Certificate of Authenticity

I’ve been thinking about several things this month, but what else is new? And I don’t think I’ve been much fun, but at times real life isn’t all fun and games.
Getting what I’ve taken to calling the girl’s certificate of authenticity and figuring out the paperwork to add her to my health insurance has been a test of herculean strength. But it is finally done, I’ve sent in the paper work, now it’s a matter of waiting for things to kick in.

This morning she mentioned something about the slave registry and I reminded her that her certificate has a number. I should give serious thought to tattooing the number on the back of her neck, but I can’t take that seriously since my first thought when she mentioned that some people get the number tattooed on their slaves I blurted out, “like how the Nazi did the Jews, are you fucking kidding me?” I was offended.

Moving on.

Since the bracelet broke I have missed looking at her and seeing it. She pretty much explains my take on collars which runs side  by side with marriage. I’m not opposed to marriage, I have been married I was with my husband for years before we actually got married. But that’s another post, he wore my ring and my girl wore my engagement ring. both of these things meant something to me personally and although not a collar they were both something that I charged and wore a head of time before giving it to them. My husband still has the ring although he remarried and my girl died with the ring. but I digress. The jade bracelet I placed on the girl was brought back from China when my sister visited there years ago. She and I joked that she forgot to bring me something and went to Chinatown and picked one up. It was something I had for years. and knew I wanted to give it to the girl, when she came to visit this past summer; but didn’t until she moved here. The look on her face when she told me was so sad, and although I did joke about her just taking it off if she didn’t want it backed fired, since she started crying, which she doesn’t do. But I do miss it on her. I’m thinking of giving her another piece of my jewelry, since I have some really nice pieces but it’s a work in progress. I’m still thinking about it.

As the Lady in our posse comments, my love is unconditional my “collar” isn’t. Yep it comes with conditions.



Social Class and Experience

We talk quite a bit about social class and experience. i quite often have more book knowledge on a topic and she has more direct experience. There is an awful lot of things that she figures “everyone knows” that i can hardly comprehend in any personally meaningful way.

i lived in between worlds, raised in a tiny house in a tiny town. We had the best in a bad neighborhood until i was 12. We weren’t poor, actually, though we lived like it in a feast or famine experience. My mother had more money saved than most people can put their hands on in even if they are upper middle class. But we had the educational experiences of being poor, lived in a teeny house, surrounded by people with small painful dreams. Or no dreams at all.

That winter, we moved into a man’s house that i had only met a few times, in a neighborhood that was close to the edge of upper middle class. i was surprised to learn that you had more freedoms in some ways in poor neighborhoods, where no one sent you letters telling you to trim your hedges. It had its own little park with a lake and walking trails. The same man, hurt by my mother not loving him and seeing another man, stole her quarter of a million dollars. He took me in secret to a private school, the one the other kids in that neighborhood went to, and promised me tuition if i could get my mother to stay. He had already talked to the Head Master, shown him my award signed by the President and my test scores that said i had outscored 97% of American students. i was angry that he had gone through my things and even more angry that i had continued to be bused from that neighborhood to another junk school. i thought he was an ass, to offer me a decent education by expecting me to get my mother to do anything. Clearly, if i could have, i would have been in a private school a long time ago because the means had been there for years.

Unlike a lot of other things my mother told me, i knew the money was not a lie. She had spread it out all over her bed before it was stolen and called me in. We lay down all over the money, giddy and laughing. Sir Raven was appalled by this story, suggesting it was the height of tacky behavior. My mother had told me to never marry anyone who couldn’t give me more than that and i had decided-right then and there-that money would never matter to me again.

So when it was gone, the only thing i lamented was my shoddy education.

Being here makes me aware that i identify with being poor in a lot of ways. i’ve also learned that my background is a bit of an embarrasing thing but also a testament to how well i managed to learn on my own. i also need to deal with my shame around talking about money and to attempt to not feel like its a personal failure on my part.

Sir Raven brought home this fantastic documentary about ballet dancers and watched the end of it with me when she got home. The dancers came from a variety of backgrounds and cultures. One girl walked out of Tiffany with her mother and a freaking bracelet with a crown on it. Because she is a princess, of course. She must be, if she can walk into that place and walk out owning something. i was mystified. Who does that?!?!

