Show me the Wives!!!!

All right ladies and womens and sir-ma'ams and ze's and she's and those who prefer to remain labelless.

This just in from a webiste off-shoot of my former East Coast daily:
Gay marriage now legal in California. Arnie says he'll uphold the ruling.
Step up.

Bride me. I'm ready. I won't propose via text. I will shower you with chocolate or flowers or kisses or bus tickets or fish eggs or vegan fish eggs or whatever you prefer.
Buy me an opal ring. Let's do this thing.


And some food for thought:As previously noted I dabble in magic. When I started this blog, Gay Marriage *was not* legal in California, though hardly anyone could quite believe it.
Less than 6 months later gay marriage *becomes legal*. Now I'm not saying there's a direct causative correlation, but I'm not not saying that either.

Think about it.

Jetlagged and Cranky

Pretty much sums it up.

My international P-W (potential, prospective, or possible - wife) meeting didn't go as plan, but was nevertheless delightful, except for both of our sneezing and coughing and my snoring. We ended up only having one night to meet, the limbo of my trip when I arrived back in Berlin from Paris only to leave for the States in the morning. I arrived as a kind-of pathetic bride/groom; voice half there, burdened with baggage, running low on Euro. I came bearing a droopy wilted rose and a real Parisian croissant.....totally forgot she was vegan. But she took care of me and let me relax from my capable, independent traveller mode into a happily ignorant follower. The sick leading the sick. Each of us, independently was hoping to convince the other to go to the new Holocaust Memorial for our one-night, International date. I introduced her, in concept and image only, to Pee-wee. She translated everything and explained why Sweden may need my pleasure activist gospel. There's strange, mostly solo, soft-core porn on free Berlin TV late at night. She bought me octopus, and ate the croissant anyway.


Back up weeks ago to Berlin when I'm really there, there for more than the great, snotty, between flights date. I find and ad with a compelling photo on the artists section of Berlin Craigs List. I email the artist, telling her that while I realize she is not posting in the personals, I think her work and name are hot. Then I check out her site. She seems to be in the states, and holy shit, I think this may be my wife. The themes, the images, the my-typeness of it all....we are cut from similar conceptual cloth. I almost write her again just to say " And I think you may be my wife..." but refrain for the sake of appearances of sanity. Surprisingly, I get a reply, and quickly.
Even more surprisingly, she seems to have addressed my unspoken, unwritten lunge towards connection...well, ok, betrothal:

"Haha...well, thanks but I am happily hitched. Glad you liked the work.
~Kalliope"


Beautiful, talented....psychic!? But alas, apparently not for me.
It's cool though, I think the practice lunges keep me in shape.


I encourage you all to check out her site and give her money and shows.

Tiny Update. Oh wait, I can't do tiny.

The holidays are kicking my ass. I keep working on posts here but not finishing them, though I'm sure after all the madness (presuming the the madness does end at some point), I will get back to them. Here's a teaser: definitely up-coming is a post all about my hygiene preferences! I know, I know, I'm just killing you with anticipation....

My second pseudo date was very sweet and unfortunately very pseudo. Tonight is the Lusty Lady Holiday party where I get to be a judge of the candy cane sucking contest. I'm feeling pretty low and hoping a tidal wave of scantily clad Lusties washes me onto some bed somewhere and does bad things with me. Not like littering or genocide though, I'm not up for either of those tonight unless someone gives me roofies in a big cup of coffee.

And that's mostly because my other big fantasy, that my bed will magically sprout a beautiful woman who *already* loves me, *already* knows me, just wants to stay in bed and cuddle and read each other stories and have kinky sex and get out of bed and pee on each other and make hot chocolate and then get back in bed with hot chocolate and watch movies and share our beliefs and snore in each other's armpits and make really cool bruises on each others backs and thighs and butts and necks and breasts without having to ask again where she grew up because I know where she grew up, I've heard all about it and how she hates it and loves it and maybe I've been there or we're planning a trip together.... well, I know that its too far-fetched for even me to believe. Its not the way it works, you have to go on dates and chit-chat and try new restaurants or sit in the park or whatever until you suddenly find yourself snuggled up in a hotel bed with your good friend and this new person, chastely nude, but wishing you could put their (the new person, not your good friend) genitals in your mouth, you know, just to try it.... and then two months later in another hotel bed, high on sugar and lack of sleep and amazing sex, you realize for sure that you love them. I mean, the hotel beds and sugar aren't required, I've just found that often while dating the person that I turn out to love kinda sneaks in from the side.

