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 category “Mr. Woodland”

Life got you down??

Got the Delta blues? Worried about the planet frying to a crisp? Fed up with politics? Up to here with ignorance, selfishness, flakiness, irresponsibility? Tired of the endless stream of negativity in the news? Pissed off about the new Jeopardy! host? Are you unpopular? Do you poop out at parties? Do you suffer from the heartbreak of psoriasis??

Are you just fucking sick to death of everything??

Well, get your ass beat and forget about it for a little while. I did.

Yes, I had a visit from Mr. Woodland again last night. And was damn grateful for it, especially after worrying about how it might fall through. He was running late with work, and then mid-afternoon, my AC decided to spring a leak and start dripping all over my carpet. Auggh! I was afraid I’d have to turn it off, and it was nearly 100 degrees outside — no way could we play with no AC. However, my manager dropped over, took a look, said there was a clog that was causing backup and told me the AC people would come the next day — and meanwhile, I could keep running it (he put a bucket under the leak). Whew!!

Mr. W arrived about 6:30-ish — I was ready with chilled water and cookies and we sat and talked for a little while, catching up. I shared about what’s been going on with me, the frustration and anger and powerlessness of it all, and he announced that he was going to spank all that stress right out of me. Well, okay then, have at it, please!

As you might remember from our last scene, we had to cut it short because I was marking so heavily. I’m happy to report that this time, that wasn’t an issue. Early on, the conversation went something like this:

Him: “Hmm… looks like you’ll have a mark right here.”
Me: “I can live with that.”
Him: “Looks like you’re gonna have to.”
Me: “Oooh… yes, SIR.”
Him: “Good girl!”
Me: “Oh, fuck off. Don’t you know sarcasm when you hear it?”

And we were off.

The whole scene is one big blur of fun for me. I remember a lot of laughter — both mine and his. (I love making tops laugh!) We did a good long hand warm-up on my couch, with plenty of banter, and then he had me move to the ottoman. Aaaand then s**t got real, as the kids say. He broke out the heavy artillery from his toy bag — he knows my preference is leather and he had quite the assortment of goodies, including a brand-new strap. He gleefully announced that he’d been thinking about me when he bought it… oh, joy. :-Þ

Before I knew it, the best part happened — the transition. When I start to go into my zone, stop talking, stop sassing, and just sink into the feelings. It’s around that time that animal sounds start coming out of me. I could kinda sorta hear his voice floating above me, saying things like, “Yeah.” “That’s it.” “There it is.” “Wow.” “Ah, it’s just like music.”

Toward the end, he leaned over me, smoothed my hair with his hand and murmured, “How’re you doing, killer?” Harrumph! I beg your pardon? Who are you calling “killer”? Then he teasingly asked me, “Still like leather?” Somehow, I managed to pant, “Yes… I’m just not sure I still like you.”

He had me come back to the couch over his lap to finish me off. By then I was so far gone that everything felt like a caress. After that, I tucked into the circle of his arm and we talked a while longer, winding down. He took off a bit after 9:00, both of us agreeing that this had been a wonderful time. The energy was amazing.

And of course, once again I forgot all about pictures. (He did say next time he’ll be sure to take some.) So I went old school again and set up my camera with the timer. I was already faded a bit by now, but you can still see what a good job he did.

Today, I’m sleepy, spacey, and wishing for the quazillionth time that I could bottle post-spanking euphoria.

Thank you once again, Mr. W. And now, reality intervenes too soon — just got some work emailed to me, so back I go. Hope everyone is staying safe and well. ♥

All Over the Map

It’s been quite a week. I have been at the heights of joy, in the pits of sadness, and boiling over with frustration and anger. Because everything has felt so random and crazy, I think I’ll just list things in no particular order. That way, people can read, pick and choose what they relate to, and ignore the rest.

