Spankos are awesome

I know I bitch and moan sometimes about FetLife and the BS that can go on there, and about the creepers and the Uber-Doms and drama queens and lord knows what else in the scene. But then something happens that makes me remember why I'm here: not just because of a shared kink, but because I know some damn good people.

We have a friend named John, known as JerseyJohn in the scene. He's been around the parties for many years (I think we met him back in the late 90s), and he's a big bear of a guy, Italian, deep rumbling voice with a pronounced Jersey accent, looks like he could have been on the Sopranos, and has a heart as big as he is. He gives wonderful hugs and is well loved by many.

Two weekends ago, at the Florida Moonshine party, John collapsed. He was taken to the ER, and has been in the hospital since. He nearly died; went into full arrest, had to be shocked several times and then put in a medically induced coma for a while. I don't know all the details, although a friend of his has been posting regular updates on FetLife -- but it's his heart. They found a large blockage and put in a stent, and now are running other tests and so forth. He is slowly recovering, but has a long road ahead. He'll be in the hospital at least another week.

Many local friends have been to visit him, and his wall on FetLife has been plastered with messages and well wishes. One woman offered to gather all the messages and put them into a book for him. The outpouring of love has been amazing.

Over the weekend, our Joe (AKA DrLectr on Fet) put out a call. He found a site where people can safely and securely make donations, and he posted "Operation: $10,000 for JerseyJohn by August 1st." He set it all up; all we had to do was click a link and add our donation. There was an option for a message, and you could even donate anonymously if you wanted to. Joe figured that with people rallying for John, they could easily meet the $10,000 by August 1st, when they would transfer it to him.

Joe's notice went up Saturday. As of this morning, the quota is nearly met, just a few hundred dollars shy. We had a month, and in less than 48 hours, it's nearly a done deal. The enthusiasm for this endeavor is so infectious, that even people who have never met John are contributing.

JerseyJohn is in for a lot of struggle, both physically and financially. But this incredible show of love and support is going to go a long way. Heal quickly, paisan. We want you back among us, and soon.

Spankos rock, yes we do. ♥

EDIT: Just checked the thread on FetLife. Goal has been met. :-)

Is it Labor Day yet???

Can we just bypass summer and be done with it? It's just heat. I want it to be Shadow Lane time already. After reading all the feedback about two big parties last weekend, I want to be at one. I want to see all our friends. I want to be in a hug pile and play until I can't play anymore and laugh until my face hurts and my voice cracks. Yes, you've heard this song and dance from me before. Just feeling it extra today, this week.

Some say I am very lucky because I get to have regular play. Yes, I know I am. I am well blessed with a fabulous top, and I do not take that lightly. I guess I just wish I could have the en masse camaraderie experience more often. 

Two more months, and I get to see people I love to bits, and make new friends. I can't wait. But of course, I will wait.

What else... Oh, I just posted some new writing on FetLife about how some "tops" out there think it's OK to spank a woman and then demand a blowjob as a "reward." You know, just another version of the Entitlement People. Mind you, I am not putting down blowjobs or any other form of sexual activity. I'm just saying that expecting it after you do me the favor of spanking me is arrogant beyond belief.

And just to prove my point, about 10 minutes after I posted, this little squirt (all of 19 years old) who calls himself "LordUberDom" commented:

Oral sex is a respectful way to say "thank you" and a true lady understands this.

Please do pardon this true lady for her French, but go fuck yourself, kid. You wouldn't know a true lady if you found one in your playpen.

Should be interesting, where this writing will go. I am eagerly anticipating. :-)

Anyway, another weekend is upon us. John and I get to go to a birthday party for his one-year-old grand-nephew, at his alkie sister's house tomorrow. Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! (sigh) And get this: on the invitation, right below the RSVP info, was "We would appreciate contributions to [the baby's] college fund." Is it me, or is that tacky? Screw that -- we bought the kid a sweater. And John is currently in an argument with said sister, so it should be especially awkward being there tomorrow. He told me that if things get hairy, he'll say the stress is causing his heart to a-fib and we'll beat a hasty retreat. Yes, it's evil, but oh well. :-) 

Seeing my sweetie, got a new work project, got Chrossed... life is good today. Have a great weekend, y'all.

Spank, repeat, spank, repeat

We love our tops; truly, we do. But if your top is anything like mine, he (or she) sometimes is just a weeee bit repetitive in their spanking banter.

