Eight Days

So Hillz pulled it out in New Hampshire! I got out of work at 10 p.m. last night, tuned into NPR, and got the news that Mrs. Clinton was up by three points over Obama, who was projected to win by double digits from the polls. I'll admit I was saddened to hear that Obama wasn't winnig. (Egads! I'm an Undecided Voter! That's never happened to me before!) And to be sure, there was a message on my cellie from the Baron. The Baron has been avoiding anything resembling news on television, sitting there biting his nails watching Antiques Roadshow and the like. He was white knuckled with terror. So I bit the bullet and called him to let him know that His Lady was up with fifty percent of the precincts reporting. That, of course, unleashed torrents of delight from the Baron, as well as torrents of abuse upon the Senator from Illinois and upon the heads of the media and sundry pundits who had turned the Iowa caucuses into a coronation.

My trenchant analysis: a lot of older women and others up there in New Hampshire took a look at the race and thought, "Hmm. A seasoned, competent, intelligent woman passed over for a largely untried younger man with a lot of flash. Hmmm."

I wonder if at some point last night Laura Bennet looked up from her sewing machine, saw those same results, and smiled.

So today, The Morning After, I'm not working. Anywhere. It's 1 p.m. and I'm still in my pajamas.

But that is soon to change. I have a lot to do today. I've got to get ready for MAL. Eight days away.

This means writing up a Policy And Procedures Manual for the Baron who will be staying here and keeping the home fires burning, thus allowing me to leave for four days. Writing it all out is a little daunting, like explaining to someone how to tie a bootlace without using your hands.

Also, I need to clean out my car. Which isn't too bad. Mostly a matter of me tossing something I'm Done With in the back seat and forgetting it there. Until now. And taking the kayak rack off the roof. Even though it makes it easier to find in a parking lot, the winter weather will take it's toll.

And I need to pack. What? A week ahead of time? Oh yeah. For one thing, I'm working every blessed day between now and then, including 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. on the Thursday I leave. And I have to go through my leathers and see what I can still wear and what I might need to send the way of the Leather Pride Night Auction. So for a while, my bedroom will look a little bit like an episode of What Not To Wear or whatever. As far as gear I'm taking, that's pretty easy: whips, floggers, padlocks, chain, shackles, knives. Gone are the days when I would be prepared to serve up just what was on whatever bottom's mind. Nuts to that. It happens or it doesn't happen. And if it does happen, it's on my terms. If I meet up with a man I'd like to chain up, either he's up for that or he isn't. Either way, I'm good. And of course, if past MALs are prologue to this one, there won't me much of anything in the way of play down there. It's not about that for me. It's just about being there. Everything else is gravy.

Oh. And I gotta clean up the yard. There are still all these branches down from the windstorms we had a few weeks ago. The Old Homestead looks like it's an abandoned property worthy of investigation by Fred, Daphne, Thelma, Shaggy and Scooby ("Something strange is going on up at the Old Kramer Place, and we're going to find out what it is!" "Zoiks!")

Mid-Atlantic Leather. Looming so large in my imagination. This is so not like me! My lifelong strategy has been to keep expectations in check, hold back, be reserved. I read Marcus Aurelius' instructive Meditations in which he laid out his ideas about a stoic outlook on life at a young and impressionable age. Am I setting myself up for a fall?

Perhaps.

But perhaps not.