Summoned to Boston II

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      Not sure what to make of this.

    The Surgeon likes to go through my stuff.  

      Objectively, I know that it’s creepy…I always just saw it as funny, until I saw the other side of it. 

     This morning, when I woke up and went into the bathroom, I saw that he’d opened and rifled through my cosmetics and toiletries bags:   

3 bags, opened and rifled through

     See that…?  All three bags!  And he took em out of the drawer, too–I didn’t leave them on the counter! Look at that!  He even unwrapped my makeup brushes! 

      I took the photo so that I could inquire about it.  I sent it to him with the text: Surgeon!  Why you go through all my makeup?  What were you looking for? LOL

      He wrote back: I don’t remember doing that.  Sorry? 

      Dude, he had to remember.  He was drinking, but he wasn’t smashed. And besides, he’s done this before.  My wallet, my phone. 

    It’s weird.  It weirds me out and I don’t like to think about it; I try to avoid thinking about it in my mind.  I write it here because there’s nobody else I can tell.  I don’t talk about him with anyone else except my analyst.  

      He is a secret that I keep.
                                 *                                      *                               *                                    *

  Sore and hurting on the train, but content.  I have that stupor; that been well-used affect.  

     The Surgeon is not a good partner, but I have to hand it to him: he knows how to get me fixed.  

      The hotel was awesome!  Experience has taught me: two beds are optimal.  One bed for playing and one for sleeping.  Sure, the King-sized single bed feels decadent and spacious, but you don’t want to sleep in your own blood, do you? (pop quiz: am I kidding?)

      I am very partial to hosiery…have I ever told you that?  I love stockings, garters, hosiery with patterns, backseams, fully fashioned Cuban Heel stuff.  YUM.  Very sexy!  I wear hosiery whenever it’s not too hot outside. 

       My leg last night, after I dressed for dinner.  Six-strap garter belt by Rego, purveyors of fantastic authentic vintage lingerie.  Stockings are made by Berkshire–without a doubt, the best quality “affordable” hosiery I’ve ever seen.  They have gorgeous colors and a good fit, and the lace at the tops looks expensive.  They’re usually less than $10 per pair.  The Surgeon always expresses approval when I wear them, which, given his proclivity for criticism, is quite a compliment.    

   Here is a photo of myself when I walked into the room, before I got dressed–I love this Lisa Simpson t-shirt!  I wish I’d bought 5 of them!  I can’t find it anywhere and it’s getting old and I’ll have to retire it soon.  BOOO! But anyway, it says: “Miss Smarty-Pants” with an image of Lisa carrying a stack of school books.  

     And yeah, I know I’m still…not right.  Too heavy.  But getting there.  Progress. 

    HUGE BATHTUB!  YAAAAAY!  I like to take baths and splash around in big tubs!  I like to play around in water.  This tub was so deep–have you seen those suction-cup bondage cuffs?  Google it!  They are fun!  I also like to be tied up with rope and submerged.  It’s scary.  YEAH! 

     Pulling in to Penn Station–I have to go.  Bye for now! 

Summoned to Boston

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      The view from the window on my left:

        I love to travel by train.  It’s quiet, the seats are spacious, the views are often picturesque.  You can work, if you have work to do.  Trains and train stations are romantic (before I turn 40, I intend to ride the Trans-Siberian Railway…EXCITING!).  Trains are the civilized way to travel.  I’ve heard that airway used to be glamorous, but in my experience it’s like riding a bus at 35,000 feet.  

        The Surgeon has summoned me to Boston.  He’s there on business and wants to play with me until he leaves.  

        This is the third time I’ve been to Boston with him.  I like the town a lot.  I’ve had some pretty crazy experiences there.

        Will update this blog if anything interesting happens.

Miss Margo Loves Beaker (And This Collar)!

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       I was late leaving the house today because I discovered this awesome video on YouTube!

       Remember Beaker, from the muppets..?  Well, I completely forgot about him, until I stumbled upon a video of him on YouTube.  

       I LOVE BEAKER!  He reminds me a little bit of me sometimes because he is clumsy and his experiments go wrong.  He is a lab assistant–sort of like a lowly research assistant.  

Hapless Beaker: “Uh-oh”

       Here is a video of Beaker singing “Ode to Joy.”  You know how much I love Beethoven!  But look–on the video, everything bad happens to poor Beakers’ performance.  It’s SO FUNNY!  As Beaker’s wikipedia says, “Beaker rapidly became a favourite with audiences, who both sympathized with and enjoyed laughing at his humorous sufferings.”