I watched a special on ABC last night: “Eyewitness to the Death of John Lennon.” It was first aired in December 2020, marking the 40-year anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. Jeezus, forty years. And just like that, all the feels and the tears came rushing back. Guns and crazy people then; guns and crazy people now. What’s changed? What’s gotten better? Broke my heart all over again.

Here in Southern CA, Orange County specifically, there is an Italian restaurant who — yes, you are reading correctly — will not allow people to wear masks inside and who demands proof of NON-vaccination before you’re allowed to dine there. (How the hell do you show proof of that, anyway?) The owner is self-righteous and smug and militant about his stance; I watched part of an interview with him and he was so belligerent that the newscaster cut it short and said, on the air, “You sound like an idiot.” Last Tuesday night, I saw a tweet about an article that stated the owner was getting a huge kick out of the anger over this and he’d said he was “enjoying watching people’s head explode.”

So, Miss Mouth here tweeted: “What an asshole. I hope HIS head explodes when his restaurant is shut down due to massive Covid infection.”

Y’all know I didn’t mean that literally, right? You know it’s a figure of speech? Of course you do. Well, apparently Twitter didn’t. They locked down my account for a week. Said I violated their policy about “abuse and harassment.” Seriously?? Unbelievable. I saw many tweets that were a great deal worse than what I’d said; Twitter is so damn arbitrary. Oh well. I do have an alternate account for these instances, so I’ve kept up. Oh, and just for grins, I went and checked out the restaurant’s Yelp page. The place was bombarded with so many one-star angry reviews that Yelp temporarily disabled all the reviews and comments. Good. Fuck that guy. It’s too bad, though. It would have been fun to post a review along the lines of “Be sure to try the special: Roast Leg of Lambda with a side of Covidini. Better yet, stay the hell away from this Petri dish.”

On the good news front: Guess who is coming back to CA to visit me? C from Oregon! I can’t believe he is making that long trip again, and just for one day this time, but I’m thrilled that he wants to. I am seeing him two weeks from Monday and I can’t wait. Also, I heard from Mr. Woodland and he wants to play again soon too. Ah, this makes me happy.

And it helps make up for the fact that the man I played with a week ago Tuesday has seemingly dropped off the planet. Never heard another word from him — no email, no text, nothing. No feedback on our play. No check-in. Radio silence. I thought he enjoyed himself — I guess I was mistaken. Fortunately, I had no emotional investment this time.

Covid is on the rise again, escalating rapidly, with the Delta variant taking over. Breakthrough cases in people who are fully vaxxed are increasing. First they said the cases were 99% unvaxxed people; the latest I read is that the new cases are 86% unvaxxed. The numbers are going in the wrong direction. And guess where the latest really bad red zone is? Yup. Las Vegas.

Where we’re supposed to be headed in a month.

Our tickets are purchased, our hotel room is booked. I am craving this party with all my heart and soul. Not just because of the play — that’s actually secondary. I want to see our friends. I want hugs, lots and lots and lots of hugs. Jay, my sweet, wonderful Sister In Spirit is coming — this is her first SL. And it would be our first time meeting in person. We have been online friends for seven years, shared a million emails and texts, exchanged many presents… but I’ve never gotten to look her in the face, throw my arms around her.

But I have to face reality. It might not be safe to go. Yes, everyone at the party will be vaxxed. But we’ll be all over the hotel. Hallways, restaurants, elevators. Constant exposure. Tons of people — it’s a holiday weekend. And even vaxxed people can carry and transmit the Delta variant. Yes, the vaccine helps. Yes, even if we got Covid, it would most likely be a mild case. I’m not concerned about myself.

But John is another story. He is high-risk. He is compromised.

I’m seeing the writing on the wall. He’s already saying things like “Well, we’ll have to spend more time in our room, take more breaks,” “We can bring more snacks and eat in our room more,” “We’ll have to keep our masks on even in the party rooms,” “Maybe we can just stay for a couple of days instead of all four,” and so on. It sounds like if we go, we’re going to be uptight and preoccupied about the specter of Covid every damn minute. And what fun is that? People are coming from all over, bringing who knows what. And, as mentioned, Vegas is a hot spot now.

