Interview to be my boyfriend

I am doing an interview for you, a new potential boyfriend.  Please answer honestly (ha!) and completely:

Do you hate your mother, or just have a very weird relationship with her?

Are you a genius and at the height of your profession?

Do complete strangers call you “a total fucking asshole?”

Do you experience road rage?

Are you capable of breaking into your ex-girlfriend’s apartment when she leaves you? Does home invasion give you a boner?

Are you a sadist? Does saying things like “You’re my property!” turn you on?

Have you published in peer-reviewed journals?

Do you hire sex workers, and then blame the sex worker for doing that work?  Are you a massive hypocrite?

Do you fantasize about murdering your colleagues because you’re so damn competitive?  Do you actively try to hurt their careers?

Are you jealous of my parrot, Abe?

Are you capable of borrowing a cockatoo, or, alternately, abandoning your Amazon parrot at the dog pound when you got tired of him?

Are you emotionally unavailable?


Will I eventually have to get a restraining order?

Do you have a personality disorder?

Will you go through my purse, my phone, and my drawers?

Are you a notorious womanizer?

Are you a millionaire who is absurdly cheap?  Will I have to grovel to you to help me out with rent once in my life when I’ve fallen on hard times, after we’ve been together for years?

Do you tip 10%?

Are you ostensibly a Democrat, and then give money to Republican candidates “because taxes?”

Do you have strong opinions about black Americans, even though you have none in your social orbit and practically never speak to one?

Do you own Gucci loafers?

Are you old enough to be my father?

Extra credit if you are Jewish.  Sephardic guys to the front of the line.  Extra extra points if you fetishize me because of how white I look, but would never marry me in a million years.

Owl Snatcher

After a few days of reflection, I just HAD to post about this one…

So I’m at the grocery store, and I see an ugly ceramic owl pot-pant.  It was ugly, but it was an owl, so I had to have it.

I picked it up and realized I did not have a basket.  So, I put the owl down by the rotisserie chickens and BBQ and ran outside for a basket.  I was only gone for 30 seconds.  AT MOST.

When I came back, so crazy old jerkola had MY OWL in her shopping cart!

“Excuse me, Madam, that’s my owl,” I said.  “I just left it there so I could get a cart.”

“If you wanted it, you shouldn’t have put it down!”

A confrontation ensued.  Did I mention this thing was $8.99?  I am officially a crazy lady at the grocery store fighting over something useless.

Eventually, I SNATCHED IT OUT OF HER CART and ran away with it.  She did not pursue, presumably because I appeared to be batshit insane.

I told The Collector, and he thought it was hilarious.

Something else: he calls me a witch (not in the derogatory sense).  He says I enchanted him and I enchanted men for a living, sexually. Recently, he went to a “psychic” by Purple Passion.  He said, “I’ve never done this before because it’s not my thing.  I don’t believe in it.  But, I wanted to ask a real witch what I should get the new little witch in my life.”

Dunno what it is yet, but I’ll get it soon.

The Story of the Spanko and the “Session Jar.”

This one is going to be short…but I had to write it down, because it’s a new one (that’s the thing about the fetish Biz–you think you’ve seen it all, but you never have, and presumably never will).

It’s also sweet and funny, in its way.

Old guy comes to see me.  Had a hearing aid and dentures, because nobody that old has perfect refrigerator-white teeth (huh? Don’t dentists “age” dentures to match?) Clearly on Social Security, maybe a pension–he seemed poor to me, but, believe me, you can never be sure.  Scrubs would come to the dungeon in sweatshirts that looked older than me with holes in them and velcro sneakers with the mesh on top about worn through, and I’d find out later that they were millionaires.

Anyway, the man was a spanko: all that he wanted was a bare-bottom spanking over my knee, while lying on the couch.  He didn’t even want to undress (most true spankos, I’ve found, keep all or most of their clothes on.  I guess it keeps the experience more true to the domestic discipline childhood experience).

