By Providence, Fate, or Synchronicity.

Posted in SoForth on December 6th, 2016 by Diva

The old blahg here may be back up soon.


Stay tuned.

Web and WordPress Help.

Posted in SoForth on October 29th, 2015 by Diva

Specifically, I need to backup this site, update WordPress, and migrate nearly a dozen other domains to a new ICANN-approved website (mine gave up after 15 years of business).

Can’t pay much more than $25 an hour, so a web professional who does this kind of work for an actual living is right out the door. Maybe a student or someone who’s willing to do it for pay plus food and/or booze … ?

If you can help (or know someone who can), please comment here and I’ll get back to you.

By the way, my lack of writing is directly related to my inability to backup and update WordPress. So if you enjoy my ramblings, no matter how infrequent, please consider helping a sistah out.

Much obliged.

To-morrow, and To-morrow, and To-morrow.

Posted in SoForth on August 25th, 2015 by Diva



The queen, my lord, is dead.


She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

. . . . .

The Sneer.

Posted in SoForth on June 5th, 2015 by Diva

I was 8 years old and playing in the sandbox alone again. It was an activity I did a lot at that age.

The park was across the street, just behind a row of apartments which were a mirror image of our own. This was on an Air Force base, and all kitchen windows around the park gave a clear view of the playground, so none of the parents worried too much about us out there.

A kid of about 5 approached the sandbox. I didn’t know him and he was obviously younger than me, so I ignored him.

He had brought a toy sand shovel and a bucket and started playing nearby. Within about a minute he had managed to flip the sand shovel – full of sand – up into his own face. I saw it happen. I can’t remember if I laughed, but I probably did.

Face and eyes full of grit, he started to wail and, sobbing the entire time, managed to lift himself up out of the sandbox and head (for what I assumed was) home.

About three minutes after that, his mother came stomping back to the sandbox, kid in tow. She towered over me and asked me why I had thrown sand in her son’s face.

Without looking up from my latest sand project, I said, “I didn’t.”

“Well, he’s gotten sand all in his eyes and nose and it came from somewhere!”

I raised my head. With no defiance in my voice – I’d had many lessons on how adults don’t like defiant children by that time – I looked her directly in the eye and said, “He did it to himself.”

I must have scared her, because she stepped back for a moment. When she recovered, she asked, “Where do you live?”

I pointed.

“Let’s go talk to your mother!”

I don’t know why, but I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t 100% sure my Mom would believe me, but I was sure this random lady was going to set her off.

I was right.

Mom met all three of us at the door. Before she could say a word, random was all over it.

“Do you know what your daughter did to my son on the playground?”

Mom stepped out onto the porch. “What did she do?”

“She threw sand in my boy’s eyes!”

Mom looked at me. “Did you throw sand in his face?”

I looked at my Mom and matter-of-factly stated, “No. He used his sand shovel wrong.”

Mom looked at random lady and said, “Looks like she didn’t do it,” and told me to go into the house.

I stood at the open front door and watched as random lady started to rant at my mother, gesticulating wildly about the indignity her son had to suffer at my 8 year old hands.

My mother held up one hand and smiled broadly, but what came out of her mouth didn’t match the look on her face. Her exact words are lost to time, but her response was something to the effect of don’t tell me you can’t tell when you’re kid is lying, because I can tell when mine is, and this time she is telling the truth, so go back to whatever rock you came out from under or this will get ugly.

Random lady left. We never encountered her again.

That was the moment I learned the value of a good, solid sneer.


I briefly “dated” a boy in 7th grade. I put “dated” in quotes because it lasted maybe three weeks and didn’t involve anything other than hanging out during breaks and kissing a little.

It ended when one of my best friends came to me after school and said she’d seen him kissing some other girl behind the gym.

The next day, I approached the boy, ensuring we met in a secluded spot at school. There were teachers nearby, of course, but they were conveniently just out of sight and earshot. I smiled and asked him through clenched teeth – a sneer of my own, learned from the best – if he was seeing that other girl.

He wasn’t scared of me. He smirked, looked me in the eye defiantly, and said, “Yes.”

I punched him. Shocked, he didn’t have a chance to retaliate as I walked away calmly, that smile still on my face, toward a group of teachers.


