Cardinal Red

Most of the people who know me (even those who don't know me well) know that I'm a die hard St. Louis Cardinal fan. I've been a fan for as long as I can remember. My dad packed us up and took us to our first game in the summer of 1964. Cigi and I were three years old. Can you imagine driving for five hours with twin three year olds? My mother was at home with my older sister and brother, both of whom were down with something; don't ask me what. The game was against the Los Angeles Dodgers and was held at the old Sportsman's Park. Then, as now, baseball managers liked to set the rotation so that their best guy was pitching when the other team's best guy was pitching. The Cardinals had their ace on the mound, the imposing and intimidating Bob Gibson. The Dodgers started with Sandy Koufax, who was maybe the best left handed pitcher of his time (or any time). Unfortunately, I have no conscious memory of this game. It's enough for me to know that I stood in the same ballpark with such greatness. The Cardinals went on to win the World Series that year, beating the Yankees. Cardinal broadcaster, Mike Shannon, still lists his home run off of Whitey Ford (the Chairman of the Board) as one of the highlights of his career. After attending my first game, I was hooked. My dad patiently taught me the rules and also how to keep score. Back then, very few games were on television. You mostly heard games on the radio. It's one of my sweetest memories; sitting at the table eating ice cream while a game played on the radio and my dad cleaned his golf clubs. I developed a lifelong love of Cardinal baseball and their great players and traditions. Now don't panic. Among all this baseball talk, I will get to the spanking portion of this entry, I promise.

Over the years, I began to investigate my spanking kink. Oh not actively, of course. I was still too young for that. But I began to have spanking fantasies about some of the players, all of whom were older than I was back then. One of my first was Tommy Herr, the second baseman for the 1982 World Series champions. Tommy was just a doll in my eyes and had a stern sort of countenance that I found very exciting. When the Cardinals won the World Series, Tommy was a 27-year-old cutie. His position was second base and he played it to the hilt. I can still remember the post game footage of that World Series: there was Tommy (whom my sisters and I had given the nickname "Sweet Cheeks") waving his jersey and with his glove tucked into the waistband of his pants.
I kind of remember thinking it was odd that I didn't imagine what it would be like to make love to him. I thought about what it would be like to be spanked my him. At the time, I was trying to get my boyfriend to spank me and he refused. Oh, Tommy, where are you now?

The years progressed and my spanking fantasies continued unabated. Even though the players were now my age and even a little younger, I still thought about it. Oh don't get me wrong. I still cared if they won or not. I was still glued to my television (when they were on) or my radio (when they weren't). For some reason, over the years, my spanking fantasies have been confined to pitchers. I think it's probably because most pitchers these days are big guys and I have a thing for tall guys--mostly because they have nice laps. The Cardinals always seemed to have their share of big, strong pitchers. I had spanking fantasies about another Cardinal pitcher later, in the late 90's. His name was Matt Morris and I once saw a picture of him with a Space Ghost T-shirt on that said "Don't Force Me To Use The Spank-Ray" on it.

Matt, or Matty Mo as he was better known to fans, might just be one of us. Who else but a spanko would wear a T-shirt like that? I mentioned in my "Celebrating Life" entry that my nurses knew what the "whole house looked like". The first person I heard use that phrase was Matty. He was being interviewed on TV and he was going to be flying back to St. Louis for shoulder surgery the next day and he was asked about it. Matty was one that I thought for sure would probably spank a girl. He stayed with the Cardinals for six years until he was traded to Pittsburgh. It was one of the saddest days of my life when he was traded. I knew it was time to concentrate on someone else now. I found him pretty quickly, but not in a pitcher. My next "spanking fantasy guy" was a catcher named Mike Matheny (another guy with MM initials...hmmmm). Mike had a reputation for being tough and no-nonsense. He didn't coddle pitchers like many catchers do. He wasn't the type of catcher to spend a lot of time visiting the mound either. His specialty was throwing out anyone incautious enough to try to steal a base off him.When he caught Matty Mo, he sometimes had to slow him down because he liked to pitch fast; just get the ball back and throw the next pitch. Sometimes, he wouldn't even wait for the sign. He would throw. And then Mike would peel his mask off and glare at him. I actually got to meet Mike in 2004 when a spanko friend and I attended a game in St. Louis. It was September and the Cardinals had a chance to clinch the division that day. I'd spent the previous night (it was an afternoon game) being tawsed by the guy I'd come with. Anyway, we got there way early and sat and watched batting practice. So many people were there, already cheering and chanting loudly, that they decided to open the wagon gate (the door to the bullpen) and let us out on the warning track (the dirt area that lets an outfielder know that he's about run out of real estate and hit the wall) to meet the players. The pitchers stayed in the dug out but most of the other players came out to meet us. Now Mike is a Christian, a quiet unassuming guy who would rather talk about his wife, Kristin and their kids than about his own accomplishments. Anyway, he put his hand out for me to shake and I was awestruck. He had the hardest hand I've ever felt. Thus, a spanking fantasy took hold. After the Division Series, Mike got a hunting knife as a gift and wasted no time in slicing his palm open, so we didn't have him for the Playoffs or the World Series. That put a series of events into motion and the Cardinals didn't resign him. Again, I was heart broken to see him go off to San Fransisco to finish his career.