Easy-peasy, and one of my favorite types of sessions.  I really enjoy going to town on hardcore masochists with a variety of implements–and I’m good at it, because I’m a very experienced maso myself–but old-fashioned spankings and domestic discipline scenarios are tons of fun (always do it in stockings, old-fashioned heeled “slippers” with downed muff on top, and a satin robe, and ALWAYS wash the mouth out with Ivory soap. No other soap will do!).

The guy is a gent and reaches into his backpack to pay me, presumably to get his wallet…

…instead, he pulls out a Jiffy peanut butter jar, full of money, and hands it to me.

I opened it and took out a handful.

It was full of $1 bills.  Some crushed, some folded.  They all look like he had taken them out of his pockets at the end of the day and put them in the jar.

Well, you know the rule: Always get the money up front.

I thanked him, kept a pleasant smile on my face, sat down on the edge of the bed, and started counting the money.  In order to do this, I had to unfold it and straighten it out.  I started making little stacks of 10 $1-bills so that I could keep track of it.

This was tedious and time-consuming and I began to feel rather embarrassed and self-conscious.

I got to about $50-something and said something I’ve never said to a client (or practically any man, for that matter) before:  “You know what?  I’ll just take your word for it.”

I put his money back in the Jiffy jar, which I am positive is his “session jar,” in which he saves, say, a dollar a day or something until he can afford a session.  Only 38 days more and I can get my ass spanked! he thinks, as he adds another dollar.

We did the session.  He was great.  It was only a half-hour and easy as pie.  He was nice and clean and in a great mood and left happy.

I finally counted the money (I really wish I’d taken a picture of it for you, because it looked hilarious, all those crumpled $1s in a peanut butter jar) and he was as good as gold: it was all there.

And now, the Story of the Spanko and the Session Jar is told.

Sorority Paddle

Behold the sweet manna the prodomme goddesses in heaven have chosen to rain down upon me!

I was at the used furniture store the other day, shopping for a bedside lamp and a gift for my mother’s birthday, when, what did I see hanging on the wall but this!

An authentic sorority paddle from 1956, engraved with the logos and official seals of my undergraduate university!

I couldn’t believe it!  It’s perfect!  It’s everything I ever wanted in a wooden torture instrument!  And it only cost me $20!

“It’s been hanging on the wall forever,” said the salesman, who seemed honestly confused by my delight and rapturous enthusiasm. “It came from an estate sale.  We found it in a box of random junk.”

“It’s not junk!” I hissed, as if someone had just insulted a prized family heirloom.

He pulled back, startled.  “Well, I’m glad you like it, Miss.”

I handed it to him, but before I released it into his hand, I said, “I’m going to keep shopping, but I want this paddle!  Under no circumstances are you to sell it to anyone else!  I’ll be done in 20 minutes.  Hide it in a drawer, so nobody else can see it!”

He looked increasingly alarmed and promised me that he would keep it safe for me until I was done shopping.

I was so happy that I came straight home and took a zillion photos of the thing.  Here are a few.  Sorry, I can only show you one side of the paddle…the side with the sorority crests and the writing, “CHRISTMAS FORMAL ’56.”  I can’t show the college seals for security reasons.

It’s so special that I almost don’t want to beat a boy with it.



christmas formal 56 1





Welcome Back to the Gun Show!

Since I’m still stuck in this godforsaken place, I decided to embrace the local culture and do something that I certainly will not be able to do back in New York: fun with guns!

(I wrote about my experience with guns here.) 

         My Concealed Carry permit is expired.  I decided to renew it, so I called my old firearms instructor and signed up for his CCW preparation course.  I chose the most comprehensive course on his CCW menu of services, the Rolls-Royce of CCW courses, if you will, which will qualify me to apply for a concealed carry permit in no fewer than five states!  After this, I’ll be able to pack heat at a shopping mall in Florida, or at a nail salon New Hampshire!  Guns, while I get my eyebrows waxed, and a paraffin dip treatment for my feet!  A right guaranteed to me by the Second Amendment, as the Framers intended!

The course isn’t until next week.  In the meantime, I booked an hour and a half at a shooting range tomorrow.  It’s a new range I’ve never been to before.  I got a great deal on!  I wish I could show you guys the website.  I think my overseas readers would find it very interesting.   It contains gifs of waving American flags and calls unarmed citizens “shirkers” who “fail to contribute to the security of their community.”  They offer all sorts of classes, including “Citizen Defense of the Homeland” and “Low Light Defensive Handgun.”