You know what I mean. The buzzwords, the phrases. They all have their favorites, and sometimes, well, they say them more than once in a scene. Or more than five times. Or more than... you get my point. Until they reach cliché status.

Yeah, I hear you out there. "You bottoms repeat things too!" Not the same. We're the bottoms. We're at a disadvantage, being under duress and all. Our brains aren't functioning at their full capacity, since the blood is rushing elsewhere. We can't be held accountable for not being 100% original every damn minute, you know?

But really, what's the spanker's excuse, hmmm?

So Tuesday, toward the end of the OTK warm-up, I got a little cranky at hearing "I know what you need" one too many times. Soooo, I may have said something like, "Yeah, yeah, I know you do, you've told me a hundred times."

"Excuse me?" Steve said, and retaliated swiftly. "Would you care to say that again?" I didn't. My mama didn't raise no stupid children.

I thought that was the end of it, until we moved onto Phase 2. Steve thought that would be a good time to take me to task for getting on his case about repeating himself. He did his very best to convince me that certain repeats aren't all that bad. With the help of his repetitive-motion friends -- the strap, Lexan paddle, crop, and that @#$%ing Licking Stick.

Notice the light pink on the lower legs. When Steve was cracking wise about how we should do repeats, three-peats and five-peats, I retorted that perhaps he should send in Pete; he might do a better job. Yeah, that brought things to a new level... a lower one. (wincing)

I have no idea what made those weird track marks on my left cheek. He doesn't recall either.

But I sure felt them happening.

Ouchy spank-face.

It was actually a really fun scene, make no mistake. Banter was high; we were both in good form. In fact, after I saw the video, I liked it so much, I posted it on both FetLife and SpankingTube. So far, no negative remarks on ST -- hallelujah! If y'all would like to take a look, you can find the video here.

Not to worry, I got lots of wonderful after-care. I even got ice.

Here's the weird part: Even with the marks and the intensity of the scene, I wasn't sore today. Whereas last Wednesday (after what was a typical session on Tuesday), I was a wreck, gritting my teeth through my workout, feeling every move back there. Go figure.

OK, I give. Some repeats are good. I'll be happy to repeat it all over again next Tuesday. With my wonderfully awesome top, El Redundo. :-)

Deconstructing "No"

Last week, I wrote a piece on FetLife about saying "no" to scenes at spanking parties, since there have been so many of the large weekend ones lately. Seems like it would be fairly straightforward, yes? No. Because there's always going to be a certain type of top for whom no doesn't mean this:

But rather, this:

Below I have pasted what I wrote on Fet. It got 180 "loves" and 108 comments, so far.

It's been party season, with BBW just behind us, TASSP and FMS right in front of us, and CM next month, soon to be followed by SL. I can't attend everything, unfortunately, but I've been a party-goer for 18 years. I've seen a lot of people come and go, I went from a newbie to a veteran, and I've had, seen, and heard about a lot of wonderful scenes. As well as some bad ones.

And one theme never seems to change: Women at parties are uncomfortable saying "no" to a spanking request. (For all intents and purposes of this particular discussion, I'm going to keep the focus on female bottoms. I know that tops of both sexes also have to deal with being asked to play when they don't want to, but I think there is a particularly intense pressure on the female bottom persuasion.)

We don't want to be mean. We don't want to be rude. We don't want to hurt feelings. We don't want to get a bad rep for being too picky, or just playing with the "popular" tops, or some such nonsense. So we go ahead and accept the play invitation we really don't want, because how bad could it be, anyway?

Let me tell you, it could be pretty bad. But that's not the point. Even if it isn't... why should any of us compromise in our play?

Ladies, you are not a party ambassador. No one assigned you to play with anyone and everyone who asks you. It's YOUR party. You paid for your ticket just like everyone else, and you have choices. And, even more important, it's YOUR butt. You get to choose who puts their hands on it.

Consider what a play party spanking is. OK, so maybe it's not as intense and personal as a one-on-one spanking with a trusted mate. It's more casual, more light-hearted, generally shorter, etc. But guess what? It's still an intimate act. Someone is putting their hands on you, looking at your backside, feeling you close to them. Unless you are blessed with the ability to completely detach yourself (I am not), you need to have some level of attraction, of chemistry, of like, or even just curiosity about playing with someone. Do you want to kiss every man you meet? Of course not. Then why would you be expected to lie across the lap of every man who wants you to?

