Special weekend

No, not just because of the Shadow Lane party, although that’s plenty special. This Saturday, August 30, John and I will be together 18 years.

We have never lived together, never spent more than four days at a stretch with each other. But we might as well be an old married couple, for how well we know each other. For our routines and rituals, silly made-up words, all those couple-y things. Eighteen years, and he can still make me laugh so hard, I have to pull over if I’m driving.

I wasn’t kidding about the made-up words. Want an example?

Every weekend, when we’re getting ready to go out, it’s the same thing. All John has to do is put on his clothes, brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair. Me? Not quite that easy, since I have makeup to apply and hair that needs a bit more attention than just a comb. So, here’s what happens:

John’s voice from outside the bathroom: “Sweetie? Come on! I’m ready!”
Me: “I’m not!”
“But sweetie, I’m ready!”
“That’s nice, honey. I’m not.”
(Pause) “Sweetie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m ready!”

This continues, until…

Me: “OK, I’m ready.”
John: “Oh, wait, I’m not ready.”
Me: “Oh, for @#$%’s sake.”
John: “You’re being mean! I can’t go now. I’m kermuffed.”

(There’s an explanation to that word, but I won’t go into it now.)

In a few minutes…

Me: “Are you ready now?”
John: “I’m totally ready. I’m in a complete state of ready-tude.”
Me: “Yes, but are you in a state of ready-osity?”
“OK, that’s not a word.”
“Neither is ready-tude!”
“Of course it isn’t. What’s wrong with you? I’m concerned for your welfare.”

Somewhere about this point, I start banging my head into the wall. 🙂

I love you, my sweetheart. Happy 18th.

In other news… it seems my clients unanimously decided to hold off sending me the work they have for me until after I come back, so I’m not experiencing the last-minute crank-it-out insanity I was expecting. I’m not looking forward to the pile-up once I get home, but I’ll deal with that then. For now, it’s hurry up and wait! I’m doing laundry, getting stuff pulled together, picking up our rental car this afternoon.

Yesterday, I read on FetLife that, although Joe and Ten didn’t get a chance to print up brochures of the suite party itinerary, a schedule had been created for us on a free Smartphone app called Guidebook. Just install the app, put in the created Shadow Lane code, and poof, there it is, right?

Uh… except that Erica is a total cell phone dummy and has never used apps before. So I tried to figure out how to do so. I found an icon on my phone: “Apps.” That has to be it, right? I tried all afternoon to access it, but I’d click it, it would say “Loading…” but never load. Finally, I shlepped to the Verizon store a few blocks away.

“Were you trying to access apps from here?” the tech asked, indicating the Apps button. I said yes, and he said, “That’s the wrong place.”

OK… so what do I do? He then showed me — I had to go to Settings, and then I’d see a little icon at the top of that screen that looks like a suitcase. Click that, and it takes me to the Apps store.

Oh. Yeah, that’s crystal clear. (sigh) Well, live and learn. I found the app, installed it, and found the schedule. Yay me. I feel so cool and tech-y.

I CAN’T WAIT! Hurry tomorrow! And please get us there in one piece, no traffic accidents, no last-minute crises. So many people are there already. I want to see our friends and get/give a million hugs. 

I won’t be blogging over the weekend, but will still be checking comments and emails and so forth. Stay tuned for reports and pictures and all the low-down. Until then, have a great holiday weekend, y’all. 🙂

The scene that almost wasn’t

A little background story is in order here. I’ve had various repairmen in my bathroom for the past couple of weeks. There was a leak from the apartment upstairs, and my bathroom ceiling was cracked open in two areas. Also, the water had traveled down the inside of the wall and rotted everything, so when I went to use my bathtub stopper, it snapped right out of the tub wall. 

So first, the plumber had to cut a hole in my ceiling to find the leak. That was one visit. Next, the painter came in, drywalled the hole and repainted the ceiling. And last week, yet another guy came in and replaced some of the inner workings inside the shower wall, also replacing the access door. All I needed now was a new stopper. 

