I’ve been ill for the past few days and my new mantra is “you’re not the boss of me.” Needless to say nurse Ratched has been on the case. I said I didn’t want chicken soup, so I got beef stew, I didn’t want V8 so I got apple juice, I didn’t want to take some mucus medicine so she got dayquil. I put my foot down, so there. 🙂
Laying up has given me time to do what I love to do, which is think it occurred to me the other day and I made mention of it to the girl that in all of our talks before she came here I never gave any thought to if she could cook. I knew she knew how to make a good cup of coffee, but not food. What the hell was I thinking? Well what I was thinking was that we would both cook, or rather if I felt like cooking I would and if not one can never go wrong with a turkey and cheese sandwich. But thank the Goddess she does know how to cook. She’s really good at it too.
I tease her that she’s got all of my five friends smitten with her. When another master was getting her slave’s possessions in order when she died, the girl sent me over with food for her. When the sassy of our little crew was going through a hard time she reached out in friendship to him. It’s these things that make me proud of her. There’s always this talk of what a “real” slave is. For me it’s always been that a my slave is an extension of myself, but more. I can bounce ides around with her, I can tell her what I’m thinking and in each case know that she knows me well enough to make me look at things at a different angle. She has her own mind and is not afraid to use it, when it comes to me. Yes granted there are time I get more then I want, but she comes with an off button. When I’ve heard enough I just say so.
The other day I joked with her about how she at times takes things too far. I tease her about her mouth not being made for talking and her brain not being for thinking. In that I mean that there are times I’ll mention something and she’ll give me the whole historical background. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar and it’s those times her mouth is not made for talking. Other times I’m thinking of something and will make mention to her in passing. She’ll put so much thought into it that a day or two later she’ll come to me with a dissertation of the thought. Really, I didn’t mean for it to be that deep, so I have to remind her when I do this her brain is not made for thinking. Afterall I do enough thinking for the both of us.
So to those who want the definition of a “real” slave I say first define what you mean by the statement.
For me my slave is my cooking, my confidant, my shoulder to lean on when I’m tiered, my sassy girl who knows how far she can go, my silly partner in crime and my nurse Ratched when I’m ill even if I’m not the best patient.