Yes. I like to pee on people. If that totally grosses you out, you are probably not my wife.
At this point I'm not sure whether a marriage where I never peed on my spouse but got to do it a lot with others would work, it may, but it most certainly *will not* work if you think that the mere idea of me peeing on someone is gross. There. I'm out. Possibly a big mistake, but oh well, its true.

I also really like reading out loud to people in bed (or out). I also enjoy being read to, but if I could only do one, I'd probably be the reader.

And, yes, it's true, I honestly *love* hot chocolate. I refused to be shamed for my adoration of the "steamy brown", as it's known. I hope by my confession I can pave the way for other warmed-dairy aficionados to feel comfortable about themselves, and their predilections, however un-vegan, just the way they are.

I don't yet know what to wear tonight. I used to wear miniskirts all the time and don't anymore and kind of want to wear a mini skirt for that reason, but I'm not sure I still own any festive enough. I know, big problems, what a fucking dilemma. "Fairy godmother, bring me a warm naked wife in bed, with her arm sticking out holding a hanger with the perfect outfit on it! "Of course, I would probably never make it to the party if that happened, but from the cold living room with a lap full of Mac, it sounds just peachy.

I've been having a lot of weird sex dreams all this week. Last night there were two, one involved me helping with a workers' revolt at this country-club type place where the boss was kind of a mix between Tony Soprano and the dad from the family guy. I riled everyone up and then people were playing golf and I was going to an art exhibit but my ex showed up, nude, and so I started groping her. We were just standing there, in the grass, side by side, surveying the grounds. At first she said "no need for that" or something basically telling me I should probably stop touching her genitals, but I kept doing it anyway and then she started getting excited and then...I don't know. The scene changed or something, I think maybe I was suddenly down by the water with a bunch of golf clubs in my hand.

The second one, I don't really remember the context for, possibly I was in a castle? Anyway, this cute dog, kind of grey hound like, came up and started nuzzling and licking me and I'm not a huge dog fan but I liked this dog and was petting it and then it started turning into Lynee Breedlove all dressed in leather, and I understood that this dog was really just Lynee's puppy play persona. There was a bunch of licking and what not, but I've never really been attracted to Lynee so I have no idea where that came from. Thank *YOU* twisted mind!

Alright, alright. Shower and dressing myself. One of these days I will let all the kids in on what a sham adulthood is. But tonight I'm schmoozing with the peep-show ladies, so the kids might just have to wait for their insight.

What I'm Looking for, anyway...Part 1

"So" you may say, "you sure can blah the blah and yadda yadda about the reasons you want a wife, your conceptual ideals of unconventional marriage, and needlessly apologize for your opinions and tone the whole time. Sweet. But I have seen nil, perhaps less, on what you are actually looking for in a partner. Besides that she be amenable to weird tentacle sex and may or may not be a vegan and willing to marry you. WTF?"

Ok, ok, ok, I working up to it. Let me start slow.

Where to begin: personality, looks, values, style?
It feels strange to just make a list of what I find really attractive in a person, especially since these things tend to be both mutable and communicable for me. How can you pick falling in love out of a list? It seems dehumanizing, and objectifying (which I am not altogether opposed to ) and by its nature one-dimensional and incomplete.

But man, my life is wound and strewn with little lists, I am such a mad-crazy list maker I get a little uncomfortable if I leave the house without tools to make notes and lists. So it seems a fitting, if not flattering, format for a patchwork Frankenstein's monster of what I might love.

And honestly, I really enjoy learning to love, and if not love, appreciate, and if not appreciate, at least understand better the differences in taste or style or opinions of the people I come to love. That feeling of being opened, to seeing differently, more vividly, that thought of "well I would never pick that coat/meal/course of study/trick but I can see how it would be perfect for ____" is really special to me and makes me feel both emotionally limber and fully loving.

