Weight to His Words

"You need to give weight to my words" (WHAP!)

This is what he said to me over and over again as he spanked me Wednesday evening after he came home and discovered that I completely ignored his instructions to me.

Okay, I figured out about 3 months into our tweed journey that obedience is the key word here. If B'Man gives me something that he wants me to do, no matter how trivial or insignificant, what he's really looking for is an understanding between us that I give weight to his words.

I don't like admitting certain things in this blog because he reads it, and I'm no longer able to effectively feign ignorance.

But I suppose he knows it...
I know that he knows it...
and he knows that I know that he knows it.

"You've been getting away with murder lately," he's said to me on several occasions.

Murder is such a strong term. But I imagine that if I look at it from his perspective, I've been systematically killing his authority by tiny itty bitty degrees, that if he were not paying close attention, he would never have noticed.

Tasks during the day are the little projects that he may give me on top of my normal cleaning and errand and shopping routine. It's usually something that he's noticed has been neglected and needs attention. For instance, a few weeks ago he told me to clean the window sill in the den. That means to give it my full attention and put some real effort into removing the clutter, and polishing it so that it looks freshly painted. It's a ten minute job on the outside, certainly nothing to agonize over or go out of my way to avoid.

I waited until the very last minute, I got a shoe box, dumped all the junk in it and plopped it on the floor. Then I took a damp rag and made a cursory swipe of the dust and smeared it around seconds before he walked through the door. He noticed that I was just finishing up as though the task was an annoying afterthought... and he noticed how lousy the job was.

"You know I should spank you for that," was his comment at the time.

I innocently replied, "Well you weren't really specific about what you wanted. How am I supposed to know what you're looking for if you don't tell me?"

I think it was my reprieve from that spanking that began the domino effect of a long line of half assed jobs.

Now, don't get me wrong, this doesn't happen all the time. When he wants something done. I usually give a sufficient amount of weight to his words and go out of my way to please him and go above and beyond the call of duty. But lately I've only been batting about a 500.

I know it...
He knows that I know it...
And I know that he knows that I know it...

So Wednesday the task was to clean out the science projects in the refrigerator.

Honestly, I think I had gotten to the point where I have gotten away with so many half assed jobs that if I ignored this one completely it wouldn't be such a big deal. This was not a conscious rationalization on my part. I just somehow didn't see the urgency in it any more.

When he got home we had a short discussion about it in the bedroom as he changed out of his work clothes. I was genuinely surprised when he told me to bent over my dresser and drop my jeans. I actually asked him if he were kidding.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

My jaw dropped.

"I want you at the dresser so you can watch your face in the mirror."

When he lifted the paddle off the hook on the wall, I wanted to be angry. But I couldn't. I didn't have a leg to stand on.

I turned around, pulled down my pants and panties, and placed my elbows on the dresser and placed my face in the palms of my hands as I stared at my own face. My eyes were already red and I had this pathetic guilt ridden look on my face.

"You need to give weight to my words," he said several times as the paddle came into contact with my sit spot.  My knees buckled as I tried to remain still and started to cry.  After about five stinging swats he had me count off the final ten. And of course... if I miscount, he starts over. I hate counting! Who can concentrate? number 7 feels like number 349! Who's brilliant idea was having the spankee count?

But I digress.

I know that publishing this post is in effect telling him that I admit to taking advantage of his good nature, and it's going to cause him to be more vigilant in holding me accountable. But I suppose this was going to happen eventually anyway.

I know it...
He knows that I know it...
and I know that he knows that I know it.

From a 10 to a 7

As much as we love Christmas, there are those elements in everyone’s life that may take the perfection of the day from a 10 down to a 7.  In the case of most people, it’s usually having to spend time with a particular relative who makes us uncomfortable, or with whom we’d never settled an old grievance that looms over our heads whenever we’re in the same social setting.

