Negotiating with The Green Card Cupid

I'm trying to manifest a green card for real, and one for John. The thing that I wanted on the playa was to spontaneously receive one.

As it turned out, I saw my opportunity, but I did have to ask for it. Actually, I had to negotiate for it :)

Me: Hey, I need a Green Card!

Green Card Cupid: "are you looking to marry an American for a green card"

me: "well, I'd prefer a different option...it's not out of the question but I'm already married and I don't want to get divorced"

GCC: "well, I don't think I can find anyone who wants to marry someone who's already married"

Me: "c'mon - Polyandry - it's not unheard of"

GCC: "well, you can fill out the form, I guess"

me: "look, strictly for voodoo purposes I would love it if you would take a picture of me with your Green Card form. It would help me a lot"

GCC "OK"

So there you have it, sometimes if you want it bad enough ya gotta ask for it directly.

the Burning Man Diva - self care or bust.

So last week I was at the Burning Man festival in Nevada - six days of art, community, consciousness, and dust in the Black Rock Desert. Here are some pictures.

It was a really interesting place to be - one of the central tenets of this festival is "radical self-reliance" - ie the old "go do this thing for me" routine just ain't gonna wash.

And speaking of "ain't gonna wash" ... the showers were few and far between and delicious when they happened. (I recall a wonderful hour spend bathing my friend C., who looks like a kind of sporty-spice Adonis, on a shower pedestal with no curtains. This community shower thing was turning out to be kind of a plus.)

Anyway, I wanted to write about the redefinition of self-care and self awareness that happened to me out there. The relationship between my mind and my body was basically overturned. In the hierarchy of Cass' life, the brain usually takes the dominant position. I don't know about you, but I'm often able to override my body when my body says "it's time to nap" or " hey, I need food" or "lady, put that coffee pot DOWN." Because sometimes ya just have to push on through, get the job done, persevere. But not out there. Because when you're in the middle of the desert, you have to listen to your body. If you try to hit the override button out there, your body just goes "oh, yeah?" and boom! there you are on your ass, crying like a baby over nothing. You don't really need a hug. You just need electrolytes.

So I took on a lot of responsibility for my first year at the Burn. And when I wasn't doing what I had committed to do, the focus really became about self-care. Here's the thing - I'm a total glamarama diva type but I've never had a pedicure or a manicure. (I told this to my diva New Yorker friend Birgitta and she looked at me and just said. "What? Can I touch you?") But out there, in the dust, you feel like every bit of moisture is being sucked out of your skin - your hands and arms feel papery and soft, and other parts get all angry and chafed. You have to take care of yourself - and I don't mean in that "chamomile tea and yoga" kind of way, I mean in the "put some cream on that or it's gonna fall off" kind of way.

It was thus that I discovered the joy of the foot massage and pedicure. Soft socks at night. Clean socks three times a day. And Anti Monkey Butt powder. Yeah, I ain't too proud to admit it. We liked saying Monkey Butt so much that we actually used it a little more than was strictly necessary. It sounds so corny, so Oprah, but I actually learned how important it was to literally take care of myself.

And I put lots and lots of blue glittery eyeshadow on people. And I played Peep Show Mini Golg and rode the Soul Train.

It was a fantastic experience and I look forward to next year already.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, this photo is how Divas live on the Playa. Well, Divas who can't afford an RV.

The Power in the Paint Box.

Went shopping with my tomboy-ish friend yesterday. She has a mohawk and perfect skin and huge blue eyes and the college degree I never earned. She's a beautiful, spirited, sexy woman, and she wants to learn more about the makeup.

I love makeup. You can't take it too seriously, it's just paint. But it's so much fun to paint on a personality and act like a hottie.

I want to get one thing straight right off the bat - You can't actually paint on a personality. No amount of makeup is going to compensate for a genuine smile and a big honkin' donkey laugh. Take Julia Roberts - Great actor, I'm sure she's a nice person, but let's objectify her for a second: she's not pretty in the traditional sense (whatever that means!), and she kind of walks like a dude. What makes her charming? Her smile. Her laugh. She's radiant. She's powerful. That's beauty.

So let's assume you've got a personality already.

The Power in the Paint Box is like using psychedelic drugs: it really just magnifies what's already there. Makeup is like the paint that you use to augment the aspects of your personality that you're playing with in that moment.

