Back from mental vacation with tidbit of story for my ebook

If you feel this portion of my upcoming book should be classified as ‘erotic’ and for adults only, please leave a comment. My friend and I don’t feel it is erotic content, but we’re only two voices. Thanks.

So let’s begin the tidbit…

Childhood forms an adult, or so say some intellectuals studying childhood-to-adulthood development. If that is true, I make a very interesting study for such intellectuals.

My mother came from a prominent, wealthy, established family in Ontario, Canada, with a long history of political and business offspring. My father came from a family which bred no particular persons of interest, and in fact were quite a dull, middle-class lot. Thus lays proof of ‘opposites attract’.

My mother grew up knowing wealth and prominence placed her above others, particularity when it came to society and its rules. After all, she was a (name removed for blog post)! My mother made sure this elitist mentality of hers was adhered to by her husband and her children. Oh yes, children. I was first born, followed years later by my sister, and a brother each of the following two years.

We lived in a gorgeous old mansion in Rosedale, a neighbourhood of Toronto. A giant Chestnut tree stood guard at the corner of our property.

I was a bit of a tomboy, and beginning at six years of age I would climb the branches almost to the top and sit there waiting for people below to walk by the tree. I would then drop Chestnuts on them. I was scolded several times for doing that, but neither my mother or father ever did anything other than talk to me when I was misbehaving. I believe that is why later in life I sought a man who could control me. I was spoilt, and misbehaved without punishment of any lasting impression. Looking at my life now, I doubt even severe reprimands would have change how I turned out. But, who knows? For that matter, who cares? I’ve had a wonderful life and have no regrets.

I was a precocious child, and an avid reader early on in my development. I was also unexpected, a fact which I was constantly reminded of by my mother in a most malevolent tone of voice; “I had to get married because of you!” You can imagine the emphasis she placed on the word ‘you’. She’d then purse her lips and glower at me, as if I was responsible for her spreading her legs for anyone she fancied.

At the age of four I discovered how easily I could manipulate my father. It was the beginning of my disdain for weak men. A smile, a wink, a sad face, a pleading face, they all worked on my dad. Most four year olds probably don’t recognize the power they have at that age, but I did.

At the age of seven I discovered sex. I was upstairs in my bedroom reading when I got thirsty and decided to go downstairs and get some apple juice. I was about to come down the stairs when I heard whispered sounds of my mother and another man. Curious, I snuck a little further down the stairs to find my mothers’ head bobbing up and down between the legs of our neighbour Mr. (name removed for this blog post.)

My mother seemed to be having a lot of fun, sometimes swishing her head from side to side as she moved it up and down.

I couldn’t see exactly what  mother was grabbing with her right hand every now and then, but she would reach up and kiss Mr. Franklin whenever she was holding whatever it was she was holding in her right hand. This seemed to please them both, especially my mother.

Mr. Franklin moved his body up and down, sometimes in unison with my mom, but he didn’t appear enthusiastic about either.


Romance versus writing

I follow my heart, for I believe passion will always reveal truth.

My heart has been my teacher, my mentor if you will. My heart has been a tough master.

I find myself intrigued once again, and my writing has less interest now.

I am intrigued by an old friend. He has been with me since childhood, destiny perhaps.

We met for drinks  to discuss my writing, for I found him again on the Internet and sent him a note asking if he remembered me. Of course he did, for we were lovers many years ago.

Different paths, different educations, different outcomes. Opposites? Attraction?

He is quiet. I am brazen. He has few lovers. I have many. He is alone. I am alone.

I am attracted.

He has things to teach me. I have things to teach him.

Learning about ones-self through another, that is love I believe.

We had drinks, wonderful hugs, and I kissed him shyly, like we never were lovers.

I intend to spend time with him. Old friends are the best.


Back from winter break

I love BC. I truly do. But I got tired with the rain and headed south to my other home away from home.

If you were in the Palm Springs/Palm Desert area the last few weeks and you saw a woman who looked slightly older than my blog picture cavorting with a man a couple of years older than she, whom I just met, that was me!