B’Man and I were headed to spend Christmas dinner with his mother, brother, daughters, my parents, and some family friends. In the mix was a particular person who’s presence is a source of tension for the both of us. I was just getting over a virus that had gotten so bad it had landed me at the emergency room to be fed the fluids intravenously that I couldn’t keep down orally. I was clearly on the mend on Christmas day, and couldn’t use the excuse that I was just too sick. I was expected to make the yearly traditional appearance. B’Man could see that the very thought of enduring this evening with this particular person was starting to unnerve me. I had asked his permission to stay home, and was met with a definite “no”. I can’ t say that I remained in a foul mood all day as a result, but the prospect of having to spend 3 hours in a tension filled room had caused my Christmas to lose a few points on the perfection scale.

B’Man and I had a lovely Christmas day, exchanging gifts, eating a large breakfast, watching football games, and enjoying each others company. But when 3:00 rolled around and it was time to go, I was obviously sinking in a funk that made it clear that his forcing me to go was only going to make the situation more uncomfortable for him. And the more he attempted to cheer me up, the more I sulked.

As I sat at the computer after I had gotten ready, B’Man came in holding the leather paddle. “Get off the computer and come over here,” he demanded as he sat on the couch.

For a moment I was confused until it dawned on me where he was headed and why. My only chance out of this was to pretend I didn’t understand and that he was being unreasonable and irrational.

I looked at him and frowned. “What is this all about?” I asked innocently.

His eyebrows perked up. “After all this time, you think you’d know better than to question me when I tell you to do something.”

“No!” I exclaimed. I jumped out of the computer chair and stood before him but far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to grab me. the calm on his face was infuriating. “You need to tell me what this is about," I said firmly.

“I have every intention of telling you once you’re in place over my knee.”

“Forget it! That’s not how this works!”

His eyes narrowed as his icy stare changed the very temperature of the room. “You’re going to tell ME how this works?”

I pointed a accusatory finger at him the way Charlton Heston’s Moses pointed angrily at the idol worshipping Jews. “This isn’t fair! You can’t do this!”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this, Sugar. Drop you pants and get over here, now.” He said calmly. “You’ve got five seconds.”

I was defeated. I had no argument, had no alternatives. Angrily, I unbuttoned my Levis and and pushed them down my thighs and flopped over his lap.

I lay there for a few seconds while he leaned over to get a good look at my face. Usually at this point my face has clear traces of fear, but this time I’m just pissed.

“I just want to get a few things straight,” He said as he starts to peel my panties down.

“We can’t have this discussion with me standing up?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day on this. You’re not listening.”

“I have been listening”

“No you haven’t, but you’re going to listen now.”

I sighed and tried to make myself comfortable.

“We’re going to spend time with family and friends, and we’re not going to allow one person to ruin this evening for us.”

I held my chin in the palms of my hands and stared sullenly at the ceiling. “It’s easier not to go,” I mumbled.

“You just don’t get it,” he said, and started to slap my behind fairly hard with the paddle. I wiggled and yelped a couple of times, but as spankings go, it wasn’t one of the worst. Its function was to get my attention and make me see that I had been willing to allow someone who I only saw once or twice a year to dictate my mood, and in the grand scheme of things, this person was certainly not worth my time and energy other than my prayers.

When the spanking was over, my eyes weren’t even moist. It didn’t really hurt anything other than my pride, and make me feel a little bit ashamed that I had needed to be reminded of what’s really important. I was, however sore enough to appreciate the car’s leather seats that had been sitting in single digit temperatures all day.

Christmas dinner with the family was much nicer than I anticipated. The person in question was not the bitch I was expecting, and a good time was had by all.  By the time we had arrived home, I had almost forgotten why I didn't want to go in the first place. 

So, in the end, the only person responsible for making my Christmas a 7 instead of a 10 was... myself.

Trust Me

To admit that stress relief spankings are effective is probably one of the hardest things I've ever done in ttwd. Punishment spankings for something I did wrong is one thing, but to submit to a comparable level of pain for something that is above and beyond my control, like stress or anxiety was viewed by me as a little barbaric, unfair, and crossed that fine line between submission and masochism.  Ever since the article on whipping therapy started circulating around in the last few months, I tried to keep an open mind, but in talking with so many other women about the concept of stress relief and hearing how they ask for it and benefit from it, I could only shake my head in disbelief as I tried to understand the phenomenon behind the practice.