The following year, the Cardinals signed a left-handed pitcher who had previously played for the Oakland Athletics. Cigi told me he was a "babe" and showed me a pitcher of him. I never doubted her again once I got a glimpse of the oh-so-hot Mark Mulder (again with the Double M's).

Now I know it's hard to tell from this picture, but trust me, Mark was a dyed-in-the-wool babe. The real deal. At 6'9" he was one of the tallest players in the game. Like most left handed pitchers, Mark was a flake. He had the quirky personality that most lefties have. My fantasies about him started when I saw him scold a female reporter for asking a question he felt was out of bounds (because it didn't happen on the baseball diamond). Oh my...hello, Mark. Because of the way he pitched, line drives often came right back at him. He once took a line drive off the bat of one of the National League's hardest hitters right in the ass and later, jokingly gave his post game interview standing up. I still have that game on tape and that hit had to have stung. Mark was such a hunk that he sometimes did some modeling during the off-season. Unfortunately, Mark didn't last too long. He was often injured and the last one ended his career. Oh, I was sorry to see him go. He fed a lot of my spanking fantasies while he was in St. Louis.
With the departure of Mark Mulder, I soon found another pitcher to concentrate on. It was Chris Carpenter, the Cardinals' Cy Young winning pitcher. I've described him in another post as a man of few words. He just has this special quality that thrills me. Last month, he got suspended for two games for participating in a bench clearing brawl. He plays to win and is a gritty competitor. However, he cleans up nice.Mike Matheny also caught Chris in 2004. When those two worked together, my little spanko brain worked overtime. Chris another big, strong pitcher, one of many the Cardinals have had over the years. However, Carp is special. He's one of the most dominant right handers in the game. Even though he's now 35, his skills haven't diminished noticeably. It might take him longer to warm up and he might have to exercise more in order to keep in shape, but then who doesn't? I know that Chris can't pitch forever. I will have to find someone else to fantasize about. Most of the guys who play now are young enough to be my nephew (and some are young enough to be my son). I wonder if I will ever close the book on my spanking fantasies that involve baseball? There is one guy that might fit the bill. He's an outfielder and pretty hunky.

Matt Holliday came to the Cardinals last year at the trade deadline. I was attracted to him from the very beginning. Look how small that baseball looks in his hand. He's a genial guy and usually has a smile on his face. Plus look at those thighs. It looks like he has a very sturdy lap.

I guess time will tell if I continue to fantasize about Cardinal players. I've done it for so long that I don't know if I could stop, no matter how young the players get. That's the fun of fantasy.

