At any BDSM event, you have to work to find people who share your specific interests.

I mean no one walks around with a tag indicating they like spanking, bondage, and/or feet; you have to actually talk to people if you want to have your fantasies realized. It’s imperative to be able to strike up conversations with total strangers to see if your desires match in the slightest.

Even in a safe, helpful environment, it’s unbelievable how hard people think this is to do. At a fetish ball last night, for every one who struck up a genuine conversation, there were three who followed me around like puppies, always looking as if they were ready to say something, then backing off.

I don’t find that type of behavior attractive, not even in a sub. Step up or go away. I need strong, independent partners, not pets. And you’re more likely to get what you want if you ask for it, right?

Right.

So when I go to such places, I wander and watch, swat the occasional moth away from the flame, and seek out the one – there’s almost always just one – who doesn’t mind getting just a little burned around the edges.

All women have hoops. Mine are just on fire.

Oops, I did it again.

Ten years ago, I drove from Albuquerque to Los Angeles for the first Domcon, a convention for professional dominas and others who partake in the femme domme lifestyle.

Our then roommate, who was also a professional dominatrix at the time, wanted to attend as well, but she had other plans before and after the convention. We agreed she would drive my Toyota and I would go in my then-new-to-me Audi.

On the way across Arizona, I realized my car was having problems. BIG problems. Automatic shifting was an issue; I had to resort to manual shifting to get her up to speed. As I continued on, I kept in touch with my love and made arrangements to see the first Audi dealer I could find right away.

Of course, the news was bad: I needed a new transmission. STAT. But knowing I didn’t really have to drive for the weekend – conventions tend to be contained to a host hotel – I nursed the car to the venue and checked myself and our roommate into our room. I was looking forward to a relaxing time and worrying about my vehicle troubles on Monday.

Then all hell broke loose: I asked her for the key to the Toyota so I could run a couple of errands.

My intention was to go to a convenience store for some weekend supplies and grab dinner. To go, even. Not to take the car from her, not to return home in it, not to leave her stranded. To run a 15-30 minute errand.

You’d think I’d asked her to kill her own mother.

She not only refused, she stamped her feet, yelled and screamed, and generally acted like a two year old. I had to physically fight her for the keys. To my own car.

Yet “But you told me I could drive it!” and other nonsensical, unreasonable, immature babble isn’t why I decided to take my car back at that moment, nor is it why my love and I kicked her to the curb after the trip. There was a long line of other behaviors which had put her on probation as far as we were concerned; she merely provided the final straw that weekend.

I got calls and comments from other people at the convention saying she was going around whispering nasty things about me. Luckily I knew quite a few people in the scene who refused to believe her and who instead came to me to share/clear up the gossip. When the convention was over, my love and I summarily picked the roommate off of us like a tick.

You can be an irrational jackass all you want, but the moment you mess with my reputation, you are OUT.

Fast forward to this past week: I arranged a trip to Los Angeles to spend a little time with family. When I searched for other interesting things to do, I discovered the 10th anniversary festivities for Domcon.

You bet your sweet ass I’m going.

ALONE.

Be seeing you.

Just made this and it was excellent.

4 skinless, boneless chicken breasts
1/2 tsp curry powder (red or yellow)
3/4 tsp red pepper flakes
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp paprika
1/8 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground turmeric
2 tbsp water
garlic powder

Mix all dry ingredients except the garlic with water until smooth. Rub mixture on chicken breasts, place on a plate, sprinkle with garlic powder, and allow to marinate for 20-30 minutes. Grill breasts for 8 minutes each side or until interior temperature reaches 165° (grilling time is for high-altitude; sea level may cook a bit faster).

Juicy, Eastern-flavored goodness.

Night before last, I was writing the current date on a piece of paperwork when it occurred to me:

Oh. Tomorrow is my birthday.

I had completely spaced it.

When I say that birthdays don’t mean much to me, this is exactly what I mean, but how did I manage to forget my own? I mean, who does that?

Is this an age thing? Like when one gets to the late 40s, do you just eventually forget your own birthday? Not a particularly depressing thought to me, I’m just curious if this is a thing or not.

On the other hand, it’s a sad fact that I couldn’t guess exactly what age most of my closest friends actually are – a person’s age has never made much difference to me, unless that age is under 18 – so has my indifference to adding another 1 to other people’s chronologies finally applied to my own as well?