B'Man initiated several stress relievers in the past few months due to some chemical imbalances that kept me off kilter, and I reluctantly submitted. The very first time my thinking was, okay, lets get this over with. when it doesn't work, I can tell him it's a waste of time, and we'll never have to do this again.

Well, much to my chagrin... it was helpful. My head was a little clearer, my endorphins a bit stronger, my energy a bit heightened...

This past week I was in emotional trouble. I had not been out of the house since Sunday, and here it was Friday. The bowels of hormone hell had opened up and swallowed me whole, and as I sank into the abyss, I grabbed on to B'Man's ankle and dragged him under with me. I had run out of Vitamin D, a supplement that had kept my chin above the murky waters for several weeks. I felt myself drowning. Menopausal symptoms had hit a new level of discomfort, a level that I had never imagined. The body aches were more severe, the fatigue more acute and the mood swings more intense. I knew this was temporary, but it seemed interminable.

On Monday, I instant messaged B'Man and announced that he could handle it any way he wanted, but I had absolutely no intention of leaving the house under any circumstances. The cold was more than I could bear, and my nerves were dangerously on the edge of reason. While the outcome of the war was in question, I was clearly losing the battle. I no longer had the will to fight for my sanity as vigorously as I had been. All the weapons in my arsenal,... the supplements, cardio, weight training, protein shakes, journaling, and full spectrum lighting were all being out-gunned by the menopausal monster.

And I could barely get out of bed.

B'Man had tried giving me a stress relief spanking on Thursday morning, and as I lay across his lap taking the leather paddle, I could feel that this was not making a dent in my troubled psyche. I had gotten to the point where I was beyond this type of help, and for the first time in months, I began to worry about my emotional stability and feared that I was on my own.

He walked into the den on Friday morning as I sat at the computer, mindlessly surfing through nothing of any significance. "let's try this again," he said as he waved the paddle at me. For a moment I considered arguing with him, but he seemed determined and I was too weak physically and emotionally to put up a fight.

He placed a pillow on the arm of the couch in the den, and waited patiently for me to move. I rose to my feet and folded myself over the pillow as he moved my robe out of the way. The paddle came down softly at first as I heard him warn me "This is going to get a little intense, Baby."  Then he began a hard and fast rhythm as I sobbed into the pillow at my head.

And then it happened. The paddling stopped, and I heard something I never thought I'd hear. B'Man was unbuckling his belt and pulling it out of the loops of his pants. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." I tried to lift myself up, but I felt him put his hand on my shoulder blade and push me back down. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him kneel beside me. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Trust you? Do you know what you're doing?

I nodded my head, closed my eyes and buried my face in the pillow. My worst spanking nightmare was coming true. I had tasted the belt only once before, and had vowed never to be in the place where it would rear it's ugly head again.  Now I was being asked to trust the man that held it in his hand.

If I can't trust him, who can I trust?  He'd never been one for gratuitously inflicting pain. He's dedicated himself to being my protector and my provider. There was clearly nothing he wouldn't do for me, he had proven that again and again.

So I didn't fight it. I lay as still as possible (which wasn't very still at all, but the best I could do) and submitted to probably the second most painful spanking I had ever had. When he was done, he enveloped me in his arms and waited patiently until I stopped hyperventilating.

The day went by with less anxiety.  I felt as though I could breathe, where before I was gasping desperately for every breath.   We've been spending the weekend exercising, attending holiday parties, eating out and basically making up for all time I had lost with my face buried in my hands.  I feel freed and back in control.  I also feel a bit more confused about the connection between this type of pain and the release of neurotransmitters in the brain.  I know I will never be able to bring myself to ask for this type of therapy, something that I admire my friends for being able to do when they need it... but I feel very blessed that I have someone looking out for me that knows when and how to use it effectively.