Which brings us to this morning. Steve called at 10 and said he’d be there in about 20 minutes. Fine. A minute later, my phone rang again. This time, it was my building manager, George. “Hi Erica, I’ve got the plumber coming with your new stopper and he’ll be there sometime before noon.”

@#$%&!!!! Now what? And how long would that take? Ugh!

When Steve arrived, I told him the plumber was due to arrive, and he said that was ok. We hadn’t seen each other for two weeks, so we had lots of catching up to do. And when the plumber showed up, we could leave and go have some lunch. So we talked, and we waited. And then Steve got mischievous.

“Come to the bedroom,” he insisted. I knew where this was going. “No! The plumber will be here any minute,” I protested. “So you’ll let him in then. Come on…” And once there, he flipped me over and started pulling down my leggings and panties, above all my yammering that I’d have to get up to answer the door. 

Sure enough, the doorbell rang. I was on my feet in a split second… but my leggings were all tangled up around my ankles, and I kept fumbling trying to pull them up, cursing mightily. The doorbell rang again, then there was a knock. Dammit!! In desperation, I yanked the leggings off in an attempt to untangle them, but then they were inside out. Steve was encouraging me and snickering at me at the same time. My hands shook worse as I struggled to turn them the right way, and I was so frustrated, I just yanked them on without bothering with my panties. At that moment, I heard my front door open. “Erica, you there?” George called out.

“Be right there!!” I called back, and then I dashed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. 

Why, you might ask. Well, George is a great building manager and he takes good care of everything. But he’s also older (in his 70s), kind of a busybody and a gossip. And he knows John; he’s seen him here, knows how long we’ve been together. So I didn’t see how I could possibly explain a strange man being in my bedroom. (“Oh, don’t worry, George, John knows all about him; he just comes here once a week to spank me.”) Yeah, I didn’t see that flying. 

The plumber and his assistant went into the bathroom, and I figured George would leave, like he usually does once the work gets under way. But today, apparently, he was in a chatty mood. He pulled up one of my living room chairs and sat down, yakking away with me about the building and the neighbors and how much he can’t stand the president and this and that and the other. What could I do… I sat down and listened, figuring he’d leave any minute. He didn’t. The plumbers kept on working, George kept on talking, and Steve was shut up in my bedroom.

I repeat, @#$%&.

Finally, I jumped up and said, “Well, George, I have to go, I have a lunch date.” As timing would have it, the plumbers finished right at that moment! All the hardest work had already been done and the stopper was a snap. And so the three of them left. I felt bad about making Steve cool his heels holed up in my bedroom for about 15 minutes, but I needn’t have. He was in there, watching TV with the sound off, and he thought the whole thing was hilarious. “This was all your fault!” I hissed at him. “You and your insisting we come in here and play!” He just laughed, said there was no harm done and I’d handled it fine.

But wait, it wasn’t over yet. I’d told George I was leaving… and yes, we were going to lunch, but I couldn’t let him see me leaving with Steve! I just had a feeling George would be on the grounds somewhere, so I told Steve to leave ahead of me and then wait for me near my parking garage. Sure enough, once again — I walked down to my car, and there was George, checking out something in the garage. He called out, “Have fun, dear,” and I answered, “I will, thanks!” and looked around to see Steve approaching the garage, so I waved him away and he ducked back. Jesus, so much freaking intrigue! The things a woman has to do to get spanked, for God’s sake. But hopefully that will be it for my repairs for a while.

We had a lovely lunch at a little café with outdoor patio seating; it was a perfect sunny day, not too hot, and we were in the shade, so we lingered quite a while talking after we’d eaten. But finally, we came back, and Steve showed me all the pictures from his trip to CO. I was still sitting at my computer chair, and he went to the couch, patting his lap. “Come here,” he said.

I just smiled. “No,” I answered. “Say please.”

He shook his head. “No. Come here.” 

So I leaned back in my chair and smirked at him, not moving. He got up; I thought maybe he was going to pull me out of the chair. But no… he just went to get his camera.

After that, he said, “Come here,” once again. I started to get up, but then he said oh-so-smugly, “Ha! I knew I’d get my way.” And I sat back down.