My Spanking Life

Yesterday's post really got me thinking about my past. I look at pictures of myself as a teenager and as a young woman and I just have to shake my head. That girl just doesn't exist anymore. But, if we're being honest, how many of us can say we're the same people we were thirty or more years ago? I'm sure not. I've changed in ways that are incalculable and mostly for the better. I owe most of it to my upbringing. I think I pretty much hit the jackpot when it came to the kind of parents I got. I didn't see this at the time, though. At the time, I was envious of many of my friends, whose parents were better off than mine. I was envious that they got to do things my strict mom and dad just wouldn't allow. My girlfriends got to dress way more provocatively than I did. My dad often made sure we "passed inspection" before we left for school--dresses not too short, shirts not cut too low, no make up, etc. Once, when I protested these inspections because my brother was never subjected to them, my dad's answer was a curt "Boys don't end up with a fat belly." My dad had three daughters and he knew he faced a tough battle. The 70's were a time when a lot of kids, mostly ones from good homes like mine, were throwing off the conventions of their parents. My dad knew that even a good kid like me could end up in trouble. My mother and father both were determined that we were going to grow up to be good, solid citizens. This photo of me, with some of my mother's irises, was taken on May 25, 1979 according to the note on the back. It was taken the day before I graduated from high school. The road was wide open back then. I had my whole life ahead of me, which my mother often told me. The funny thing is, at about this time, I had a boyfriend who loved to photograph me. I think he took this photo. I had been trying for almost a year to get him to spank me. I'd tried everything, including come right out and telling him that was what I wanted. He was 20 at the time and a college boy. "Your dad did that to you" he told me. "I didn't know you were a psychology major," I quipped. "I thought you were majoring in business?" "I am," he said as we stood in my mother's pantry (for privacy). "Well then why don't you mind your own?" I asked. Now think about that ridiculous situation. I was trying to get him to spank me and at the same time, I didn't want him to analyze the reasons why I wanted one. To my shock, and with strength I didn't know he had, he grabbed me and bent me over at the waste. At the last minute, he lost his nerve and stood me back up. I was breathing hard, but not because of my asthma. I was about as turned on as I had ever been in my life. Then the prize was snatched away. He turned on his heel without even saying goodbye and left. The following week, he broke up with me. I couldn't understand why I wanted him to spank me. I had hated my dad's spankings as a child. But I did commit some thoughts to my diary that night, making my first attempt to confront my kinky side. I wondered what was the matter with me. Why couldn't I just be a normal girl? Of course, outwardly, I was. I could never be sure if this ex-boyfriend ever told anyone about my need to get spanked. I had no problem replacing him though. I wasn't promiscuous, mind you. I was just a normal, hot blooded girl.

This photo was taken in June, 1977 at my grandparents' place in Missouri. They had retired there in the early 70's. My grandfather built their beautiful home on Table Rock Lake. In the photo, I'm sitting on my grandfather's woodpile, giving the thumbs up. A few days earlier, I was caught by my grandmother necking with a boy on this very woodpile. He was a boy that my grandparents had approved of; a good, clean Christian boy. She was forced to change her mind about him when she caught him with his hand in my shirt and his tongue working my mouth. She was shocked to put it mildly. I think she came pretty close to having her second coronary. I was 16 and he was 17. I was jail bait. My grandfather was told and he reacted predictably. He pulled the kid off of me, took him by the collar and literally booted him off te property with a warning not to come back unless it was to apologize. My parents had gone to Berryville for the day to shop for walnut bowls. But they would have to be told. My grandmother lectured me about the dangers of not valuing my reputation. My grandfather threatened to make my bottom as red as the shirt I was wearing. I couldn't remember him ever laying a hand on me. "I'm not a child," I said. "Well, you're not a grown up either" my grandfather replied. These were my mother's parents. She had been their cherished only child. She'd been slightly spoiled and pampered growing up, but she had never for a moment deviated from the way she was raised. My grandmother was scandalized by the incident. I sat dejectedly on the front porch, waiting for my parents to come back. When their car pulled up, I felt sick to my stomach. I knew my dad would be furious with me. This was the beginning of my rebellious period. When my dad was told about my escapades on the woodpile, he was confused. This was so unlike me (actually, it WAS like me...it was just unlike me to get caught). As I said, I was 16 when this happened and well used to my dad's belt. But he surprised me this time. He made me get over his knee and he used his hard right hand to drive home his point. It was a childish punishment that I highly resented. When I told the boy about it, he was amused. His blue eyes danced with mischief. Good God, I was in love with him. Too bad we were going back to Illinois in five days. He was a country boy and took delight in referring to me as a "spoiled city girl". What? I was a spoiled city girl because I preferred indoor plumbing? Anyway, he actually did come over and apologize to my grandparents for disrespecting their property. My grandfather knew his dad well. I did see him one more time before we left but there was no hanky panky (unfortunately). He was a sweet kid and a great kisser. Those country boys usually are.

It's amazing to me how much spanking has been a part of my life. From the time I could remember, it was present. Either someone was getting it, or it was on TV or I was reading about it in my brother's comic books. I had gotten into the habit by the time I reached my late teens of trying to get my boyfriends to spank me. I just had the feeling it would be fun coming from anyone but my dad.