Trust you?  Yes.  I trust you to the depths of my very soul.

Just a Little Peevish?

I’ve been bragging to my friends of late that I have been virtually unspankable. Okay, I confess, that's not entirely true.  Spankable behavior has been mainly due to thoughtlessness, and my unwillingness to consider his feelings in my actions and decisions. When B’Man needs me to take care of a particular task during the day or asks that I refrain from a certain behavior that’s has the potential to drive him to drink, The least I can do is take it seriously and put some real effort into it.

Sometimes I fail miserably, and B’Man can immediately tell if it was through a willful disobedience and laziness, or if it was one of my attention deficit oversights. For the latter, he will usually smile and afford me grace and mercy. But there will be those times when I will become irritated by the reminder.

Case in point:  I have been sufficiently warned that I am to keep the hall closet door closed. The hall is narrow, B’Man’s shoulders are broad, and it’s inconvenient and uncomfortable for him. About a dozen trips bent over the kitchen counter and the sting from a wooden spoon have forged a habit of staying mindful of that door. Rarely do I hear the squeak of the closet door hinges from another room, the signal that I have been negligent. On those rare occasions, I can react in one of two ways. Usually, I’ll drop what I’m doing, run into the hall, my mouth agape, and my hands on my face like that picture of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. I might giggle nervously, profusely apologize, and rack my brain as to when I opened the damned thing in the first place. He’ll watch me, assess my body language, check the way I nervously bite my lip, note the genuine surprise in my eyes, and hear the confusion in my voice. I will see in him the signs of a softened heart and a merciful reprieve. He’ll drop his head and his shoulders will bounce up and down as he chuckles to himself. “That’s okay, Babe. Try and pay attention to that, okay?” he’ll say. I’ll kiss him appreciatively, and we’ll move on.

But there will be other times. I’ll hear the squeak of the closet door hinges, and I’ll immediately feel irritated. Irritated at myself for forgetting, and irritated B’Man for bringing it up. Why can’t he just close the damned thing himself and lay off me? He’ll wait a moment for my apologetic, submissive reaction to the offending sound, and when I don’t show up, he’ll come looking for me. He may find me in the kitchen, my body language telling quite a different story. I’ll be standing erect, defiant. My eyes will shoot daggers at him, insolence dripping from my words. I’ll say something really stupid, like, “get over yourself.”

B’Man doesn’t say a word. He reaches for the crock on the counter, and grabs the biggest, heaviest wooden spoon in the arsenal. Suddenly, I realize what I’ve just done, and I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, moving from an expression of anger to one of sincere remorse. He gently touches my shoulder, turns me around, and I bend over with almost no effort at all on his part. He doesn’t have to tell me what to do… I know the drill. My thumbs will slip into my waist band, and my pants and panties will slide to my thighs. The sting of the wooden spoon to my sit spots is especially painful, I suspect because of the extra infraction of my smart mouth. I might get five or six hard swats from this, and the burn, coupled with my contrition will cause my tear ducts to shoot like tiny water pistols. When he’s done, he’ll drop the spoon on the counter next to me. No more words have to be said.

B’Man’s pet peeves are all pretty much handled the same way.  Keep, the kitchen cabinets closed, keep the remotes in their respective rooms, close out the browser on the computer…

And now there’s a new one.

Well it’s not really new, it’s one of those things B’Man’s been nagging me about for years, and I never really paid that close attention. Now with the advent of the wooden spoon, I’ll probably be more mindful of this particular irritation that I’ve been ignoring for years.

This is a picture of our kitchen. As you can see, at the end of the counter on the right, there is a recycle bin. Now don’t ask me why I keep doing this… I honestly don’t know. But whenever I empty a bottle or a can or a jar, instead of dropping it into the recycle bin, I’ll leave it on the counter. And there it will sit for hours until I clean the kitchen. This drives B’Man absolutely out of his mind. He’s tried to keep a sense of humor about it. He’s teased me, begged me, and made empty threats. He’s done. It is now officially a spankable offense. In the past month there have been at least seven or eight wooden spoon incidents concerning this issue, and I’m unnerved at how often I lose sight of that directive. Apparently it's unnerving him too, because he's not giving me those acts of mercy, regardless of my attitude.