Please stop compromising yourselves. If you really, really don't want to play with someone, then please don't. Do not allow yourself to be guilted, manipulated or coerced. You have the right to say "no, thank you" and have it be respected.

I once had a friend (who sadly dropped out of the scene several years ago), a lovely woman, who was cursed with simply being too nice for her own good. She could not say no to anyone, even though she desperately didn't want to play with some people. I was constantly lecturing her about this, and she'd hang her head and say, "I know, I know." I'd warn her about certain people. I warned her about a notoriously hard and inconsiderate player, but when he asked her to play, she said yes. Then she timidly asked him to please not use any wood. He went on to completely ignore her and bruise the holy hell out of her with a wooden paddle. When my friend and I were icing her down later and she was in tears, I wanted to throttle the guy. But I wanted to throttle her a little, too! "Dammit, C," I said. "Just say NO!"

Same woman wanted to avoid yet another creep who had been chasing after her. He was sitting on a couch and she was trying to walk past him, and he did a "yank and spank" -- he simply grabbed her and pulled her down over his lap and started whaling away. And she let him. Had it been me, I would have raised the roof. Do NOT let anyone do this to you! And don't be afraid of making a scene, or of "being a bitch." You don't want to be on that lap? Get the hell off of it, and report the yanker.

These are atypical horror stories, and I'm not trying to scare newer people. My point is, this kind of stuff stops when we say no, and mean it.

When tops are polite to you, by all means, be polite back. When you'd like to play with someone but are concerned that you're overextending yourself, ask them to please keep the scene light. That, too, is within your right. But if you're pushed, cornered, your space is invaded, someone won't take a polite "no" for an answer? Guess what? You don't have to be so nice anymore. Walk away. And if they follow you, report them. This shit needs to stop.

If you're still leery about being firm, get a wingman/woman if you need to. Hang with a trusted friend, and let them know who is bothering you. When he approaches, your friend can intervene on your behalf and say, "Hey, aren't we supposed to be in so-and-so's room right about now?" and whisk you away. I've done this -- it works! Do whatever to need to do in order to ensure your good time. You deserve it. We all do.

Play safe, have fun, and always remember: It's YOUR BUTT!

Tell me... does this piece leave any sort of ambiguity? Apparently, one person thought it did. He posted comment after comment, engaging with several others, trying to deconstruct, reconstruct and redefine "No." Yeah, but what if "no" means "not now, but maybe later"? Or "I'm not sure"? And how will the asker know what kind of "no" it is if he doesn't ask, if he doesn't say "why not?" Doesn't he have the right to some sort of reason, an explanation, so that he can know what it is about him that is eliciting "no"? (How about the fact that he can't take "no" for an answer??)

It was getting so ridiculous, I was about to lose my temper and rip that guy a new one. (As it was, I posted and asked people to please stop engaging with him.) But then two of my friends stepped in and made everyone laugh. Well, me, anyway.

Friend #1 commented:

Random thought.

Everyone attending an event will be issued 3 color-coded cards with the word NO written on them.

If asked a question and you mean, "No, but I would definitely entertain the question later, if asked," you show the "No" written in green.

If asked a question and you mean "No, and I don't expect my answer or interest to change in next few days," you show the "No" written in yellow.

If asked a question and you mean "No fucking way, not going to happen (regardless of the reasons) so don't ever ask again and good luck with your life," you show the No written in red.

I'm thinking NO Cards would make a great product or sponsored giveaway at these events and --- ANY social event. :-)

Then Friend #2 chimed in with:

That sounds good, but you know someone would come up with a "why not" card.

Friend #1 came back with:

Fine... fourth card... giant middle finger!

And Friend #2 had the last word:

Only if it comes attached to a taser. This way they won't wonder, does that middle finger mean "come over here"?

Yes, kids, things actually get this ridiculous. All because certain people don't comprehend, or respect, the simple little word "no."

I know a lot of my readers aren't party-goers, but maybe you attend smaller local gatherings at times, or a local dungeon/club? Have you ever played with someone you really didn't want to, just to be nice? Did you ever feel like you didn't have the right to say "no" at a party, because, after all, everyone is supposed to play with everyone and if you say no, you're a party pooper or something?

So many misconceptions and so many questions of etiquette. Our scene is ever complex, and sometimes it's hard to navigate. Which is why I'm glad I'm not new anymore. But I'm very happy to offer my experience and thoughts to others if they want them. We all need to watch out for one another!