By the time I was 21 (when this photo was taken) I was quite a bit more experienced where men was concerned. I had learned that most men didn't appreciate subtlety. They needed to be hit over the head with a 2X4. At the time this picture was taken, in March, 1982, I was dating a guy who worked at his dad's auto glass business. I had no idea how much pressure he was under working for his dad, who was very demanding. I had wanted him to spank me for as long as we'd been dating. At that time, Bradley was playing in the NIT (a tournament they would win with a great game at Madison Square Garden) and since the boyfriend was an alum, we got tickets to the games that were played at home. You can just see the little apple sticker on my shirt. Those were sort of like a rallying thing with fans. We'd had a heated argument the day before this photo was taken and, I'm ashamed to say, that he'd blacked my eye with a hard slap. I'm using make up to cover it in the photo. I felt very confused by him. I couldn't get him spank me, but he had no problem hauling off and slapping me in the face hard enough to give me a shiner. I found out later from a mutual friend who also dated him that his father had beaten his mother on a few occasions. I knew I wanted no part of a relationship with a man like that. So I began to think of ways to extricate myself from this situation. I wasn't sure how I felt about him at that point. It's been so many years that I'm not even sure I can remember what I was feeling. I remember a few days later he actually did spank me. But it wasn't the kind I wanted. We'd been invited to a couple of friends' place for a little party to celebrate Bradley's NIT win and we had been to the grocery store to pick up some cold cuts and beer for the party. We actually got into an argument because I wanted to keep the stuff at my house until the party and he asked what was wrong with his place. "Nothing" I said. "Here, take the stuff to your place. Jeese, like I give a shit! You make a production out of everything." He stood there, shocked to inaction, I thought. The look on his face was familiar. I'd seen it right before he'd hauled off a slapped me. I wouldn't say I was afraid. I told him if he ever hit me again, I would knock him on his ass. I was strong from playing sports and I had no doubt I could do it. I had broken the nose of a boy I was dating when I was 19 when he did nothing more than grab my wrist. Anyway, he stood there steaming and said "Are you finished?" I shrugged. I didn't know what he meant by finished. "Just get outta here" I said. "Go and leave me alone. Take that crap with you it means so much to you." Now at this time, I wasn't as big as I am now. But I was still a pretty big girl. I was 5'9" and weighed about 150 at the time. This guy was not small. He was about five inches taller than I was and outweighed me by about 60 pounds. Maybe I wouldn't be able to drop him after all. But I let him know that he was never going to hit me again without me doing something about it. My father had a chair he liked to sit in and it had otoman that matched it. My boyfriend took my arm and marched me over to the ottoman and sat down on it. Then he jerked me over his knee so hard he almost pulled my arm out of the socket. Then he spanked me. "You wanted this, remember" he said as he pummeled me. "Not this way" I said. "Oh I doubt that," he said. "I think this is exactly how you wanted it." So now I was even more confused. The spanking had hurt and I guess I didn't know what to expect. All I had to go on was fantasy. Had I been pushing his buttons? Anyway, he left taking the cold cuts and beer with him. The funny thing is that I still ended up going to the party with him. I made sure no one saw my shiner or found out about the spanking. One of our friends commented on how quiet I was and I was about to say something when he volunteered "Oh, I had to straighten her out a little yesterday. She's still pouting." That NIT party was the last time I saw him. I made up my mind after that to put my spanking needs out of my mind. I figured it wasn't healthy and I didn't enjoy the spanking I'd actually gotten from him. Best just to leave it as a fantasy than to risk that again. Of course, this was long before there was even a spanking scene. I'm sure people spanked each other, but there was no organized scene. It wasn't until I'd given up looking that I actually did receive a spanking that was more in line with what I wanted. In December, 1985, I turned 25 years old. I went to a New Year's Eve party given by some friends I bowled with. When we were bowling that Satruday, we were bowling against a pretty good team. On the team was a married couple named Ben and Norma. Ben was a big left hander who had the nickname Captain Hook because of the way his ball broke when he threw it. He had the biggest hook I'd ever seen. Anyway, they mentioned to me that another couple we bowled with, Jeanette and Dennis, were having a party on New Year's Eve. "Oh, it's my birthday. Sure, I'll go." As soon as Ben heard it was my birthday, he began to taunt me. He said, when I came back from bowling a strike (my forth in a row) he said "I'm going to put you over my knee and spank you in front of everyone." "Sure you are, Ben," I laughed. I noticed that Norma, his wife, didn't like this talk. "He'll get drunk and forget," she assured me. Oh, I hoped not. Anyway, the night of the party came and I got dressed with care, deciding to wear a pair of gray snakeskin pumps I'd been saving for a special occasion.
That's my friend, Jeanette, next to me and the lap belongs to Ben, the man who actually did spank me that night. We'd been eating a lot and drinking a fair amount when someone suggested a game of Trivial Pursuit, still all the rage then. I belonged to a group that played regularly so I was all for it. We played guys against the girls. It was a spirited game and we took it very seriously. However, no one wanted to see the evening disintegrated because of a silly game so we decided there would be no bragging or rubbing it in from the winning team. So a compromise was reached. Dennis, Jeanette's husband, suggested that if the ladies' team lost, the captain of the team (me) would get a spanking by the captain of the other team (Ben). "I already promised her one coz it's her birthday," Ben said. "She'll get spanked either way." The other ladies--Jeanette, Norma and my friend Rhonda--protested. What if the guys lost? "Yeah, think you can handle getting a spanking, Ben?" I asked. No way. The spanking was only for the ladies. If the guys lost? "We'll do the dishes," Dennis volunteered. There was a mountain of them in the kitchen, so of course, the bet was on. Well, it went down to the last question and we lost. It's been 25 years and I still think that Rhonda missed that question on purpose. Who doesn't know that Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin? But I was a good sport. I settled myself over Ben's ample lap and he counted out 25 pretty good spanks, plus one for good luck. I had on gray pantie hose under the winter white slacks I was wearing but I still felt it. So did Ben. "You have the hardest ass I've ever felt," he said. "Yeah, my dad said the same thing," I shrugged. "Must be all that horseback riding."
Anyway, that was the last spanking I got for a long time. I remember Norma was sort of looking on with a jealous expression the whole time her husband was spanking me. He was obviously enjoying it. I was 25, young and firm. I so wish I had been getting spanked for fun back then. Oh well...I've made up for lost time. And then some.

