate for Invisaline braces (the little clear fitted thingies that go over your teeth and slowly straighten them without wires or “real” braces)

I guess the tooth that needs extracting has been infected for who knows how long, but since it never caused me pain until recently, I didn’t get it looked at until it was so bad that I’m on a pretty good dose of antibiotics and looking at a lot of time in that dentist chair. Luckily, I found a very nice dentist not far from me, who takes cash payments on a discount, and is willing to work with me stretching out the treatments so I’m not laid up for months on end.

I feel like ending this now would be way too much of a bummer, so here’s some good stuff in my life recently.

Pride is coming!!!! The last sunday in June is the Pride Parade in Seattle, and as I do every year I’m walking in it. I’ll be supporting SWOP, which is again walking with the Center for Sex Positive Culture. I’m still always so grateful to the help the CSPC offers for sex-positive programs and clubs. If you are curious, the route is posted on the Seattle City website, but it follows 4th street and ends down on 1st/Denny area and spills into the Seattle Science Center. There will be floats, music, nearly-naked EVERYONE and it’s a grand old time. If you are in the crowd, feel free to run out and find me for a hug, or even walk with us if you are able. I am also happy to pose for pictures, time allowing.

I got a FitBit! I know I’ve spoken to some of you about all kinds of fitness trackers, so I went and got myself a FitBit Charge HR. The accompanying app is what sold it for me, it’s seamless and fun. With my colicky car looking like it’s on it’s last legs (wheels?) anyway, I’ve been walking a lot of places and figured it was time for some data collection! I’m averaging 10,000 steps and/or 3 miles a day, and I look forward to increasing those numbers. Walking is good for my hips and my knees, lets me enjoy the weather, and I won’t even deny it, it’ll make my butt look amazing(er) 🙂

I’m baking again! I recently made Earl Grey Tea cupcakes with bergamot icing, and they were fabulous. The following is a quick and dirty recipe, feel free to modify:

1 1/2 C flour
1/2 C butter (softened)
1C sugar
2 1/4 tsp baking powder
3/4 tsp salt
2 eggs
1/2 C milk

Cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Add each egg in individually, blending well before adding the second. Combine dry ingredients together in a separate bowl, and add 1/2 the mix to the wet. Blend until combined, then add the milk and other half of the dry mix. Blend until just combined.

Pre-heat the oven to 350degrees. If making regular cupcakes, bake for 20ish minutes. If making mini cupcakes, bake for 12ish minutes.

For the icing:

1/2 C butter (softened)
1 1/2 C powdered sugar (estimated)
10-20 drops of FOOD GRADE bergamot oil

Blend butter and sugar together, adding the sugar a little at a time, until fluffy and peaking. Taste test now and again, and when it’s sweet enough stop adding sugar. Add in the bergamot oil a few drops at a time, blending and tasting throughout. I found that I needed 24 drops to get a nice but not overpowering flavor. This is entirely optional, but I added food coloring to make it a light purple.

If you’ve never piped frosting onto a cake before, you must try this. Put a ziploc back inside of a tall, wide mouthed glass or jar, and fill it full of frosting, squeezing out excess air. Squeeze the frosting down into one corner, and carefully snip of the TINIEST of corners, to create a small hole (you can always cut more, but you can’t ever cut less) Using even pressure, squeeze the line of icing out of the bag, and swirl it onto the cake in a pleasing tornado fashion. I’ll tell you now, you have to create a flat disc of frosting first before you build up your peaky-swirl, or else it’ll cave in.

Consider dusting each cake with a little bit of lemon zest or granulated sugar for an interesting look.

Thank you for sticking with me, and this is a really long way of me saying “I’m back, give me time to see about finding my emails, but if you haven’t heard back from me consider re-sending as someone decided to be mean to my inbox.”

Kiss, kiss lovers!

You Might Have Been a Hooker* Too Long….