Wrapping up the week

Overall, a much better week than last week. Besides my killer scene with Steve, let's review:

1. I had work, none of which had gross and disgusting pictures.

2. John finally got his second opinion from an outside hospital that specializes in heart surgery. They told him he definitely qualifies for valve repair rather than replacement, and with minimally invasive surgery versus tearing his chest open. And yes, his HMO is capable of doing this. Now the battle truly begins, but at least he's armed with the proper information.

3. I treated myself to a pedicure. It's hard to be depressed when your toenails are sparkly red.

4. I got on FetLife's Kinky & Popular list twice this week; once for the video from Tuesday's session and once for a piece of writing about saying no at a party. I will cover that further in a future post.

5. You may recall the brilliant writer Jillian Keenan, who rocked our world last year with her article for the New York Times, Finding the Courage to Reveal a Fetish, effectively outing herself to the world. She and I follow each other on Twitter, and this week, she tweeted to me that I make her laugh out loud and if I ever come to New York, we should get coffee or something. Now that was a keeper.

6. I made it to all of my workouts, despite my desperate urge to stay home and just take a vitamin or something. 

7. Have I mentioned lately that my building's new AC system really works well? After living here for 22 years and suffering through 22 summers with crappy semi-functioning AC, I have to pinch myself every time I walk into my apartment and it's deliciously cool.

8. The human race didn't disturb/frustrate/aggravate/enrage me nearly as much as usual.

9. Oh, and did I mention that I had a really great scene on Tuesday? :-)

These are definitely overriding the not-so-positives, of which there are three:

1. Blog views and comments were way down this week, even though I thought I had a great post. That's always annoying.

2. This weekend, there are two big weekend spanking parties going on: One in Texas and one in Florida. Between the two, several of my friends are in attendance and my FOMO is in high gear, and for one of the two parties in particular. Hurry, hurry, Shadow Lane.

3. I fell off the wagon and tweeted to Pablo Schreiber again, even though I publicly swore I would not. Surprise, surprise -- he didn't reply. Meanwhile, his followers shot up from 32K to nearly 39.5K; I think it's going to his head. Perhaps I should start a new group, PFA (Pablo Fangirls Anonymous).

Back to work. To everyone at the parties, get your spank on for me and get/give lots of hugs, too! And to everyone else, have a great weekend, y'all.

I will never forget...

... that my top Steve loves and cares about me.

If Steve were the sort of top who ordered lines to be written (and I were the sort of bottom who would actually do it), I'd be writing that line 100 times. But as it is, I was to announce it publicly to my readers, so they could help remind me when I forget.

Meanwhile, he helped remind me in other ways yesterday.

What can I say. It was a bad two weeks, stressful and depressing and lonely. Meanwhile, he was away with his son, climbing Mt. Whitney, up in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone reception. After 10 days of no contact, my head went south. Maybe something bad happened. Bad things can happen on strenuous hikes. He has a bum knee; maybe it gave out and he fell. He has high blood pressure -- maybe he had a stroke.

Or maybe he'd just forgotten about me.

It turns out that four days into his trip, when he reached the top, he had a brief moment of reception and he sent me a selfie. But I never got it.

(sigh) Long story short, I disappeared into my own head, and he brought me back.

He apologized for not contacting me before he left to say goodbye. But he did try to reach me with the selfie. He didn't forget. 

"I get caught up in my own stuff and I let time go by sometimes," he said. "But I always come back, don't I?"

"Yes, I know you do," I answered. "But I feel like in between, I'm out of sight, out of mind."

"No. You're not."

He drove the point home, repeatedly, with his hand and several implements. "Who loves you?" "Who cares about you?" "Who's not going anywhere?" And the questions weren't rhetorical; I had to answer them. Reminders. Many, many reminders.

"Do you feel that, deep in your heart?"

"That's not where my heart is!"

"It is today!"

No tears in this scene. I guess I had cried enough in the past two weeks. But I felt like he'd taken an anvil off my chest, and flipped a switch in my head, shutting off the negative nattering. Fuck you, depression. You visit, but I will not let you move in. Not any more.

Later, we were back to our playful mode. I was teasing him because, although his family roots go back to several generations in Mexico, he doesn't know a word of Spanish. "You're a disgrace to your heritage, not knowing the language!"

"I don't need to speak Spanish," he answered. "I speak your language -- Spanklish."

banging my head on the desk and groaning

We're going on two years, next month. I guess he really isn't going anywhere. Even John says, "Hey, he chose you over [the ultra-possessive ex]! How much more do you need?"