I wear makeup because I think it looks great. I want to look on the outside the way I feel on the inside. And sometimes I feel like a tranny. What?

Randy Jones, Village Person.

Last night I was playing on The Queen of Hearts harbor cruise for our friend Daniel Nardiccio. Daniel is a wonderful guy and he's got a lot of interesting friends. One of whom is Randy Jones, the original cowboy from The Village People. He's got a lot of other talents and credits, but seriously... The. Village. People. I had an amazing walk through the Lower East Side with Randy last night and I want to share it with you...

Have you ever done something amusing, like, at a party or a show? Have you ever had a bunch of people who want you to do that thing again and again? Have you ever felt depressed or worn down by that, thinking "not this again"? I would imagine that Randy Jones might be tired of the Y.M.C.A.

But you know what? If he ever was, he's made his peace with it. Randy Jones seems like one happy dude. The man is a shining example of what I'd like to be as an entertainer. He's happy he gets to do what he does for a living. He's gracious and welcoming of all the attention. He's grateful for the good vibes that come his way. He gives this big, shiny smile and a "Hi!" to everyone on the street who makes eye contact. He knows Dolly Parton and Freddie Mercury and he showed me pictures of his garden.

What a genuine character. What a joy. I am blessed.

Diva plus Jackasses = awesome.

Love this video of Gladys Night with Ben Stiller, Jack Black, and Robert Downey Jr. as the Pips.

Two of my big giant crushes! I'll give you a hint: It's not Gladys Knight or Ben Stiller.

I love Jack Black. I love him so much. Check him out in this video: He's totally committed to being a jackass. He doesn't waver for a second. Stiller is doing his patented "insecure cute guy" schtick and Downey is just... being a fuckin' hottie. (Love his timing on the last chorus exit) And Jack. Jack is being a wiener.

I would jump all over Jack Black in a hot second. It's the eyes. (picture unicorns and rainbows in a teenager's diary here) ... He has magic in his eyes. . . He sometimes has the appearance of someone who is totally committed, totally enthusiastic, totally involved, like he's enjoying what he's doing and he's not too cool to show it. And he can sing. He chews the scenery when he acts, he's sometimes way too over-the-top, he sings like a demon, and he's got economy-sized charisma. And that makes Jack Black my first honoree in the Uncommon Diva hall of fame.
More to follow.

Opinions: When you're Strong but Wrong.

The other day I commented on a video by the gals at Jezebel. I called the advice that the woman gave "shady". And it was.* And I've been reading their blog ever since. And it's awesome. It's all "Celebrity, Sex, Fashion without airbrushing". It's also well written, empowered, and funny.

So in my opining on her comment I disparaged a writer that is everything that I admire in women: opinionated, smart, empowered but not too serious, funny, fashionable, and outspoken.

And that's just the thing: I like people with opinions. I like having opinions. I like sharing my opinions. And sometimes I am wrong. If you're going to have strong opinions it's good to be ok with being wrong once in a while :)

*She said it was easier to take the pain of high heels if you were a little bit drunk, just like anal sex. I couldn't resist the opportunity to note that that's a BAD attitude. If you have to get drunk to get over the pain of taking it in the ass, you're doing it wrong. If you have to get drunk to admit to wanting it in the ass, well, that's more like it.

Roll Yer own Pasties

Reprinted from my sex column, Organ Grinder. More oldies here.

Has anyone noticed there's been an explosion of Burlesque dancers in Vancouver? Is anyone else sitting in the audience saying, "Man; I could do that way better than her. Eh, honey?" (Whereupon your honey is obliged to say "What? Oh, yeah, you'd be really good." but you notice she never peels her eyes away from the stage.) Well, I have news for you, people: you probably can't strip any better than the pros. Stripping (and especially burlesque) is a high art, possibly the highest of the "low" arts, and it takes real practice and discipline. You have to engage the audience with a saucy combination of virtue, modesty, and slow-burning lust. You need the dexterity to undo vintage garters with one hand while holding your boobs modestly and trying not to topple out of the oversized champagne glass. You have no idea how much those feather fans weigh. I am utterly serious.

Pasties, pasties, pasties …..You know what you find if you look up "pasties" on the internet? A whole bunch of recipes for meat pies. That's right. "A flaky crust holds chunks of fresh beef, pork, potatoes, carrots, onions, and spices" Good luck sticking a pair of those to your tits.
Now, because I believe in the ritual power of burlesque, I offer you the best encouragement I can: Cass King's Top Secret Pasty Recipe. You need a base, some hot glue, and some strip sequins (the kind that come on a string). Tassels are optional.