Sir Raven was surprised that i had half expected to be thrown out the time i went into that store in south Florida. i didn’t know a normal person could try on their rings. i was too afraid to touch anything. i was horrified when she pulled up their site and gleefully read off the 11 thousand dollar price tag for a wedding band. She kept saying, “What? That’s not bad.” i kept saying, “i feel sick. You mean to tell me by the time they get married they are walking around with 25 thousand dollars on their hand?”

i put that much down on my house which was 98 years old and three blocks from the ocean. i loved that house. Anyhow…

Evidently, one of the things everyone already knows is if your ring came from that place so its tacky to buy one that the main feature is wearing the brand. This is not stuff you can find in a book. Really. Who knew?

Also, you can actually eat breakfast there.

Sir Raven threatens to take us there and i point out that we had better not eat that breakfast so i don’t have to worry about getting sick. i imagine that is how i would feel even trying on rings that collectively cost more than a year of my education.

My goal is to die owing the federal government money on student loans and to not embarrass Sir Raven in all of the fancy stores i’ve never been in.

She thinks everyone knows about those kinds of stores.
i think everyone should have been to Disney as a child. Sir Raven didn’t get to go there as a kid and therefore can’t understand the magic of the place. Whereas i’ve waited my whole life and can totally understand the magic of not getting thrown out of Tiffanys.

Recovering Perfectionist

i am called jade, and i am a recovering perfectionist.

i was writing yesterday, a long and rambling post that i left in the draft folder. It was touching on memories of my battles.

i spoke to my beloved adopted aunt, who said again that i’m a chameleon, a person who always adapts. A person who always makes the people around me look good. And she points out that this isn’t my job and it smacks of me controlling. i winced a bit. Okay, i winced a lot.

i don’t think of myself as a person who controls much. i will adapt fast to however people live, whatever is expected or needed. But she points out that i am the most self-controlled person she has ever known. Because my Auntie Carol is my details person, who notices everything, i ask her what my face is doing when i feel hurt or angry. She says there is only one giveaway, that i do something with my lip, but it is there and gone in about three seconds.

That is about how long i let myself feel those things before deciding that it is not a big enough thing to point it out to the person who enticed those emotions and let it go.

She wants to know about the background of this, and i realize i was a perfectionist at 4, driven to secret rage when i could read but not tie a shoe. Rage at myself for not being able to put puzzles together but who had whole books memorized. Rage at not folding the shirt perfectly, and perfect meant the way my mother did it. She was my measuring stick of how to do everything the correct way. Of course, all of the things that made me angry where visual and spatially related.

When i tell Sir Raven i was a perfectionist at 4 and 5, she laughs. Because 4 and 5 year olds, of course, draw some kind of fantastically weird thing and are utterly pleased with themselves and expect everyone else would be pleased as well. i’ve taught a good number of young children throughout an 8 year teaching career. None of them were so serious, so devoted to making sure that no one knew they couldn’t see, so angry at perceiving this as an imperfection that must be never acknowledged.

i was doing the teaching Master’s program for someone else when i realized because my left eye never saw the big E, i should have never been given a standard IQ test. It just never occurred to me.

So if it is not natural for a child to be a perfectionist, then it was something implanted there, just like my mother telling me that a growling stomach meant you were loosing weight.

Now, of course, i don’t get a choice anymore about hiding my imperfections from the world. i don’t get to pretend i can see what is going on. i don’t get to pretend my body and mind are up to the same challenges each day. And of course, i do what i do….control the fuck out of my attitude about these things.

My underlying fear is that i would become bitter if i let myself, which is not realistic at all. i fear that i would walk around angry and frustrated if i let myself acknowledge it for longer than two minutes. i work my ass off to accept that how long things will take me will fluctuate day in and out. i focus on controlling what i can do.

i notice how often i’m using the word control here. Yep. That is a lot of control.

