Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the month “June, 2014”

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.


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.” 


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.

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