Yesterday was kind of a wash, since I was too out of it after he left to do much more than screw around on FetLife and play Scrabble on FB. Today, sore but at peace, I am back to work. 

Te amo, my top.

Friday the 13th

Any triskaidekaphobes among us? I swear, they have a phobia for everything, including one for having peanut butter stick to the roof of your mouth. Although I've never found another soul on this earth who was afraid of the Three Stooges, as I was as a kid. I don't get it. So many people are terrified of clowns; why aren't more people scared of that trio of ugly freaks, wreaking havoc and hurting each other? Yeah, I know, I'm weird.

It's been, as predicted, a bleah week. But here's a bright spot: Pandora did a lovely write-up of our shoot last month. My spirits and ego were lifted by all her kind words, and I cannot wait to see this video! I think it's going to be a lot of fun.

I did have work this week, which is the good news. Bad news? It was really nasty stuff. My one medical client sent me a course about how to treat pressure ulcers, complete with graphic pictures. I swear, I had to put one hand on the screen to cover up some of the photos, so that I could read the text around them without heaving. I managed to get through it and sent it back, and they promptly sent me another course -- this one was about the varying levels of wound infection. Even worse!! I grit my teeth, forcing myself to think "It's work, it's work, it's work," as I struggled to keep from decorating my keyboard and screen with the contents of my stomach.

Anyway, finally got through that. Then another client sent me a project for today: a 20-page, double-column, small print article about mental health, suicide and life-threatening behavior. How cheery!

In other news, John's HMO continues to give him the runaround regarding his various health issues, fighting him on every turn and insisting on pushing the oldest and cheapest procedures. For example, even though many heart surgeries are being done with minimally invasive techniques nowadays, they still insist on the old-fashioned saw-through-the-ribs-and-tear-open-the-chest variety of heart surgery that's been done since the 1950s. The good news: John finally, finally has a second-opinion appointment next week, outside of his HMO, with a hospital that specializes in heart surgery. They will review all his records and tests and so forth, and give their opinion on what is best for him. At least then, he will be armed with information that is free from HMO agenda, and he'll have a clearer idea of what to go for. So, the beat goes on.

I am in a funk, there's no denying that. No one big thing, just lots of little things, like the visit to my stepdad, the ongoing situation with John, miscellaneous aggravations, and feeling very lonely and disconnected lately. I'm feeling especially let down by someone I care about, and I'm struggling with that too, not knowing what to do about it. I need a hug. I need lots of hugs. I need spanking. I need attention. Blah blah blah. Oh, and it's Father's Day this Sunday. That makes me sad as well. At least I remembered to send my stepfather a card. I even found a Stepdad card, which is quite a feat. In the sea of Father, Dad and Daddy cards, they are a rarity.

Onward. Next week, I hope to be a little bit more on topic, or at least a little more upbeat. Have a great weekend, y'all. And to the dads, happy Father's Day.

EDIT: Have to add something that just happened.

I tweeted: "I know that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. Not quite sure what to do when life hands you suckage. Working on that."

One of my followers tweeted back: "Make succotash?"

Now that made me laugh. Out loud.

OT: I am too @#$%ing old to be a fangirl

It's confession time, kids. I feel like a complete ass, and what better place to share that than here, right? (Wrong kind of ass, though.)

So here it is: I have been fan-crushing on an actor on Twitter.

It all started with the season 14 finale of Law & Order: SVU, one of my favorite shows. This episode introduced a character named William Lewis, played by an actor I wasn't familiar with at the time -- Pablo Schreiber. He gave life to possibly the most evil villain ever portrayed on that show; a serial killer/rapist, sadistic, cunning, manipulative, and yet somehow eerily charming. Usually, the bad guys die off or go away on SVU in one episode; not William Lewis. He stuck around, left Season 14 on a cliffhanger, and continued into a five-episode story arc that stretched all across Season 5, with him caught up in a twisted dance with Sergeant Olivia Benson (played by the brilliant Mariska Hargitay).

The William Lewis saga took off. It seems that I wasn't the only one mesmerized by this horrible character, or Pablo's incredible portrayal of him. During the time where he had Benson held captive, the hashtag "#SaveBenson" trended worldwide. Twitter was abuzz about the show, about the two of them, about his acting, about just what it was that made his character so compelling and watchable, even though he was horrifying. (The fact that Mr. Schreiber is rather handsome just seemed to make matters more confusing.)

