If you celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving! If you don’t, then happy Thursday.
I like the chief’s idea better, myself. 😀
Remove your body hair. Shave your legs. Shave your armpits. Shave your bikini line. Wax your face. Wax your arms. Wax your eyebrows. Get rid of your mustache. Bleach this. Bleach that. Lighten your skin. Tan your skin. Eradicate your scars. Cover your stretch marks. Tighten your abs. Plump your lips. Botox your wrinkles. Lift your face. Tuck your tummy. Thin your thighs. Tone your calves. Perk up your boobs. Look natural. Be yourself. Be genuine. Be confident. You’re trying too hard. You look overdone. Men don’t like girls who try too hard.
Wear makeup. Prime your face. Conceal your blemishes. Contour your nose. Highlight your cheekbones. Line your lids. Fill in your brows. Lengthen your lashes. Color your lips. Powder, blush, bronze, highlight. Your hair is too short. Your hair is too long. Your ends are split. Highlight your hair. Your roots are showing. Dye your hair. Not blue, that looks unnatural. You’re going grey. You look so old. Look young. Look youthful. Look ageless. Don’t get old. Women don’t get old. Old is ugly. Men don’t like ugly.
Save yourself. Be pure. Be virginal. Don’t talk about sex. Don’t flirt. Don’t be a skank. Don’t be a whore. Don’t sleep around. Don’t lose your dignity. Don’t have sex with too many men. Don’t give yourself away. Men don’t like sluts. Don’t be a prude. Don’t be so uptight. Have a little fun. Smile more. Pleasure men. Be experienced. Be sexual. Be innocent. Be dirty. Be virginal. Be sexy. Be the cool girl. Don’t be like the other girls.
Don’t talk too loud. Don’t talk too much. Don’t take up space. Don’t sit like that. Don’t stand like that. Don’t be intimidating. Why are you so miserable? Don’t be a bitch. Don’t be so bossy. Don’t be assertive. Don’t overact. Don’t be so emotional. Don’t cry. Don’t yell. Don’t swear. Be passive. Be obedient. Endure the pain. Be pleasing. Don’t complain. Let him down easy. Boost his ego. Make him fall for you. Men want what they can’t have. Don’t give yourself away. Make him work for it. Men love the chase. Fold his clothes. Cook his dinner. Keep him happy. That’s a woman’s job. You’ll make a good wife someday. Take his last name. You hyphenated your name? Crazy feminist. Give him children. You don’t want children? You will someday. You’ll change your mind.
Don’t get raped. Protect yourself. Don’t drink too much. Don’t walk alone. Don’t go out too late. Don’t dress like that. Don’t show too much. Don’t get drunk. Don’t leave your drink. Have a buddy. Walk where it is well lit. Stay in the safe neighborhoods. Tell someone where you’re going. Bring pepper spray. Buy a rape whistle. Hold your keys like a weapon. Take a self-defense course. Check your trunk. Lock your doors. Don’t go out alone. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t bat your eyelashes. Don’t look easy. Don’t attract attention. Don’t work late. Don’t crack dirty jokes. Don’t smile at strangers. Don’t go out at night. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t say yes. Don’t say no.
Just “be a lady” they said.
– Author Unknown
So last week was crazed with post-party work plus a cold. I figured after that, this week would be easier, right? Get back to normal, catch up with other things, friends, etc.
Went to bed Monday night feeling fine. Woke up at 2:30 a.m. Tuesday, and knew something was horribly wrong. I felt like I’d been run over by a bus. I sat up, and the room spun. Nausea, cold sweat, everything. Oh, crap. What fresh hell is this now?
And did I mention I was still swamped with work?
Tuesday is a blur. Somehow, I dragged myself back and forth from my bed to the computer, and managed to get some work done before I’d get too lightheaded and have to lie down again. My consumption for the day was a bottle of Boost, a cup of tea and a few crackers. After sleeping on and off all day, I went to bed at 8:30 and slept for thirteen hours.
And so on through the week. Had to cancel appointments and plans — all I could do was sleep and work. And keep myself hydrated. Yesterday, I added some solid food to my diet of Boost and apple juice. Managed to do laundry. Took a brief walk. Still no appetite whatsoever. I even tried to tempt myself with chocolate, but I managed four malt balls and said “Forget it.” I could keep things down; that wasn’t the problem. But every bite or sip I consumed sat in my gut like a lead ball.
This morning — ah, what is this? What could this foreign sensation in my stomach be? A strange gnawing feeling… Ah! I remember! It’s hunger. So far, the cereal I ate is sitting comfortably, no bloating, no pain, no feeling like I swallowed a cannonball. I am cautiously hoping I’m on the mend. Enough already.
John keeps teasing about “birthday month” (it’s coming up, the 22nd), but what with work and illness, I’ve barely given it a thought. My stepmom emailed me and asked if I’d like to go to lunch next week, but I had to put her off. I need to get a sense of control back over my schedule, my life. Dare I hope for a birthday spanking at some point?