Finally, I bought tickets for a gun show.  It’s one of the biggest gun shows in the United States.  I’m going to take lots of pictures and blog about it.  I think every American should go to a gun show once, if only to gain a better understanding of the culture.  If you’re wondering: it’s fucking hideous.  I know the decent hunters and sportsmen don’t like to be lumped in with the Timmy McVeigh Black Helicopter crowd, but when you’ve got a table from Ducks Unlimited and the GOP right next to a vendor selling Confederate-flag bumper stickers and The Turner Diaries, well, that’s the company one keeps.   Throw in the rich violent sociopaths from Safari Club International, and you’ve got fun for the whole family.

I’ll bring the camera.

(15) Movie Review: The Salvation

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        I just watched an entertaining but completely forgettable Western called The Salvation.  I decided to blog about it right away, while I still remember a bit about it.

        I wanted to see this movie for two reasons: it is an ultra-violent Western, the only genre of film I give complete permission to be brain-dead, and it stars my boyfriend, Mads Mikkelsen.

           Now, you might be saying to yourself, “Wait…isn’t that ugly motherfucker some sort of European?”  

            You’d be correct!   Mr. Mikkelsen is, in fact, Danish…the country where they make the delicious Christmas cookies and my favorite client, Fortinbras.   All sorts of good things come out of Denmark.  

Courtesy of our Danish friends

         A Danish film film about a Danish cowboy.   American audiences might be skeptical, but I ask you: Why the hell not…?  The Western is one of our cinematic gifts to the world.  Can you blame other people for loving it and wanting to make it their own?  Of course not!  

            We can’t even rightly call it cultural appropriation when other countries borrow it, because the Western is essentially a fantasy genre.  Most Western books and movies bear only the faintest resemblance to American frontier life post-Civil War to 1900.   The Western has never been about historical accuracy.   It was fantasy when James Fenimore Cooper wrote The Last of the Mohicans and it’s fantasy today.   It was fantasy when the real thing was actually happening, which is very interesting.  Edward S. Curtis and Buffalo Bill were selling a fiction.  They had the real American West, and they sold the fantasy Western.   Crazy, right?  So you have a photographer who travels the West and makes it look like this:

You know it didn’t REALLY look like this

or this

            Now, you can argue–persuasively, even–that the fantasy Western was propaganda.   The people in the photographs above would probably have a lot to say about that.  Yes, it’s propaganda, but it’s more than that, which is what accounts for its universal popularity.  The Western is a sort of Rorschach test.   What does the American West symbolize?  A fresh start.  Opportunity.  Freedom from political oppression and the hypocrisy of society.  A chance to remake one’s image.  Paradoxically, spirituality in nature and triumph over it.  Equality, if you’re white.  Hope.  

           America owns the West, but the Western belongs to everyone.  

           Which brings us back to the Danish cowboy!

            Mads Mikkelsen plays a Danish soldier who moves out West with his brother to (what else?) make a better life for himself after fighting the Germans (Austrians and Prussians).  

       After seven years, his wife and son make the journey to join him.  Alas, they meet a violent and untimely end.  Mikkelsen and his brother spend the next 70 minutes getting sweet, sweet revenge.  The #1 Bad Guy has a black hat, black boots, and a black mustache.  In addition to being an enthusiastic murderer, he extorts money from the decent townfolk and has sex with his sister-in-law.   100% scumbag, no ambiguity at all.   There is a jailbreak, a rooftop shootout, a sheriff with a brass star on his shirt, and a rich guy in fancy clothes from Back East who wants to buy up the town.  The plot contained zero surprises.  

          The action was fast and I was not bored.  Good music.  The town looked like a fantasy of a western town.  Mikkelsen delivers his 20 lines of dialogue convincingly.  So does the Swede who plays his brother.  Good job, guys.  

         I was hoping for a flashback to the Second Schleswig War, but it didn’t happen. 

          This movie is exactly what you’d expect.   I give it a B+.  

