OK, the @#$%ing TP commercials have gone too far

Some of my long-time readers might remember a rant I posted in 2009, about how much I freaking hate the Charmin toilet paper commercials with those damn stupid bears. Well, consider this Part 2. Or Number 2, if you like.

First, the bears are still around, and their ads have gotten even more disgusting. Now we have Mama Bear, going through the laundry and horrified because she discovered a little extra something on Junior Bear’s tighty-whities. EWWW! Gross! Of course, the answer to this problem is not teaching the little @#$% to have better hygiene, but to use Charmin toilet paper. And they even have a new slogan: “We all go — why not enjoy the go?” Oh, please. It’s a bowel movement, not a vacation on the Riviera.

But wait. It wasn’t bad enough to have animated bears advertising the joys of absorbent toilet tissue. Now we have a perky blond Brit named Cherry Healey, running around annoying people everywhere, talking about Cottonelle wipes. Her slogan? “Let’s talk about your bum.”

She appears in various places, such as an outdoor marathon, chatting up strangers about the state of their bums, and bluntly suggesting that they could be cleaner. It’s… disconcerting, to say the least.

But last night was the kicker. John and I were watching TV and one of those Cottonelle ads came on. This time, our Cherry was in a bowling alley, of all places, chatting with a bunch of good ol’ boys in bowling shirts about how squeaky clean their bums could be with Cottonelle wet wipes. And then — wait for it — she stood at an empty lane and uttered the line:

“I insist on a clean alley every time!”

We turned to each other, wide-eyed. No. She did NOT just say that on national television.

For Christ’s sake. I understand that some people do seem to have a hygiene problem. I’ve heard a lot (on Fetlife, and other kink venues), about some pretty gross stuff that tops encounter when they unclothe their bottoms. Really?? We don’t live in a third world country, folks. We have more than enough access to water and soap. There is no excuse for that. Have some compassion for those with bottom fetishes and present a clean one.

But do I need to hear about this while I’m trying to enjoy The Big Bang Theory? Must it invade my living room? I happen to observe proper hygiene, thank you very much. I don’t need blue bears and chipper Brits lecturing me about it. 

I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes I wish ads would return to the good old days when they used euphemisms like “bathroom tissue” and no one talked about the state of your back alley.

Oh, but wait. It gets worse.

Flipping through a magazine the other day, I encountered this woman’s idiotic face, maniacally grinning at God’s knows what.

What is the Butterfly, you might wonder. I Googled it, and nearly croaked.

It’s a new, um, personal liner. But, unlike other sanitary liners, this one goes between your butt cheeks. It’s the discreet new product for ABL.

OK, WTF is ABL?

Accidental Bowel Leakage.

I read further. Apparently, this is a thing. One out of every five women over 40 suffers from it, for various reasons. And I guaran-damn-tee that not one of them is happily beaming like Renee, above, no matter what kind of damn pad they’ve discovered.

You know what, kids? Do me a favor. I’ve talked many times about how getting old blows, but this is the last straw. If I ever develop anything like this, don’t bring me a box of Butterfly pads. Bring me a bottle of sleeping pills. And after I’ve gone to sleep, just to make sure, take a gun and shoot me in the head.

I don’t want to read about this stuff. I don’t want to see it on TV. I don’t care how cute you make it look. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Me, cranky? Maybe a little. My bum needs a different type of attention.

One of my favorite actresses (and her one-smacker)

I’ve been watching a lot of AntennaTV and MeTV lately; two cable stations that rerun classic television shows. Because I have older tube TVs, I can’t stream Netflix, and I don’t get premium cable channels, so when the networks are running repeats, I fall back on the oldies, some of which I never get tired of watching.

To most, the name “Elizabeth Montgomery” conjures up the 60s sitcom Bewitched, for which she was best known. But Ms. Montgomery was far more than Samantha Stephens, even though that character was indelible. She was also a brilliant dramatic actress.

Oh, and I thought she was absolutely stunning:

Her career began in the mid 1950s, and in the late 50s and early 60s, she appeared on many dramas, including Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Wagon Train, and One Step Beyond. The other night, I caught her on an episode of The Untouchables, for which she’d been nominated for an Emmy. She played Southern spitfire Rusty Heller, a prostitute who got mixed up with some very bad men. I loved how sassy she was (“Now don’t you go trying to appeal to my sense of decency, sugar, ’cause I ain’t got one”), and it was quite surreal watching her make out with co-star David White, who later played Larry Tate (Samantha’s husband’s boss) on Bewitched.

He ended up shooting and killing her, the big meanie. Of course, that was after she ratted him out to the mob and watched one of the bigwigs cut out his tongue. (No, they didn’t show it. In 1960s TV, things were strongly implied, but left to your imagination.) And as she died in Eliot Ness’s arms, the last thing she asked was “Is my lipstick still on?”