Just a few days ago as I sat in the easy chair on the right side of the picture with my laptop on my knees.  I was chatting in instant messenger with Kady about this very subject, and explaining how I’ve got some kind of mental block in this area. When she asked how the counter looked now, I assured her that I was in the clear, and that I had just finished polishing the marble to a perfect shine. At that moment, B’Man walked in the door, dropped his briefcase, kissed me hello, and shifted his eyes over to the shiny counter where there sat… the lone paper towel that I used to buff the marble with. It never made it into the recycle bin.

*Sigh*  This is going to be a long winter.

Living with a Spanko

This particular picture reminds me of B'Man and myself.  Me with the surprised, pained, but slightly aroused look on my face, and him with the perpetual grin.  This is what we look like when he's in his playful mood and I'm in my "Hey, take it easy," mode.

B'Man's obsession with my rear end has caused his behavior to blossom into constant grabs, pats and swats on public streets, in the lobby of the theater, in the grocery store... I'm not going to say that I don't love it. I do. We started exploring the concept of spanking because of my sexual sensitivity in that area in the first place. But now my crazy lunatic spanko of a husband has taken it to an HNL ( a hole nutha level).

Living with a spanko is a life dedicated to dodging bullets. B'Man is constantly on the lookout for opportunities to hone his spanking craft, and there's a certain sinister glee in his walk that tends to unnerve a woman committed to protecting her butt from pain. Sometimes I think my man has lost his mind.

There's a long hallway between our door and the lobby of our building, and I like to stand there in the morning as I watch him walk away toward the exit. Too often he will turn around and walk backwards and exclaim loudly enough for someone to hear through their doors, as well as any undetected persons in the lobby, that I am to behave myself or he will come home and "wax that ass." This is his favorite euphemism for spanking, and his favorite way of watching my face twist in mortification. The fact that he has an obsession with my butt is not a secret to the outside world anymore, and he's coming out of the closet at the most interesting times.

In Jamaica, we were in the local marketplace where B'Man picked up a spatula. Nothing hand made or interesting, just a regular metal and plastic spatula made in china. The merchant, knowing that we were tourists at the local resort, was confused by his interest. "Do you plan on cooking while you're in Jamaica?" she asked him.

B'Man replied as he slapped it hard against the palm of his hand, "Yeah. I plan on frying my wife's bacon." 

The merchant tilted her head, glanced at me and smiled knowingly.  I could only roll my eyes while B'Man laughed and jabbed me with his elbow.

We were in Best Buy recently looking to purchase a new MP3 player, when B'Man noticed a sales associate playing with a plastic paddle ball with the Kodak emblem. He announced that he used to be great at that game, and asked her if he could try it. Well, it had been several years since he played with one, and he couldn't seem to nail it even once, and I laughed and teased him about his pathetically spastic attempts to hit that little rubber ball with the paddle until he gave up. it was obviously a cheap promotional toy left behind by a Kodak sales rep, so B'Man asked if he could have it.

"You plan on getting good at that again?" I asked.

"Nah. I plan on using it to wax that ass!" he said whispering loud enough that it seemed that anyone within a 5 foot radius could hear as he slapped the paddle against his hand.

Aside from the obvious public displays of affection for my backside, he is constantly on the lookout for opportunities to put me over his knee. Several times in the last few months I have made a few off the cuff remarks about personal goals that I want to accomplish. One of them was my desire to cut down, and eventually cut sugar out of my diet completely. The first time I mentioned it, B'Man was getting dressed and coincidentally reaching for his belt. He doubled it in his hand and brought it down hard on the bed inches from where I sat. Then he sported that boyish grin of his and said, "I'd be happy to help you with that endeavor, Baby. Just say the word."

Flashbacks of his "help" in my quest to quit smoking caused a physical tremor, and I graciously declined his offer.