Would You Take a Used Liberator?

    This has nothing to do with Easter Sunday, but it was so weird that I had to give it a quick blog post…

     Not one hour ago, I was walking to the drug store on the corner when I saw a Liberator sitting on top of an overflowing trash can.

      If you’re not in the know, a Liberator is sex furniture manufactured for yuppies.  You can read all about it if you can endure reading their cheesy website, but essentially, it is a wedge-shaped piece of foam ostensibly used for comfort and support during sex.  I don’t have one myself–the humble pillow has always worked for me–but I know what they are because Rolling Stone magazine has run Liberator ads for years.

      So there it was, in a New York City trashcan: someone’s used Liberator.  It was definitely used.  Looked a little ratty.  Well, I hope it brought someone(s) lots of happiness.

“Bedroom Adventure Gear,” puh-LEEZE!  AMATEURS

       I almost took a photo of it with my cell phone, because I thought it was funny.  I really wish I would have.

       I walked on, did my shopping, and then made for home.  On the way, I decided that I’d take a picture of the trashed Liberator after all.  I thought it would make an amusing Tweet.

       But guess what…?  GUESS WHAT HAPPENED?

        WHILE I WAS IN  THE STORE, SOMEBODY TOOK THAT USED, RATTY LIBERATOR!  It wasn’t in the trash can anymore!

       Now, I’m no germophobe–I’m really not–but that is just GROSS.  I wouldn’t use it even if I had it professionally cleaned!  

       I am praying, praying, that the person who took that Liberator was its original owner, who decided that he just couldn’t bear to part with it.  

       The alternative is too gruesome to think about. 

       I don’t care about celebrities, aside, perhaps, from my boyfriend Liam Neeson, but this cracked me up, so I’m posting it.  I can’t decide whether Twitter is great, or the biggest waste of time ever.  I definitely think it’s fun, though. 


         Now I am going to run to the Frick.  Fortinbras is sending me on another art scavenger hunt.  I am hoping to go out to dinner with Heinrich when he gets off work.  I haven’t seen him in a while and I’d like to catch up, and it would be kinda sad to spend Easter Sunday alone and watching House.  

        (Actually, I wouldn’t watch House.  Errol Morris just made a documentary about Donald Rumsfeld, and you can stream in on Amazon.  Morris’s film on Robert McNamara, The Fog of War, is one of my favorite movies.  I watch it once a year.  


      I have two more weeks of rehab, and then I’m going to visit my mother if I can afford plane tickets.  

Welcome to the Gun Show

     My uncle, an ex Marine and retired police detective, taught my brother and myself how to shoot.  We’d drive into the desert and set up targets–phone books and soda bottles at first, and eventually paper rifelry targets once we achieved proficiency. 

      The first gun I learned on was a .22 bolt-action rifle from Walmart.  It was a Ruger.  It was a thing of beauty.  I was a very good shot–better than my brother, though that could be due to the age discrepancy.  Shooting is the only sport besides swimming that in which I’ve possessed a natural affinity.  

      Everyone in my family owns guns, including my father, that paragon of positive mental health and good parenting.  Technically he should be disallowed from carrying because he’s been institutionalized, but my home state is very, well, gun-happy.  They are not going to let a few domestic violence charges and suicide attempts impede an honorably discharged veteran from exercising his God-given right to bear arms.  

      Laugh or cry?  Laugh or cry?  Laugh, so you don’t have to cry!

      My mother, a tiny blonde lady who volunteers to clean her Church on Fridays, owns a shotgun.  I have handled this weapon with my own two hands.  If you shoot someone with it at close range, it will blow them in half. 

        My Uncle rolls around with an armory in the back seat of his car.  The good news is that he doesn’t drink and he is actually quite responsible. And a very good shot.  As long as the car doesn’t catch on fire, nothing bad will happen.

         My first gun was a .32 Smith & Wesson long-nose revolver.  It is a thing of beauty, with a lovely wooden grip.  My brother bought it as a gift for my birthday.  We got it from a pawn shop by the grocery store. I had to sign a paperwork saying that I had not formally renounced my United States Citizenship and that I did not intend to use the gun to kill anyone, and that was that.  I was 19 years old.

