Poly Nirvana

Love, Life and Rational Polyamory



Date night was Friday, and Special Man had big things planned. He was happy and upbeat and excited to give me a couple of belated birthday gifts. I was tired after my first full week back at work, and secretly wished I was still curled up in my cozy bed, but when I walked into the sushi restaurant he had picked out, and saw him sitting in the corner booth, I could tell immediately that this was A Big Date. He was wearing the pale blue dress shirt that suits him so well and honestly, makes me salivate a little.

There was a small brown box sitting on the table. Special Man was almost bouncing in his seat waiting for me to open it. (It was pretty adorable.) Inside the box was a necklace, a cameo with a purple “Day of the Dead” themed skeleton. It was beautiful and quirky, and it was not something I would ever buy for myself. I squealed a little and put it on. He picked it out just for me, and there’s no better feeling than that.

He had also picked out a stunning deep purple and black brocade full corset, which was one of the prettiest corsets I’d ever seen. Again, it wasn’t something I would ever spend the money on for myself. (I always choose the practical option.) I’ve never owned a corset, and I’ve always wanted one. After dinner, we headed over to the shop where he had purchased it, because he had been unsure of the fit, and wanted to see me in it and then exchange it if I needed a different size.

We were both disappointed that the corset didn’t fit, and there weren’t any of the same style in a larger size. Ironically, bigger breasts are tricky in a corset. I expected to look like a bombshell, but it seems like a corset took away some of my curves, and then made others WAY too accentuated. As in my hips. Holy hell. I think I’m going to try an underbust that hits me right at the waist, but that night I had already been laced into five or so corsets, and I was tired and well, maybe my body image was suffering a little and I just felt like an overstuffed sausage, and the store was about to close and I felt rushed.

However, before we left I tried on a completely impractical, red pinup girl style, dress, with a fitted bodice, and full skirt. Special Man insisted we buy it, along with a full petticoat, which most definitely is the very most impractical thing I have ever owned, as it goes underneath the dress and isn’t necessary, and isn’t really seen.

But the twirl factor was so intoxicating! I was just so excited, I couldn’t stop smiling. Twirling is such a girlie thing to me. It’s silly and frivolous and fun and joyful. As we left the store, I told SMF about my little girl issues. I told him about how when I was little, my sister Jessi had the pink floral dress with the puffy sleeves and a pink satin sash, and how I had the tailored, understated, cross front dress with the green belt. She was always the “pretty one” and I was the “smart one”. I’m not sure why we couldn’t both have been pretty and smart, and I’m fairly certain that my parents never intended for us to pick up on, or adopt those labels, but it just happened. This red dress, and this black flouncy petticoat make me feel like the pretty one, and while I’m conscious of the fact that I don’t have to buy into whatever remnant of childhood insecurity remains, it’s nice to be immersed in that girlie girl feeling. I can’t wait to wear it on Saturday for a party I’m hosting. A kinky party.

I’m excited!

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I can’t seem to finish a post.  I have several working, all the time, but real life seems to take over and then I am wordless.

Tonight I watched a mother give birth to a beautiful, silent baby who did not move, and whose heart did not beat.  I watched a young father weep as he rocked back and forth as his lifeless child was born.  It was sad, and heavy and my heart hurts.

When I say to my children, that someone, somewhere,  is always worse off than they are, they roll their eyes and call me Pollyanna.  But it is truth.

Love your people just a little bit harder today.

I need to sleep now, and to forget for just a little while.





I’m a child of the sixties.

Alright, I was born two and a half months before 1970 arrived, but still, I hold that 1969 birth year to me like a big fat badge of honor. (It’s actually more of a “Participant” ribbon. Remember those?)

Today is my birthday. Forty-four. This is a hard one, for some reason. I’ve always looked younger than I was, and it was always fun to have someone marvel at my age, and say things like You don’t look old enough to have children that age! I didn’t realize how validating that was, until people stopped saying those things.

I have started to catch up with myself. And it’s bizarre and surreal to feel so much like the girl I was in my twenties, and look in the mirror and see a forty-something face, with my eyes and my freckles looking back at me. Yeah, yeah, circle of life and all that, but how did this happen? And how does time continue to pass, faster and faster? I look at my children, and I see how quickly they are growing, and I want to press the rewind button, and do it all again, but perfectly.

My Dad used the phrase “failed perfectionist” with me once, and I have always remembered the insight I gained from this concept. I’m trying not to let my fear of doing things imperfectly stop me from attempting; from living. I think sometimes I look at a task, a situation, a challenge, and I know I’ll never be able to do it well enough. It will never be perfect, so I just don’t even try.

Being a wise old woman now, I see how self defeating this is.

There may be a mid-life crisis on my horizon. Though, from my perspective, the past three years has been some sort of mid-life “shift”, and I’ve been very aware of the fact that I’m choosing a different life path than I had expected even ten years ago. So maybe I’ll just leave it at that. (This week I looked at this little red Hot Wheels looking car that I’m currently driving, and I thought, Well there’s a cliche for you.)