Auntie Carol says i should not be so self-controlling, that it doesn’t leave enough room for someone else to be doing that stuff. i think of it as a kind of decency, to not expect anyone to have to tell me to control myself, my feelings, my attitude. In particular, i imagine Sir Raven appreciates that i’m not walking around emoting all of the time. She is a person who is highly self-controlled, though way more sensitive than i am and i tend to think of it as a service that i have a high degree of self-control and don’t let myself get hurt or angry often.

My mother was married seven times and had a couple of live-in boyfriends as well. i had to be adaptable, agreeable. Whatever she was doing, i was there, making it work or accepting the blame when it wasn’t working. As a child, i was definitely the martyr role, though i was never resentful. My auntie says that no one likes a martyr, especially one who is never resentful about it.

i was thinking about all of these things when Sir Raven came home and we talked over dinner. She had been thinking about our somewhat frustrating conversation too, which we thankfully don’t have a lot of. She forgets i cannot see her face sometimes and readily admits that we are both over-explainers. When i say i think i’m 80 percent of the problem because i am the person with the problem visually, she notes that actually i am not having a problem alone. She wants to help solve it too where she can. i need to be able to express what she can do to help. She feels like even though i am having a problem, i don’t have to deal with it alone and feel like its me or my sole responsibility to resolve.

i’m turning that around in my mind, that idea that two people can solve a problem together, even when its my fault. i’m the one that cannot see afterall. Sir Raven is surprised that i would ever think its my fault that i cannot see.

i keep thinking of the last appointment at Vanderbilt, where my mother turned to me as soon as the doctor left the room to hiss, “You didn’t see the big E with your right eye too now. You didn’t give them anything to work with, Crystal. Now they can’t do anything to fix you. You should have been trying.”

i was 27 and trying to grasp that there was no magic pill or magic surgery or anything that they could do. i was trying to grasp that i was born with retinopathy, from being a micro-premie. At that age, i should have been able to get that this wasn’t my fault or my doing but the only person who had ever really known about my eyes was my mother. i had no other points of view. It wasn’t talked about with anyone else. Ever.

i was trying to grasp that the good eye had failed me finally and no amount of me telling it to *work damn it* was going to fix it anymore.

Anyhow, i think its important that i try and develop maybe more of a balance in terms of thinking to ask for her to adjust things a little bit to ease the way of her getting what she wants and needs. Getting her end result seems to me to matter more to Sir Raven than how we actually get there. It seems a bit backward to me, that i should be the only one who adjusts anything. Seriously, though, what i think is not too important to me, getting to a better and more open place is. And, of course, she can always say no if its something she doesn’t feel like doing. i have to be willing to acknowledge what can be done to help me in more ways and spend maybe a little less energy trying to control how i’m feeling about living with chronic pain and vision problems.

communication issues

When there are communication problems, i tend to take full emotional responsibility for them. Part of this is because i’m legally blind and i miss the 80 percent of communication that is non verbal. So it seems reasonable, to me, that i must be 80 percent of the problem most of the time.

Another reason is…well…i signed on for a power exchange relationship. So i figure it is on me to manage how i’m feeling. She has the right to be blunt or coarse or hurtful without having to deal with my feelings. Most of the time, she doesn’t know. i discovered, a few weeks ago, that my face doesn’t communicate being hurt. i was a little bit surprised to learn this. i thought that most people wouldn’t know if something made me feel hurt or angry because i hide those things well. i have a whole process in my head for deciding when it is the correct circumstance and timing to let a person know that i’m feeling these things. But i didn’t know that she would be totally unaware because i don’t have a “oh, that hurt” face.

There are times we are trying to talk and the television seems to be constantly blaring. i don’t like that, the feeling that i am having to speak loud to carry over the television. i assume i’m not making sense and over explain myself because i can’t see her face. The only feedback i’m getting is her being distracted by the television at parts of the talk. So then i’m distracted too and assuming that i am making no sense. Which leads to me explaining more. It becomes a kind of cycle. She gets annoyed, which is understandable. This doesn’t happen all of the time but it frustrates me a great deal. i’m mad at myself that i can’t see her face but that i know she is distracted by something else. The phone was easier because i wasn’t aware of her focus elsewhere. What is interesting is it used to frustrate her when i cleaned while we talked, which was often. She expressed that she could feel i was less focused and liked it better when she had my undivided attention. It seems this goes both ways and i’m not sure how to change this in myself. It seems that i shouldn’t have any expectations for how we communicate.