HAAAHAHA see the violin catch on fire?! 

      I also found this: a super pretty dog collar from Barney’s!  Gimmie gimmie gimmie!  How am I going to get my mitts on this thing?  Maybe I’ll hit up the Surgeon.  He’s given me enough belts for now.  Haahaha.  

     I’m going to Boston tomorrow.  Just overnight, but still–it’ll be great to get out of town for a day!

Fabio Sez: “I Can’t Believe ‘Innocence’ Is Taken Seriously!”

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     I finally got off my ass and and watched The Innocence of Muslims, the film that inspired riots and demonstrations around the Muslim world.

     I don’t get it.  

     That’s why I’m writing about it on my blog: I honestly don’t get it.  Maybe someone can explain it to me.  Do you get it?  What’s the big deal?  

      Though, I must admit that after sitting through all fifteen minutes of it, I, too, was motivated to seek retaliation against the filmmakers…for the appalling production quality!  I’ve seen better scripts and performances in crappy adult xxx videos!  This thing makes Full House reruns look like Masterpiece Theater!    Have you seen it?  

         Here, take a look.  The first two minutes, incidentally, are the best.  It gets very bad very fast.  Check out those special effects in the middle!  lol  And I had to watch it twice because I couldn’t make sense of the plot the first time.  It was that incoherent.

         Yeah, as far as propaganda goes, this sure ain’t Jud Suss.  I did keep thinking about all of those 1950s Bible epics while I was watching Innocence, though, and asked myself why.  After a minute, I realized: almost all of the characters are white dudes wearing suspiciously clean clothes.  Not historically accurate, but kind of amusing.  Like the portraits of Whitey McWhitebread Jesus Christ that were hung on the walls in my old Catholic school:

Jesus Christ: More Handsome Than Fabio

        In those paintings, Jesus kind of reminded me of the male model Fabio, who did all of those I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! commercials:


        Remember when comedian Tom Green dropped by Fabio’s house and asked for a tour?  HILARIOUS!  Fabio actually came across as a pretty chill guy.  He was modest in the interview and quite friendly…hmmm….let me check YouTube….

        YOUTUBE SAYS: ASK, AND YE SHALL RECEIVE!   haaahahaha Fabio gave Tom Green a matching black tank top!

          This video is waaaaay more entertaining than The Innocence of Muslims.  I suspect that most of the rioters haven’t even seen the film.  If they watched it, they would know that there was no reason to get so upset.  

      I don’t want to get too political here and offend any of my readers, but seriously: I think the sort of people who would burn an embassy over a comically bad video like this one have some sort of major inferiority complex going on.  They get so mad because they think that they’re being made fun of.  The only people that movie humiliated were the dummies who made it.  

       Well, in the spirit of the video that inspired this blog post, I see that my narrative has rambled…I’m going to post it anyway because everyone deserves to see the Fabio house tour.  


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         Don’t you hate it when you order something and you don’t check the price first, and then it’s time to pay for it and you find out that it’s much more expensive than you anticipated…?  

         I am eating a $5 slice of pizza.  I bought it on impulse on my way home from work.  I only wanted to eat a bite or two, too–just to see whether or not it was any good.  

       They have some nerve!  Lemme tell you: this is not $5 pizza.  I am going to give Parrot a little piece of the crust, and that’ll be that.

      And look what I found in my neighborhood–NEW YORK CACTI!

Miss Margo & Co.

Hangin with my Peeps

       They are real, too.  I checked em out!  I have never seen live outdoor cacti in NYC.  

         And remember that slightly worn-out poster of Marilyn Monroe that someone hung up in the locker room of the Studio…?  The one that was mysteriously and inexplicably stolen…?  And then the woman who hung it there posted a nasty note demanding the return of the poster?  

      Well, look at what some wit posted under the note:

Picture of Marilyn Monroe cut out from random magazine.  

        HAAAHAHAHA I laughed and laughed.  I have no idea who did it, but she has a good sense of humor, whoever she is.  


       Um, yeah.  

       I might as well cough it up: I saw the Mathematician last Friday night.  I had no idea whether it was a date or business, so I packed my stuff in a heavy-duty paper Barnes&Noble shopping bag and a newspaper and a book on top of it, so it looked like I’d gone, you know, shopping for books.  