Special Man is coming over later after work, and we will have two nights in a row together, which is a rare treat. Tonight we are going out to dinner with my kids, and those are the only concrete plans we have so far. I’d like to take a drive in the mountains tomorrow. Fall is my favorite season and the trees should be beautiful right now.

Happy Birthday to me.

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Today in a thrift store, I found a wedding cake topper that is identical to the one that was on my wedding cake twenty-one years ago. I’d had a vague idea that I wanted to have something to represent the death of my marriage for the Day of the Dead altar I am planning on November 2nd. When I saw the white ceramic bride and groom, I stopped and looked at it for a minute before I picked it up. I was a little sad for that girl who got married at age 22, but I also was flooded with a feeling of relief. Who I am now, is far from who I was then. I lived the life that was expected of me for many years. I may still be trying to find my way, but now I try to live with choice and intention. And that is a very good thing.

I have a lot of patterns that I am trying to change. Patterns of shame which do not serve me any more. I am aware, and I am present. I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to live my life according to someone else’s idea of who I should or shouldn’t be.



All I want is a bra that fits well, is comfortable, looks pretty, and holds my breasts where they need to be. I don’t want to be pinched and poked under the arms with underwires, I don’t want to be squeezed and suffocated by bands and straps and cups that runneth over. I don’t want my breasts to look misshapen. I used to have a killer rack. I loved it. Now, well, it’s just a rack that needs a little love.

Someone explain to me how every fucking bra manufacturer manages to make their bras so different, in the way they fit, and hold, and look, that it’s nearly impossible to find a bra that’s a perfect match for my body? Twice in my life I’ve found bras that worked well, and I bought those bras, in (what I thought) was my size for a year or two, and it was easy and stress free, and I was brand loyal, and THEN, twice, the bras were changed, or discontinued, and my body changed as I got older and my weight has fluctuated and now I’m back at square one. Braless. (Figuratively.)

I was recently measured, to see what my current bra size should be. I wanted something new and pretty, and I bit the bullet and presented my breasts for evaluation. I suspected I had been in the wrong size for a long time, as I think many women are. Okay, actually, I knew I was in the wrong size, because Special Man has been after me to get new bras for months. Or maybe a year. (Or more.)

By the way, I hate bra sizing.

So I had been in bras sized 40D, and I knew they were too big, sort of, except sometimes I was overflowing the tops of them, so who the hell knew if I needed bigger or smaller bras, and what does that mean anyway when you’ve got band size and cup size and then you throw in all the different varieties of plunge bras, demi bras, push ups and full coverage, and that’s not even the tip of the iceberg.

The gal with the tape measure proclaimed I was a 36DD. Yeah, right, I thought. It sounded ridiculous. Still, I tried on a dozen different styles, and I could see that indeed, the DD was a good call. I danced around in the dressing room, attempting to dislodge the girls from the bra cups, and immediately dismissed any bra that lent itself easily to the overflow issue. I came home with a single bra. I had narrowed the field down to two styles, but at the last minute, I couldn’t commit to both.

I’m telling you, I have serious bra trauma.

Even now, I don’t think the size is right. It’s closer, for sure. But, still…

Someone shoot me.



I’m trying something new. I’ve set a timer for fifteen minutes and I will write until it goes off and it will be posted. I find that I am very much a perfectionist with what I write, not that it’s bad to care about content and form, but it’s keeping me from posting. 12 minutes and 53 seconds left…

Today I am heading over to my local “Poly Meet and Greet”, or Poly Munch, or whatever you want to call it, which I organize. To tell you the truth, I am frustrated and a little burned out. I live in an area that is very conservative, but still I think that there are more polyamorous people out there that I’m just not finding. I advertise it on Fetlife, as well as a local Google group. I don’t know exactly what else to do… Maybe an ad somewhere? Don’t get me wrong, it’s always good to socialize with the people I know, but I would love for this serve as an outreach kind of event. I may need to get some help with it, another person to be in charge of it with me might help. It’s not a tremendous burden, it’s just the publicizing and the feeling of responsibility that I’d like to dilute a little.

This week will be my birthday. For the first time, I’m feeling my age. This could be the extra stress I’ve had lately…or I could just be truly getting old. I’m grateful that I’m not a grandmother. Yet. Special Man and I are spending next weekend together, and I’m really looking forward to that. It gives us plenty of time for both having fun and being quiet. This past Friday he was able to stay overnight, and he was so tired that he fell asleep very, very early. I crocheted and watched Arrested Development while he slept next to me. It was comfortable. But I did miss being engaged and talking. And other things.

There’s the timer. Happy Sunday, friends.

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I have a therapist, who I have seen on and off again since 2008.  He’s wonderful at reflecting back ME, to myself.  I use him when I need to focus.  Sometimes I use him just to verbalize what I already know, and need to hear out loud.  I saw him this morning.

“When are you happiest?” he asked me.

“Right after sex”, I said.  That was easy, I thought.