Whatever the case, I’m kind of glad I forgot. At least now I know I hold myself to the same low standard I do everyone else in my life.

Been a week for it.

Well, okay, not entirely the worst. But I do tend to lose track of milestones in friend’s lives at the most inopportune moments.

I haven’t been logging on to Facebook, so I missed two big events: The marriage of one friend and the birth of twins for another.

These are not acquaintances, but Friends. People whom I’ve known for years – decades, even – and who have seen me at my best and my worst. Folks who’ve spent days and days at my home. Friends I love and, though we live in different cities, I cherish. Yet I haven’t sent either a congratulations or other note of encouragement.

I feel like an ass.

But, since they are such decent and long-term Friends, perhaps they know I’m not ignoring them, that I’ll get to it soon … ?

Wait, did you hear that?

I think it’s Emily Post spinning in her grave …

Shit. On it, Ms. Post!

Other people might take the opportunity to party like a rock star when their significant other is out-of-town, but I’ve learned the past few years – usually the hard way – that my body and psyche can only take one or two good party nights per week. Oh, and never two nights in a row – that practically kills me anymore.

Last night, I made onion and garlic parmesan chips while screening several documentaries on various topics. I’ve begun the long process of cleaning all the random paper off my office desk (catalogs from last Christmas? Really, Diva?). And I just finished steam cleaning the living room rug.

I feel so accomplished, I thought it worth posting. Which is weird, because I usually skip blog posts on such topics. So if you’ve gotten this far, thanks for sticking with me.

I’m not domesticated by any stretch of the imagination – I do have a hot date later at a comedy club and I’m headed south for a night with friends tomorrow – but I don’t like living in disorganized squalor, either. As those who have been to my house can attest, it’s usually pretty spic-n-span. Getting chores done also means I won’t mind heading out the next two nights for fun stuff, because the stress of taking care of home is somewhat alleviated in my mind.

Plus, did you know a relatively clean home and a nicely stocked liquor cabinet are excellent ways to ensure you get laid?

What? What’d I say?

Cheers! *clink*

I check the sink

every morning

he forgets to

wash whiskers down

flush

hang up his towel

use the hamper

sink is clear today

oh, right

he’s not home

ten years is a long time to

be irritable to

scold to

nag to

tease

and seven days isn’t forever

but the housekeeping is easier

*sigh*

I took some very much needed time away from the social networks and realized I can live without them for days, even weeks, on end. Taking this vacation has taught me a very important lesson, too: Objectivity and respect of others is no longer an option online.

See, one can’t step away from a subject and think about it from another person’s point of view long enough to make a valid and reasoned argument for the opposite viewpoint. Some people feel the need to state their opinion, over and over and in fifteen or twenty different ways, rather than accepting some will never be swayed on a topic. Others just jump on the “You’re wrong!” bandwagon without considering there’s a real person, with hopes and dreams and feelings, on the other end.

Worst of all, though, I managed to catch several people over the past few days answering something I’d said without reading the whole of what I’d written. How do you expect to change someone’s mind if you don’t even bother to read what they’ve said? It’s disheartening, to say the least, to know that I can give my all to understand someone, take the time to answer or refute their points one-by-one, then realize they didn’t bother to reciprocate before throwing a reply at me.

I’m going to start calling this a direct result of tl;dr (too long; didn’t read) thinking. Most people skim for keywords and then pounce on a concept taken out of context from the rest. They want synopses, talking points, and sound bites, not full paragraphs explaining a viewpoint in detail so as to change hearts and minds. If you’re guilty of skimming like this, at least admit you’re not out to help people understand your view; you’re out to tell others how to feel, act, and live. That’s not just impolite, it creates and perpetuates the “us vs. them” mentality that permeates online culture and pours over into all aspects of society.

I’m not participating anymore. I’m tired of having battles of wits with those who could be better armed, but can’t be bothered. It’s exhausting dealing with people who bluster and rage into a fray without affording anyone else the dignity they deserve as human beings.

You’ll get respect from me when I get respect from you, but no one gets respect on Facebook.

Dig?

Grok.

This is a continuation of an ongoing story. Please click category Romero Trial on the main page, located to the right of the screen, to read any/all previous posts on the topic.

The police officers outside explained they’d gotten a call they had to investigate and asked if they could come inside and look around. The front door was secured with a keyed double-lock and it took some time for Tim’s grandmother to get it unlocked for them, but she opened the door and let them in. She had nothing to hide, after all.