I suppose I could go by myself, take John out of possible harm’s way. But the thought of that is nearly as unbearable as not going at all. I’ve never gone to a party without John, not once in 25 years. I can’t imagine being there without him. Yeah, I’d have lots of people to hang with. But I’d feel like I was missing a limb.

So. There isn’t a blessed thing I can do at this point. All I can do is watch and wait, and hope. Maybe things will improve in Vegas over the next month.

Or maybe things will get so bad that we’ll all get locked down again. Who knows. It’s unthinkable. But then again, having this pandemic go on and on like it has is unthinkable as well.

Here is where I could go on a long, expletive-filled rant about what I think of anti-vaxxers and Covid deniers. But I won’t. Y’all know me. You can well imagine what I’m thinking and feeling right now about these people with their willful ignorance and utter selfishness.

Perhaps this says it all.

So yeah. I’m all over the place. Oh, and did I mention that John’s and my 25th anniversary is at the end of August? SL was going to be our celebration getaway. Hopefully it still will be. Only time will tell.

How are you doing? Come talk to me. Stay safe, everyone. ♥

Mr. Woodland Returns

And he was well worth waiting for. beaming

It had been, what, two years? Longer? I lost track. But it was so lovely to see him again. He had come straight from a work meeting, so he was in a coat and tie and looked spiffy as ever. We had a lot of catching up to do, so I broke out the cookies and Reese’s and we sat and chatted for an hour or more. Then at an appropriate ending point, he said, “Okay, let’s get you spanked!” Yes, let’s, shall we?

It had been a busy day, work and working out and getting ready. And of course, since I almost never wear makeup these days, and was feeling especially joyous, I wanted a picture. Once again, I’m reminded of just how much spanking takes me to my happiest place. Not just the act of it, but everything about it — the rituals, the anticipation, the camaraderie, the endorphin surges, the stress release, and so on. When I have dark times and depression, I need to remember that sometimes I feel like this.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.

We began on the couch with me OTK. He’d brought a toy bag this time — this was new! On previous visits, he’d just used his hand and his belt (and he’s wonderfully proficient with both). He said he’d bought some new things and wanted to try them out/break them in. (Thanks a lot…)

Even before we got to the implements, Mr. W commented that I was marking already, to which I scoffed. Please! He asked how I felt about being marked, was I okay with it, etc. I said I was — he asked how much marking was acceptable. I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, but I trust him, so… “I’m all yours.” “Okay, remember you said that!” he teased.

He remembered that I’m not fond of wood and prefer leather, so he brought out this very nifty little strap that I liked immediately. There were a few more things, I don’t remember the order, some I enjoyed more than others. “I need to put you over that ottoman,” he mused. “You can do that,” I answered. “Oh? Can I?” Oh, dear. “What — should I have said ‘you may do that’?” He laughed. “Yup, there she is!”

It was fun — I was giggling my head off. He was bantering with me, complimenting me (“I remember this ass! Ah, I could slap this all day long!”). We slipped right back into our comfortable groove. Once again, he mentioned that I was marking, and once again, I pooh-poohed it.

We moved to my ottoman, so he could “get a better swing.” gulp Once I was situated, he used the leather strap again and a few other things, and I was at that point where I was teetering between pain and the beautiful abyss of the sub zone. Then, reluctantly, he stopped.

“You are really marking,” he said. Nooo! Surely he’s exaggerating! I can’t be marking! I don’t mark! Not this soon, anyway! But he took my phone and snapped a picture, and showed it to me. Oh… my. (please forgive the extreme close-up)

But no way did I want to stop, so I told him it was okay and we continued for a little longer. And then… he said, “You know, I think you’re done.” While I didn’t want the scene to end, I fully appreciated how conscientious and caring he was. He didn’t want to cause harm. Every top needs to take a page from this man’s playbook. I asked if he would finish me off with his hand, and he happily did so.