So, does anyone remember those “You might be a [blank] if…” jokes where the punch line is some funny and/or awful stereotype? Like “You might be a redneck if your mother is also your sister”, or “You might be a dumb blonde if you can’t tell if it’s chicken or fish.” Well, you know where this is going! (and please, feel free to add on to this, but only in the fun way. Punch UP never DOWN, as my comedian friends always say)

This whole thing came about because after a sweaty roll in the hay with one of my social sex partners (yes, Virginia, I have a bit of a carrousel of people for what I call ‘sport sex’. Not professional by any means, but not that lovey-dovey romantic love making. Sport sex is much easier to move around) and instead of just laying back and enjoying the after glow, silly auto-pilot me pops up, gets a tissue and a hot cloth, and begins to do the pampered clean up/wipe down that all of my clients get to enjoy (I have a hot towel warmer, and I MUST use it). This was a little absurd to him, as he’d never had his… um… clean up needs taken care of for him before. Half way through I realize what I’m doing, and get a terrible case of the giggles.

“Well, you know you’ve been a hooker too long when you start doing the clean up directly after a sport sex session,” I laugh. After that, I started to think about it a bit more, and came up with a few things. Some aren’t original at all, but some I thought were a little more personal. So, here are my (probably terrible) You Might Be a Hooker jokes:

*(I want to get this out of the way: though I prefer to use the term ‘hooker’ in reference to MYSELF as a sex worker, it isn’t always considered a positive term to other sex workers. As always, this blog strives to speak for ME, and MY experiences without stepping over or silencing others’ voices or making others feel uncomfortable. In place of “hooker” one could put sex worker, provider, escort, Companion, or any number of other words if my use of ‘hooker’ offends. Thank you this has been a PSA by the CYA SW edition)

You might be a hooker if you buy your condoms (all three sizes) in bulk.

You might be a hooker if you calculate bills in sessions, rather than in real money. (ie. the rent is 4 sessions, the utilities are 1 session, those amazing pair of come-fuck-me boots is 2 sessions)

You might be a hooker if your litmus test for make up isn’t if it’s expensive, but if it’s water proof and smear-proof (I still can’t find blow-job proof lipstick, but I’m getting close!)

You might be a hooker if your amazon account seems to always recommend these three things: condoms, hand towels, lubricant. Bonus if there is stockings and fitted sheets.

You might have been a hooker too long when you roll your eyes at a friend who is complaining of having to fold her one load of laundry… because you just got done folding 15 fitted sheets, 4 flat sheets, 12 pillow cases, and 10 body towels.

You might have been a hooker too long when your fridge is full of champagne, bottled water, and strawberries, and nothing else. Likewise, your pantry has 12 different kinds of teas, cocoas, ciders, and about 20 bars of different kinds of chocolate, but no salt, pepper, or spices.

You might have been a hooker too long if you never have to look for an envelope to mail a letter/give a holiday card.

You might have been a hooker too long if your underwear drawer is looking spartan but your stockings drawer is literally overflowing onto the ground.

You might have been a hooker too long if you can go from just out of bed to polished and pretty in under 20 minutes (let’s face it, sometimes last minute appointments fall into our laps)

Confession Time: I’m a procrastinator…

But I’ll bet all of you have found that out!  Sadly, this blog has fallen into that strange box of “get to it when there’s time” but then something else more pressing jumps up and down at me and demands my attention, wash, rinse, repeat, and so goes the blog!

I’m sorry, lovers, I really am.  To make up for it, I’m doing something I’ve never done before.  I’m going to put a story on here that I’m working on for my pseudo-memoir that may or may not ever get finished.  Criticism is welcome as long as it’s in a respectful tone, even if it’s negative (actually, especially if it’s negative.  I’ve done some of my best work after getting dressed down by a peer or teacher)

 

OK.  Without further ado, here is a small excerpt of my book-in-progress.  Enjoy.

 

Reflections

 

My alarm app trills it’s pseudo-Japanese arpeggio at 9am.  Blurry-eyed and not a little irritated, I fish it out from beneath my pillows and switch it off.  It’s Monday morning, and it’s time to get ready for work.

Stage One of Morning Ritual: Caffeinate.

I don’t eat breakfast, usually, at least not right as I wake up.  It makes me bloat, sick to my stomach, and I’ve never been one to be hungry in the morning.  Coffee (fresh from my very own french press) sweetened with brown sugar and a pat of unsalted butter suffices for my morning wake up. (Seriously, try the butter trick.  Luxurious, creamy goodness awaits you.)  Once properly caffeinated, I can’t procrastinate any  longer, so it’s on to stage two of Morning Ritual.