Picture Day

In my post yesterday, I related a story about the last time my father spanked me. My post was actually about the situation between Lindsay Lohan and Jerry Lewis. Apparently, the comedy legend thinks that Ms. Lohan could benefit from a good spanking. I told the story to sort of demonstrate the differences between the home I grew up in vs. the way she was raised. First of all, I was raised in the 60's and 70's. It was a vastly different time. Fathers still had final authority in their homes. Jimmy Carter was President. The Bee Gees occupied the top five positions on the American Top Forty. I was 17 that spring of 1978. I had just attended my Junior Prom. You might think I was a little old for a spanking. You might be right about that. However, my dad didn't think so. He was a Marine (I don't say ex-Marine because, as Gibbs often points out on "NCIS", there's no such thing) and he felt perfectly justified in expecting his kids to obey him. Up until my junior year, I had. I had been a perfect kid--and A-B student. Don't let the innocent smile fool you. I was in the middle of a big time rebellious streak. I had let my grade in History (a required course) fall to a low C because I hated the teacher. That had never been a problem before. I was listening to KISS music, which really worried my parents. I was also beginning to drink and smoke pot at this time. However, my parents saw this for what it was--my attempt to show them that I was going to make my own decisions from now on. They didn't sit around wringing their hands and wondering what they had done wrong. My dad was very no-nonsense about the whole thing. He told me "You'll either snap out of it or get tired of standing up all the time." I was determined to tough him out and he was just as determined to reign me in. To do this, he used his favorite weapon, the leather belt from his Marine Corps uniform. Here's a pic of my mother and dad when he was on leave. Yes, that's THE belt he's wearing.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not going to start crying about how bad I had it under my dad's roof growing up. I knew I was loved by both he and my mother. It was just a different time. I think my mother was very wise. She knew that the less of a big deal they made out of my little rebellion the quicker it would pass. My dad had other ideas. He knew I was smart; probably the smartest of all his kids. He didn't want me throwing away a a chance to make something of myself. As a Marine he'd learned to value honor. What did it say about me when I was lying, stealing and drinking under age? I remember him once standing in front of me, hands on hips, trying to talk some sense into me while I sat there at the table looking bored. By this time, I was smoking cigarettes (a habit I would continue until I was 45), having sex with boys I hardly knew, ditching school and, when I was caught, ditching detention. In fact, my dad knew I'd had a detention on this particular night and demanded to know why I wasn't at school serving it. That's what had precipitated the little pow wow with Dad. He wasn't the kind to beg or try to make me feel guilty about it by telling me how hard he was working. What he did was lay it out for me. There would be no more cutting class. I was to bring that History grade back up to a B (at least). I was to stop listening to "that God forsaken" KISS. I was going to buckle down and keep my nose to the grindstone. Six months previously, I had been so enthusiastic about my grades that I had been gunning for early graduation the following year. "You're gonna settle down and fly right," he said, shaking his finger at me for emphasis. "Before you blow the whole thing." He knew my life's ambition was to be a writer. I'd wanted to work as a newspaper writer from the moment I knew that such things existed. I remember how he sighed heavily (as he usually did when he was really steamed) and paced back and forth in front of me. I looked at my feet, trying any way I knew to avoid having to look at him. I knew, deep down, he was right. He was always right. "I know one thing for sure," he went on. "You're grounded, young lady, until that C comes up. You can do better than that." I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head at me, indicating that it would be wise for me to keep my mouth shut until he was done talking. "I mean it. You're not leaving this house except to go to school. You're gonna learn to snap shit!" "Snap shit" is a Marine Corps expression. It means to stop messing around and start doing what you're supposed to be doing. He sat down next to me and said "Do you think life gets easier when you get older? It doesn't. It gets harder. It's a lot harder without a high school diploma." "I'll get my diploma!" I snapped. "You make a C sound like the end of the world." "When your brother would get C's I'd be happy," he told me. "But you're better than that. You think I want you waiting tables your whole life? You're gonna get that C up, little girl. And you're gonna stop cutting class and ditching detention. If you get another one for ditching this one, then you're gonna serve 'em both. You're gonna take what you've got coming. You hear me?" Boy, did I hear him. Then he left for work. Three nights later, I snuck out of the house and stole his bottle of Jim Beam. I knew, even as I was doing it, that it was wrong. I had a very strong conscience back then and still do. I sat glumly at the park with my friend, Lucy as we emptied the bottle. "My dad's gonna skin me alive," I told her. She had known me a long time and knew my dad well. "Yep, when he finds out, I wouldn't be you for nothing." Some friend. The previous year, Cigi had wanted to go to Chicago with her boyfriend, Tony to see KISS. They were playing the Aragon Ballroom that winter of 1977. Dad said absolutely no way. "You're too young!" Long story short, they went anyway. They would have made it back in time but Tony's car, a small red Datsun, broke down on the way home and Cigi had no choice but to call and ask someone to come and get her. Dad sent my brother. I can still remember him tossing my brother the keys and telling me "Go with him." I was terrified. My brother drove too fast and would race anyone, no matter how slight the provocation. Before we left, Dad handed me a $50 bill. "Tony will need money to get his car towed. Give this to him." He knew if he gave it to my brother, he would spend it on pot. My brother was 18 at the time, 15 months older than Cigi and I. Tony gave my brother good directions on where they were and we found them with no problem. Both of them were drunk. "Dad's gonna kill you" our brother told Cigi knowingly. Brother offered to take Tony home so that he wouldn't have to face Dad. When we got home, it was about 4 o'clock in the morning. Dad had been up all day and he was mad. As mad as I'd ever seen him. He was waiting for us when we came piling in. He'd whittled a switch, which he held in his right hand. He looked at me and my brother. "You two, get to bed." Grateful that everyone was home safe, I went to bed. Dad drove a lesson home to Cigi with that maple switch. I could hear it in my room with the door shut. I never heard a sound out of her though. She was tough. When she came to bed, she vomited into the trash can and fell into bed still in her jeans and black KISS T-shirt. Alcoholism would haunt her until she was 27, when she went sober.