Oh, don’t worry. I went over there eventually. 🙂

After all this, it was anticlimactic, since we had already decided we were going to do a light scene, just hand, so I’d be fine for the party. Not even worth pictures. But that’s OK. I will make up for it later.

And he could not stop snickering about how we got “busted.” How did he put it… oh, yeah. “We were a couple of of 50-somethings acting like high-school kids.” (groan) Thanks, honey.

I told John the story, and what did he say? “You owe Steve an apology.” Men!!

It was a fun day. 🙂

Pre-party prep and the panty parade

(Men, you can tune out now if you want. This is going to be mostly girlie stuff.)

So, thanks to my damned aching back last Monday, I had to bow out of plans to go pre-party panty shopping with Alex and SpankCake. As I’ve no doubt mentioned a time or two or 27 before, new panties before a spanking party weekend event are essential. New dresses are good too, but the panties are a must. You can’t have too many.

Thanks to my chiropractor, ultrasound treatment and a deep-tissue massage, I was feeling much better by Wednesday and found myself with a couple of hours to spare. So, before I went to my gym class in Northridge, I went to a strip mall nearby, where my two go-to stores — Target and Kohl’s — are next door to one another. Score!! I found two cute (and cheap) dresses, a new top, two bras and three pairs of panties. One pair was particularly gorgeous, and I was thrilled to see there was a matching bra. Eagerly I riffled through the bras… but my size wasn’t there. Meh. I bought the panties anyway, figuring I’d find the bra somewhere else, maybe even online, since it was a popular brand (Maidenform).

Aren’t they pretty?

The bra had the same pattern, with purple lace and straps. So I wrote down the style name and number, and later on that night, I started searching for it online.

Shop after shop after shop, I found that style of bra, but not that pattern. Not even on Maidenform.com. What gives?? Finally, I contacted Maidenform, gave them the stock number and asked where I might find this particular bra.

They wrote back the next day. It’s been discontinued.

@#$%&!!!!!!!

Oh well. I guess I’ll wear them with a black bra. They will look great on Saturday night with my new dress, which has a print of black, blue, purple and dusty rose. 

My hair is cut and the grays have been freshly obliterated. Lots of odds and ends to do this week, but without back pain, I’m feeling a lot more positive. I’ll be seeing Steve on Tuesday for some semi-light, party prep play. And last night, John and I had a fabulous dinner out with Alex, Paul and SC, eating marvelous food and laughing and chatting until the place closed around us. So much fun, and I get to see them all again in just a few days! 😀  It’s great to have Paul back home. Seeing Alex happy makes my heart happy. 

Still anxious, mind you. That never changes. But I’m feeling more eager and excited, rather than completely overwhelmed as I did last week. Now I just have to get through the week in one piece, John and I will get there, and the fun will flow. 🙂

The convoluted paths of punishment

I’ve never been one to spend time analyzing why I’m a spanko. I just know that I am, I love it, and it’s made my life better, and I don’t really care where it came from. But I do wonder sometimes why I have such strong preferences, and such intense dislikes/aversions to certain aspects/ancillary activities in TTWD.

Recently on FetLife, several of us were on a campaign of sorts to “free” a woman who had been grounded from FL by her top. We wrote impassioned notes to the top, no dice. Someone suggested that we come up with a “free Piper” song. The top said that if someone did, he just might consider reducing her sentence. So I immediately did that, doing a parody of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

Piper Piper come and play,
Piper Piper what’d you say?
JC won’t let you come out,
Why’s he being such a lout?

And so on. Then another woman wrote another parody, and took it a step farther: she recorded it and put it on FL. I figured if she could do it, I could too, so I recorded mine. Then yet another woman recorded herself doing an interpretive “free Piper” dance.

None of this worked, by the way. She’s still off FL until Sunday. Can’t say we didn’t try.