On the heels of a frustrating conversation, she decided she was ready to take me to bed and cane me. For whatever reason, when i went to move her laptop off of the bed, she told me to leave it there. i am used to being unbound totally but tend to end up moving into the wall. It seems like once i’ve hit the wall and my brain gets that i can’t crawl in, i turn to begging and pleading. i was feeling strange during the heavy caning, almost angry at being trapped on one side of the bed. i couldn’t find my vulnerable side because i felt trapped and hostile. i am not any less trapped where the bed meets the wall but there is something to touching it, feeling the wall, feeling helpless, feeling her force….those things are what triggers the emotional surrender inside….lets me express being vulnerable in a way that makes me feel highly vulnerable.

The more i hate what she is doing, the more i am pleading, the better i feel psychologically later. i understand that most people want to hear that you are enjoying what is happening to you. Sometimes, i do enjoy it. Sometimes, i hate it….every precious second. But i need that. And that is why i do it…because i need it, i need that force. Literally, i need to trying to squish myself into a wall and not have things stop or calm down or change based on me. i need it to have nothing to do with me. i need to be in true pain, true distress, true agony. The peace that comes from grasping that i am fully vulnerble, exposed, out of control entirely…..well….it just cannot be compared to anything else.

The marks on my body, i earned them.

They didn’t come from a joyful expression of S/m. We don’t toy with the idea of pain. It’s not a game. i don’t make her play “mother-may-i?” with me. We are not playing “red light, green light.” My pleading, my anger, my distress, my pain… it is real.

And there is a beauty to that. It is something holy. Sacred.

Maybe its because there are no distractions and i can’t self-monitor. Those are the moments that, actually, whatever i am feeling IS for her to deal with. She is, afterall, making those feelings happen. She decides if i am driven to anger, joy, frustration, bliss, tears. Since there is nothing for me to decide, there is nothing for me to control in myself. i simply can’t in that state.

Do i enjoy a good session where i am more or less catered to? Yes, of course. i have an inner masochist, after all. i find the endorphins don’t release when i am pushed hard and fast but the emotional pay off is intense. Something that play-for-pleasure doesn’t do. It is a different release. Very different.

Last night, when i couldn’t get in touch with feeling vulnerable, it was just strange. i was a mess of emotions. When i realized i had lost my paper, i was so angry i started to cry. Then i thought about her broken bracelet and couldn’t stop. i cleaned up the kitchen, brought her meds and a drink, and went to bed. At that point, it seemed like the only thing to do. She came in and said she hated it when i wasn’t covered up the right way and fixed the blankets, tucking me in. And then she crawled into bed early with me to watch her show on her laptop. i was so glad to have her near me that i fell asleep pretty fast.

Today, i am trying really, really hard to get it together. i went out in the snow (yay! i love snow) to get Sir Raven’s gift for her bday that i’ve been obsessing about for three weeks now. i am cooking pepper steak and spanish rice, which smells good already. i didn’t leave my phone in the closet. i bought groceries. i am not obsessing about the mouse every ten seconds. i am praying he pulled a Templeton and went out with the trash or something. i am writing, so at least i’m trying to figure out in my head how “hitting the wall” (literally) fits in with my other communication issues. i keep turning it around in my head like a puzzle piece, sure it fits together somehow but i’m missing it.

i need to think some more. i have already discarded the notion that i am having the typical girl feelings of entitlement like “hey, pay attention to me.” Its not that.

When things are not working efficiently, i feel like the burden is on me to adjust and fix it. With these two things…i’m not sure how.

A certain kind of way…

Here, in New York, they have an interesting expression. It’s called “feeling a certain kind of way.” i had to ask what in the world this meant, if it was intended to suggest you are feeling bad without saying so, or if it was asked so the person who felt “a certain kind of way” would talk.

Anyhow, i’m feeling a certain kind of way today.