Even though I despised being disciplined by him, I knew he did everything out of love for us. He would have walked through fire for us and protected us with his life if he had to. Next to my mother, we were the most important things in his life. He made sure that we knew we were loved. He would never refuse to hug us or let us sit on his lap. Some of my happiest memories of him was sitting on his lap after I had just gotten out of the tub. I would have wet hair and my pajamas on and I would sit close to him, him teasing me about my freckles. He would always start to count them and make a great show of losing count. God, I loved that man.

I feel sorry for Lindsay Lohan, who recently sent a letter to her father via her lawyer. It was a cease and desist letter telling him to stop trying to contact her. That's the saddest thing I can think of; for a girl to hate her father so much. If he had disciplined her when she was young, if he had established his authority in his home (in a loving way and not as a tyrant), she would have felt that sense of security that I had growing up. All the acting out and crying for attention would never have happened. I wouldn't trade places with her for anything.

Does Lindsay Need A Spanking?

The two people pictured here are separated by 60 years in age. The young lady on the left has made a career out of being a troubled young actress. The man on the right has a career that has spanned more than 50 years. He's not only a talented comedian, but also a great humanitarian, whose Labor Day Telethon has raised billions for kids with muscular dystrophy. So why are they suddenly linked in the press? Allow me to enlighten you.