Anyway, while all this silliness was going on, I caught myself in judgmental, pissy mode, thinking, “WTF is up with this grounding business? I wouldn’t allow that! I’m a grown woman, dammit!” I get the same hostile reaction when I hear about bedtimes, or writing lines, or mouth soaping. It’s not so much that these things sound unappealing to me — they actually make me feel angry. “How fucking childish! How can anyone allow themselves to be treated like a child??”

And then, just as I’m up my own ass with my righteous indignation, I laugh. Yeah, right, Erica. Because being over a man’s knee getting spanked is SO grown-up.

Yes, the hypocrisy didn’t escape me. So what’s up with that? Why do I accept spanking, but eschew so many of its adjuncts?

I think it’s my own personal connection with these adjuncts. My mother was big on all of them.

When I was little, my mother shoved soap in my mouth when I parroted swear words I’d heard. She actually made me write lines a couple of times. And she was big on rules, restrictions and creative punishments. 

My bedtime was rigidly enforced, to the point that if I went to bed 10 minutes late one night, I had to go to bed 10 minutes earlier the next. Same thing with TV. Two hours a day, and not one minute more. If I wanted to watch something that took up more time, I had to borrow the time from another day.

If I misbehaved, she took beloved things away. No TV. Cancelled plans. No dessert, or even no dinner. Once, she wouldn’t let me read for a week. Considering I spent nearly every waking minute with my nose in a book at that time, that was torture.

And I felt intense rage at all this. My mantra was “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to make my own decisions. No one will ever impose restrictions on me ever again.”

Of course, that was silly. Life is full of restrictions and rules. But I am mistress of my personal life. No one tells me when to get up or go to bed, how much TV I can watch, how much time I can spend on the Internet or what sites I can go to. Those are hard limits, because they seriously piss me off. As it turns out, with good reason.

For those who had these dynamics in their scene relationships, I wonder how they feel about them. They may moan and complain, but are they secretly turned on by these restrictions and punishments, just as I am by spanking? We all have our triggers. I know I love having my hair fisted, but others say that’s a hard limit. I guess this is why the “hard limit” discussion is so important. Because one bottom’s ecstasy is another’s torment.

Thoughts? How many of you use these adjuncts in your spanking play? (Don’t worry, I’m not condemning. I’m curious.)

Overwhelmed!

It really is amazing, kids, what I do to myself even when I’m looking forward to something. In case you can’t read that scrawl in the cartoon above, it reads, “able to jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound!”

A week from Friday, we leave for the Shadow Lane weekend. I’ve been looking forward to this for months, feeling sad when I watched friends go to all the other big parties and eagerly awaiting our turn. Now it’s here, and I’m a wreck. Just like I am every single @#$%ing time. Sucks to be me, sometimes. I’m my own worst enemy.

I don’t do well with having too many things to do. And for me, “too many” is, like, more than two. I’m a terrible multi-tasker. I’m trying to coordinate work, shopping, preparations, etc., and every time something new is introduced, I panic. As much as I want and need work, I’m freaking out because everyone seems to need something from me next week. Whatever happened to end-of-summer slowdown?? Family will be in town this coming weekend and they want to see me on Monday. I would love to see my cousin, as I haven’t seen her in years, I’ve never met her guy, and I’m dying to meet her two-year-old son. But I don’t have time for this now! I have shopping to do, I need a haircut, I need a pedicure, I need to book the rental car, I need to pack, I need to do this, do that, blah blah blah. I need a lobotomy, is what I need. It’s all manageable stuff, but to me it feels Herculean.

This past Sunday, I had a fender scraper. Not even a fender bender; I just misjudged my distance backing out of John’s garage and tapped a car. I can’t believe I did that. I don’t DO stuff like that. I’m a very careful driver. I was incredibly lucky, though. The man couldn’t have been nicer. He was more worried about me than he was about his car; kept patting my arm, saying it was OK, that I needed to relax, it was just a car. “Maybe you should go get her some water; she’s shaking,” he said to John. When I pulled out my insurance card, he waved it away, saying he didn’t want to bother with that, that we could just give him some cash. It was just a little scrape, but on a very nice car; an Acura TL. I started to get out my checkbook, but before I could, John got out his money clip and peeled off $250 for him, which was the amount he’d agreed to. My hero… With badly shaking hands in 100-degree sun, I wrote up a little document stating what had happened, what we’d paid him and saying that neither one of us would make any further claims. We both signed it and that was the end of it. It could have been much worse. But my heart pounded all afternoon and into the evening. I felt like I was losing control, doing something so careless. What would I do next?