There were even T-shirts...

Anyway, now that I'd laid the background... Pablo Schreiber is on Twitter. He's fairly active on it, and has a large following. No, not millions like Justin Bieber (gag), but up there in the tens of thousands, and he has a lot of fangirls (one young woman refers to herself as a Schreibette, which really tickled me; I guess I'm one as well). Because I follow him, I can see everything he tweets.

Sometimes, he responds to his fans. But there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to why or which ones. He has three levels of responses, it seems. If he likes what you've tweeted and wants to keep it, he marks it as a "favorite." That's not really a response, since he doesn't say anything, but you can still see that your tweet was favorited by him. Next level is he'll retweet what you posted. That says "Hey, I really like this and it's worth passing on to others." But the third level, the holy grail? He actually responds.

Again, there's no pattern. Sometimes, he'll post a thank-you to a compliment. But a lot of the time, his replies are dry and sarcastic, kind of anti-replies. They can be very clever. And he gets some pretty unusual stuff thrown his way.

A fan who calls herself Jesus: [a bunch of gibberish about how he needs to die]
Pablo: Jesus, are you OK?

Fan: There's just something about you that makes me want to kill myself.
Pablo: Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Fan: Hey Pablo, what r u doing right now?
Pablo: Oh, u know, tweeting back to my fans. How about u?

Fan: Why is Pornstache such a douchebag?
Pablo: Probably 'cause people like you call him names like that.

Who is Pornstache? Well, I was so impressed with Pablo's acting on SVU, I wanted to see more. Of course, William Lewis had to be dispatched eventually, so I went on to something else. Pablo is also in the NetFlix hit, Orange is the New Black, about a women's prison. He plays yet another creepy sleaze on this show, but this one is played more for laughs -- a prison guard named George Mendez, with a greasy dark flat-top haircut and a really cheesy porn-star mustache, hence giving him the nickname "Pornstache." So I started watching OITNB. Yup, he's creepy, all right. And the mustache has taken on a life of its own, appearing everywhere and on everyone and everything.

What's the upshot to this story? Here it is: I became obsessed with getting a response from him. I wanted to be one of those random fans to whom he chose to reply. Why? Just because. Call it feeding the attention whore, who knows.

No, I didn't go nuts tweet-bombing him. But I did tweet to him on occasion. And the only level I got to was "favorite." No retweets, and no responses. I guess I wasn't worthy. So I kept trying.

I did the direct approach -- I posted sincere compliments. I tweeted that he had created one of the most compelling and watchable villains in TV history, and I was sort of sad to see him go down. He favorited that. Another time, after one of the episodes, I tweeted that if he and Mariska didn't win Emmys for this, I've give them mine, and I posted a picture of myself pointing to my dad's Emmy. That one got nothing.

I watched his random replies and thought, "Goddammit, he'll respond to that, but not to me?? What's the secret? I must know!"

I saw all the weird Photoshop creations people were doing with mustaches, and last weekend, my own idea hit me. Pornstache... Pornstache... Hey! Wouldn't it be hilarious if there were a Ben and Jerry's ice cream called "Pornstachio"?

I recalled that long ago, Lea had blogged about creating naughty flavors with a Ben and Jerry's Flavor Generator, so I eagerly dug through her older posts until I found it. But unfortunately, that site was no longer. Dammit! Now what?

OK, I am no whiz with photo editing. I can do the rudimentary stuff like cropping and resizing, and adjusting the exposure, but nothing impressive. Still, I was determined to create something.

I searched and found a picture of Ben and Jerry's Pistachio ice cream and downloaded it. Then, with my Photoshop wannabe program, PicMonkey, I proceeded to fool around with the pic, doing my best with my meager skills to create something at least somewhat close to what I had in mind. 

An hour later, I figured I'd done all I could do. I'm not proud of this, folks. It's crap. But it has its charm, I guess.

Pistachio ice cream with mini chocolate mustaches, yum! And there's His Creepiness's face on the carton.

I tweeted him, posting the photo and writing: "Apologies for my lousy photo-edit skills, but here's a Ben & Jerry's flavor I'd love to see."

After all that? He favorited it. But still no retweet, and no response. Several of his fangirls saw it and retweeted it, and commented to it. But nothing from him. I suppose some would say, "Well, at least he favorited you; that's something." But not enough for me.

It was then when I had my "What the @#$% do you think you're doing?" moment. I felt ridiculous, wasting this time and effort. 