It was an interesting twist for her, moving into a sitcom, but Bewitched ran from 1964-72 and became an iconic show. There were two Darrins, two Louise Tates, two Frank Stephenses, two Gladys Kravitzes, but only one Samantha, brilliantly played and much beloved.

So, since this was pre-PC TV and Samantha often got into mischief (as did her identical cousin, Serena, also played by Ms. Montgomery), was there any spanking? Sadly, no, not really. However, there were two shows with a single smack.

In the more popular of the two, from 1967, Serena pretends to be Samantha and torments Darrin all afternoon. He finally catches on and plots revenge, but doesn’t realize that the real Samantha has come home. When she bends forward to pick up something she dropped, he gives her one good smack on her behind. I don’t like this scene, because right after that, he hits her in the face with the pie she brought home, and it all devolves into a big pie fight. And since messy humor grosses me out, that wrecks the scene for me.

But a lesser-known scene is the one I find far more charming and sexy. It’s from 1964, and (I think? not sure) it’s the first appearance of the Serena character. She tries to fool Darrin into giving her a kiss, and his reaction is deliciously appropriate. I don’t seem to be able to embed this, so you can watch the clip here (sorry about the German commercials!)

After Bewitched ended, Elizabeth went back to her roots, starring in dramas such as A Case of Rape and Lizzie Borden. She was nominated for Emmys and Golden Globes throughout her career, but never won. In 1995, she passed away from cancer at age 62.

In case you may be wondering — no, I never met her, and as far as I know, my father never worked with her. Although I’m sure their paths crossed at some point, since she was married to TV writer/producer William Asher for 10 years.

Many of her dramatic appearances are available on YouTube. I love finding TV treasures on YouTube — full uncut versions, no commercials! For example, her appearance on The Untouchables is here.

No stress release for me this week. 😦 Hoping to get some work I can bury myself in.

"7-Eleven Mouth"

What does that mean, you’re wondering.

I ran across a couple of new photos — one from Triple A, and one from Sarah Gregory — from the shoots I did over the 50 Freaks weekend. In both, I’m being spanked by John Osborne. Here I am as his wife who faked being sick to avoid seeing his business colleague:

And here I am after I gambled all our money away:

What do these two photos have in common, besides the obvious?

Yup. My mouth is open.

As I look back on my library of videos, it cracks me up how many of my pictures show me with this open-mouthed, righteous indignation face. It seems to be one of my two signature expressions (the other being a smirk).

Here’s the big mouth again in Northern Spankings’ “Nutless”…

And my yap is once again in the open position here, in a Spanking Court photo:

Still open here, for Sarah Gregory spanking:

For Shadow Lane:

And for Lily Starr:

Even when I’m not being spanked, my mouth is open! Like here…

Or here…

Hence, the name 7-Eleven Mouth: Open 24 Hours!!

Oh well. Every spankee needs a go-to expression. And I am way too fucking old to pull off pouting. Come on, don’t argue. Pouting is for cute little young faces. A girl’s gotta work with what she’s got. 😀

Hope everyone had a nice weekend!

OT: Music nostalgia

Last night as I worked out while listening to my iPod (which has about 750 songs on it, mostly oldies), I heard one of the songs I first bought on a 45, back in the dark ages of 1969.

What’s a 45? cries the chorus of younger readers. (sigh)

Who knows what this is?

It’s called a 45 adapter. Before MP3s, before CDs, there was vinyl. Long-playing (LP) records were played at 33 1/3 RPM. But if you wanted to buy just one song, you bought a smaller, cheaper record that played at 45 RPM.

The record players had a spindle on which the LPs spun. But 45s had a larger hole in the middle, so you had to insert the plastic adapter.

When I was a kid, my mom and dad (and later, my stepdad) had a ginormous hi-fi stereo. I had a few records that had been given to me (mostly Beatles), but playing records on my mom’s system wasn’t usually an option. She hated rock and roll and would put the kibosh on my record-playing whenever she was around. Which really wasn’t fair — after all, her @#$%ing opera gave me a headache with all the howling, but I couldn’t tell her to stop playing it. But I digress.

So imagine my delight when I was 12, my mother gave me a tiny record player I could keep in my bedroom. Off I went with my allowance to the nearest record store, where I bought my first 45s, three of them. What did I get?

1. A huge “bubble-gum” hit, “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies. (Yes, the same Archie as in the comics. The group didn’t really exist; it was a studio band.)

2. “Little Woman,” by a major heart-throb at the time, Bobby Sherman. He came slightly before David Cassidy and Donny Osmond.

3. And finally, an obscure little one-hit wonder, an instrumental called “Keem-O-Sabe” by The Electric Indian. It was one of those bits of music that comes along and then disappears into the rock ether, never to be heard again… until many years later when it turns up on some nostalgic compilation CD.