Jerry Lewis, in preparation for his yearly telethon, was being interviewed by Inside Edition. The talk was general at first. What did he think of today's young stars? He responded like a lot of old men might. These kids don't know who Al Jolson was. They don't have any respect for the people who came before them and paved the road for them. Then, the interviewer mentioned Lindsay Lohan. Lewis' answer was an honest one. A bit too honest for some. He said, quite candidly, that he was smack her in the mouth if he saw her. He said he would probably get arrested for abusing a woman. Then he added that if she wasn't satisfied with a mere smack in the mouth, he would turn her over his knee and spank her and then send her off to rehab.

I didn't see the interview so I don't know how the interviewer responded to this. I heard the story on a local afternoon radio talk show. The interviewer was a man who spun records as a disc jockey back in the 70's. Now he's a conservative talk show host. He took calls, as he always does, and of course, the good people of Peoria are backing the old man. At first, there was the usual amount of laughing between the host and his producer. But it soon turned serious. Did the listeners think this was too outrageous or does Jerry have a point?

Here's my personal opinion on this issue. Since this is my blog, I don't have to be careful not to offend anyone. I think Lindsay should have been seen to years ago, preferably by a big, strong male relative. Of course, this begs the question of whether it's appropriate for an 84-year-old man to advocate spanking a 24-year-old woman. My opinion is that I'm sick and tired of hearing about Lindsay Lohan. Whatever she does wrong, she goes to court, gets her slap on the wrist, whines about how unfair the world is, and then goes right out and does whatever it was that got her in trouble in the first place. I've seen far too many photos of her tripping drunkenly out of a club surrounded by her posse. Her movies aren't good and she's not a good actress. She should have been relegated to a reality series years ago. Surely, there are nice, decent, clean living actresses out there who are worthy of some ink. Why do the tabloids concentrate on Lindsay Lohan? Because misery loves company and that sells magazines. A lot of young people can relate to her and that in itself is telling. I think it says something about young people in general. But I'm not going to hate on young people. Just her. For some reason, young women think it's very glamorous to reel out of a trendy club with a cell phone on their ear with body guards on both sides. They think it's oh-so-kewl to leave a club in the early morning hours with their mascara running and a shoe missing.
From what I know of Ms. Lohan, she has been disruptive and unprofessional onset before, putting movies behind schedule and over budget. She would show up to work late, in no shape to work. You know, she's over 21. What she does on her own time is her business. My mother told me 30 years ago "Cheryl, you're a grown woman. I can't tell you what to do. But no matter how late you stay out or how much you drink, you'd better be able to get up and work in the morning." Of course, I was still living at home because I didn't make enough money to live on my own. And therein lies the problem. Add money to the mix, and these young celebs feel no one can tell them what to do. Ms. Lohan has been in trouble for public intoxication, driving under the influence and other outrageous behavior that would have landed a no-money working stiff like me in jail. I get the feeling that Ms. Lohan thinks she's above the law. She thinks her celebrity entitles her to do whatever she wants, regardless of the consequences. She's 24 going on 6. A spanking might be appropriate. Does Jerry Lewis have the right to say she needs one? Well, we live in a free country where people pretty much have the right to say whatever they want as long as it's not libelous. I think she should have been spanked a long time ago. She has thrown her career in the trash can. She's been warned to stop drinking and smoking so much. She's apparently been in rehab for drug and alcohol dependency. What does she think this is doing to her body? I had a heart attack three weeks ago today, after spending years disregarding what I was doing to my health by smoking, eating an unhealthy diet and not exercising. I was lucky. I don't think Ms. Lohan would be that lucky. Sadly, I think she's going to end up like River Phoenix and Heath Ledger: dead before her time. Someone who really cares about her ought to sit her down and talk to her straight. She's surrounded by yes men, whose job is to tell her what she wants to hear. But she needs to hear some hard truths that she may not want to hear. Yes, I think she's spoiled and I think a good, hard spanking would benefit her immensely. But it's not going to happen. So I would be content to see her get some sense talked into her. I don't care one bit about her fame. She's a fellow human being and a tortured one at that. Her bad relationship with her father is well documented. To me, that's a shame. She never seemed to have that loving paternal influence in her life. If she had, hopefully she would have been lovingly disciplined. She might have grown up to be one of our finest young actresses, a positive influence on other young, aspiring actresses. Instead, she chooses to self-destruct. She chooses to piss away a career that might have meant something. With coaching and hard work, she might have turned into another Audrey Hepburn. She made the decision not to work at her craft. Of course, she was an adorable, freckle-faced youngster. I thought her future was bright. Then I began to hear things about her. She stole a boyfriend from a friend of hers. She was engaging in screamfests with the press. She dissed actor Jim Caviesel (one of my favorites) by saying with a heavy sigh "He's so last year!". She had no respect for others. Then I started to hear about the drinking and the carousing. She became a poster girl for the Bad Girl's Club. At the time, she was about 19 or 20 and she began to look incredibly skinny. So then the speculation began that she had anorexia. She began to garner sympathy. But instead of embracing it and turning over a new leaf, she got worse. While working on one film, she received a letter from the head of the studio rebuking her for her behavior and exhorting her to concentrate on her work. Now think about that. If you were working somewhere and messing up and you got a letter, not from your immediate supervisor, not from the store manager, but from the CEO of the company warning you to stop screwing up and get to work, how would you respond? I think it's safe to say that most of us would be highly embarrassed that a person as busy as the CEO of our company felt the need to write us a letter about our behavior. Most of us would also probably be sufficiently contrite that we would do just that: buckle down and do our job; what we're being paid to do. At the time I learned of the letter from the studio head, I told Cigi "I can picture her balling the letter up, tossing it into a garbage can and saying 'Who does he think HE is?'"