One more thing about lists. I tend to like the format that I learned through BDSM, but which I've heard that the late, great Cynthia Slater brought to the BDSM community from her business background. It's called "3 lists", I think. Basically the format is three different columns; one for "definitely yes!", one for "maybe, or indifferent" and one for "absolutely no". In BDSM we use the 3 lists to help people figure out their interests and boundaries, to ascertain whether our desires for play are compatible and to try to make sure we don't accidentally pop bubblegum in someones face while they are tied to a tire swing if that is the thing that brings up a bunch of childhood trauma. For my wife-hunt I will mostly likely use something approximating the 3 lists format to flesh out the things that I really like and dislike.

So as long as we can all agree on the caveat that these things are never going to be wholly representative, can and do change, and I am not bound to love nor restricted from loving people and the qualities personified either on or off the lists, I guess I can start.


Just not right now.

Thanks for talking back, and what's with me and the vegans?

Yay! People are commenting! Like a little fiend I kept checking back to see... and to no avail. Nobody gave a rat's ass about SLWaW. Or they were sparing my feelings by keeping their cake-holes shut. Ahh...disappointment. But then yesterday, just as a fluke, I found the place where i actually have to approve posts! I was very adamant, you see about retaining the right to moderate comments, but lo, I hadn't actually figured out how to do that. There was a sweet little bundle of comments waiting for me, and you! Obviously I am not a 133t h4kz0r when it comes to the tech learning curve.

And since we are talking about you, you fine denizens of cyber-land, I'd like to bring up a little thing they like to call "links". Yes, links- ladies love the links. You see, I need a little help disseminating my message, so I can get to the inseminating, you dig?
How are all the spouses-to-be going to know about their imminent wivlihood without links? Sadie Lune Wants a Wife could use some hospitality, and would be tickled to get a little rest and refreshment on your homepage. Spread the wed.
Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants alone will not get me hitched.


And the good news is, apparently I also get the vegan vote. Well, I got at least one vegan vote. The last unbearably hot girl to grace my hand, i mean bed is, i mean...we had a lovely (vegan) dinner...well, you guessed it: vegan-shcmeagan mo-meegan... but she gives thumbs up. Whew. I'd hate to come off like a hater. Cuz I'm not. Tentacles or no, I'm a lover...that's kinda the whole reason that I'm here.

VEGAN!


So please go tell all of the amazing, gorgeous, talented, kinky, weirdo, non-commitment-phobe ladies or persons-along-those-lines about Sadie Lune Wants a Wife. Even if they're vegan, what the hell!
Because if this doesn't get me a wife, Carol Queen said she'd eat her hat.
And you don't want to make Carol eat a hat do you? Even if its completely animal (vegan!) free?
No, no, I didn't think so.

Thank you and good vegan.

How it Came To Be (and an apology to vegans and a note on Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants)

Ha, ha, folks and future wives of the world, pay no attention to that Reverend Dr. Splashy Pants. That's certainly the last time I leave my blog signed in. However, there's a point to be made here, which is that anyone who might deign to marry me will have to acclimate to my roommate and long-time companion, Reverend Dr. Splashy Pants. If you care to read more about him, skip to the end of this post.


Anyway, back to the creation myth of this blog. First, let me just state that it is hilarious to me to have a blog, not even taking into account the predictably absurd subject of said phenomenon. As a semi-luddistic, quit-all-online-social-network-sites-to-spare-my-own-sanity, regular ranter on the 2nd rate brand of connection technology has been weaning us on, this shit cracks me up. Perhaps now, I will re-exist as a valid human in the eyes of the middle-class, North American wold. Imagine that. Heh.

But it wasn't my idea! The coward's defense. Not my fault, I weakly protest. I just carried and birthed the chimera, near simultaneous brainchild of two esteemed inseminators. It's true, the inspiration was not my own, but in my to-be-expected wintry (who let it be December, already!?) hibernatory state, I did the unlikely act of following through with one of legion hare-brained schemes. If we look at it as a shiny new procrastination device away from the last dragging dregs of my undergraduate requirements, it makes a lot more sense. Partners to be, be forewarned! Procrastination is a vice I've yet to quit.

So what happened was something like this: I find myself in the all-too-familiar state of Heartbreak, U.S.A. Pop: me, and what looks like a bar-full of ladies bemoaning their single status on Craig's List. I have mostly accepted the realization (and accompanying sinking feeling) that I want a wife. The lovely and amazing lady frothing the foam on the brim of my heart has declined the position. Or more accurately, declined the position which leads to the potential of the position of wifehood. I am bummed.