Teenagers can get away with being rabid fans. So can some 20-somethings. But someone of my advanced years fan-girling on Twitter is laughable! (groan)

So, kids, I have officially given up. I will never get Pablo Schreiber to reply to me on Twitter. And I have tweeted my last tweet to him. A person can make an ass of themselves only for so long (one would hope, anyway). 

(sigh) OK, have at it. Let the teasing commence. I deserve it.

Bleah

It seems I lied. I said I was going to be grumpy this week. So far, that's not so. I'm not grumpy; I'm just sad. And bleah. I love that word, bleah. I don't know whether or not Charles Schulz invented it for Peanuts, but it's a perfect descriptor. An alternate version of blah and blech (the latter is also a favorite of mine).

We went to visit my stepdad this weekend, and it always takes me a couple of days to get over that. It's just so damn sad. Every time we see him, he seems a bit more feeble, a little more out of it, thinner. His legs are like sticks; he walks with a cane, but he really needs a walker. He has no appetite and pretty much forces himself to eat. He doesn't join in any of the activities at the facility; mostly stays in his room and watches TV, doesn't even listen to the music he's always loved anymore. He confuses his words; he introduced me to one of the nurses as his "stepsister." He talks about my mother, which, of course, dredges up my own painful memories and feelings of inadequacy.

John is wonderful; he keeps the conversation going, he engages my stepdad, he is upbeat. I have to struggle to keep up, to keep a pleasant look frozen on my face, to resist the urge to leave as soon as humanly possible. But there are few things in life that are more depressing than assisted-living facilities.

Steve always jokes about how he still wants to be spanking me when we're 80. Not gonna happen. I don't want to live that long. Not after what I saw with my parents. Not after witnessing the indignities and miseries of old age. 

Yesterday at brunch, I wept to John. My stepdad had said something about how talented I had been musically as a child, how I could have been an amazing piano player, but I "gave it all up." Yup. Another way I failed. Just like I never had a decent home (all my apartments have been "dumps"), I didn't have a proper "career," I didn't get married and have kids, I didn't see the world, I didn't entertain, I didn't have interesting hobbies... My mother's voice reverberated in my head, her endless litany of disappointments in me. I try so hard to exorcise these demons, and then all it takes is one damn visit and they swarm back in.

And this is why I rarely go visit my stepdad. I can't help it. I love him, he's always been a good man and he doesn't deserve to end his life this way, but being around him pitches me back into the abyss.

So here I am, Monday morning. I'm dressed. I have had my breakfast and coffee. The gym awaits. I finished one hairy project and have another one coming. Still, all I want to do is hide, go back into bed and stay there -- take a pill and sleep for the rest of the week until I can see John again and get out of myself.

But I don't do that anymore. That's not an option. I force my body to go through the motions until my heart follows.

Dare I hope for some fun this week? Probably not. All I can do is the best I can, one minute at a time.

This too shall pass.

Quick break for a shout-out

I got job-bombed yesterday, so I don't really have time to catch up here. However, since my brain is in desperate need for a break, I'm taking a small one to bring everyone's attention to a new blog I've discovered, and whom I think is quite worthy of your attention. This one (gasp) actually writes, people!

Her name is Jay and her blog is Relativity: Everything in Life is Relative. I discovered her when she commented on this blog and I went to take a look. She has already been Chrossed (which, of course, is our Holy Grail) and she writes about her own personal experiences with TTWD. She's smart (she's a mechanical engineer, for God's sake) and she's funny. If you're sick to death of seeing the same damn photos over and over, and would like to actually read something, I suggest you give this woman a try.

Oh, and if you want your Friday laughs, check out Hermione's Friday Fails. This week's entry nearly caused a coffee spew.

What else... not much. At least I am work-busy. I do expect to be very cranky next week, however, so beware. And tomorrow, John and I are going to visit my stepfather, which always leaves me in a blue mood. But it's one of those things that must be done.

So... have a great weekend, y'all. 

If she's crabby and you know it...

... spank her a$%.

I was in a mood and a half yesterday. The reasons why aren't really pertinent; it wasn't just one thing, but a culmination of a bunch of little things, stresses, disappointments, etc. (setbacks with John's ongoing health saga, for one), and there it was: a really blue and irritable mood.

Steve was due at 11:00. The night before, he called and said he had a work issue and it would be noon. Then that morning, he called and told me the work issue was pushing things back and it would have to be 1:00. 

