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.