BLECCCHHHH! I feel like Shadow Lane was ages ago already. I feel like I’ve earned some fun. For now, just need to take it easy, finish up work and head over to John’s for the weekend. It will be nice to get out of here for a bit. There will be next week for getting back to the gym, etc. I’m just glad I was able to get work done and bills paid. Oh, and I even remembered to send off my quarterly estimated taxes. Yay me. It’s the little things. When you feel like you’re half past dead, the slightest accomplishments are akin to milestones.
So I’ll end this amazingly dull entry with one of the search phrases I found for my blog.
all natural spanking
Okay… as opposed to what? Spanking with polyester? I suspect this person might have meant au naturel (as in naked), but you know, stupid. 😀
Have a great weekend, y’all. Stay well. And if you’re anywhere near Hurricane Florence, please stay safe.
…and probably will be for a while. Dealing with Stuff.
But the Shadow Lane party is at the end of the month. I am hoping to get back on track with that.
In the meantime, have a good weekend, y’all.
Who might this jackass be, you ask? He is Dwayne A. Stamper, Sr., of Muncie, Indiana. And according to this article (please read; it will infuriate you), he offers up his “services” to parents of misbehaving children. But, he’s quick to add, none over the age of 13, because “they might whoop him.”
I see a Band-Aid on his forehead. I’m fantasizing that one of those older kids snatched that paddle away from him and clobbered him.
I don’t know what horrifies me more: that this is absolutely real, that this cretin is the father of five, or that a lot of people find this funny. It’s bad enough that people spank children. But this guy seems to gleefully revel in it, publicly admitting he does it and actually offering to do it to other people’s kids as well. Who the hell does he think he is??
Seriously, fuck this guy sideways with a 2 x 4.
Apparently, Mr. Stamper believes that “kids should fear their parents a little.” Oh, sure. That’s the way to parent successfully — don’t manage your kids reasonably, just terrorize them with the fear of pain. They’ll be good little children, they’ll toe the line… until they grow up, leave your house of horrors, and act out with all the suppressed rage they’ve accumulated over the years.
Adults engage in spanking consensually. If one grown person hits and hurts another grown person without consent, it’s called assault. And yet a grown person can hit a little person and it’s called “discipline” and “parenting.” Screw that. Stop. Hitting. Children. End of subject. There are ways to avoid raising spoiled monsters without resorting to physical pain.
Yeah, I hear the parents out there. “You don’t have kids! You don’t know!” True, I do not. But I was a child. I know the fear and rage and utter helplessness a child feels when an adult hits them. I know the feelings of betrayal.
Hey, Mr. Stamper? I’d like to stamp on your tiny little man parts. And then take the non-business end of that ginormous paddle you’re wielding and shove it where your Indiana sun don’t shine. Right out there on your street, in front of everyone. See how you like being hurt and humiliated.
Arggggh. Deep breaths. Thank goodness for blogging. I can blow off steam here without finding this POS’s Facebook page and starting World War III with him there, which would change absolutely nothing and just raise my blood pressure to explosive highs.
*rant over* Have a great weekend, y’all.
…which stands for Public Displays of Affection. In that vein, there should be something known as PDS as well. Three guesses what the S stands for??
As open as I am about my spanking fetish, I’ve always felt a little skeevy about public displays of it in vanilla settings. At a spanking party? Bring it. But on the street, in a store, etc.? I get embarrassed, I admit it. Which delights John to no end. I can’t tell you how many times he’s given me a smack or two in a public place, to which I hiss, “Don’t! There are PEOPLE!” He doesn’t seem to care about that. We’ve gotten snickers, whistles, and even “I saw that!” a couple of times.
This past weekend, we went to the grocery store to pick up a few items; three, to be exact. Because of that, John gleefully exclaimed, “Hey, self checkout!” And I groaned. I hate using the self checkout. Not because I’m lazy, but because it’s temperamental and glitchy. If you don’t do everything exactly right, very carefully, it freezes up and you get a “Checker has been notified” message. Well, crap, if you have to notify a checker, why use the damn thing in the first place? I can usually manage okay on my own, but John tends to rush in impatiently.
So we managed to get all three items scanned. I had put our grocery bag on the floor (if you put the bag in the “bagging area” before you scan any items, it screws up the system, because it thinks the bag is a grocery item you haven’t scanned yet), so I bent over to pick it up so I could put our stuff in it. And of course, you guessed it, John let fly with a loud smack to my butt. I jerked up to standing… just in time to hear the checker standing off to the side (watching for people who screw up the system, of course) call out, “Do it again!”
Oh, my freaking God. I sputtered and spluttered at John, while he stood there laughing his fool face off. Finally we got the transaction done and I started to hustle him out of there, but we had to walk by the oh-so-amused checker, who then grinned at us and asked, “Are you two newlyweds?”
“No!” I blurted, making a wry face and walking by… and then John fist-bumped him. He actually fist-bumped the guy.
I swear, I can’t take that man anywhere.