Lady Rancher

I spent the weekend outside the city, exploring the land where I imagine running my fantasy ranch. Driving north through Olema, Inverness, and Point Reyes, I thought it must be a sign when I saw a boat called the Wayward Miss and a road called "Dream Farm Lane." Deer, foxes, horses. A lighthouse, a general store, a cheese shop. They're awfully pretty to visit, but right on the fault line.

Further north, into Sonoma county, is where the Osmosis enzyme baths are, just steps from the WildFlour Bakery. A tiny town set around a historical well. It's a great place to live halfway between luxury and homesteading.

Gone Bad

Craving an encounter with a roving pack of vicious she-beasts, bent on getting their thrills causing you pain?

Wishing you, too, could be the laughing stock of a tough girl gang, fresh from a 1950's pulp paperback?

Ever yearned for the picture perfect sissy sleepover party, complete with pillow fights, makeovers, and truth or dare?

I've gone and joined a gang.

The Girl Gang.

Bad Little Bobby

Bobby was sent to me for corrective corporal punishment- discipline best administered by a knowing parent, of course. To save him the embarrassment of having his pants pulled down in the principal's office and his wails heard by the majority of the student body, I took him into my soundproof bedroom the minute he walked in the door. In addition to being hours late, he smelled as if he had been playing with matches!

Bobby is such a hard case. He lies again and again, and the only way to bring him around to the truth is by taking him over my knee and spanking him. Hard. For an extended period of time.

I dump his backpack out onto the floor and order him to change into his pajamas. I find stolen toy guns, chewing gum, and a notebook which should have been filled with science notes but is instead rather empty. Empty except for the notes passed among his delinquent buddies during Mrs. Parker's first period biology.

I order him over my knee immediately. He howls and asserts that he's telling the truth, that he wasn't cheating on the test, that he went to the library to study after school. His lies unravel bit by bit as his bottom reddens. I do it for his own good, I tell him. Only for his own good. But that's not enough. He raises his voice at me. I slap him across the face so hard that his eyes pucker and he looks as if he'll cry. I continue his spanking but move on to the hairbrush, sure there's more to the story.

He's belligerent. I take him by the ear. "You do NOT raise your voice at me, young man!" I shout in his face when he's pinned against the wall, fearful.

Hairbrushes, straps, wooden spoons, paddles, razor strops, and again my bare hand.

I lecture and I smack.

Eventually, I get the kind of result that the pediatrician suggested I look out for- squirming and sobbing, a hot face flooded with tears. He's wide open, telling the truth. I know it's time for the diaper.