Part of it is pain induced. The only thing that Sir Raven and i share that i wish we didn’t is that she has sympathy pains when my pain level is bad enough. She pointed out that it feels like back labor. i just smiled, weary with living with this. And then i asked her if she might like to do yoga to make her laugh.

When she calls a close friend, he politely asked her if there was anything she would like to share. i suggested that the next time he asks, she informs him that she knocked me up. She played it stealthy, understated. Of course. It’s not that big of a deal to her, the domestic partnership thing. It was just what she had to do to get me health insurance, because it freaks her out that i’ve not even had basic medical care things done in years.

She points out, correctly, that we didn’t get married. This is true and factual. We live in a state where they actually allow you to get married like everyone else, which is shocking in and of itself to me. What is more shocking to me is SR knows people who have been together decades and were not lined up to get married immediately when it became legal. i’ve spent a lifetime having to hide what i was, compliments of a Morality Clause working for the school system and legit worries about my nephews being taken away from me. i’ve had relatives and friends who were thrown out of homes they shared the second their lover died or was in the hospital. So, for me, i come at the idea from the point of view of logic. If you have the chance after being together for so long to make that person your next-of-kin, you damn well take advantage of it. From a political standpoint, i’d want to be counted.

i want to not be invisable, for once.
The Domestic Partnership was satisfying to me on that level.
Even a Domestic Partnership was something that was available only in some counties in Florida which is insane, considering how few rights it legally affords you.

To her, you are together or not, but a piece of paper doesn’t make it so. You are married spiritually with or without that paper. She is a bit of a romantic on the concept of how one forms a union. To us, a piece of paper isn’t it. Plus, the idea that glbt’s suddenly seem to want to have the picket fence, dogs, and 2.3 kids makes her cringe. i get that. i totally do. A piece of paper does not make us the same as heterosexual people.

That being so, if she could put a baby inside of me by herself, she would have.
i don’t want to have a child, i want to have herchild.

To add insult to it, the IRS still says we are invisable. i wasn’t kidding when i wanted to send them explicit photos with a note that points out we are human beings too. We deserve rights.

i’m pro marriage for all consenting adults.
Yes, even (especially) polygamous families. And why not? Really? They too have sometimes spent decades together with no legal protection. Why is that okay?

We are supposed to be the land of the free, no?

Anyhow, she looks at marriage as some kind of necessary evil, not something that conveys much. i look at it as the legal factor that if i get deathly ill, that sociopath of a mother wouldn’t be my next-of-kin. i am entirely not romantic about it. Actually, i’d be a total kill joy about a wedding. i’d be horrified at the expense for one day. SR has said that she wouldn’t be able to tell me what anything cost and would have handed me a dress and tell me to put it on. She has no intention of spending the next forty years hearing me hysterical that one piece of fabric cost more than my first car.

Have i ever mentioned i have an inner Control Freak? 😛

Yeah, well, i do.

i wonder if we made histroy in that ornate courthouse. We may have. It could have been the first time a white woman addressed a black woman as “Master” in the building. Heh.

The other things that are making me feel “a certain kind of way” is, in no particular order…
1. the frigging mouse. i was happy in the kitchen and spend hours in there daily. i love to cook for her. Now i hate being in there. i’m afraid i won’t see it and accidently will touch it. i’m afriad there is poo that i won’t see and will touch. Etc. etc. etc. i’m grossed out. My sensibilites are violated. i’m worried it will jump out at me.

2. i’m still waking up, touching my arm, and remembering i broke her bracelet. This is so perfectly dreadful that i got upset yesterday, starting crying and then thought about this and couldn’t stop.

3. Still feeling like i have a bad head cold that just won’t leave.

4. Pain. Pain. Pain.

5. The B i made on my paper that was covered in red notes everywhere, starting with the first paragraph. Then i made a B on my test this week. This is unlike me. It screams incompetent even though i have a 3.9 GPA so clearly, its not factual. That somehow doesn’t help.