Note: the term is "sequins", not "sequences" for fuck sake. It's best to get that straight if you want any kind of service from the button fairies.

Cut a circle out of cardboard or a sturdy fabric like canvas or better yet, heavy buckram (a hat-making fabric) Split the circle half way and overlap the edges to make a small cone. Don't be afraid to experiment with the size, shape, and the angle of the cone. You could make the edges square or star shaped. (My advice is to look up Fredericks of Hollywood, and just STAY AWAY from any of the design ideas you find there.) So you have glued the cut edge of your cone down in a satisfactory manner. Now start at the tip and glue down your sequins a half inch at a time… run a strip of glue along the base, press the sequin string side down. Unless you have extraordinarily large nipples, this should not take you more than fifteen minutes a piece. You can stitch the tassels on when you're done. Voila! You are a burlesque queen. Have a little pasty party. Invite the boys to make some for themselves, if you like. Pasty appreciation should never be limited by predetermined gender identity.

One last suggestion: use eyelash glue (which is liquid latex) to attach them. But don't just fill the thing with glue and slap it on. You will wind up flaunting your naked areolas and that, my friends, would make you indecently attired. At the risk of being trite: who thought up that stupid distinction? "Young lady, that little pink nipple of yours is obscene, you can't go out flaunting that in public (even though it looks pretty much like mine.) Here, slap some bright pink sequins it. That's so much more decent." Jeez.

Anyway, the secret to attaching your pasties is this: Spread a thin ring of glue around your nipple. Allow it to dry. Spread a slightly heavier ring of glue around the inside of the pasty. Allow it to dry just enough to be tacky. (Whether tasseled pasties are tacky to begin with is a subject I'll leave up to you to discuss with your loved ones.) Now, press the pasty firmly to the already dried ring of glue on your boob. Hold for several minutes. Release. There, now, do you feel good? Excellent. Now make sure your pasties are firmly attached by jumping up and down with your arms over your head. See if you can get that propeller thing going. Very good. Now run out and show your roommates. Shake your tits around and dance the Charleston. It's not indecent! You're wearing homemade pasties!

Hard Earned Wisdom #2 - Don't fall in love with yr gay friend

This one's for the gals.

I know - you get along so well. You go shopping for shoes and he tells you which ones to buy. He's up on all the latest gossip and he knows whoever the fuck Cisco Adler is. You get drunk on tequila and he cuts your hair and you laugh about your bangs in the morning.

But don't fall in love with your gay friend. Your gay friend is gay. If you fall in love with your gay friend, you are really just avoiding falling in love at all.

You can like your gay friend a lot. You can even love your gay friend. A lot!

But don't fall in love with your gay friend. He will never love you in that way.

Even if he does get drunk and play with your tits.

How to deal with a D.O.U.C.H.E.

OK, it's time to wrap my head around the thing that just chaps my ass about being around a certain kind of diva: Entitlement. Rather, my perception of his or her outrageous sense of entitlement.

The reason that this irritates me so much is simple: I recognize that a false sense of entitlement is a trait that I dislike in myself, and I can't believe it when someone acts like *that* kind of diva and just gets away with it. I think it's rude. And to a Canadian, that's really, really bad.

Entitlement. That's not necessarily a bad word. That's a neutral word, right? When I work I expect to be paid the amount that's on my contract. I have a right to be paid. That's a kind of entitlement that stems from a mutual agreement: I work, you pay. You work, I pay. We have an agreement! You're entitled!

Some agreements are unstated, but defined by a job position: a doorman holding a door on my behalf, for example. (Not that that happens too bloody often.)

And some of the things that we think of as mutual agreements are not really agreements at all. They are at best assumptions. Manipulations of circumstance. At worst, they manifest as Parasitic, Unsustainable Succubus relationships. At very worst, they manifest as a series of P.U.S. relationships as each host is steadily worn out and the parasite moves on to the next juicy prospect.

This is the territory of the Bad Diva. Only, let's not put that value judgment on them. Let's say he or she is a Diva Of Unconsciousness Calling His-herself Entitled. Let's call them a D.O.U.C.H.E.