"Hey, I can make it so every time you see a candy bar you get the urge to stand up."

"Yeah, I get the basic idea, thank you anyway."

"I'm here for you, Baby," he said, pounding his chest proudly with his fist. "That's my job."

Now I've never been one for maintenance. Many of my friends understand, appreciate and encourage the practice... Frankly it just makes me nervous. While admittedly it may or may not help with stress, it can be as uncomfortable and painful as a punishment, and I'd just as soon avoid it if I can.  B'Man likes the idea of maintenance, and while we thankfully have not set a schedule for it, he manages to sneak one in every so often... I suspect more for his benefit than mine. Out of the blue, for seemingly no reason at all he'll say "You haven't had a good spanking in a while. Go bring me the paddle."

Of course I have to argue about it. "WHY! I haven't done anything!"

"I know, Baby, and we're going to keep it that way."

"No way, Uh-Uh! forget it! This maintenance thing is Bullshit!" I snap as I point at him accusingly.

This is where he'll smile, lean into me and say in a low, threatening voice, "You have 'til the count of three.  One... two..."

The fact that I argue turns it into a punishment.  I am tricked.  Hoisted by my own petard.

30 years form now, B'Man and I will likely be together in some retirement home, wheelchair and walker bound... me losing track of my glasses and teeth, and rolling my eyes at him when he expresses his irritation at my forgetfulness and irresponsibility.  No doubt he will flag down a CNA or an orderly and tip him a few bucks to go outside and cut him a switch so that he can "wax that ass."

Old Habits

As soon as I think I've got it all figured out, I turn around and do something stupid.

I have annoying character flaw, and it's something I've been in the habit of doing since I was a kid. Subconsciously I've always been under the impression that whatever the problem, whatever the challenge or concern, if you ignore it long enough, it will eventually go away. Okay, I've gotten more responsible as I've matured, and these situations have come up less and less in my life, but they do still pop up when I'm in my run-away-and-hide moods.

Here was not a situation where I should have been overwhelmed with indecision or fear. This was just one of those days where I simply did not want to deal my own discomfort, irritation and inconvenience.

My arthritis medication had begun to fail me and my doctor gave me a trial of something stronger to test for a week. As I adjusted to the new chemical in my body, I dealt with some lethargy and muscle weakness and cut 3 days out of my exercise routine. At the end of the trial I was to call my doctor to let him know that he could call in the prescription. Unfortunately I couldn't reach him over the weekend (I foolishly forgot to call on Friday), and I suffered through two days of the onset of pain, as well as a slightly depression and moodiness, partly from withdrawal, and partly hormonal.

B'Man had watched me spiral downward this weekend, and had mercifully left me alone to work out the imbalance going on in my body and mind... and then finally had enough. He sat down on the bed Monday morning and gently explained that I needed to move my body, that I had been hanging out in bed way too much, and I needed to get some cardio under my belt. Of course I knew he was right. The longer I hung out in bed, the worse I became. I smiled and agreed with him until he uttered that word that I dread so much.

"Task," he said.

"Task?"

"Task. Take a couple of over the counter pain meds, take your vitamins, have a good breakfast, and get to the gym. You don't have to do your full routine. Even if it's just for a lousy 15 minutes, you need to get out of this house, move your muscles and get your heart pumping. If there's some reason you can't or won't make it to the gym, I want you to contact me and let me know."

I agreed, kissed him, and saw him off to work.

Well, as you can imagine, I didn't make it. I just didn't have the energy of the inclination. And this is where I stumbled in my rationale. I knew that if I called him and told him I wouldn't make it, he was going to encourage me to go, and even insist. I know him. He wanted me to contact him so that he'd have the opportunity to give me a pep talk and explain that he is not giving me a choice. If I just ignore the fact that I needed to communicate with him, he would be forced to drop the subject and try again at a later date.

I spent an hour or so on the computer late that afternoon checking up on my favorite blogs, and surfing around a bit when the Windows IM box opened up. He had seen that I had signed on, and wanted to check in. We chatted for a few minutes, he asked how I was.