6. i rely more than i think i do on the structure and routines of our life. i hate the idea of routines but i see that i don’t do as well without it. Her being sick and then this odd week has thrown me off. We have not played seriously since New Years Eve, which i hesititate to say. It’s not a criticism in any way, really. i’ve become Zen about it in the last two months. Still….it does important things for me. Like reduce my pain and frustration levels that are everywhere right now. Ugh.

7. Sigh. She has just come out to inform me that i need to get dressed, the bathroom ceiling is leaking badly. i bring in the mop basin and she informs me that she was just getting to call me into the room for a beating. i could cry. Seriously.

i started writing this yesterday but am finishing it today.

8. i left my phone inside my my coat hanging in the closet and missed her calls Saturday. She wasn’t thrilled. She wallked in the door, noted i was alive, and slapped me. Not hard…though that is not exactly the point. It’s the first time she has walked in upset like that. Go me.

9. i had half of a paper done and erased it. My instructors comments were embedded in my graded paper and when windows came up to ask if i wanted to save it, i said “no”, not realizing i had just erased the new paper. Adding to the frustration is i am really not clear on the assignment to begin with so getting that far was a major hurdle.

10. i keep hearing the voices in my head that scream how incompetent i am. Thank God its a new week.

What a week…

Tuesday, i was minding my own business when i kept hearing a sound that i discovered was a mouse. i freaked out and went to hide in the bedroom for two hours until Sir Raven got home. To be clear, i’m not afraid of mice or rats from pet stores. i’m not a total weanie. i’m afraid of huge city mice that i think are living near her gas stove (can they chew through that?). i have all kinds of fears of them because they carry disease and they are in the damned apartment. i’ve been freaked out since then. i’ve taken to leaving the televison on so it hears a person and doesn’t attack me while i work. i would have left the apartment but had been told to not go out because i’m still fighting some kind of a cold. Ugh.

Wednesday, i went out to take care of all of my normal errands in the frigid city. It wasn’t too bad, honestly, at 15 degrees…until there was a strong breeze. i got home and put everything away. When i took off my gloves, Sir Raven’s jade bracelet that i wore 24/7 as our symbol, came flying off and broke into pieces. i was quite beside myself and kept repeating “oh, my God,” “Oh MY GOD.” When she got home, Sir Raven just said, “jade, it was jade….how in the world did you break jades?” i was horrified that it broke, momentarily freaked out that it had some kind of meaning behind it but that thought vanished when she was calm. Then, she tried to crack a joke, saying “If you didn’t want to wear my collar anymore, you could have just told me.” In my emotional and precarious state, i burst into tears. i imagine that might have been a dead giveaway to her that i was genuinely terribly upset because i am not a crier at all. She jokes about getting an eternity collar.

Thursday, i guess she decided to do something i couldn’t break. She has threatened to just brand me but i was overly enthusiastic about the idea and it killed her joy on the topic. Instead, we went and became Domestically Partnered. On the way home, i asked her if she had said she would only do this again in life if it was a cold day in hell…because if so, God clearly heard her. It was beyond frigid that morning.

Later, i mused that we were both extremists in some ways. We went in, the paperwork was already done. Sir Raven handed over the identifications and we signed the form. Easy. Outside we teased each other and had the free and easy joy of children on a field trip. One of us said something about the ceremony they offer, which we forewent. i knew they would do one for an additional cost but never considered that she might want this and never mentioned it. i wondered if you still promised to love, honor, and obey in that one and she informed me that this was already in effect. So there. Then she joked there should be a ceremony that says, “obey or get out.” i pointed out that this idea would only work for her in the winter season, when the Farmer’s Market is closed so i can’t make her sauce. She readily agrees. In theory, “obey or get out” works. In reality, she might be able to do without me….but not go without having cold white wine and a hot meal every night. lol.

Note that in her post on the topic she put in the graphic that she loves me more than Sheldone loves his spot. If you have ever seen that episode of Big Bang Theory, he about had a nervous breakdown without having that couch cushion. 😀

i am thankful for the eight days i spent in Florida without her because we both had a hideous time of it. During the experience, it felt like a part of me was missing, because it was.