      My alibi: Battle Cry of Freedom, by James McPherson

  (If you don’t know about the battle between the Merrimack and Monitor ironside vessels, you have to check this shit out!  WOW what a battle!  Awesome, so awesome!  John Dolan aka The War Nerd has a fascinating–and blackly funny–essay about this battle on The Exiled website.  Google it and check it out!) 

     …………..uh, yeah.  Where was I again….?  

      Avoiding the subject, obviously! 
     Well, the Mathematician paid me, so I guess it was business, but I spent four hours with him, talking and hanging out.  

       He had to work again on Saturday and sent me a text message inviting me to dinner.  I said yes, even though I am not eating dinner so often these days.  He picked me up–I met him 3 blocks from my apartment.  Just to be safe.  I trusted him, but…if you are a woman, you know to be careful about security.  

       I was expecting a Dorky Dad Car (TM), but he landed in a pretty swank convertible.  We had the top down until it started to rain.

      We went to dinner at a seafood place.  I ate a fish called “Grouper.”  I’d never eaten it before.  It was very tasty.  I recommend it.  Hopefully it is not endangered.  The dinner also came with rice, which was presented in a bizarre pyramid shape: 

Behold, the Pyramid of Rice

        Why would a chef think that a pyramid of rice is a good idea…?  Grouper was delicious; the sauce a little too sweet. 

       I want to write more, but I have to jump in the shower.  Hopefully, I’ll finish this tomorrow. 

      I’m going to see him again this evening.

     My brain is screaming: THIS IS A BAD IDEA, but you know what…?  My fucking brain has been discouraging me about every man I’ve liked since, well, the beginning of this blog.  Remember Jeff, the Machinist…?  Same thing.  

An Evening with The Mathematician

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       I have another laptop case I could use, but it has the name of my university on it.  He doesn’t know which school I’m at, and if he’s a client, I don’t WANT him to know.  

        This is bad, man.  This entire thing is a bad idea.  He is a nice normal #1 Dad math Ph.D. with a dorky country-club hairdo.  My life is too weird for this person.                 

      I just called V. for advice.  

      “You have to take a risk.  You saw this coming; it just happened earlier than you anticipated.”

       Well, I’m jumping in the shower and then I’m going to go.  The worst I can be is wrong.  
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Update 6 PM: Oh, FML. 

      Mathematician sends me a text today at noon: “Looks like I have to work early on Saturday, so I’m around this evening.  Margaritas tonight?”

        How am I to interpret this?  After some hemming and hawing, I decide There is nothing questionable about this man’s ability to communicate.  If he wanted to set up a business appointment, he would ask for a business appointment.  He asked for drinks.  That is a date.      

        I texted back:  Happy to make it a date!  I’m free after 8.  Where shall we meet? 

        He replies: We’re at a different hotel in (neighborhood).  8:30 or so?  

        What the hell am I supposed to make out of that?!  No helpful information there!  Is this a date or not?  Do I bring my bag of stuff, or not?  If it is a date, and I show up with my bag, he’s going to be confused and hurt.  If it’s not a date, and I don’t show up with my bag, then we’re both going to be embarrassed.  I mean, talk about awkward!  

        What am I going to do…?  I can dodge the margaritas, say I’m giving blood tomorrow morning or something.  But what do I do about the rest of it?   

        I ran the situation by my friend, V.  

       She said, “You’ve got to talk to him about it.  He is sitting at work thinking and worrying about this just as much as you are.  You can’t pretend that it just never happened.”  

         AWKWARD CONVERSATION! barf barf barf barf

        The safe thing to do is to pack my shit into my slim leather briefcase and put some files on top of it. It’ll look like I’m carrying around documents.  He won’t know what’s in the bag.  That way, I can modify my approach based upon the information I get when I see him again.     

         What. Am I. Supposed to Do. 

                 *                            *                        *                    * 

Woah.  Better sit down for this one, friends and neighbors: I just got home from spending the night with a man.

       Remember the Mathematician I discussed in an earlier post?  It was him.  

       He contacted me yesterday and asked to see me.  I guess he’d finally finished a huge project at work and wanted to celebrate.  So after work, I took a shower and fixed myself up and headed back out.  

       His company had put him and his colleagues up in a pretty swank hotel close to Grand Central Station.  

       We stayed up till pretty late.  I slept in bed with him and he held me close all night.  He sort of laid on me.  He was warm like a water bottle.  He is a tall man, and wrapped around me easily. 

       This morning, when I woke up, I was confused. I’m still confused.  When he jumped in the shower, I got dressed and then opened the closet and briefly touched his clothes.  The suit coat, the shirts, neat on their hangers.  He had a bag that said “#1 DAD” on it.  He has an Ex and a kid.