He’d worked up a sweat, and I wanted to do something nice for him, so I sat in my recliner, had him sit on a pillow at my feet and I gave him a head and neck massage. I’ve been told I’m good at those, and I know he enjoys them. Then we relaxed on the couch for a while to talk and wind down. He asked if I was okay, did I need him to stay longer, and I said no, no, I’m fine, I feel great. And I did.

After he left, I wanted to get some more pictures while I still had color. My phone wouldn’t cut it, so I set up my trusty old digital camera with the timer.

It had faded a little, but you can still see the whitish spots in the center. (And for those of you who notice other things, that Beatles tumbler was a gift from my dear friend Jay.)

Of course, we can’t have Erica pictures without the Erica smirk.

Once done with that, I settled down to relax for the evening. I was deliciously sore and blissful.

Okay, so what’s with this marking nonsense? Pshaw… it would all be gone today, right?

Wrong. This is twenty-four hours later.

Well, kids… I hate to say it, but I think we need a moment of silence. The Bionic Bottom is no more. My once impervious flesh that faded immediately and self-healed is merely a memory. sniff Damn. Shocking, I know. I suppose if I went back to regular and constant play, I might toughen back up. But damned if I don’t have newbie butt again. Oh well… if this is my sole casualty from the pandemic, I should just shut up and deal.

Anyway — I received expression permission from Mr. W to post this; if any of you are on FetLife and would like to check him out, you can find him here. My friend, you are a gem and a gentleman. Thank you. Don’t be a stranger. ♥

What would you have done?

Those of you who have been with me for a while are aware that I’m a bit OCD, and it especially manifests itself in my need for routines, schedules and sameness. I don’t deal with the unexpected very well — which, as you can guess, has me stressed a great deal of the time, because life is full of the unexpected. Spontaneity? Sure, I’m okay with spontaneity, as long as I have advance notice of it.

Backtrack to a couple of weeks ago. I had a very nice first-time public visit and chat with a potential play partner. He works very long hours, being an office manager, but he said he could meet with me around lunchtime. I told him to choose something near his work; he asked if I was okay with sitting outdoors, as long as we were in shade. And then he asked, “Is it all right if I bring a friend?” My first thought was “HUH??” Then I saw the attached picture: a big fluffy white dog. What do I love, kids? People’s dogs. What didn’t I get to pet and fuss over for 15 months? People’s dogs. I was thrilled.

So it was a fun afternoon (and the dog was adorable). We agreed we would try to get together sometime before he left in mid-July for a two-week family vacation.

Last week, he said he might be able to come over on Tuesday (this past Tuesday, the 6th), but wasn’t sure. Could he let me know as late as Monday? I said okay. However, Monday came and went… and I heard nothing. (sigh) I figured he got busy with pre-vacation stuff and it wasn’t a go.

Tuesday morning, I was in a foul mood. I had gone from famine to feast with work, and while I always want work, my first reaction to getting a lot of it is OVERWHELMED. Plus my car had been making a very alarming loud noise and I had to bring it in to my mechanic. It was going to be a busy day. I hunkered down in full “I’m working I’m busy Leave me alone” mode… and then at 10 that morning, I got a text:

“I know this is last minute, but would you like to get together later this afternoon?”

Arrrggghhh. I wanted to slam my head into the desk. Yes, I would have liked to get together. Of course I wanted to play; it’s been two months already since I saw my Oregon friend.

But now, with my day planned and my head firmly geared toward getting things done?

Yeah, I know. A whole lot of people would have said, “Screw it, let’s move this, adjust that, blah blah blah, and just say YES.” But we’re not talking about the average normal person. We’re talking about neurotic me.

When would I do my work? When would I take my car in and Uber home? When would I do my workout? When would I shower and shave and put makeup on and tidy up the place? How long would he stay? We hadn’t discussed limits and boundaries — how long would that take? On and on and on it went until I was feeling like I’d just drunk 15 cups of coffee. Meanwhile, he was sitting at the other end, waiting for an answer to his text.