The thing about a D.O.U.C.H.E. is that he or she has to have some kind of power - a power to do something or be something or represent something or give something. You can't be a D.O.U.C.H.E. if nobody wants anything from you. So they use that power to manipulate people into doing things. And when they get what they want, they are "happy". And when they don't get what they want, they are one unhappy D.O.U.C.H.E. Because in the D.O.U.C.H.E. 's mind, the or she is entitled to your time and attention. And never mind something so concrete as a mutual agreement, no, because a D.O.U.C.H.E. is entitled to your energy whether they have explicitly asked you for it or not. In this arrangement, you are worse off than a slave. At least a slave gets an order directly.

The sad thing is this: If you expect people to give you everything and do everything for you, you no longer experience the joyous, surprising power of gratitude. And let's talk about the "happy" D.O.U.C.H.E. He or she feels a kind of temporary happiness, a stopgap emotion, until his or her next whim is fulfilled... or not.

Here's the thing: A D.O.U.C.H.E. is actually a sad kind of creature. His or her happiness depends entirely on external circumstances. Having substituted a kind of social puppeteering for any kind of real effort on his or her own part, (especially the effort required to build and maintain relationships with mutually beneficial integrity) a D.O.U.C.H.E. is a person with little sense of his or her own character. Believe it or not, a D.O.U.C.H.E. will often have very low self-esteem. They just don't act like it.

So what can you do if you have a D.O.U.C.H.E. in your life? I find the best thing to snap me out of D.O.U.C.H.E.-like behavior is to ask me if I'm asking you for XYZ (whatever it is to which I'm falsely entitled) and if I say yes, then negotiate for what you want in return. Sometimes that's all it takes. For example:

Me: "It's cold in here. Are you cold?"

John: "No."

Me: "I'm freezing."

John: (reading at the computer) "Hmmp"

Me: (singing a song in a childish voice) "freezing, freezing, freezing, Johnny's wife is freezing"

John: (problem solving) "You could turn off the air conditioner"

Me: (escalating, because I don't want to get up and do it myself, still singing) "if you let your wife freeze you can't get no blowjobs! No no no no... no blowjobs from a frozen popsicle wife!"

Wisely, after five years of marriage to me, John has caught on to this behavior.

John: "Are you asking me to turn off the air conditioner?"

Me: "Yes."

John: "If I do, will you give me a blowjob?"

Me: "No."

John: "Well turn it off yourself, then."

Me: "OK"

John has had the patience to learn to cut through my bullshit with a few well placed questions. And I have learned from John and some of my other dear friends that bullshit is not the most efficient path to getting what I want. Consider this, alternate exchange:

John: "Can I have a blowjob?"

Me: "Yes, if you turn off the air conditioner first"

John: "OK."

It's so simple, really. Clear communication begets the joy of gratitude. And blowjobs.

Bad Diva! Sit! Entitlement.

So in reading my post from yesterday I was thinking about the difference between I'm worth it and You Owe Me.

The difference is one word and a whole lot of drama. The word is entitlement. And entitlement is the root of so much misery. The belief that the world exists to serve my needs actually does nothing for me except make me pissed off when it turns out to be untrue.

So the key to happiness seems to be negotiating a fine balance between pursuing my goals and being grateful for what I have.

I'm in Philly in the middle of a sound check. I'd like to have the time and space to expound on my theory that the Bad Diva needs to shake the entitlement and regain a sense of gratitude and wonder.

I'd love to have the space to do that. Will I pout about that today? No, I don't think so. I'm going to get my big girl panties on and do the show. Because that's what the Good Diva does.

Diva rule numero uno: I'm worth it.

One must not make oneself cheap here - that is a cardinal point - or else one is done. Whoever is most impertinent has the best chance. --- Mozart

I read this quote the other day on a great blog called The Positivity blog and, you know, Mozart has a point.

I heard Chris Rock say something similar on Inside the Actor's Studio. He was talking about how he had achieved a certain degree of success and job offers were rolling in and he turned to his agent and said "You're my agent. Get me something I don't deserve."

When I think about it, this is probably cardinal rule number one of the diva. I can't think of a bigger defining characteristic. The diva knows his or her worth. And is continually willing to push the upper limits of same.

How does that make you feel? It makes me feel nervous, quite frankly. I get this distinctly Canadian voice in my head that goes "Well, you don't want to take that too far, I mean, jeez! What if people think you have a big ego? What if people don't like you? What if you don't get the job because you're asking for too much? What if? What if?"