       He left all of his stuff out while he was in the bathroom.  His wallet, his expensive camera.  He trusted me with it.  I’m not a thief, but he doesn’t know that.  

The scene of the crime. 

       We didn’t have sex.  We fooled around at little, but no sex.  

       I was paid for it.  He paid my fee last night, at the beginning. 

       He put me in a cab and took off for work.  He wants to see me again tonight if he stays in the same hotel.  

Margo’s Bag o’ Swag, in taxi at 7 AM.

       Don’t know.  Confused.  I don’t know what I think.  

Awful Weather + Marcus Aurelius

     The weather right now is so violent that the warm, heavy rain is literally falling sideways.  The raindrops are falling sideways

      I have been fascinated, intimidated, and disgusted with the weather here since I visited on a family vacation years ago.  The Tri-State area is a top-5 contender for Worst Weather in the United States.  New Yorkers don’t realize how shitty and  bizarre their weather is.  Many of them don’t know that freezing Slurpee/margarita-consistency rain/snow when it’s 20* outside is a unique NYC weather phenomenon.  Or the deep freezes, when it’s approx. -*8 (yes, negative 8 degrees) at the warmest point of the day for three weeks on end.  How did Indians  and early colonists survive the winters without parkas and puffy coats and ski tights? Well, the Indians got by, but the Europeans…notsomuch).The roasting heat and humidity of the summer–the humidity makes you sweat even if it’s 60* outside.  The air is saturated with dense, warm mist–it makes your skin wet.  Everyone sweats through their clothes in the subway.  The men do, even if they wear an undershirt.  If you’re a woman, forget about applying your makeup before you make your commute.  Even with the train AC blasting, you will sweat it off your face before you arrive at your destination.  It will also ruin your hairdo.  ANY hairdo.   It will ruin a ponytail. 

      Damn.  I began this blog post with the intention of discussing passages in the Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius.  I’ve re-read his work in the last few days, and my brain is full of it. I am not a philosophy scholar, but there’s much in the text which I find provocative and useful.  

      You should check it out.  It’s free online if you don’t have a book!  

     I intend to write a longer blog post about this in the next few days, but I’ve been ruminating at length about this one:  

A branch cut off from the adjacent branch must of necessity be cut off from the whole tree also. So too a man when he is separated from another man has fallen off from the whole social community. Now as to a branch, another cuts it off, but a man by his own act separates himself from his neighbour when he hates him and turns away from him, and he does not know that he has at the same time cut himself off from the whole social system. Yet he has this privilege certainly from Zeus who framed society, for it is in our power to grow again to that which is near to us, and be to come a part which helps to make up the whole. However, if it often happens, this kind of separation, it makes it difficult for that which detaches itself to be brought to unity and to be restored to its former condition.Finally, the branch, which from the first grew together with the tree, and has continued to have one life with it, is not like that which after being cut off is then ingrafted, for this is something like what the gardeners mean when they say that it grows with the rest of the tree, but that it has not the same mind with it. 

       The proverb says: You can’t go home again. 

        How do the alienated, or the addicted, integrate themselves back into meaningful social life…?  

      More on this later.  I have been thinking about it very much.  Now, however, I’m tired.  

M. Margo Wants to Take a Vacation

      Cue music, maestro…

     *singing*  yes I am just a sleep-deprived neurotic person with a crazy sadistic Surgeon boyfriend, working away here on my NYC plantation!  My landlord traumatized me and I gave him alllll my money, my students get wayyyyy too much return for their money, I dominate weirdos and there is a cockroach under my bed.  This manuscript was written by a moron who makes ten times as much as me.  Yes, sir!  I NEED A VACATION

       Okay, in my brain, that totally was a song.  I hummed it. 

       When I awoke this morning at 5:30 for no appreciable reason, blinking up at the ceiling and listening to the motor of my cheapass worn-out air conditioner (it’s starting to sound like a Boeing jet trying to take off), I decided that I needed to get the hell out of Dodge for a few days.  It’s been a year since my last vacation.  I go home to visit family a few times a year, but when you are sleeping in your Mom’s house, it’s not exactly a vacation, you know?  

       I found just the place! 

       The British School of Falconry in Manchester, VT!  I can go play with raptors!  The resort also offers archery lessons and shooting lessons!  I already know how to shoot, of course, but not how to use shotguns for sport.  Look at these Yankees and their neutered English-inspired sports weaponry. Pffft.  Where I come from, we use ASSAULT RIFLES. (I am kidding.  Sort of.) 