We talked about my tendency to overthink and worry.  We talked about how I hate it when Special Man tells me to be a duck, as he does, often.  (As in letting things roll off my back.)  We talked about how his nonchalance about certain (many) things is at odds with my natural stress patterns, and Therapist suggested that we may even be amplifying our differences in an effort to counteract the other.  We talked about how I’ve cried more in the last two years than I probably have in all my previous years, and Therapist thought that was a wonderful thing, because I’m not “closed up tight” any more.

“You can’t fuck all the time,” he said.  Damn, I thought.  “Your homework is to be aware of what you are feeling, and find some other things that make you happy. Try something new.”

Tonight I came across this, and I wanted to share it here, but I couldn’t embed it.  Take a few minutes to follow the link, especially if you are a broken girl, like me.  It’s sweet and sentimental, but even my cynical side was smiling.  


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I got a killer deal on a car.  Older, well-maintained Pontiac Grand Am that I really like.  Kind of cute.  I figured I’d drive it until next summer, and then it would make an ideal car for my teenagers to drive.

And now I know why it was such a good deal.  Apparently there’s a common issue with a few makes and models of cars and their security systems, and my cute little new red car is one of them.   Randomly, the car’s security system will be triggered and the car will not start.  Will.  Not.  Start.  The security light flashes for about fifteen minutes, and when it goes off, then the car starts.  Talk about annoying.  I can’t figure out what is triggering it, and from what I read on the internet, it’s some kind of common electronic thing that just happens with the ignition reading something wrong. Or something.

It’s almost funny. (Almost.)  The car troubles that have surrounded me lately just keep coming.  I had a choice between a new 2014 car, or this (very) old, 2000 Pontiac which would keep me out of debt.  It seemed like such a smart thing to do. It runs beautifully, when the damn security system lets me drive it!  Also the click-click of the turn signal just decides to go off occasionally…there must be a short somewhere.  I’m not sure what my next step is.  Maybe I can live with it.  Maybe I can find someone to fix it, there are YouTube videos and web pages devoted solely to this lame little problem.

Now I’m off to find my big flannel nightshirt, climb into bed, and think about other, more pleasant things before falling asleep.  (And that’s all I’m saying about that…)



Today SMF teased me a little about slacking on my writing.  It’s nice to know that he keeps an eye on my blog, and is interested in reading what I write.  It also blocks me sometimes, from writing things I might share if I was truly anonymous.  I almost always work through it though, generally by sitting on a draft for a few days, wondering if it’s too much to be posting, until I pretty much say Fuck It and post it anyway.

A few nights ago, I woke up in the middle of the night out of a really bad dream, which ended with a mob of people chasing me, as I screamed  Special Man’s name.  There was much more, but as I lay awake, my mind kept replaying that feeling of panic, as my brain tried to analyze it.  Eventually I went back to sleep, only to wake up from a second nightmare revolving around CC, my Metamour.

I don’t know what’s going on in this little head of mine, but obviously my subconscious is trying to work something out.  I have been aware of feeling especially alone this week, and as I lay in the dark, by myself in my big bed after the second nightmare, I had such a sense of singularity, and it felt thick, and it felt heavy.

We talk in PolyLand about no single person being able to fulfill every need and want for one other.  We speak of exploring different loves and of allowing relationships to be what they are going to be; of allowing ourselves to love and be loved with no expectation of What Is Supposed To Come Next.  I love Special Man dearly, and shockingly, I’m realizing how long it has taken for me to confess this, even to myself:  He can’t give me everything I need, everything I want.  He has nurtured me as I transitioned from a broken girl who didn’t believe in love, into this open, wholehearted woman who is still growing.  He loves me with everything he has, and I do not believe that he holds any of his love or emotion back from me.  I have been happy, loved, and satisfied.  But I need more.  And he cannot give it to me.  I get lonely and my bed is empty.  I thought for a long time that things could be different.  We talked of him spending two nights a week with me, on a scheduled, regular basis.  We talked of more domestic entanglement, of more down time together.  Somehow that read to me as security, stability.  Safety.

But after hearing another couple at a local non-monogamy discussion group talk about the way they split time between households, and feeling a stab (or ten) of envy,  I have decided that I have to make peace with the fact that this kind of arrangement may not be in the cards, ever.  Our relationship is wonderful, for what it is.  I am happy today.  I need to release those expectations of him; of us. If having someone to share my bed with is important to me, I need to find that, somewhere else.  Logistically, Special Man simply has a full plate.  I know I am a big part of that, and I have no intention of being without him,  I guess it’s back to OKCupid for this girl.  Sigh.  First dates, how I loathe thee…  

On another note, today I booked flights for the poly conference in Ohio in November.  I’m happy that I will have SMF with me the whole time, and we are both looking forward to meeting people and exploring the bigger poly community.  In addition, my darling friend, the Divine Miss M. thinks we should take a trip ourselves up to Calgary after Christmas.  (I really do hope she’s serious.)I h  ave things to look forward to.  I have people to look forward to.  Despite the car wreck and all the other chaos that has clustered around me of late, I have a good life.  I have good intentions, and I try to have a good heart.  All the rest of it is just details.