My back started acting up two weeks ago. I am used to this; I’ve had low-back issues since I was in my teens. Most of the time, these little attacks self resolve. But this one didn’t. So I started panicking — What if it doesn’t get better before the party?? All I’ve been doing so far is just taking Advil and using ice, but yesterday I went on full-scale attack, going to the chiropractor, getting an adjustment, ultrasound and a deep-tissue massage with very spicy smelling cream. Today it’s a bit better, which is a relief. But what if, what if, what if…

(An aside — I’ve never used capsaicin-infused cream before. What a weird feeling; my back tingled and burned for about an hour afterward. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but a little disconcerting, especially since it was 100 degrees here yesterday. How anyone tolerates that stuff on a spanked ass, I’ll never know!)

John insists he is fine, he will be fine for the trip, he’ll hang out and relax, etc. But his health worries me constantly. He reminds me that he’s gone to Shadow Lane with a shattered collarbone, and to 50 Freaks with a blood clot in his leg. If he could get through that and still have fun, he’ll be fine for this weekend. But of course, I still worry. I see, up close and personal, how deeply exhausted he is. I hear his labored breathing sometimes. And don’t even ask how the negotiations are going with his HMO and moving forward with this damn surgery. The pace is glacial.

The atmosphere feels thick with sadness and unrest lately. Too many deaths, political unrest, racial unrest, anger and violence. I can’t watch the news. When I’m already in a state of anxiety, I can’t handle the outer stimuli. For fuck’s sake, I wept when I heard Don Pardo had died. The man was 96 — did I think he was going to live forever? But it feels like another piece of my life’s soundtrack died. I’ve been hearing his voice since I was a kid and he was the announcer for the original Jeopardy! And how can we have Saturday Night Live without him?

No Steve this week for stress release, either. Not until next Tuesday. Auuggghhh. 

My brain feels like an anthill, swarming and teeming in all different directions. And all this because I’m going away for a few days to do something I enjoy and to be with people I love. How insane is this??

Why am I sharing all this? Dunno. Maybe so I can have a laugh at myself and how crazy I’m being. Maybe because some people will relate. Anxiety isn’t logical. It just is.

I remember back in my office days, when I was overwhelmed with juggling the work of roughly three people and feeling like I was going to come apart at the seams, I had a little plaque at my desk that read: “REMAIN CALM.” Perhaps I need something like that here, only this time, because I’m at home, it could read: “Calm. The. F#$%. Down.”

Sometimes I wonder which is worse: anxiety or depression. Meh… they both suck. 

My new favorite picture

Yesterday’s post was rather heavy, as was this week. I want to end the week on a lighter note, so I’m dialing it back a bit and posting something I really liked.

Alex Reynolds and Chief John Osborne recently shot a classic OTK scenario for AAA Spanking. He posted several of the photos on his blog. I’m not one for reposting photos, usually, but in this case I’m making an exception, because I love this so so so much:

You all know how I feel about aftercare: it’s absolutely essential to me. Not so much after light party scenes, but after anything more intense, especially when emotional release is involved, it’s a must. And so I love photos that depict the special tenderness, forgiveness and utter sweetness of aftercare.

For me, this picture should be an aftercare poster! It’s perfect. Everything from the bow in Alex’s hair to the look on her face to how tightly they are hugging. If this were posted on FetLife, I’d want to love it 500 times!

Speaking of Alex, I met with her and SpankCake for dinner on Wednesday night. We talked and talked and talked until they closed the restaurant around us just before 10. If it stayed open later, we probably would have still been there at midnight. So much fun! And they will both be at Shadow Lane. Oh my god, that’s in just two weeks…

Have a great weekend, y’all.