Several officers secured the house – meaning they moved all the inhabitants including the children to one space so they could look around without interference or interruption – and while some uniformed officers watched the family, others poked around.

Not one of them went out to check the garage. They did, however, indicate to Tim and Frankie that the basement needed to be cleaned up or they’d have to call social services. The mess down there was apparently not considered an acceptable environment for kids to live in.

They didn’t find a single firearm on their search. Tim was on probation, so that made some sense, but what they didn’t know is Tim’s mother – the drug addict – had come by sometime Saturday and taken his gun with her “for safekeeping.”

She testified she found it in the house. Others testified she was called upon to take it.

*****

October 24, 2010.

Tim went across town to Alicia’s mother’s house first thing in the morning. His reason, as stated in one of his video interviews, was to discuss how he could help her find her missing daughter. While he was there, police arrived and asked him to come to the station to have his official statement taken.

During this first interview, the detective asked Tim a lot of questions about who was at the party and how to get in touch with them. Eventually, he asked Tim to show him exactly where M. lived in Westminster. I know they did this to build a timeline of events, i.e., to answer the question of how long it takes to drive between Tim’s house and M.’s., but Tim didn’t seem to understand that. He agreed and off they went.

About a block away from M.’s house, Tim asked them to pull the car over because he felt sick. He then stepped out of the vehicle and vomited. Once he seemed able to continue, they carried on their task, and Tim pointed out the house as they passed. They didn’t stop, nor did they engage M. or anyone else who lived there during the foray.

Tim asked if they could drop him off at a convenience store near his house and the officers obliged. When he got out of the car, however, he started acting all kinds of weird; he started yelling, making noises, flailing his arms, and generally acting like a Tourette sufferer.

The officers eventually calmed him down and talked him into a ride directly to his house.

*****

In the late afternoon/early evening of that very same day, police once again asked Tim to come downtown and talk to them, so off he went. Unbeknownst to him, officers were also once again headed to his grandmother’s house to have a look around. This time it was Frankie who gave them permission to come in.

More importantly, though, this time they checked the garage.

One of the first officers on the scene described opening the garage door and getting blasted in the face with the smell of bleach. That’s all police needed, because when there is suspicion a crime has occurred, a full search warrant is easy to get.

Officers secured the entire property, front to back and side to side, and waited for investigators – the pros with the gloves and evidence-gathering knowledge – to arrive.

*****

Tim was once again in a small room downtown being interviewed by yet another detective. This time, however, police had an inkling he knew more than he was letting on.

The entire 90+ minute interview was screened in court, and I have to say it was disturbing, but not just because Tim was guilty and he knew it. What bothered me is the way he wavered back and forth between saying he felt guilty about letting Alicia walk away and outright blaming J. for leaving the girl behind, all the while knowing exactly where the poor girl was.

Then again, Tim isn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box … at one point he was allowed a brief smoke break and was overheard on his phone outside saying, very agitatedly: “Tell them it’s MY blood on the couch!”

The interviewing detective wasn’t supposed to allow Tim to use his phone at all, but that’s how he found out police were busy searching his house while he was indisposed.

And the person who overheard him? None other than Alicia’s mother.

She immediately reported it to detectives inside.

To be continued.

1. If no one notices, it doesn’t count.

2. External Gratification can be positive or negative.

3. People don’t always notice or react in the manner you expect.

4. Most of the people who do notice don’t care.

5. Denial of (4) is known as The First Personal Delusion.

6. Victims of the condition described in (5) think everyone cares about everything they do or say.

7. Continuance of (6), without proper abatement by friends, family, or mental health professionals, may lead to a condition known as Drama Queen.

8. A Drama Queen feeds on both positive and negative External Gratification.

9. Absolutely no one cares about a Drama Queen.

10. Any and all External Gratification a Drama Queen receives is fake, sycophantic, or from another Drama Queen (see (11)).

11. A Drama Queen is only interested insofar as he/she receives External Gratification upon his/herself; therefore External Gratification received from another Drama Queen is equal to not having received any at all.

12. The only known way to return to receiving valuable, positive External Gratification is to stop being a Drama Queen; summary removal of The First Personal Delusion is the required first step (see (5)).

13. Repeat (12) as necessary until level Maturity is achieved.

Unlocked.