I was the woman drinking strawberry margarita’s, huge tub-size glass fulls, and enjoying myself completely. You may have caught a glimpse me singing, or dancing happily along the street with my new friend.

We were at the circus, this wonderful circus of life filled with animal tamers, clowns, ring masters, jugglers, and pickpockets; those dreaded pickpocketers who try to steal the joy from your life.

I’m too much a woman to mention the name of the maitre d’ of the establishment, but if I’m a little drunk and want to act womanly with my date what matter is it of yours? The place was almost empty and it was around 1am, and you certainly could have handled the situation better instead of making such a bloody scene and embarrassing the only other couple in your establishment.

You are a pompous prick. You deserved the two cent tip.

Peeling mother

During my writing I’ve been peeling the layers of lies and loves my mother displayed to me. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but this is the first time I’ve put thoughts to paper for the purpose of possible publication.

Being mature in age, and having very few past acquaintances alive today, makes writing my book easier. I certainly wouldn’t have contemplated writing it were my husband still beside me or many of my ‘boys’ still alive.

However, I’m considering dulling the knife before publication and will mark for my editor the bits and pieces perhaps best left on the cutting floor.

My mother was a skinless, boneless, peahen who’d display her plumage when angry at me or jealous of other women. She was also an elitist; a Wallace, whose family for several generations had either written the laws or paid to have them written.

Which made me an elitist like my mother; a disdainer of rules set to keep the others in line.

The conundrum was I insisted upon my boys obeying my rules, which sometimes offended ‘official’ rules of society, and, boys being boys, the only way to keep them in line was sex. Like someone once said, it’s an easy job if you can get it.

Sex was the third layer of my mother. You’d have to peel the projections of purity and properness before tasting my real mother.

I got to see my mother ‘tasting’ very early on in my life. I’ll add that to my book and leave it to the editor to keep or not.

Most stolen foods in the world, and I didn’t take any of them.

I was reading the recent Report on Business magazine at a local coffee shop when I came upon an interesting statement that cheese is the number one stolen food in the world.

In past years I’ve emancipated towels, cutlery, papier mache animals, and other assorted items. But never anything on the list below. Does not ‘freeing’ anything on the list make me  unique, or just an ordinary woman who saw something she liked and took it?

It’s the latter. Definitely. It’s just me.

Seeing the cheese statement got me wondering what other foods were popular to steal. A quick search on the Internet returned this list:

most stolen foods

You may read the full report from the Centre for Retail Research here.

Reliving lovers

I’ve been frolicking with past loves, reliving momentous moments, and am not sure how much I shall put in my ebook or book.

What attracted me to some of my loves was that all they needed was a little guidance from me and they would be greater. Confidence, that’s the word. They appeared to me to lack that extra level of confidence to make them greater.

It’s not that they weren’t already great in their particular realm of business, and for me every activity was business, whether the man was a doctor, lawyer, CEO, banker, salesman, or entrepreneur. Or some bum on the street whom I admired for his gumption.

I had my style of interviewing lovers who I felt could fit well with my group of boys, and if the potential lover passed muster there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to ensure my group accepted him warmly.

Some lovers failed my interviews miserably, became jealous or threatened physical harm. One or two reacted quite physically, thinking brawn won battles when it is really brains. They were just stupid. Summarily dismissed they would look not at them-self for answers, preferring the easy way of blaming others for their misfortune.

The stupid, stupid, toads. They had kissed the princess who could bring them the world but, like a dog with a bone, they snarled and snapped at the thought of someone else sharing their pleasures. Small minded cretins, that’s what they were, small minded cretins!

But there were handsome princes who passed muster, discovered more about himself and his understanding of the world through my guidance, and those wonderful lovers, those wonderful forces of nature and business who understood you could mix business with pleasure quite marvelously, those are the delightful creatures I’ve frolicked with these past few days.


What I have discovered while writing my stories is that I must have come across from time to time in some of my business and personal relationships as a conniving, man-eating, black-widow spider. Which is simply not the case.

In those instances I can only say that the male acquaintance/client in question was simply stupid, and left me no option but to dismiss him from my group. I offer him hand-peeled grapes and he gives me whine and jealousy. The fool.

Writing is therapeutic.