My best friend and I were walking between her house and mine when I was 16. It was dusk and as we approached a street to cross, a small car rolled to a halt at the stop sign.

The guy inside the car said, “I wonder if you ladies can help me, I seem to be lost …”

By that time I’d read up on several serial killers and had been warned of girls who disappeared in our own neighborhoods, but we were traveling as a pair, there was no one else in the guy’s tiny car, and we were feeling adventurous.

We walked to the driver’s side window only to see he was holding his erect dick in one hand. He didn’t get the response he wanted, though. We both sneered and started to laugh and taunt him.

“Ooooh, is that all you’ve got?”

“You think girls like the little ones?”

“Throw it back, it’s too small!”

He took off, tires squealing as we continued to call after him.

“So sorry about your weiner, hon!”

“Hey, don’t be mad! Come back when it’s bigger!”


My senior year in high school, the girl who sat next to me in choir was hit by a car and killed. After a very emotional morning in that room, her empty chair beside me the entire time, I meandered my way to my next class in a bit of a daze.

I sat down in my chair and heard the teacher ask why several of us were so gloomy. Before any of us could answer, the class asshole (we’d call him a dude-bro today), who sat next to me all semester, took it upon himself to announce really loudly, “Some stupid bitch got hit by a car yesterday and died.”

I calmly laid my books on the table, waited for our teacher to turn away, and leaned in as close to his face as I could. The sneer was well-rehearsed by then, so it came naturally.

“That ‘stupid bitch’ was my friend, dickweed. If you say another word about it, I will punch you.”

The best part is he had to sit next to me for the duration of the class. He didn’t say a word to me for the rest of the term, either.


I was freshly 21 and met a guy for a date at a local bar. It was early evening and there were just five of us there – me, my date, the bartender, and a couple of barflies. We’d chosen the spot because we knew we wouldn’t be bothered with a big crowd or loud music.

During our “getting to know you” chat, I learned he was a cop. He didn’t tell me initially, because he’d had bad luck asking women on dates after they knew. It didn’t worry me at all; he was hot, smart, and exceedingly polite. I think he’s a retired detective now, in fact.

After a couple of cocktails, my date excused himself to the restroom. The microsecond he was out of sight, one of the barflies approached me and asked, “What’s a purty girl like you doing with dirt like that?” and placed his hand directly on my ass cheek.

The bartender started to move in my direction, but I gave him a genuine smile and a nod indicating I’d handle it myself.

Smile still on my face and looking the barfly directly in the eye, I removed his hand from my ass and moved it, ever so slowly and sensually past my waist, making him think he was going to get a tit in his palm. Very close to boob and fully off-guard, though, he got the sneer as I shoved him to the floor without even standing up from my barstool.

The bartender guffawed. My date exited the restroom, saw the barfly on the floor, and asked if there was a problem.

I laughed a little, shook my head and said, “No problem here.” Then I downed my cocktail and we went to my place.

No second date, but it was just as well. He was terrible in the sack. And this was the opinion of a 21 year old girl, no less.


I found myself without a car for about a year when I was 27, but I was in college and lived close to campus, so I only had to take city transportation to work and back.

One evening on the way home, on a standing-room only bus, I felt a hand creep up my thigh to my ass. I looked down to see a Hispanic man in a seat smiling, gap-toothed, up at me. I grinned, took his hand in mine (my modus operandi at this point it seems), and raised it high in the air while yelling at the top of my lungs:


Humiliated, the man got off the bus at the next stop. Never saw him again.


Same bus route, about a year later, a different Hispanic man was leaning over and hassling a teen girl. Her body language screamed discomfort; she kept pulling her bag closer to her and the window in an attempt to get away from him.

She looked so small and lost, I couldn’t just stand by. I walked up to him and said, “Dude, leave her alone.”

He reeled on me. “I’m just telling her she’s pretty,” he spat back at me.

I raised my voice and out came the old smiling sneer. “She’s more than pretty – she’s beautiful. And she doesn’t need YOU to tell her.”

“Mind your own business, bitch!”

“I will not. Her business IS my business.”

At that moment, two other women left their seats to join me, because it only takes one shepherd for the herd to follow (fucking sheep, don’t get me started). The three of us had him surrounded and were moving him away from the girl’s seat. He protested, but his voice got smaller and less demanding.