I admitted I still hadn't moved. It was a good thing we were on Instant Messenger, I wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye.

"Did you at least take your vitamins?"

"No."

"Why don't you go do that."

I took my vitamins, informed him that the deed had been done, quickly extracated myself from the conversation and changed my messenger availability to "appear offline."  After all... if I ignore it, it will go away.

That evening when he came home, we had a comfortable evening together. Everything seemed fine. He didn't bring up the fact that I had disobeyed him about my workout and contacting him, and I certainly had no intention of bringing it up. But he did bring up something else I had dropped the ball on.

"Did you call the doctor?"

"Yes," I said immediately without hesitation. "I left a message with his secretary. He's going to call me back." I lied. There's no need to completely bury myself. I can take care of that little detail on Tuesday. He didn't have to know.

Tuesday morning as I lay in the bed, I heard him call me from the living room just before he was about to leave. When I walked in he asked me to sit on the coffee table and face him. I cinched my robe around my collar, and sat nervously biting my lower lip. I recognized the signs, I knew what was coming.

"I know you're having a hard time. That doesn't escape me. But I told you to communicate with me if you weren't going to make it to the gym, and you decided not to. You purposely avoided me, and if I hadn't contacted you, we wouldn't have spoken at all."

I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. Of course he was right, and I had actually thought that I had gotten away with it. I thought he was going to let it slide. After all, I was so pathetic. I felt myself begin to form my puppydog face.

"You can't avoid me whenever you feel like it. It's my job to take care of you, and I can't do that if you won't connect with me when I tell you to."

A tear spilled onto my cheek. Dammit! I hate it when that happens. I wanted to appear strong, stoic, unmoved.

"Let's take care of this right now," he said.

With that he walked around to the kitchen, and I watched as he picked a heavy wooden spoon from the crock on the counter. He came back, picked up a throw pillow and placed it on the arm of the couch and instructed me to place myself over it.  He handed me another pillow for my face and I draped myself across the arm of the couch and waited while he moved my robe out of the way. I felt the sting of the spoon on my sit spot as I fought hard to remain as still and quiet as possible. The smacks were loud and sharp, and I felt myself beginning to breathe hard as I tried to control my cries, but the pain was too much. My sobs came pouring out of me and into the pillow. Those wooden spoons up to this point had been reserved for those little annoying pet peeve swats here and there, but now they were part of the punishment arsenal, and they created a new level of pain that I hadn't expected. It felt as though it went on forever, while in reality it was only about a minute.

When he let me up he wrapped his arms around me and I cried quietly into his clean shirt. "You cannot ignore me," he said. "When I tell you you have to communicate, I need to hear from you. We have to keep in touch about your condition. No more hiding. Understood?"

Okay, I get it.  If I had contacted him I could have made my argument, held my ground and convinced him that I needed more rest. He's not an unreasonable man. But I didn't even give him the chance to let him hear me and discuss it with me. I took that away from him.

I wiped my face and walked him to the door. Before he left, he turned to me and said "Oh, and make sure you talk to your doctor today. Don't lie about it like you did last night."

My mouth flew open. I was about to yell, "I DIDN"T LIE!" but suddenly thought better of it when I saw his face give me the warning look.

How does he know these things?

Rambling Writer's Block

B'Man recently remarked that I hadn't posted in quite a while. I could only shrug and reply, I have nothing to post about."

He generously offered to help me out. "You go bring me my belt, and I'll be glad to give you some inspiration," he smiled.

I thanked him for his very kind offer, but declined.

Having nothing to post about is a mixed blessing. On the one hand it puts an indefinite hold on this strange hobby of blogging that I've become so attached to, leaving me to search for other outlets for my creativity... and on the other hand, my lack of subject matter proves that I am reaching that pinnacle in my relationship that I have been looking forward to since we started dd a year ago.