Politely and regretfully, I told him no, that I’d figured he couldn’t make it when I hadn’t heard from him and now I was slammed with work and other stuff. He understood. Said we’d have to plan something when he came back. He mentioned something about having bought a leather paddle, so he’s invested already.

But of course, I was left feeling really annoyed with myself. (“Why can’t you be more flexible?” “Why can’t you be more spontaneous?” “You could have said yes and made it work; why didn’t you?” “You just let life’s opportunities pass you by! What’s wrong with you?” In case you’re wondering, that critical voice sounds a lot like my mother.

However — I did make good use of the day. I got a ton of work done. I got my car into the shop. I did a killer workout and blew off all the aggravation. And then things turned around.

In my restless mood, I had gone on FetLife and written a status grumbling about how I’d said no to last-minute play and that adulting sucks, just to bitch a little and blow off steam. Got some fun commiserating comments. And then… I got a message from Mr. Woodland — remember him? We played several times in the past but hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years due to the pandemic and some other circumstances. He said he was sorry my plans fell through… and if I was interested in playing with him again sometime, please let him know.

Um. Well. Was I interested?
You bet your ass I was interested.

Long story short? I couldn’t do the spontaneous play thing, but now I have a play date for next Tuesday. grinning

Occasionally, life works. So, readers, would you have said yes to the last-minute play, or done the boring and uptight responsible adult thing? (And I say it that way because that’s what I did, so I’m allowed!)

Have a great weekend, y’all. Be safe. ♥

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 7/24

kiddingcat

You know, I usually wait until I’ve collected a few of these monstrosities before I write a new CHoS. But I just got a message that has me so flabbergasted, so squicked, I think I have to give it its own column.

Okay, so I’ve been around spanking and BDSM for a little over twenty-four years now. I think I’ve seen or heard it all… until I realize I haven’t.

Hi Erica, you have a very lovely body. I love spanking. But I also enjoy other forms of inflicting pain including paintball, staple gun, etc. Would love you to consider expanding beyond just spanking.

(blinking rapidly)

Wait… what? Did I read that correctly?

(looking again)

You want to do what to me?

You want to shoot paintballs and staples at me?

Are you out of your fucking MIND???

You want to shoot sharp little objects into my body at a high velocity. Objects that will not only break my skin, but embed themselves in it and most likely have to be surgically removed? And I’m supposed to “broaden my horizons” to somehow find that acceptable? Really?

On what planet?

This is a suggestion for the hardest of hard-core masochists, not a spanko. How on earth did he make that leap?

As for paintball, long before John, I dated a gamer. He and his buddies played paintball about once a month, and he had the full protective gear. I’d see him after these games, see all of him. The bruises were astounding. Huge, dark purple things, sometimes as big as grapefruits. And this was with protective gear on. I don’t even want to ponder upon what would happen to uncovered flesh.

I know, I know, I really shouldn’t be this shocked. I mean, there is no limit to the kinky fuckery out there. But I really can’t wrap my head around someone thinking that I might say, “Hey, I love spanking, so yeah, it follows that I’d love to be shot with staples, have at it!”

And what the holy hell is the “etc.”? Paint a bulls-eye on my ass and shoot arrows at it? Tie me down and then aim a really annoyed porcupine at me?

(deep breaths)

I didn’t answer this gentleman. But I’d like to suggest that he give himself a sriracha sauce enema and then go sit on a toilet seat made of Legos.

Enough of that. In other news, my mood has not been great. (Can you tell??) Too much bad news and not enough good. Too many people scared and upset and hurting. Every day it seems I experience some sort of mood swing, going from tears to anger to free-floating panic. Then I calm down and regain perspective. Until the next day, when I do it again. Such is life in the U.S.A. right now.

I am grateful I see John once a week. He is the only human contact I have. He is the only person I’ve hugged in about five months. I haven’t even petted a dog in all this time. I miss that too.