As we maneuvered, one of the other women said something so brilliant, I’ve never forgotten her exact words:

“Gone are the days when we women live or die by what you men think of us. “

To this day, I don’t know why she wasn’t the shepherd on that bus. Maybe she became one after that.

The man got off at the next stop, mumbling the entire way about how he couldn’t “compliment” girls anymore. Never saw him again, either.


Concert in 2002. My love and I met up with two new friends, a hetero couple, to enjoy the show.

Sometime during the event, the other woman developed a cling-on. That’s what we call a man, usually a drunk one, who just will not take “NO” for an answer. He followed her all over the place, trying to start a conversation, or just hanging around close enough to make it uncomfortable.

She eventually lost patience with the guy and, while the three of us couldn’t hear the conversation, we saw everything from our vantage point.

She looked around to ensure security and bartenders were busy.

Smile. Hand on shoulder. Sneer. Lean in to his ear to explain some version of lay off or things are going to get nasty.

She walked away toward us, still smiling.

It was the first time I’d seen another grown-ass woman other than my mother stand up for herself with that sneer. That particular incident escalated into involving venue security, but at least she tried.


Just a few years ago, my love and I went out for Halloween. In the smoking area of the club, a homeless man came by asking for cigarettes and/or change.

I don’t smoke and was wearing a full Marie Antoinette costume with no pockets or purse. I told the man I didn’t have anything for him. He persisted. I said, “Where do you think I keep this stuff?”

He pointed to my chest and said, “You could keep it in there.”

I laughed out loud and told him to get lost. He grabbed my arm.

Smile. Pause. Sneer.

I knocked him up alongside the head, open-palm.

Security at the club was on him before you could say “Trick or Treat.”


I am not a violent person. I just know how to deal with certain personality types who don’t respond to anything else. The stories I’ve shared here are also some of the harshest examples; there have been lesser situations, but they don’t make good stories.

The long and the short of it is I don’t put up with bad behavior, not in private and especially not in public. My rule is simple: If Emily Post or Miss Manners would admonish you for what you’re about to do, don’t do it. More than that, though, I can’t abide anyone whose intention is to make me or those around me fearful.

Unfortunately, I am an anomaly. Women who refuse to be trod underfoot, who will ignore fear and repercussion in the face of harassment, abuse, or near violence, women who stand up for themselves regardless of risk or consequence are rare. Problem is, we shouldn’t be.

I don’t mean putting your life on the line. That’s stupid and absurd. I’m talking about handling those moments in public when a hand is on your ass, or you’re being involuntarily “complimented,” or a cling-on won’t leave you alone, all by yourself. If you do it with dignity, aplomb, discretion, just the right smiling sneer, and the will to make the person who is acting uncivilly understand they are in the wrong, you win every time.

Consider for a moment what happens when you don’t immediately cut off the creeper on the bus or in the coffee shop: They get the idea their behavior is, if not welcome, at least not all that bad. Worse, some will continue to harass until they are called out on it.

Yes, a percentage of these idiots will escalate. Stalkers exist. Rapists exist. Murderers exist. That’s why I said to respond bravely in public. I’m not stupid. I wonder how many of them ever heard a solid “NO” before they became a stalker, rapist, or murderer though? Perhaps such escalation could be nipped in the bud …?

Online complaints about creepers, harassers, touchers, and other weirdos help spread the word, of course, but doing absolutely nothing about it – as the harassed OR as a bystander – doesn’t make it stop. It just tells the creeper the person they’ve chosen is weak enough to prey upon again.

You can stand up, step in, and speak out to help make a more civilized society, or you can hide behind a screen, posting about how awful it was and how scared you felt. Up to you. But wouldn’t it be awesome if the anomaly became the norm and the creepers had to either learn a better way to deal with women or return to the bridges they came out from under?

It could happen, if we give up the irrational fear that every man, everywhere, is out to harm. Some do fall into that category, but certainly not all. Most are just clueless about how to treat women. Some have even changed their behavior after being told they’re wrong. It’s true! I seen it!

