How to turn your morning commute into an impromptu S&M adventure

Posted on by

I find Doctor C waiting for me when I get into the office this morning. Our receptionist appears utterly entranced by my friend’s glowing – today it’s coral – smile.

“I was thinking about what you did to do those dishes,” says Doctor C (I’d told her about my trick during one of our elevator chats), “and it gave me an idea for another assignment – if you’re interested.”

As if she has to ask! We step into the hall and she gives me the details. She wants me to use my storying technique to give a Blank Canvas Living client a new perspective on her grueling daily commute. And since it’s the same client who was thrilled with my bondage themed sketchbook cover design, I know exactly what angle to take…

*********************

Transit. Transition. How do you measure the space between A and B? Time. And we only have so much. Why devalue these precious minutes by dragging A and B closer together with handheld distractions? Are we really so terrified of giving up control and letting our senses direct our attentions? What happens when we submit to the moment?

The bus hits gridlock at 7th Ave and 4th Street. Ms M despairs. Her toes are already tingling painfully, pinched between the black leather straps of her high heels. It’s hell mornings like this one when she’s almost tempted to wear runners to the office – almost. What’s the point of trying to looking sexy when every other head is bent in reverence over tiny bright screens? They’ve chosen their distractions, and she, even with her stellar legs, apparently can’t compete with wi-fi access.

The bus jerks forward and Ms M teeters dangerously. She reaches across the aisle and grabs onto a second rubber strap handhold to center herself. She knows people don’t usually double up like this, but then again, people don’t usually wear 5 inch heels on public transit. The spread eagle position makes her feel immediately conspicuous, but no one looks up. She reaches both hands through the loops and twists her wrists to wrap the rubber tight to reduce the play. May as well go all the way, she figures, and lets her fingers hang free, her new handcuffs keeping her stable. The bus jerks again, with surprising violence. Pain shoots through her shoulders and she glares at the driver in his rearview mirror.

He’s smiling at her wickedly. Bastard! But then she realizes why. She’s locked herself into an impromptu S&M session and now he’s the one taking it all the way. Ms M feels her face flushing bright red. The other passengers, with their sensible shoes and iphones, disappear. The driver winks at her and she grins back. Her pinched toes become part of the game. She bends her knees to give over control of her body to the mercies of the driver. He pumps the gas and jams the brakes, taking obvious delight in watching her reactions.

The other passengers begin to look up to see what’s changed. Then the bus stops too quick, dead. The driver’s face goes white in the mirror. He’s hit the car in front.

This is a Story Thread post – Click to read more…

When doing the dishes becomes an archeological dig

Posted on by

I hate washing dishes. No really – HATE. Coded with a somewhat masculine quirk, my brain is not designed to compartmentalize anything other than Sex/Love. All else falls under the blanket of Life – no enviable Work/Play distinctions that bring comfort to so many when faced with life’s daily bargaining of attentions. All is the exaltation of existence, blemished only by the hell tedium of repetition – where sex, perhaps not so ironically, is the only action worth repeating.

Forced to resort to somewhat extreme – stepping away from our theme here – decidedly unsexy actions to cope with the practicalities of life, I find myself wondering if I can apply Blank Canvas thinking to this latest spread of dirty dishes…

A story opens, and I dive in hands first…

*********************

With a PhD in early 21st century residences, and more than a decade of field experience, our archeologist can’t believe she still gets stuck on dish duty. “Yah yah, women have come so far – bullshit,” she grumbles while brushing off the fine layer of sediment that covers the Northside counter of the perfectly preserved kitchen. Like much of ancient Rome and New York, this home has been buried under centuries of rebuilds and is nearly intact.

What she notices first is the organization of the artifacts: pots on the left, cutlery collected in a large Tupperware (perhaps left to soak), plates stacked by size. A theory springs to mind… Maybe the inhabitants tetrised (‘verbed’ in mid-2100s) the spread to make it less intimidating. There are no other dishes on the shelves, and notably, no dishwasher. “Maybe they hated doing the dishes as much as I do,” she wonders out loud in the still, linoleum floored cave. “Maybe they left them as long as they could – and then time ran out.”