And of course, I miss playing.

In the midst of this, I heard from Mr. Woodland today; he texted me. You might remember him as a local friend I played with at parties and had over to my place a couple of times. He asked if I was playing these days — said he’s trying to stay safe, but he’s going a little stir crazy. Wanted to know my take on what would be safe, play-wise, and if I’d like to play with him again if I feel safe in doing so.

Would I ever! But… yeah. Can’t ignore the gigantic viral elephant in the room.

I said we should keep in touch, and discuss precautions. I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no. It would depend a lot on what he’s been doing, where he’s been, etc. I got the impression he’s been isolating at much as I have — hence the cabin fever.

I will talk about this with John tomorrow. It would be sooooo wonderful to play, and with someone I trust and who knows how. Oh my God, he’s so good with a belt…

How far do we go in trying to stay alive? Do we completely stop living? This goddamn thing is going to be with us for a long time, it seems. I have no idea how to come to terms with it and how to navigate what was once no-brainer situations. (sigh) I know that parties are completely out right now, no questions. But how risky is one-on-one play if you know one another?

Not decisions for now. It’s another weekend. Take care and stay safe, friends. ♥

Did ya miss me?

I haven’t blogged for a little over a month, so I have a lot of catching up to do. Honestly? What with the insanity around the midterms, mass shootings, displays of antisemitism, and lately, the horrendous fires in my state (still burning), I haven’t really felt the kink mojo. It’s hard to be lighthearted and funny and flippant when it feels like everything around you is devolving into a massive sinkhole of shit. This has been me:

stressedwoman

(OK, my boobs aren’t that big. But whatever.)

However, life goes on and I need to remind myself of that. So here I am.

And I got to play again last week, thank you very much! Much needed stress release! Mr. Woodland paid me another visit, last Thursday (you know, after the Thousand Oaks shooting, but before the Woolsey fire exploded). This time he showed up with his toy bag. Uh-oh.

But never fear, the good Mr. W. started me off with a proper warm-up. At some point, this exchange happened:

Him: Do you prefer your underwear up or down?
Me: That’s up to you.

Although it was more like “That’s up to y—,” because I didn’t even have the word “you” out of my mouth when my panties were unceremoniously yanked to my thighs.

“Well, that was an easy decision,” he said. Humph.

Warm-up passed in the blink of an eye, it seemed. “Time for some implements,” he announced. “Get up, please.”

Well, at least he said please.

We moved to my ottoman, and he said, “Set this up the way you want it.” I protested, “Why me? You set it up last time, so you’d have room to swing.” “Fine,” he said, and nudged it a few inches with his foot — which then sent the cushions askew. “Well, now it’s crooked!” I huffed, leaning down to straighten it.

“I have a belt in my hand,” he said. “Is this really a good time to be a smart-ass?” (What better time is there?)

And so the strapping ensued. At a good breaking point, he went to get his bag. “Let’s see what I’ve got for you in this bag of treats,” he grinned.

I sweetly requested a Snickers bar. He didn’t have any.

I then got to meet several of the items in his bag, including a tawse, some sort of leather thing, and a very thin, light wooden paddle. “This is a sting-y little bastard,” he commented about the latter. “Kind of like you?” I commented in return. He sighed. “That wasn’t smart.”

It was worth it, though. 😀

More chit-chat:

Him: Well, that’s about all I can use for now. The rest [of the bag’s contents] is wood.
Me: (sighing) What’s wrong with you?
Him: I like wood!
Me: That’s what she said.

Damn, did we play hard. I could feel the strength he was putting into it, and I was drinking it in like a freaking desert in a rainstorm. I just wanted more, more, and more. Even the tawse. Normally, I’m leery about those suckers. I have had experiences in the past where one of those skinny little tails snaps into nooks and crannies that I really, really don’t want getting snapped — and I damn near go through the ceiling. But then I took a deep breath and remembered.

