Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

Poly Dismorphic Disorder

Our evening went like this:

Hubs: “So, you’re heading out with Tim tonight?”

Me: “Yeah. His group is doing a class on the Poly lifestyle, and one of the things I want to find out is how they make that work. I mean, your communication skills have to be off the chart, right?! I can barely manage ONE relationship, and some of these people have FIVE!”

Hubs: “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

Me: “Oh jeez.”

Hubs: “Well! You don’t know! Maybe I’ll find another girlfriend there! How would you like that?! Then you can nap while someone else helps with the laundry!”

At this point, my husband thought he was UNBELIEVABLY clever. As thought all your problems could be solved by adding one more person to the mix. I tried to explain that I REALLY doubted that adding more people to a crazy situation actually helped stabilize it, but to no avail. My husband was pretty sure he was gonna start his own suburban harem. So I was all, “Right. We have a sitter, so let’s just go,” because when you have a child, you mostly just want to be out of the house. With or without said child. (Holy crap, I hope he never reads this!)

Let me say this: after having taken the class, I am now pretty darn sure that I could never be polyamorous (in multiple relationships), or even polyfidelous (in multiple COMMITTED relationships). Why? If you have to ask, you have no idea how much energy it takes with the ONE INSANE relationship I already have. Not my hubs, he was off in some crazy world where he had women falling over themselves to accomplish his every whim.

Ladies Man

*That’s right, ladies. These are original Dungeons and Dragons cards! OMG, PUSSY AVALANCHE!! – My husband’s brain*

The class started, and an average looking woman walked up to the front and started talking about what it takes to be in many poly relationships. AND THEN, she started talking about the difference between being Poly, and just being slutty. Surprise surprise, my hubs is a slut. As she was describing the difference I looking over at him and said (not too quietly either), “HEY!! THAT’S YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!” That went over REALLY well with everybody but him. Still, he is kinda slutty, so, you know: the spade is a spade.

The “instructor” talked about how vital communication is, and how many people think they want to be poly so that they can substitute whatever they’re not getting in their current relationship, by adding someone new. Doesn’t work, she says, because if you never confront and deal with problems in any relationship, you can keep meeting people but nothing will last. I thought that was just generally good advice.

“Are you coming next week?” Tim whispers in my ear as my husband sits flabbergasted at all the work he would have to do if he took on a new girlfriend… not to mention the bits of his pieces that he would have to hunt down in the middle of the night once I had cut them off.

“What’s next week?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the speaker who has somehow wandered into a conversation about talking monkeys and while I don’t know how that happened, I am enjoying it. Because TALKING MONKEYS.

“The board meeting. Politics. We’re going to outline the curriculum for the year, and discuss speakers and lesson plans.”


“Tim. When does your pervy group ever do anything, you know… PERVY?!”

“This is mostly an educational group.”

Figures I would fall in with the book-reading pervs.

The class ends and little chunks of people get up; 3 here, 4 there, and everyone starts saying goodnight. I look at the hubby, and he looks back at me.

“Not what you thought it would be, huh?”

“Not even close, babe.”

“No girlfriend for you?”

“The CLASS was exhausting enough!”

Poly Dismorphic Disorder: Thinking you can go poly until you find out what it is and realize, no, you’re just slutty.


Guilty pleasures


I’m torn on a lot of things: to bra, or not to bra? Sweat pants or jeans? Peanut butter & chocolate, or chocolate & peanut butter? These are the essential questions that plague philosophy majors long after they’ve given up hope of doing… whatever the hell philosophy majors think they’re going to do with their degrees, and actually end up in HR. But the one question that plagues me the most?

My fantasies.

I was raised with ZERO guilt around sex and sexuality. Not that I was raised to believe that sex with strangers and outside of a committed relationship was a GOOD thing, but that sex in and of itself was no different than eating. Eating is fine. Eating is HEALTHY. But you don’t constantly eat (unless you have that brain disorder that I saw on CSI, where the dude TOTALLY ate himself to death. That was sad). Instead, you figure out when it’s appropriate, and where, and even then, sometimes you indulge.

But sometimes, your eye inadvertently wanders to the triple layer chocolate cake with dark chocolate covered cherries and strawberries, and you wonder if it really IS possible to have “Death by Chocolate” inscribed on your headstone. That chocolate deliciousness, for me, is one Mister Alexander Skarsgard.

Now, here’s my conundrum. Let’s say that one day, you could suddenly read the minds of every person you met, and you knew all the dirty thoughts they had about you, and everyone else they met. I feel like, to some degree, that’s how it must be if you’re a “sex symbol.” You must know there are millions of men and woman who think dirty things about you each night before they go to bed, while they’re in bed, while they’re in the shower, on their way to work, while they’re picking out cucumbers (let’s be honest), and just in the general course of their every day.

I mean, on the one hand, flattering!! People are lusting after YOU. They dream about YOU. But on the other hand, to KNOW that people are taking images of you in their heads and making you do certain things… and like weird shit too, if we’re judging just by MY friends, and what they like.

So I feel a little guilty about thinking dirty thoughts and making Mr. Skarsgard, you know… enjoy my company. I mean, fair enough, I’m fucking DELIGHTFUL, but morally is it right to MAKE someone do dirty/fun/illegal-in-twenty-states things to you without their consent?


….I really need to stop blogging on NyQuil.


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