We came home and i filled out the paperwork to make her my health care proxy with carte blanche access, including deciding when to pull the plug. If i can’t serve her, i’d rather she pull the plug. i asked if she had any objection to me donating my organs and she permitted this. i decided i don’t want my eyes donated because they are the window to the soul…and i have seen some things no person should. Those things need to die with me when i die.

i made our lunch and went back out in the arctic to get smokes and wine. We looked over IRS tax codes and health coverage. Sir Raven observes that the health coverage alone means i will stay with her forever. She says people in New York stay together for a whole lot less. The IRS tax codes make me feel rage. It says we are not recognized as relatives. It says she cannot be Head of Household. i suggest we take explicit photos of her dick and mail them off to the IRS but am vetoed.

i read over tax codes aloud. She pointed out the sheer number of medical things she was going to make me do. i like doctors almost as much as i like mice.

This is all very O/p, no?
(Furtively looking around)…
Yeah. It totally is.

And…i adore her. She is my Master, my Mr. Darcy, and my everything.

i’m hoping for some excitement of a different kind this weekend because…damn…its been awhile. i am resigned, either way. Calm either way. And that feels heavenly. It’s nice to be in a need it but don’t want it phase that is also calm.

Maybe that is an O/p thing too.
i have a lifetime.
Nothing else matters. 🙂

Yep, it’s true…

We are the kinky Darcy’s. We must be. We woke early Thursday morning and i packed her lunch because i thought she was going to work. i served her coffee and before i had my first sip, she told me to get ready as soon as i finished that cup. i looked at her, confused and asked what was going on. My hand went up to my mouth, as if to silence it, and i gestured at the coffee miserably. We know that my brain is most definitely not made for thinking before coffee.

i dressed and nearly put on my pride and prejudice shirt but the 10 degree weather made me rethink this and i ended up wearing a long sleeve white shirt with a lace back that she likes. i was dressed and ready for a good twenty minutes before i was told that we were going to the city clerk.

The building was amazing and i am always touched by how kind people are here. The courthouse was so big that i got signed in and out so i could get help if i got lost.

The registering part was straight forward. i glanced over at the woman next to me, in a fancy purple dress with some shiny beadwork or something. i was half expecting someone to come out and send us away and had to remind myself that i wasn’t in the south anymore. The bride to my right said, very softly, “congratulations” and i felt myself relax in the tangible reminder of the human decency of this city.

A form was handed over and Sir Raven told me where to sign. It occured to me many hours later that i never asked what i was signing and the woman behind the glass didn’t ask me either. i mean, i had looked up all relevant information online for Sir Raven so i had an idea of what was going on. But still. Talk about CNC (laughing).

i squeezed her arm, disoriented, to remind her that we needed to sign out somwhere. She says, “Who is doing this? Who is leading? You or me?” Sheepishly, i replied quietly, “You are Master, you are leading.”

When we made it to the elevator when she pointed out that the wedding couples bag of rings was from Zales when everyone knows one must shop at Tiffany’s for something this important. i laughed and am still laughing at how incredulous she was on this topic. She pointed out that even she had gone there and then took her ring out of her pocket to tell her husband he could, in fact, put it on her finger now. i laughed again and told her that my experience included a ten dollar ring from a mall kiosk. To say she was horrified is an understatement. The Catholic Church says that my experience (it was neither a wedding nor marriage) never took place on several grounds and i agree one hundred percent. Sir Raven imagines that one of those grounds was about the ten dollar wedding band alone. She has a wince in her voice when she tells me that she does not want to know this about me. Zales, to me, was more than adequate for the job. To Sir Raven, Tiffanys-and only the one in New York counts-is the only acceptable way to do it. Okay then.

i am suddenly troubled and asked if people here do the ceremony part of things through the glass wall. No. Thank Goodness.

i realize i have never gone to a lesbian wedding and can’t quite imagine it.

She takes a photograph on the steps for me of the statue so i can blow it up and see it later. And then she snaps one of me. She jokes of how we will hang the paper on the wall or have some cheesy photos of us, holding it.

She jokingly punches me in the face and i utter Elizabeth Bennet’s famous words, “Your hands are cold” and we both laugh our way to Burger King around the corner.

So, i have an official number from the State of New York. Take that slave registry. 😛