        The people in my home state are armed like Arabs.  You know when you seen crazy Arabs on the news, shooting at the sky whenever they’re at a wedding?   Or a funeral?  We’re like that.  Shoot when you’re happy!  Shoot when you’re sad!  SHOOT WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY!

        When Obama was elected, the town sold out of ammo.  My brother, an otherwise sane and intelligent young man, is convinced Obama is coming for his guns.  I cannot convince him otherwise.  He votes Republican because of the guns.  My family are otherwise Roosevelt Democrats. 

      My brother hunts.  I honestly do not like to think of the number of animals he has shot out of the sky.  There are taxidermy specimens all over his house, including a bear he killed with a crossbow.  Poor thing (the bear).    

    I completed an 8-hour course in formal firearms training to earn a concealed carry permit.  It was taught in my living room by a retired marine who, for reasons which remain obscure to me, brought along his German Shepard.  The class cost $185. Then I could pack heat anywhere I wanted, except for campus and government buildings.  And I was drinking at the time.  GUNS IN BARS!  GOOD IDEA!  WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

         Did I ever tell you that half the professors in my Department had concealed carry permits?  It’s true.  We couldn’t wear the guns to school…but we had them.  We’d talk gun shop in the faculty lounge.  My Chair was a civilized, cultured man with a beautiful house decorated in a nautical theme.  He was a ferocious Right-wing hawk and there was a picture of himself shaking hands with Donald Rumsfeld on his desk.  He owned an arsenal that he showed off to me when I visited his home for the annual faculty BBQ (I brought my famous homemade man n cheese with bread crumb topping.  I hadn’t developed the anorexia yet.  I saved that for the Ph.D. program). 

        My brother wears his gun to Walmart.  He wears his gun to bars (at least he stops at 2 drinks).  He wears his gun to Dunkin Donuts.  He wears his gun to the hospital (but not to the VA hospital–that would be illegal!) Why not?

          I have a photo of my Uncle in Vietnam, moving sandbags.  He has a rifle on his back.

          I have a photo of my father shooting a massive piece of artillery at the Army base in Frankfurt.  A true Cold War classic, this photo.  Especially since he’d hang with the Fam on his off-time. 

         Laugh, or cry?  Laugh, or cry?

         Laugh so you don’t have to cry.

Directions to The Olive Garden

    So, I finish the shift at the Studio, don my sneakers, and commence running home, because I always like to stretch my legs after a 6-hour spell at the dungeon unless it’s too cold outside to be comfortable…

    …..annnnd, in Midtown, a couple stops me on the street.

      They ask me for directions.


       This is what I want to know: who the hell comes to New York City, one of the culinary capitals of North America, and wants to dine at the Olive Garden?  Why does the Olive Garden even exist in NYC?  I don’t get it!  

        Don’t get me wrong–I’m not besmirching the Olive Garden.  For a chain restaurant, the atmosphere and quality of the food is just fine.  The unlimited salad is always very crisp and tasty and they always give warm garlic breadsticks, nom nom NOM.  I loved the place when I was a teenager and didn’t know what good food was.  Again, that is not a backhanded compliment to the Olive Garden.

       But who the hell wants to eat at the Olive Garden in NYC?

       And why…?

       That goes for Domino’s Pizza, too!  You can get the best pizza in the world outside of Italy in NYC!  A thousand pizza joints, ranging from gourmet to $2 hole-in-the-wall “eat while drunk at 3 AM” restaurants (especially if you believe in women’s lib!)…and people want to eat Domino’s?   


       Another thing that I do not understand about New Yorkers is eating fish on a bagel.  

        Bagels are delicious.  I never knew what a good bagel was until I moved to New York.  Where I come from, you buy bagels in a plastic bag at the grocery store, and they are shit.  New York bagels are fuckin fantastic.  

        But they put fish on the bagel.  They call it “lox” (or smoked salmon.  Not sure if lox is salmon.  It could be.).  

        Fish.  On a bagel.

        FISH ON A BAGEL.