So, triumphantly I sit in front of a blank computer screen with a severe case of writer's block 15 days after my last post, reflecting over the events of the last 3 weeks. There's a certain amount of pride in knowing that I've managed to avoid punishment for that long. I've kept our home in a certain degree of order, the remotes remain in their rightful place, the closet doors and cabinets are no longer an obstical course,  and I'm completing important tasks in a timely manner.

And here I sit, the very picture of perfection with a grin on my face and nothing to write about. Okay... not quite perfect. A couple of times the wooden spoon has found it's way out of the crock on the counter for the purpose of what B'Man likes to call "a pet peeve stinger." And every once in a while the warnings come hurling at me sometimes so fast that I can hear them whistle like bullets as they blow by my ear. "You do that again you'll find yourself across my knee". What were those warnings about? Who knows? They come and go so quickly that they've become background noise, a part of the sound track of my life along with music from the seventies and the sound of the L train in the distance. I subconsciously take note of the infraction, resolve to not repeat it, and move on with my life.

Yesterday, B'Man picked me up right after work so that we could go to an optometrist and pick out a pair of frames for my new glasses. I wasn't in the best of moods, as I had been struggling with headaches from poor eyesight and chronic dry eye. We parked and went in and I tried on frames and we spoke to the salesman about our insurance and discounts for about 30 minutes. When we came out, we found a parking ticket sitting on the windshield. This only made me feel worse. Not only did I feel like a burden because we would have to drop a few hundred dollars on my new glasses, but the excursion to find them was going to cost another $50.00. I wanted to burst into tears. B'Man adamantly shook his head when he understood my misplaced guilt. "Baby, this is in no way your fault. This is all mine. I'm the one who decided not to put the quarter in the meter. I easily could have. A quarter! I lose that much in the cushions of the couch, and I was too cheap to pay for the parking space thinking I could get away with it." Then he frowned and cocked his head to the side as though a thought just occurred to him. "Hey, maybe I should spank you so I learn to never do that again!"

Sometimes I worry about that man.

Along with my seemingly perfect conduct, the truth also is that B'Man has been letting me off the hook more readily lately. There's a compassionate understanding that he's developed over these past few months when I tend to drag him down with me into hormone hell. A few times recently I've snapped and snarled and bared my teeth in response to what I perceived as an insensitive remark or question, only to be met with a gentle touch on my back and a comforting rub between my shoulder blades.

Sitting in front of a blank screen with writer's block has also given me time to reflect on our most important accomplishment in the last year. As a new blogger, Rebekah, has just revealed her husband's intentions to help her stop smoking, I can't help but let out a sigh of relief that this is, for the most part, all over for me. There is no doubt in my mind that my loving husband saved my life by forcing me to choose between the pain of withdrawal and the pain of severe spankings. My only contribution to the process was that I eventually chose wisely. In discussing the plight of my fellow bloggers going through the same struggle, B'Man revealed to me that he was prepared to "go the distance" had I broken down and had that one last cigarette that I was constantly on the verge of seeking. When I asked him what he meant by that he replied, "spanking isn't enough for something this serious. I'd have to whip you."

I think my jaw unhinged as I had to pick it up off the floor. I didn't have to ask if he was serious. There was no humor behind those eyes. I knew something like that wouldn't be easy for him. My spankings have ranged from slightly stingy to horrendously painful, but they were always just spankings. A whipping is something I simply can't wrap my mind around, but I realized that he saw this issue as a matter of life or death. Mine. I've always considered this an open issue in that I was still unsure about my ability to forego the opportunity to smoke in a weak moment. After that conversation, there is now no more doubt in my mind. The issue is now forever closed. I am a non smoker, and there's no way I could have done it without him.

My marriage floats inside a comfort zone where this thing we do is systematically dissolving the arguments, frustration, anger, nagging, yelling, and all the other crap that created resentment. I find myself relaxed and content. I'm thinking maybe I can become one of those wise women in the community that rarely get punished, and always has a thought provoking essay to impart (like Sara maybe?).

Or maybe I'll do something stupid and thoughtless and get my butt whooped tomorrow.

Only time will tell.