Listen, life is full of risks; winners calculate the right ones to take and when. If you are indeed a strong, independent, 21st century woman, start acting like one: Risk being treated like a whole human being, with feelings, rights, and freedoms. True equality won’t exist until we demand it, so let’s start demanding.

Find your boundaries. Set ‘em. Take no gumption. Say “NO” and mean it. Give a good sneer.

Watch what happens.

You’ve come a long way, baby.

Back Up.

Posted in SoForth on April 29th, 2015 by Diva

I finally found some time today to back up this site and update the software on which it runs. After 5 hours, I’m giving up.

I tried the original backup program I had, which I had no idea had been failing for months until I downloaded the “backup” and found it completely corrupted.

I then attempted four new and different WordPress backup plugins. Each one took a dump for one reason or another, including one which couldn’t ever authenticate my Dropbox … a phrase that, if you’d shared it with me ten years ago, I would have sworn was some kind of sexual innuendo.

I even reverted to the old school ftp download (!). Seriously, I’m that desperate. It didn’t work, so I logged on and discovered every page of my web host company’s FAQ for ftp settings links to nothing but 404 pages.

I don’t know how IT folks deal sometimes. This is bullshit.

Have you tried turning it off and back on?


Posted in SoForth on March 26th, 2015 by Diva

I met a unicorn a couple of nights ago.

I knew when I saw him. I always know. I can’t explain it.

Don’t think I want to – the wonder might be lost.

After that initial moment comes the maneuvering. It’s second nature.

Some who’ve seen me do it have been impressed.

“Watch: I’m going to make this go-go dancer jump off his box for me.”

He jumps. We dance.

When the moment is over, the poor boy looks confused.

Why would he, a gay man in a gay club, do what he did?

The watcher thinks, “Could she do that to me?”

Haven’t I already, darling? (Would you even know?)

Some have been more wary. “Where do I fit in your game, Diva?”

“You don’t. You objectively see the game as it happens.”

I didn’t tell her she was a muse. Too much responsibility, that.

My strengths lie elsewhere.

Drinks. Open body language. Flirt.

Ask a question. Join the conversation. Smiles.

An invitation to more.

As slowly as the hand is played, some still turn tail and run.

But this one … so curious and open and free.


No reservation. No judgement.

Let me in.

Focus. Relax.

I’ll do the digging. It’s what I do.

You work toward fruition. Live up to the ideal.

Only virgins are supposed to attract unicorns.

Sacred whores are better at it.

Make a wish.

She’s Like the Wind.

Posted in SoForth on March 17th, 2015 by Diva

I spent a dinner out with friends last night and happily farted up a storm at our table the entire time.

Don’t judge. I was very discreet. Plus, we were with close friends. You know, the kind who would say something if they suspected.

If they had spoken up – and trust me, this crowd would have had to qualms about it – I would have excused myself to take the over-the-counter medicine I keep in my purse.

Have I ever mentioned the medical-related contents of my ultimate bag of holding purse? No?

Ibuprofen. Tissues. Travel-sized roll of toilet paper. Two types of antacid, one for regular use and one for when the heartburn gets really bad. Lotion. Antibiotic wipes. Lip balm. Hand sanitizer. Gas reducer. A pill box with a calcium tablet, a multivitamin, and a few other supplements. I think there’s even still a Valium from my last dentist visit a few weeks ago.

I am just one unwrapped, lint-covered hard candy away from being my grandmother. (Don’t even get me started on the small pharmacy on the night table next to my side of the bed.)

So I had the gas reducer with me last night, but I didn’t take it. I’ve always been of the opinion that short of a major life event – a job interview, wedding, court appearance, meeting the President, etc. – gas should be set free. It’s a natural body function and constantly putting a cork in it is bad for your health.

That got me to thinking that since my chances of being in a situation which requires absolutely zero farting is pretty slim these days, it’s probably time to stop carrying that particular packet of pills. I pulled them out when we got home and …

… it had expired.

Wait … when did I stop caring enough to take it?

Shit. The purse is just a symptom. I’ve turned into THAT old lady.

Don’t say I haven’t. The signs are obvious to anyone looking. I audibly groan when I get in to or out of bed, a chair, or a car. I have a favorite daily talk radio show. I express surprise, disdain, and joy aloud in public, even when I’m alone. I make PB&J sandwiches with a high fiber, seven seed mix and sugar-free jelly … on a low-carb, whole wheat tortilla.