Not a big deal, right? It's not like he was cancelling; it was just two hours. But that put the finishing touches on my mood. 

After he arrived, we talked, and I got teary-eyed almost right away. Ugh. Hate it when I do that. But, bless his heart, he likes it. Not the fact that I'm sad, but that I am comfortable enough to show him my real self and where I am in the moment.

Gawd, did I show him. I was wanting his presence, yet feeling edgy and impatient with him at the same time. When he reached up a finger to wipe a tear from under my eye, I flinched away and asked him not to do that; his finger felt too close to my eye. He kept stroking my hair back away from my face and behind my ear; I shrugged my hair forward to cover it again. My mean-girl voices were in full cry. Don't look at my ears. They're huge. They're ugly. My hair is over them for a reason. Leave it alone.

In an attempt to suss out what I needed, he said, "We don't have to play today if you don't want to." "NOO!" I cried. 

He asked me what I needed. That stubborn, contrary part of me seized up, not wanting to say it. I wanted him to just know, dammit. Fortunately, reason overruled that stubbornness. He's not a mind reader. So, looking away, I mumbled, "I need you to take charge. I don't want to make any decisions today."

Take the control away from me. Please. Push me until the dam breaks.

He did. Our hand-spanking session was long and it hurt. I wanted it to hurt. I struggled and squirmed and kicked and angrily groaned into the cushions. "Go ahead, kick all you want to," he said. A few lighter slaps to the backs of my legs took that want away. 

When my body stilled and my protests morphed into sobs of release, he slowed and then stopped. I wept in his arms, feeling the heat radiate from my bottom outward.

He didn't ask me what implements I wanted or whether I wanted the ottoman or the bed. He just said, "I need you over some pillows, now." 

Yes.

He kept it simple; small leather paddle, small wooden paddle. My fight was gone, and I did not sass. He said certain things that would usually call forth a smart-ass remark from me, but that urge had gone away. I was in my different place now -- softer, accepting. 

When he was done, I asked him if he would please rub some lotion on me. He went one better than that -- gently, he removed my clothes, stretched me out and gave me a shoulder-to-foot massage. The last vestiges of my tension melted away. (Faded already -- sheesh!)

I need to keep this calm for a while, make it last. Next week, he'll be gone Sunday through Wednesday, on a camping/hiking trip with his son. (sigh) At least I know in advance. I can plan to fill my day, my week with other things, and patiently (ha!!) wait until I see him in two weeks. If the Work Gods are kind to me, I will have lots of it to keep my mind occupied.

But for the moment, I feel peaceful. ♥

Sassy license (see? it's sanctioned!)

I grant full credit for this entry to Alex Reynolds.

So last week, Alex tweeted out a "License to be Sassy." She thought it would be a good idea to print out several and pass them out at parties. I heartily agreed.

Cute, huh? OK, forget about that "probably illegal" part. It probably isn't.

Since I won't be going to a party until Labor Day, I couldn't wait. So I decided to make mine up now. I think it came out well, don't you?

I encourage all who are fluent in sass to print one of these babies out and add your own picture/information. That way, we'll all be able to claim that we have a license to say whatever we want. Now, all we have to do is hope the toppy tops don't put together some bogus "License to Spank" thing.

I can haz different imagery, pleez?

(Please note: The following is not meant to be a put-down in any way, shape, or form to those who enjoy being "littles." It's just that because I am not into that, certain phrases within scene don't work for me. This is one such example.)

When I am in the throes of post-spanking subspace, I can be rather euphoric, floaty, silly, blissfully happy. Especially if my vibrator made an appearance after the scene. :-D

Last week, Steve grinned at me in all my sexy-spanky spaciness and said, "You're as giddy as a little girl who just got a lollipop."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

"EWW!" I screeched. "Please, no little-girl similes!" This is not what this naked and very much not little woman wanted to hear at that moment.

"Uh, OK," he fumbled. "You're as giddy as a Girl Scout who just got all her merit badges."

Oh, Christ. "That doesn't work either," I said. "Older, please!"

"Ummmm..." He thought for a few seconds, then: "OK, how about this -- you're as giddy as a college girl who just got a wink from the captain of the football team!"

(heavy sigh)  Marginally better -- at least now I was of age!!

FFS, your toppiness, work on that, will ya? ;-) However, I should warn you: If you go to the opposite extreme and say something like "You're as giddy as a grandma on a double dose of Geritol," I will punch your lights out.