Well, what if? Does asking for more money automatically make you egotistic? Not if the service you're providing is worth it. What is the value that you are creating? Are you earning reward comparable to that value? You're worth it.

Does insisting on certain standards make you a diva? Are they reasonable standards? Do you have agreements in place around those standards? You're worth it.

Does pursuing higher standards and higher pay make you a bitch? Not if you're not bitchy about it. Mozart's use of the word impertinent is lovely. Because sometimes when one is not willing to "make ones self cheap" one's best tactic is just that: Impertinence. Impertinent is such a great word. It's a cheeky kind of word. It's pert. It's spunky. It's friendly. It implies speaking out in an unsubmissive manner, even in a situation where a certain amount of submission is expected. Impertinence is a great tool when used judiciously, and with a smile.

So how about it? Are you worth it? I'm worth it. And more.

** Oh, one other thing about Mozart? According to his Wikipedia entry:

Particularly in his youth, Mozart had a striking fondness for scatological and sexual humor, which is preserved in his many surviving letters... Mozart even wrote scatological music, the canonLeck mich im Arsch" (literally "Lick me in the arse", sometimes idiomatically translated "Kiss my arse" or "Get stuffed")

This fills me with great joy.

Hard-Earned wisdom #1

Hard Earned Wisdom: Here's where I share the advice I wish I'd gotten when I was twenty. Or I got it but I totally ignored it. Whatever.

Let's talk about high heels. I read some fine advice in Nina Hartley's Guide to Total Sex.

She says something to the effect of: Wear Heels, Bring Flats.

I'm a huge fan of high heeled shoes. Heels are attractive, elongating the leg, making your bum sway when you walk... Even the pain can be sexy. You know those guys who hang themselves from hooks as a spiritual practice? I know how they feel.

It doesn't make sense, so don't even try. It's beautiful, and sometimes that's reason enough. Many, many things have been destroyed in the name of beauty, and baby toes don't have any real purpose anyways.

All the same. Bring flats. At the end of the night you know what's not sexy? Hobbling. Hobbling is sexy to only a select few weirdos. Hobbling is for pussies.

Or worse, STAGGERING. Like if you've had too many mojitos and all of a sudden your balance has gone the way of Michael Jackson's career? The dicks you attract at this stage of the night will be dicks of your own design. Don't go sneering to your girlfriend, honey, 'cause it's all you.

Even WORSE - and then you just say "FUGGIT" and take off your shoes and dance your dirty-ass feet down 2nd Avenue. That might be cute and when you're twenty. Drunk-ass-skank-foot at thirty-seven? NOT. SO. MUCH.

Hard-earned wisdom #1: Wear heels. Bring Flats.

Schadenfreude! Men in Heels!

My friend Stephanie just posted this on Facebook: If you want to see some true female Schadenfreude, watch the video and read the comments on this page:

What It Feels Like For A Girl: We Challenge A Man To Walk A Mile In Our Heels

This video is laugh-out-loud funny. The premise is that the gals from Jezebel challenge Gavin McInnes from Street Carnage to walk a mile in their shoes, in this case, a pair of white 3" stilettos. There's so much wrong with this video it's right.

Let's start with the shoes. White. 3". Stiletto. There's absolutely no reason for anyone to wear white 3" stilettos for anything other than irony. If you're wearing shoes for ironic purposes, you're just not trying hard enough. They were ugly in the 80's and they're ugly now, Louise.

And if that's a stiletto, I'm Grandma Moses. Anything fatter than a crayola doesn't count.

And then there's Gavin. Bearded, makeup wearing, surly, Gavin. This delicate flower walks like a footballer and drinks like one too. His descriptions of nails being pounded into the balls of his feet are spot on. My favourite part is when his wife comes to pick him up in the mini van.

His female companion gives some advice that's really shady, too. Just watch the video through and then come back.

OK, I'll tell you what she says: She says "You know what helps with the pain? Drinking. Like when you drink a lot and you don't feel much pain? It's kind of like anal sex."

I hope she's kidding, or I wouldn't want to be her asshole.

Just a little post about me.