I think Hipsters go to an awful lot of trouble and expense to look bad (or like my Dad circa 1973, when it was actually in fashion to look that kind of bad) and Millennials are spoiled brats who don’t “get” hard work. I don’t understand why a passenger in my car / dinner companion / business associate can’t put their phone down for two minutes, let alone for the duration of the ride / meal / meeting. I use coupons. Coupons.

I chase alley cats out of our yard with whoops and hollers. I read food labels. I go to happy hours and early-bird dinners to save a few bucks. I take advantage of AAA, NPR, and other member discounts. I call out people who are rude, passive-aggressive, or outright annoying, even when they’re not doing it directly to me. I have a pair of reading glasses – sometimes two – in every room of the house. I listen to podcasts or talk radio instead of music and the TV plays news, Discovery ID, or TCM all day.

My last post was about a cranky old lady who confronts a homeless person and this one is about one who farts through a meal. No one knows how to drive, I don’t WANT to upgrade my phone, and holy shit, can you believe kids these days?!


You can lie to my face and say I’m not all that old – it’s appreciated, even – but I won’t kid myself.

And don’t go by my photo here. That “current” photo is from 2008.

“I’ll get around to a site update sooner or later,” said the old lady who does it every 6 years.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.


Posted in SoForth on March 2nd, 2015 by Diva

I don’t ski, but my love does. He doesn’t like long drives, but I do. This makes for a great symbiotic relationship during the winter months.

This morning, I dropped him and a friend off at Vail, then drove a little further west to Edwards. I have an annual tradition, running on four years now, of doing some shopping on the River Walk here. It’s quiet at this French bakery on a weekday mid-morning, where the quiche is marvelous and the coffee is just the right amount of hot.

Next door, there’s an upscale, very haute couture resale shop where I usually find something interesting, if I don’t actually buy. And there is a fantastic local bookstore nearby which carries a lot of alt press items. When I’m done here today, I’m heading to Minturn to check out a couple more resale shops.

All this plus the snow-covered mountain scenery, each direction and as far as the eye can see … I don’t think this L.A. girl will ever get used to (or tired of) the view; short of the Swiss Alps, I’ve never seen a place that comes close to Colorado. Every time I’m up here I get Rocky Mountain High stuck in my head.

What I mean to say is I totally get why people leave entire lives behind to move here. Yet as much as I love these little Colorado mountain towns, I can only visit them once in awhile, just for a few hours, and I certainly couldn’t actually live in any of them. Yes, the scenery is exquisite and there is eclectic shopping, but I’m the furthest anyone can be from “outdoorsy.” I don’t spend my free time out in the open air unless it’s a walk in my own neighborhood. I’ve spent enough time camping, snow mobiling, hiking, dirt bike riding and such to be aware of how miserable, dirty, bug-bitey, and sun-burnt it can get.

There’s a lot of nature out there in nature. I want no part of it.

Then there’s the early sidewalk roll-up. Most not-so-populated areas close up much earlier than urban areas. If you’re a night owl like me, what the hell do you do with yourself after 8pm? Unless there’s a late-night diner or you like to hang out in bars, there’s a whole lot of nothing to do after hours. In Denver, movie theaters are abundant, have late showtimes, and I can go out for midnight sushi afterward. After moving to Denver from Albuquerque, in fact, it took me a couple of years to realize most places were open much later than I thought. I ain’t going back (or backward) now.

The only other negative is the same across the spectrum of small-town America: Everyone knows everyone else and, as a result, everyone is all up in each other’s business. As much as the goth scene complains about drama, there ain’t no drama like small town drama.

First, there is no privacy to speak of, because everyone goes to the same businesses, gas stations, and churches. You have a fight with your spouse at the Conoco, someone you know saw or heard it. The rumor mill, once it’s going, is faster than in big cities, too, because everyone is aware of who you are. It’s “Hey, didja hear what went down with Joe and Jane?” not “That blonde girl that comes in regularly had a fight with some dude.” The latter is something most people let go as ugly rumor, because they don’t know the people involved; the former, well, it’s interesting in those typically human ways: Pity, empathy, and/or Schadenfreude.