But who lived here? She catalogues each plate, cup, pot, before taking scrapings of preserved food residue, then scrubs them clean for museum storage and possible future display. There are two distinct condiment patterns: some plates have sauce smeared all over, while others show evidence of little dried pools. The latter eater taking more than he/she needed, keeping tastes separate, and taking little dabs; the former mixing the flavourings with the food, or perhaps simply finishing with flourish.

There are more archeological clues. Some of the casserole dishes (and even Tupperware lids) show the same saucing patterns as the plates. Our archeologist considers this proof of her procrastination theory – that once the plates ran out, other surfaces were sacrificed. Most interesting are the dish gloves, the rubber made brittle by time, but still clearly the largest size available. A couple perhaps? A large woman and a smaller man (the dabs)? Two men?

Or a small woman and a Viking man (finishing with flourish), the gloves bought with the hope of compromise. The dabber would be the tetrisiser, but the gloves would better fit the man. Our archeologist steps back, arms dripping with suds. “And like so many compromises,” she muses, “the truth of any theory is proven only when time runs out.”

*********************

I step back, pink gloves dripping. What she can’t see – the archeological evidence long since re-sauced – are the interm loads my Viking washed while waiting for me to man up and take my turn at the sink. And so with one (albeit epic) load of dishes, my faith in an entire branch of science is shaken to the core.

This is a Story Thread post – Click to read more…

Fun at work with DIY Spanx-effect seismic waist shaper

Posted on by

After the surprising success of my fitted, fully darted, seismic pencil skirt, (engineered after the infamous burning of the ugly pants) my DIY ego has been leading me in strange and exciting directions. And after hearing that the client was thrilled with the S&M hood and handcuffs sketchbook cover/tote I designed, I can’t help but look at my own life with the same new freedom – as a series of creative problems to be solved. It’s an attitude I remember as being intrinsic to my nature, but one I thought I had to give up in order to ‘grow up’. Never! But I’m still trapped rolling paper on the 6th floor, while the offices of Blank Canvas Living, with their Antarctic restroom, are only 4 floors above me – may as well be the moon.

With a long, depressingly bleak workday ahead, I turn to the most primal of motivators, sex, to help me survive the 8 ½ hour abyss that lies ahead. But my Vargas pin-up sexy secretary style proves sorely lacking. No amount of tucking and sucking in front of the office bathroom mirror will fix my waistline’s lack of Vargas worthy shaping. The shirt puffs, and the skirt hangs as straight as a 1930s school marm’s who’s given up on men for good. Not to be defeated (and having no ready access to a Spanx body shaper) I look to the resources at hand: geophysical seismic paper plots (think earthquake movies), tape, and scissors.

 The first pattern fails miserably, and my DIY ego takes a major hit. But no matter, for my second attempt (checkmarked in illustration), I cut a new darting pattern and attach the sliced sections back together with clear packing tape. Note on darting: Straight vertical cuts for waist portion – size tightly to waist measurement. Triangle lower cuts create flare to give shape under skirt – size to desired hip flare. I laminate the ‘wrong’ side of the paper with more packing tape to give it substance and durability, but leave the seismic detailing bare, its printed squiggles conveniently matching my b/w outfit.

Back in the office bathroom, I tape the Spanx-effect waist shaper closed at the front, then spin it round so the seam is at the back. To make sure my knit skirt doesn’t slide around, I secure it with a few loops (like you’d use to stick a picture to a wall) of tape below the waistline – mission Vargasification accomplished. I experience an unexpected, but surprisingly delightful girdling effect. My posture instantly improves and my shape, if I do say so myself, would have made any pin up artist proud. I have to confess, I spend the rest of the day strutting around salaciously in my own private episode of Mad Men. But sadly, the office fellows seem more impressed with my use of their geophysical data than my seismically defined curves. Sigh… it’s a geophysicists’ world and I’m only working in it.

This is a Story Thread post – Click to read more…