      I could go before Halloween–when the leaves have changed.  Fall colors.  In the lull after midterms.  Will give me time to save, and hotel rates will be cheaper.  Three or four nights–I really need some air and a hike, but I know, realistically, that I get bored fast in the country.  Run around in those little hills they have out here.  

     Also: should I take a dude with me, or just count on finding one there?  Best bet is to take one with me, but then he’d be, you know, there all the time.  The eternal conundrum.  The comedian Chris Rock has this skit that I love–he says, “You can be married and bored, or single and lonely.”  Even on vacation.  I was talking about that with Sofia.  She believes that every woman should have at least two men.  Aside from a brief period of celibacy when I broke up with the Surgeon, I have had between one and four at any given time over the last three years, but I haven’t lived with any of them, so I don’t know if that counts.  

Let’s Play Oppression Olympics!

      Well, I blew it in session at the Studio the other day.  I cracked up and couldn’t stop laughing.  Totally unprofessional, I know. The client, Jack, walked out.  

        But oh boy, was it worth it.  

        Let me tell you a little bit about this guy.  Normally I don’t talk much about clients because I feel like I ought to respect clients’ privacy.  I’m going to talk about Jack because I don’t respect him.  Actually, I hate him.  So does everyone else.  I bet his dog hates him.  Jack is an asshole.  He is a sadist for real.  The real deal.  Not like me.  The thrill for him is to offend the woman or make her endure something that she really doesn’t enjoy.  He pays very, very well.  I understand the logical process going on in his demented, inferior mind:  if the woman endures the session for the money, then she is the money-grubbing whore he believes her to be.  She has confirmed his prejudice.  If the woman calls the session off and walks out, then she forfeits a lot of money, and she still had to endure his abuse.  See the game?   He is truly a vile individual.

       He always goes after girls who are new to the industry.  He tries to get them when they are vulnerable, before they have good boundaries.  What an asshole, right?  He was one of my first sessions at the Superstudio.  Luckily, one of the senior women on staff warned me about him, so I knew what I was getting into before I walked through the door, and everything was fine.  I handled him, and didn’t get hurt or molested.  

        Well, the other day Jack called and wanted to see a new mistress.  Let’s call her “Kim.”  Kim is a pretty, petite African-American mistress.  She’s a tough cookie, but she’d heard all about Jack’s reputation, and she refused to see him by herself.  Another woman would have to be in the room, Kim said.  

       Oh–did I mention that Jack is RACIST?  Because he is.  He is a Hasidic Jew and he will not see Jewish mistresses.  Apparently they qualify as real human beings in his mind, and are therefore undeserving of his abuse.  Gentiles and everyone else are fair game, however.  And if she is black or Asian, he will say racist shit to her. Without fail.  I’ve heard about it.

       I said that I’m go in with Kim.  Jack doesn’t faze me.  Once I figured him out, I just started experiencing him as pathetic.  

         So, we suit up and go in.  

         Fifteen minutes later, right on schedule, Jack starts in with the racist bullshit.  Jack is 30 years old (where does a man that young get so much money?  His folks, I guess.  There is no other logical explanation).  He knows it is not nice to call black people “negroes.”  Among other things.  

         “Let’s pretend!” Jack says.  “You can be a negro slave on my plantation.”

           Oh. My. God. I thought. 

         Kim didn’t skip a beat.  “Sure, let’s play pretend!  We can also play Oppression Olympics!  You can get in that cage over there, and we can pretend that it’s Auschwitz!”

         Jack froze.  His jaw dropped open.  He’d been moving to take a drag off of his cigarette (strangely, he smokes Virginia Slims, the ladies’ brand–he must pilfer them from his mom or something), and his hand froze halfway to his mouth and stayed there, suspended in air.  

        I started to laugh. I think it was the expression on his face, even more than the pithy “oppression olympics” joke, that set me off.  

         I laughed.  And laughed.  And laughed.   Kim just stood there with a smirk on her face.  

        Jack was so mad that he just threw his cigarette on the floor and stormed out.  He didn’t even ask for his money back first.  He called back later to complain about Kim, but she didn’t get in any trouble because everyone knows what an asshole he is.  

       I bought Kim a 6-pack of her favorite beer.  

       Can you believe I got paid for that?  I got paid a hundred bucks for tickets to watch the Oppression Olympics!  Front row seats!

       Kim: 1

       Jack: 0