Stage Two of Morning Ritual: Get Pretty

I always shower before work.  I know some girls can get away with showering the night before a morning appointment, but I always feel a little grimy after I sleep, especially during the summer.  I use natural, unscented products where I can, but my peppermint body wash is subtle enough I’ve never heard of the perfume migrating off of me onto someone else, plus it makes my skin tingle, so it’s my exception.  Once my hair is clean, and I’ve shaved, bugged, exfoliated and completed other magic potion-y things, I just stand under the scalding spray and breathe in the steam.  I put myself in a state of relaxed expectation, a sort of calm joy with a hint of impish glee.  I’m always my best when I can approach the day with a bit of mischievous verve.  I also might masturbate, but then, who -doesn’t- rub one out in the shower now and again?

Out of the shower, toweled down and stark naked, it’s Lotion Time.  Finding unscented, light weight lotion is more difficult that you think.  I swear Big Lotion is in cahoots with Big Perfume, and they just seem to think all of us ladies -want- to smell like sticky, melted ice cream or like we just rolled in a pile of rotting flowers, but I digress.  I use Burt’s Bees Milk and Honey, which is technically scented, but it soaks in well and smelling like sweet milk seems to agree with me.  Lotion goes everywhere I can reach, but hands, feet, knees and elbows receive special attention.  In the same vein as the lotion (to remove roughness and increase softness, of course) my nails get a once over with an emory board.  Appearances always matter, and in my case that first impression is the difference between a one off client and repeat business.

Hair and make up come next, and that is the most variable part of Stage 2: Get Pretty.  Hair is always soft and touchable, but depending on the client it can be tousled bed head, bouncy, co-ed pony tail, elaborate curls or somewhere in between.  Likewise, my make up can be understated and natural, vintage cat-eye eyeliner and ruby lipstick, or completely bare-faced (which, I won’t lie, still means I have make up on.  What most people think of as “bare faced” actually include tinted moisturizer, setting powder, mascara and lip gloss.  I promise.)  For those with no strong opinion, I usually pull my curled hair back into hair combs and put on my “Bettie Page” face: fresh-faced pin-up with dark eyes and a pouty red lip.  All of my make up is kiss-proof and water-resistant, and I’ve never had a complaint about errant lipstick on the collar (in fact, most women call that 24 hour lipstick “blow job proof lipstick” but I’m classy so I don’t).  It’s these touches that I believe puts me an inch above the competition, (and I can use all the height I can get!) and I pride myself in doing the little things to make each tryst special, memorable, but completely discreet.  Speaking of special, let’s talk about the wrapping of this tasty present.

Stage 3: Dressing

Stage 3: Dressing is always fun.  Without a client suggestion (in which I can be everything from a doe-eyed college girl to a lace-covered vamp) I wear my favorite lingerie: red or black satin, seamed stockings, and garters to match, edge in lace or ribbon.  Easy enough to pull of in the heat of passion, but just delicate enough to require an ounce of restraint.  I find anticipation to be quite the heady aphrodisiac.

Once I am powdered, fluffed, painted and adored, I take a long pose in my full length mirror, and I inspect my handiwork.  A few turns, practice some seductive and flirty facial expression, fondle the girls a bit, marvel in the softness of my body.  It’s always a good rule that if you can’t turn yourself on, how can you expect to turn on anyone else?  This is the last stage, which really isn’t a stage at all:

Stage ??: Reflection

I’ve always been a kind of voyeur, I can’t help it.  By studying my own movements I can always find ways to improve- turn out the hip, bend that knee, lift up the chin more- and I have a distinctly alluring fantasy to offer up to my lucky client.

My work phone chimes: my first appointment of the day is parking.  I send a flirty text in reply, letting him know I’m anxiously waiting with bated breath.  He hits the door code and I buzz him in.  As I open the door to my Love Nest for him to slip through, I smile my wicked smile and throw my arms around him, for all the world welcoming back a long lost lover.  As we pull away from my greeting kiss, I can see in his eyes he is quite taken with me, already, and I know all my preparations are worth every minute.