I try to enlist several friends, most notably my youthful cohort "Irene" into writing me a personal ad. I tend to be overly wordy (ahem) which is boring to *me* on good ol' W4W, so why would anyone else want to read it? Plus its hard to decide for yourself what to put in and what by all that is holy must be left out, and I feel just about capable enough to slide another DVD into its fuzzy slit without grave incident. Irene and I joke a lot about the dangers of being too forthright about my wife-lust, especially on a personals site or say at a party, if we were to ever go to a party. Queer San Francisco in the aughts is not the Victorian aristocracy, where one's open coveting of a spouse was seen as a prudent and desirable social move. Irene agrees to write me an ad, but soon regrets her decision. And then, on the faded red couch by the window, her face alights; "We should make you a website, with pictures and a bunch of stuff about what you want in a wife and then you could update it and people could respond to you there!" Brilliant and daunting. Ridiculous and expository. My cup of tea.

Approximately 24 hours later, I'm spilling my soggy beans all over Dr. Carol Queen and her partner, Robert Lawrence, at a fantastically decadent belated birthday dinner for me. We've been sadly out of touch due to the San Franciscan one-two punch of prohibitive busy-ness and anti-social depression (it seems it's always either "can't squeeze you in the book", or "can't leave the house", around here). They give me good news, I simper over lost love, we feed each other sushi. I reveal my wife-lust revelation, saying something along the lines of: "I just want a wife. A wife I can cover with tentacles and Ikura and take pictures and dine off of." Robert offers to be the napkin. Carol perks, not up, as she is naturally ebullient, but again, and offers this thought: "What you need to do is take a picture of you with your trophy from the Good Vibes Film Fest, and put up a website saying 'I want a wife who I can cover with tentacles', cuz it wouldn't be any good if you got a vegan, no-flesh kind of wife if the tentacle thing is important to you. Might as well be up front about it."
Amazing!
Two of the most influential women of my life suggesting the same basic concept within a day or so of each other?

And some beautiful girl may be besotted by the incandescent glow and scrambled pixels of my bizarre efforts?

And it means I can spend valuable time writing on the computer, and *still* not get my school work done?

Ok, I'll do it!



An apology to the vegans:

It occurs to me that all of you lovely vegans may feel unduly maligned by my blog, yet in its infancy. I have loved, and hope to get the opportunity to continue to love my share of vegans, not that you all need my love to validate your choices. But as a "mermaid" in spirit and pescatarian eating habits, to whom good food is overwhelmingly important, it may be hard for me to partner with a vegan. And yes, I do have sploshy fantasies involving ex/rotic animal-based foodstuffs, and continue to be mesmerized by the magic of honey, and occasionally wear vintage furs, and often new leather. But I definitely admire the lessened footprint of waste and destruction left by a vegan lifestyle and enjoy cooking and eating vegan food, although the esteemed astrologist recently recommended I bulk up on comestible flesh. So I'm sorry if it seems like I'm picking on you. Future wife, if you are vegan, I will love you just the same, and make you delicious garlic mashed potatoes and other delicacies sans animal oppression. I will still, however, be entranced by tentacles and ingest raw salmon with brain-soothing gusto and entertain my fantasy of someday keeping a milk spouting she-goat and a hive of honey-spouting bees.
I'm sure amongst all of the serious problems in the wide, wide world we can work it out.





A note on my friend and cohabitant, Rev Dr. Splashy Pants:

Kind of like Kombucha without any of the restorative properties, he is a beloved friend whose presence may seem hard to understand and nonsensical at first, acrid and brash and slightly less than palatable, but to whom, over prolonged exposure, it is hard not to become addicted. He has a very special way of appearing out of nowhere during intimate conversations, hovering in the doorway in his boxers or a towel with a cup of mind numbingly strong coffee in hand, and making just the right snarky non-sequitor to instill both deep love and provoke a disinterest in speaking him for the remainder of the day. He is one of my most loyal friends, and has aided my life path in many big and small ways, as well as impelling me to fall down on the ground wracked with laughter on a fairly regular basis. So basically, Rev Dr. Splashy Pants is here to stay for the foreseeable future. Plus he has "surprisingly impeccable dyke credentials", he assures me.