I can't be the only person who, on one hand, thinks a good spanking is long overdue for this little diva and also thinks that that would be too little too late. When I was 17, I wanted to go out cruising with my friends. Unfortunately, I got a C on my report card and I was grounded until I bought this unacceptable grade back up. My dad worked second shift (3-midnight) at his job and I thought I could circumvent his rules by just waiting until he was gone. I had what we called Tenth Hour Release, meaning I had study hall last hour and was free to go home after ninth hour. So I got home about 2 in the afternoon, before my dad left for work. It was Friday night and he asked if I had homework. I held up my books and said, "What do you think these are for?" Yes, I was going through a rebellious stage. He warned me not to get smart with him and that I had better crack the books. It never occurred to him that I might sneak out once he left. I was the perfect daughter before that. It was beyond his comprehension that I might disobey him. Well, I did. I waited until he left for work (my mom worked the same shift so I was on my own) and I went out with my friends. Not only did we cruise down the Bradley to try to get into a frat party. Of course, they could see we were underage and they told us to get lost. This happened at every house we tried to get into. In fact, we went to the sports fraternity, Hassler Hall, and tried to get in. One of the guys there (a baseball player, I think) told me to go home "before your daddy spanks you." After this humiliation, my friends and I gave up on trying to get in to a frat party and went about trying to get some booze of our own. I volunteered that my dad kept a bottle of Jim Beam on top of the china hutch. My friend, whose name was Lucy, drove a 1966 Pontiac Catalina that we'd christened the Gray Ghost. We piled into the Ghost and drove over to my house. I went in furtively, making sure no one saw me take the bottle. No one did. I went out to the car, holding it up triumphantly so my friends could see that I'd gone through with this dangerous mission. We went off to a nearby park and drank this bottle of Jim Beam, which I'd ruthlessly stolen from my hard-working dad. My dad who loved me unconditionally. My dad who made countless sacrifices for me. We had to watch the time because I had to make sure I beat my parents home. So we sped home and I ended up in bed with just minutes to spare. The next day, Saturday, I felt awful. I was hung over because I was used to beer, not bourbon (or whatever Jim Beam is). I had a crushing headache that convinced me I was going to have a cerebral hemorrhage. I was awoken by a hand shaking my shoulder and was met with the angry countenance of my dad. "Where is it?" he asked. This happened in May, 1978 and I will never forget this exchange if I live to be 100. I tried to clear the cobwebs. "Um, what?" I asked, rubbing my eyes and sitting up in bed. "You know what!" he said. When his brow knit, I knew he was displease, bordering on furious. "Dad, I was dusting and I broke it. I'm so sorry," I told him. I was shocked at how easily I was able to lie to him. But he saw it for the ridiculous lie it was. Needless to say, I ended up over my bed while my dad used his Marine Corps belt on me. At least my sore ass took my mind off my headache. He tacked on two more weeks to my grounding. This was my last spanking until 25 years later when I attended my first party. I tell this story to illustrate a point. In the home I grew up in, bad behavior had consequences. I knew as soon as I snatched that bottle from its resting place on top of the china cabinet that this was how I was going to end up. I had that sense of the certainty of my dad's justice. If Lindsay Lohan had grown up in the house that I did, with a tough, no nonsense Marine dad, this blog entry would never have been written. She would have been brought to heel a long time ago. I did bring my grade back up to a B and I never, never stole from my dad ever again. Even after over 30 years I still feel incredible shame for this incident. I doubt Ms. Lohan has ever been acquainted with that emotion...nor the business end of a Marine Corps belt.