He knows what he’s doing.

So much so that when he seemed to be wrapping things up, I blurted, “Are you done??”

“You want more?” he asked.

“Um… maybe?”

He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for…”

Holy crap. That last round pushed my endurance, for sure. I quickly realized my error of not tossing a pillow on the carpet before we started. First, because I was scraping my elbows along the carpet as I leaned over the ottoman. Not my choice of pain. And second, because I didn’t have anything to scream into. And sometimes, you know, I just have to scream. So I ended up clamping both hands over my mouth and screaming into my palms. And all the while, I could feel the stress flowing out my pores, out of my limbs, out of my head. Magic. So lovely when I can just put myself into a man’s hands and know I’m safe. As Mr. W. says on his Fet profile, he might hurt, but he doesn’t harm. Knowing that makes such a difference.

He was impressed. “You can take one hell of a spanking, Erica,” he said. Despite the fact that I was limp as a dishrag and so sub-spacey I could barely think, I managed to croak out, “You know, this is all your fault.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Because,” I squeaked, “if you hadn’t made me wait three weeks for this, I wouldn’t have been so fucking needy!!

I wish I could have seen the look on his face at that. “Ah… well, I think we’ll have to address that next time.” Yeah, you think?

(I was kidding, of course. I am responsible for my own stress management; no one else. But a helping hand — or strap, paddle, etc. — is most welcome.)

And so we wound down. Then, I heard the two words that always melt me into the final oblivion:

“Good girl.” Of all the sweet phrases we love to hear, I think that’s one of the sweetest. Right up there with “That’s my girl.” 🙂

He hung out with me for a while, but had to get going before the traffic got bad (or worse, really, since L.A. traffic is pretty much always bad now). Have no idea what our schedules will bring over the upcoming holiday weeks… but I hope I get to see him again before 2018 is over.

As soon as he was gone, I thought, “Oh, damn! Pictures!” So, since I was still in living color, I grabbed my phone and tried to take a mirror selfie in the bathroom. I’m embarrassed to admit how many attempts it took to get this:

20181108_165341

I still didn’t like it, but all the physical cogitations were making my back and neck ache worse than my butt. So I broke out the old-school digital camera and timer, and tried a different angle in the living room. Unfortunately, the lighting there didn’t show the red very well. But you get the idea.

DSC00005

I slept well that night. Sadly, the next day brought all new stress when the damned Woolsey fire blew up and I was worried about my stepmother in Thousand Oaks (all turned out well for her, thank goodness — she was without power for a couple of days, but didn’t have to evacuate). But such is life.

What else is going on… oh, yeah. Did I mention that my Twitter account was frozen for a week? “But, Erica,” I can hear you all crying, “what horrible, egregious, terrible thing did you tweet to earn this extreme penalty??” I called Tomi Lahren a bimbo.

(Never heard of Tomi Lahren? All you need to know about her is that she’s the millennial version of Ann Coulter. And if perchance you don’t know who Ann Coulter is — consider yourself fortunate.)

Let’s review. I’ve been insulted on Twitter over everything from my age (“granny porn”) to my body (“a poor man’s Olive Oyl”) to my face (I was likened to the character “Hatchet-face” from the movie Cry-Baby. Google her) to my background (“stupid @#$%ing Hollywood Jew). I’ve been threatened (“I’d love to watch you getting gang-raped”). But my saying “bimbo” is “hateful conduct”?? Yeah, Twitter. Bite me.

So, when my time in Twitter Jail was up, I put on my prison-stripe panties, brought out the trusty digital camera again, and took this, which I posted the day I came back:

DSC00038

I hash-tagged it #FuckCensorship. 🙂 Interestingly, I did not get reported and penalized for it. Imagine that.

(whew) Anyway. Work continues to be busy, for which I am grateful, not only for the bill paying but for the distraction. Crazy times, y’all.

Final thought — I wish I could hug every single firefighter in California right now. ♥ ♥ ♥

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