         The first time I saw that, I almost barfed on the floor.  I mean, what are you people thinking?  Fish on a bagel?  It’s 8 AM, dude!

        And fish…?  Who eats fish, anyway?  Maybe in the summertime, fry up a fingerling trout…but really?  Fish?

        “May I have honey on my bagel, Sir?” I asked the counterman at the deli.


         “Honey!  I want honey on my bagel, please.”

         “That is not something that goes on a bagel.  We don’t have any honey.”

        This blog post is kinda stupid, but I felt like writing this morning.

My Date with Jay, Believer in Women’s Lib

      I found an email from a men named, let’s say, “Jay,” in my inbox recently.

       “Hi Margo!  It’s Jay.  Remember me?  I was wondering if you’d like to reconnect.”  

         No, Jay.  No, I would rather not reconnect with you.

          I wrote back: “After that magical first date, why wouldn’t I?”

          “Great!  What are you doing this Thursday?”

          It’s a good thing my desk was covered with books and papers, because I was just about to slam my forehead on it.

           Let me tell you the story of my date with Jay.  It wasn’t the worst date I’ve ever had (that would be a tie between the guy who took me to a car show as a “romantic surprise” and another guy who actually told me, over dinner, that he was looking for a girlfriend again because he was tired of seeing escorts.  Yes, he actually said that!), but it was memorable. 

          I met Jay through an internet dating site.  He worked for the New York Public Library system.  He was cute.  His letters were well-written and displayed a little humor.  We batted a few back and forth and then agreed to meet for a spur of the moment dinner.

         “I know a great pizza spot!” he said.

          Pizza!  Pizza sounded like a good idea.  Something casual, where if the date went poorly, we could both get the hell out with a minimum of discomfort. 

           But…I was expecting someplace were we could, you know…sit down.

           I walked past the place twice while looking for it.  It was not a cozy little family Italian pizza place.  

            It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places where you go for a slice at 2 AM after you’ve been drinking all night.  I’m serious.  It was practically a hot dog stand.

           Okay, well….

            Then I met Jay.  Jay was a grown man with a Master’s degree.

            Jay was wearing cutoff jean shorts with holes in them and a pair of flip-flops.  And his feet were gross.  Seriously.  I am talking yellow Frito-talon toenails.  My parrot has better looking feet than this guy.

            I don’t get it.  I shaved my legs for this?  I shaved my legs, put on a pretty sun dress, and did my hair nice…and Jay could not be bothered to put on pants. 

          But wait, there’s more!

          Well, I was already there, so what the hell.  We each ordered pizza and a beer (this was before I quit drinking).

         Jay turned to me and said: “I always go dutch with dates because I believe in women’s lib.”

          There you have it, ladies.  A hundred years of political activism to obtain civil rights, all for equality with men at the $2 pizza stand.  

         I couldn’t even get offended.  I mean, the slice and the beer was only $4.  I just thought it was funny

        “You have a pretty smile!” he said.

         Oh, Jay.  If you only knew why I am smiling…

          Well, I ate the pizza and made an excuse to get away immediately afterward.  I said that I had to make some important phone calls for work. 

          I must admit, though, that as he walked away, I took a photo of his shorts and flip-flops with my cell phone.  I did not think that my girlfriends would be able to understand the decrepitude of the clothing without ocular evidence. 

          When I showed my friend, she snatched the phone out of my hand to look up close: “What was he doing before the date?  Washing his car with a garden hose?  And he made you go dutch on a slice of pizza?”

            “Jessica!” I said sternly, shaking my finger at her, “Jay did it for a noble cause.  Jay did it for feminism.  Jay is an enlightened, progressive man!”

          One of my friends thought it would be a fun practical joke to buy a pair of khakis for Jay at the thrift store and mail them to him at work with a note saying “Every man should own at least one pair of pants,” but I thought that was overkill.  

         Now clueless Jay seems to actually think I would like to go on another date with him.

         I wrote back: “Will you wear pants and real shoes this time?”

        He responded: “Of course!  It’s cold outside!”

         Why did I quit drinking, again?  OK Cupid should give every new member a bottle of scotch or a lobotomy.  There is no other way to survive it.