Most of all, you have to be somewhat “normal” (in quotes because I think the concept has more grey area than people realize) to live in a small town. Trust me, I’ve seen what small town talk can do to someone who plays quietly and privately in the BDSM realm, and it ain’t pretty. Add my fervent atheism and penchant for speaking my mind and well … I’d be a pariah in no time. Or relegated to hanging out with the drunks, meth heads, and other outcasts. No, thank you.

Notice I’m not saying “never” here. I don’t know where I’ll be in 5 years, let alone decades from now. Until just a few years ago, I had no idea I’d have this yearly tradition of playing hooky from home/work and writing a blog post in a French bakery in small town Colorado. And “never” is like “forever;” I try not to promise either, because both are a very, very long time.

Right now, I’d just settle for getting John Denver’s voice out of my skull.

He was born in the summer of his 27th year …

Yes Ma’am.

Posted in SoForth on February 24th, 2015 by Diva

No one throws a party like one of my closest friends – well, except me of course – and his birthday this past Saturday in Orlando was no exception. One of the highlights was the various performances. Technology has made such things mobile, so a song that started in the kitchen could wend its way through the house and out into the yard and back again.

I love the 21st century. Other highlights:


Good food, excellent company, and adult libations.

Belly laughs.

Your sister sucks. Your mom ROCKS. (So do you, you know.)


Introducing the my favorite 50s housewife around.

That redneck hat with the attached wig.



The Time Warp.

Just drunk enough? Yep … just drunk enough.


Everything tastes great on a cracker!

The Wooden Throne.


Letting go.

Those shoes. Oh my, those shoes! (And that husband …!)

Wait, that guy talks?!


Put that boy in his place, would ya?



Princesses, queens, and divas, oh my!

If all this seems enigmatic, well, I’m not going to elaborate. If you want to know, you’ll just have to make the trek to Florida and experience it all for yourself, up close and personal.

Just be careful what you wish for.

Whachoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?

The Maestro.

Posted in SoForth on February 1st, 2015 by Diva

I have been ruminating lately on the way it began, specifically those nights at the house in Albuquerque. There in the dark, hour upon hour, we peeled layers off each others being until we were both unburdened and empty.

I’d never before met my equal. It was terrifying – and irritating, and exhilarating, and exhausting – to have my own tricks used against me. I hated that he saw through me so easily; he hated I could outmaneuver him. We couldn’t fool each other, so we eventually accepted a kind of comfortable detente.

Other people, though … well, they’ve always been fair game.

He began to open people before the cafe table as he opened bottles, not delicately, not gradually, but uncorking them, hurling direct questions at them like javelins, assaulting them with naked curiosity.

A secret, an evasion, a shrinking, drove him to repeat his thrusts like one hard of hearing: what did you say?

No secrets! No mystifications allowed! Spill open! Give yourself publicly like those fanatics who confess to the community.

He hated withdrawals, shells, veils. They aroused the barbarian in him, the violater of cities, the sacker and invader.

Dive from any place whatever!

But dive!

With large savage scissors he cut off all the moorings. Cut off responsibilities, families, shelters. He sent every one of them towards the open sea, into chaos, into poverty into solitude into storms.

At first they bounced safely on the buoyant mattress of his enthusiasms. [He] became gayer and gayer as his timid passengers embarked on unfamiliar and tumultuous seas.

Some felt relieved to have been violated. There was no other way to open their beings. They were glad to have been done violence to as secrets have a way of corroding their containers. Others felt ravaged like invaded countries, felt hopelessly exhibited and ashamed of this lesser aspect of themselves.

As soon as [he] had emptied the person, and the bottle, of all it contained, down to the sediments, he was satiated.

Come, said [he], display the worst in yourself. To laugh it is necessary to present a charade of our diminished states. To face the natural man, and the charm of his defects. Come, said [he], let us share our flaws together. I do not believe in heroes. I believe in the natural man.

~ Anais Nin, Children of the Albatross

If you trust me, I will destroy you. If you trust me, I will help you rebuild. If you trust me, one day you’ll learn to do the same. If you trust me, you may even get a chance at destroying me.

It’s been a long time since I met my match.

Find me a find, catch me a catch.