Category: LJ

New friends and application of the rules

Reading Time: 3 minutes

On my slave’s Fetlife account, she has a profile.  In that profile, it details a good deal about her as well as touches on different portions of her ‘Fet Life’ so far.  One of the things I require her to have in it is what someone needs to do if they wish to ‘friend her’ on the site.  Specifically, they need to read her profile in its entirety and follow the directions embedded within.  If they can’t manage to do that, then they don’t deserve to be on her friends’ list.  That seems very fair if you ask me.  If you can’t do the work, you don’t get rewarded.   Her ex couldn’t manage to do this, so he didn’t get friended.

As in most social networks, or even personals sites, women’s in boxes get flooded.  Unless a male is offering something really special, their inbox hardly ever gets mail.  It’s been that way ever since I started before there was an established Internet and more than likely it will remain that way for as long as I’ll be online.   Just one of ‘those things’ you accept as being the norm and deal with it.  The reason I’m mentioning that is, my slave gets probably a good amount of mail from prospective people who read her profile to a certain extent, see her pictures or in other ways have interacted with her and wish to be part of her ‘inner circle’.  Others are hangers-on, or just want to add her to their friends’ list and never contact her again.  Like me, she’s not a friend collector, so her list of people she interacts with is small.  Myself, I’ve been on Fetlife for the better part of 10 years now and my own friends’ list numbers no more than 60 at any given time.

Every now and again she asks me if someone can be added to the list.  I decide on a case-by-case basis.  It’s an odds on bet that the person in question hasn’t necessarily followed the rules, and they’re asking for an exception to be made.  Or it’s someone she met at a munch or some other sort of get-together that she’s been to.  So I’ll scoot over to their profile, have a look-see, and if everything seems to check out, and I don’t feel there’s something untoward in their profile, I agree she can add them.  Of course, if after being allowed into the ‘inner sanctum’ they start to misbehave, or begin to make overtures about her interactions with them, I’ll inevitably hear about it.  My girl knows on which side her ‘bread is buttered’, she’s not going to just go off with someone because they have a good line or two to lay on her.  She’s content in being owned by me, she’s not interested in being owned by anyone else.  And that’s the way it’s going to always be.

Social networks are a great way for we as people to interact, to be in contact and to make new friends.  Even so, as tools, they need to be used with great care and respect.

Information, please.

Reading Time: 5 minutes
I’ve been looking through my old LiveJournal, mining for stuff to repost and this one was just too good to pass up.

Not from my childhood but I remember there was an ‘Information’ person in our old telephone too….

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was ‘Information Please’ and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.
‘Information, please’ I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

‘Information.’

‘I hurt my finger…’ I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

‘Isn’t your mother home?’ came the question.

‘Nobody’s home but me,’ I blubbered.

‘Are you bleeding?’ the voice asked.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.’

Can you open the icebox?’ she asked. I said I could.

Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger, said the voice.

After that, I called ‘Information Please’ for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, Information Please,’ and told her the sad story She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, ‘Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?’
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, ‘Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.’ Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, ‘Information Please.’

‘Information,’ said in the now familiar voice.

‘How do I spell fix?’ I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. ‘Information Please’ belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown Operator and said, ‘Information Please.’

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. ‘Information.’
I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying, ‘Could you please tell me how to spell fix?’
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, ‘I guess your finger must have healed by now.’
I laughed, ‘So it’s really you,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?’
I wonder,’ she said, ‘if you know how much your call meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.’
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
‘Please do’, she said. ‘Just ask for Sally.’

Three months later I was back in Seattle, a different voice answered,
‘Information.’ I asked for Sally. ‘Are you a friend?’ she said.
‘Yes, a very old friend,’ I answered.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ she said. ‘Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.’
Before I could hang up she said, ‘Wait a minute, is your name Wayne?’
‘Yes.’ I answered.
‘Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.
Let me read it to you.’
The note said, ‘Tell him there are other worlds to
sing in. He’ll know what I mean.’
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Whose life have you touched today?

Lifting you on eagle’s wings. May you find the joy and peace you long for.

Tales from LiveJournal: Who do you open the door for?

Reading Time: 2 minutes

This isn’t the only blog I’ve ever had.  In my time I’ve had a few.  One, on LiveJournal I started back before the turn of the milennium.  When LJ was bought out by Russian venture capitalists and started to turn the place into some byzantine nightmare, I, and a lot of people that blogged like me, thought like me, decided it was time to leave.  Of course, the year before I had purchased a ‘permanent’ account when the previous management offered them.  So, as long as the site stays active, I have an account there.  Can’t bear to delete it.  Even so, in the interests of protecting what I have, I moved the entire content of the blog over to another server, called Dreamwidth.  And there it sits.  I thought though, since I have that repository, I’d every now and again repost something.  So here’s one from 2015.

[C stands for Christabel, my wife.  It’s a nom de plume, she started using it when we were both on Compuserve, way back in the 1990s when we first met. Pre-Internet.  Yes, there was such a time.]

Who do you open the door for?

C was upstairs this afternoon when the doorbell rang. Since I normally work days (and have for the last 18 months) I’m usually not home when this happens. I answered the door after peeking from the nearby window and was greeted by 2 people on the doorstep. 1 man, 1 woman. They were representatives of C’s insurance company and they wished to come in and go over some ‘exciting options‘ that she was apparently unaware of. It just so happened that C was in the shower so I wasn’t dishonest when I said that she was unavailable. But they persisted, and I agreed that it would be best if they returned tomorrow, around noon.

About 10 minutes later, C came downstairs and I informed her of our visitors. She wasn’t pleased that I had opened the door. Apparently I’m ‘too nice’ and shouldn’t be opening the door to strangers..of any ilk. The front door is for people that we know and expect. No one else! So tomorrow, when the insurance people return..no one’s going to be opening the door. Least of all me. If they’re upset, then they’re just going to have to live with it.

Yep, I married her folks. Hands off.