I'm Cass King, and I am a diva. Sometimes. I have a bit of a Clark Kent / Superman thing going on. I'm a thoughtful, shy, kind of nerdy Canadian with a longstanding obsession with all things glamorous. But not trendy Mariah Carey kind of glamour. More like Old-Gay glamour. Marlene Dietrich. Busby Berkeley. Bob Fosse. Theda Bara. Alan Cumming. Hedwig... you get the picture. Vamps, tramps and trannys. Glamour with teeth. Glamour that will leave you nursing your welts in a puddle of your own sweat. Glamour from the Old Cunty.

When I was really little I used to just sit and stare at the picture of Liza Minelli on the cover of my Mum's Cabaret album. The shorts with the sequins on the crotch, the halter-vest, the stockings, the boots. The voice. The star power. I wanted to be just like her. Of course the character of Sally Bowles is an alcoholic, self-absorbed liar but we'll get to that later.

I was a ham from an early age, always wanting but never getting that lead role in the school musical. There was a little problem... auditions. Any time I'd try to sing in front of people I'd be overwhelmed with self-consciousness and I'd just start to cry. Not like sobbing, but ... leaking. I had excruciating stage fright. I was assigned to the chorus, where people wouldn't notice if I leaked.

In retrospect, choice of material might have had something to do with it... I don't think anyone wants to hear "I don't know how to love him" sung by a twelve year old. But inside, I knew I could sing like Helen Reddy. You nearsighted bastards.

As I grew into my early twenties I was fascinated with Cabarets and Sideshows and Carnies and Fetish balls and all manner of sleaze. I still am.

I also started writing, just a little bit, for fun. And I read some poetry on some open mic stages and gradually I got the bug. And I worked out my stage fright. Eventually I got really involved in the Poetry Slam and took 5th place in 1998 at the National Poetry Slam in Austin, TX.

I was also a Cigarette Girl (probably one of the last!) at the Blue Lizard Cocktail Club in Vancouver. This was during the lounge and swing revival of the late 90's. From there, I became the emcee and hostess. I wanted to sing out, Louise! So I sang, briefly, with a great band called the Jazzmanian Devils.

In 2001 I met my partner John Woods and we embarked on this project known as The Wet Spots.
We sing sophisticated sex comedy songs. I get to be as glamorous as I can possibly be. And I travel a lot in the burlesque and variety circuit worldwide. Life is a cabaret. I have authored my own reality.

And when I'm out of costume people don't recognize me on the street. I am Clark Kent.

I think that's why I've started this blog... to explore what that power is... the power in the costume... the lights... the rehearsal... the act. And to explore the creative and destructive power of the Diva.

On Diva-Dom and why the eff would I start a blog about it?

Let's just put it out there - Diva is not a great word. Diva is conflicted. It implies greatness and selfishness, talent and egotism, mastery and bitchiness. Diva is an imperfect word. It's a Janus.

What's a diva, to you? A diva is by definition a woman who is recognized as at the top of her class in the entertainment arts, usually a singer. The origin is Latin diva ("goddess"), female of divus ("divine, divine one"). The word also has connotations of egotistic self-involvement and manipulative behavior. A person who seems to think that they are better than those around them and who believes that the rules that govern mere mortals do not apply to them is known as a diva.

Interestingly, one of the traits most associated with the diva is one of having exceedingly high standards and the expectation of having them met. That makes sense if you think about the primary definition... wouldn't you have to have high standards for yourself and the expectation of meeting them if you were to become the best in your field? Wouldn't you have to be one fierce bitch? And further, I think that the diva has consciously decided to own her power. The power and the ability to wield it comes from within, from a self-determination that comes from having seen it, having done it, having practiced like a motherfucker, and having made it. And a woman who has the willingness to own it like that, and the goods to back it up, is what I call a diva.

Now, everyone knows that there are divas who are divas without being fucking divas, if ya know what I mean. There are good divas and there are bad divas. But let's not call them bad divas. Let's call them divas-with-issues-that-behave-in-ways-that-make-you-want-to- carve-out-your-eyeballs-with-a-melon-baller-just-so-you-don't-have-to -look-at-them-ever-again. Perhaps you know such a diva. These are not bad divas. They are divas with behavioral issues. They are just testing you, to see who is the dominant bitch. Dogs do it all the time, it's nothing personal. It's just ... well, don't let her hump you and steal your chew toys unless you want to be the submissive, for-EVER.

So this is a blog for and about good divas, bad divas, wannabe divas, and how-to-be a diva.