It was actually pretty cool, I think. Anyone remember this?

It turned out I had an affinity for instrumentals. I was crazy about surf guitar (Dick Dale, anyone? Or how about “Pipeline”?), and everything from David Rose’s “The Stripper” to Hugo Montenegro’s “Theme from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly.” 

A lot of instrumentals became classics, but many more were one-hit wonders that disappeared. Here’s another one I had on 45, which I think still sounds good, but my ear may be skewed by age. It was called “Cool Aid.”

In the corner of my bedroom, I still have my old wire record rack, a lot of LPs, and a carton filled with 45s. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them, even though I haven’t played them in forever. Everything I had on records, I replaced with either CDs, or downloads from iTunes. 

Do you guys remember the first piece of music you ever purchased, regardless of the format? Please share!

On Monday I was wearing green…

… and yesterday I was wearing red.

Damn pictures never do the color justice, it seems. But this was just the beginning, anyway.

I needed yesterday so badly. In fact, when Steve called early in the morning, I freaked out, wondering if he had to cancel for some reason. Turns out he had a work thing and had to push us back a couple of hours, but he was coming. I felt silly, but it was then I realized just how much I needed release.

The ongoing issues with John wear on me. Nothing dire is happening at the moment, it’s all under a control of sorts, but it’s still hard. If I allow myself to think too much, all the possible worst-case scenarios jump into my head and I waste precious time worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet. Ergo, I’m tense.

Steve was there to take it all away for a little while. To knock down that wall of tension and let the floodgates open. The pain broke through, allowing all the poison to come out.

When we moved to the implement phase, he asked me if I had any requests. But I didn’t want to make any decisions; didn’t want to think about anything. So he took over, choosing several. It turns out he didn’t have to use any of them for very long, because I broke down almost immediately. One minute I was bantering with him, and the next I was crying.

He talked me through it, encouraging me to let it all out, release that stress, bring it all to him. I wept on and on, losing awareness of what he was doing and simply feeling the waves of release. Kind of an emotional orgasm.

Not to worry, though. I was OK. Better than I’d been in a few weeks.

See? Happy.

Afterward, I felt as if a heavy brick had been taken off my chest. I love this kind of escape — it doesn’t leave me hungover, or with weight gain, or with drug withdrawal. Just a purity of soul, feeling clean from the inside out.

I wish that feeling would last longer. But I guess that’s what the regular visits are for. Such a wonderful connection, with such a dear top.

Thank you. ♥

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work. I’m in the middle of proofing a script for a medical course on pressure ulcers, complete with pictures. Please wish me a strong stomach.

The latest with John

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Yes, I am wearing green, so no pinching.

Well, we got an answer on John’s right leg swelling. That started about a month ago, and he dealt with it at the 50 Freaks party by mostly remaining seated in the room parties, because standing around made it worse. He also brought ice-packs, and we traded off with them (sometimes on his leg, sometimes on my butt). He went to the doctor about it, but was told it was simply a circulation complication due to his heart problems. They gave him a diuretic and told him to keep it elevated as often as possible. Not very convenient.

It didn’t get better, and he thought it was a little weird that it was just one leg, not both. So on Friday, he went to the doctor again. First, the doc (a different one this time) tried to pass it off as the circulation thing, but when John kept insisting he thought it was something else, they did a sonogram.

John has a blood clot in his right leg, just above the knee.

UGH.

They put him on Coumadin (a blood thinner). This week he has to go in three times, and after that, once a week, to monitor his blood and make sure the drug levels are correct. He can no longer take Advil or aspirin for his arthritis pain, just Tylenol. The blood clot will self-resolve, but it takes time. It’s a fairly common thing, but it can be dangerous, even lethal, if it detaches and travels to the heart.

So now, along with a malfunctioning heart valve and as-yet untreated sleep apnea (he’s still in the process of being tested for the oral device; he goes to yet another sleep study in two weeks), he has a blood clot. The trifecta. 

This man used to be the picture of health and strength. The same man who used to cycle for miles now puffs and pants when he goes up one flight of stairs. It makes me sad. And there is little that’s more frustrating than the snail’s pace and balking of the medical system.

Bottom line: Don’t get sick, people. Never get sick.

John is in good spirits, considering. He’s happy to have answers, to know that there are cures and relief ahead at some point. This past weekend, he was tired, but chipper, making jokes and being his usual silly self. We laughed a lot and had fun, visiting a good friend in West Hollywood, taking her to dinner for a belated birthday gift and then sitting out in her yard, in front of a fire pit, talking and watching her cat’s antics.

I am doing my best to stay positive, to not let my mind wander into worst-case scenarios. For the moment, things are under control with John. Far from ideal, but we’re hoping for the best. 

Meanwhile, I am dying to see Steve. Tomorrow morning cannot come too soon. It’s been two weeks, and I’m definitely in need.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.