"A Peeve-stipation Situation"

Regular readers here know that since I started “Building the Kingdom” as SugarAnne puts it, I have been working through several of my pet peeves with her. I have been quite the “peeve-ologist” – if I must say so myself.

Thanks to the consistent application of my trusty little wooden spoon, we (insert inclusive gathering arm gesture) now know the importance of pausing our online chat and give our husband a few minutes of our undivided attention when he gets home from work. We are now able to keep the hall closet door closed. We are now able to keep the three remote controls in their respective rooms. And, We are now able to consistently take our medicine.

I could’ve went all Chief Whackacheek on her and thwacked that booty for any infraction of any peeve at any time. But instead we were more like Hansel and Gretel picking up bread crumbs one at a time and taking several months to find our way “home” on these things. I have had an amazing amount of success with this method. Like I said (proudly buffing fingernails on shoulder), I’m a “peeve-ologist”. A patient “peeve-ologist” at that.

Unfortunately there’s one thing the ole peeve-ology degree didn’t prepare me for. Maybe I need continuing education. Perhaps it’s that “education never really prepares you for the real world” sorta thing. I don’t know. But whatever it is, it has left me unprepared to remedy what I call “peeve-stipation”.

That’s right “peeve-stipation”. We can’t seem to pass the latest peeve – not leaving recyclables on one side of the counter. To paraphrase her, I’ve tried to keep a sense of humor about it. I’ve teased. I’ve begged. And I’ve made empty threats. And now it’s officially a spankable offense. But it’s been a spankable offense for over a month now!

It seems it would be easy. All she has to do is stretch her arm out with the offending item in hand, let it go and watch the damn thing drop into the recycle basket. But noooooooo... apparently that’s too hard to do. The girl has been thwacked with her pants up, her pants down and “looking like a fool with her pants on to the ground”. And still!! she consistently leaves recyclables on the counter. Basically, she just sits there, pretty as you please, I might add. 

What is the noteworthy difference between this peeve and the other peeves we have passed this year with rousing success? The other peeves were something that she was in total and complete agreement with. They were something that she wanted to accomplish for herself – as well as for me. But this little peeve – as aggravating as it is – seems like it's all me. Now, I know this isn't true, but it seems like she could give a rat’s glute chute about it. So, although they sting quite deliciously, my little peeve-pats with my big wooden spoon may be nothing more than an uncomfortable inconvenience for her.

The inconvenience of the “peeve-pat” should be enough. And frankly, that’s all I have. Maybe I should get me one of those “W.T.F.!!!!!!” go all Lizzie Borden and 40 whack her into doing it. (That’ll be some Kaopectate for that ass now wouldn’t it?! Huh?) But I can’t (because I choose not to) and I shouldn’t (because that’s not how “ttwd” works for us). As a peeve-ologist I now realize that “ttwd” is not laxative for every “peeve-stipation” situation.

Besides, going Lizzie on her would only bring into question my integrity in “this thing we do”. An integrity that is dependent on me loving her and encouraging her, along with reasonableness of application. An integrity that, I might add, I am very zealous to maintain.

I've got a couple of other peeves in the pipeline. I just may have to pass this peeve in order to pass this peeve - if you get what I mean. For now, her uncomfortable "inconvenience" will just have to be the extent of my satisfaction.

“The Breath of a Pit Bull”

It’s been a tough week for Sugar. There’s still snow on the ground from last weekend’s big drop; the temperature has been hovering in the teens; and the wind chill's got the bark of a pit bull and a bite to match. All week long that pit bull has chased SugarAnne back into the house. One day it even undercut my authority. She was tasked to go to the gym. But because of the cold she refuuuuused to go.

“I guess you’ll be able to get your ‘tweed’ on tonight”, she wrote in a chat message.

"Why? What do you mean?” (I’m actually thinking, “Oh no, what the hell unfixable thing did you do?!”)

“It’s cold outside”, she says. (I think: “Duh. Who doesn’t know that?”)

"Yes, I know”, I sanitized my internal sarcasm for external delivery.

“I’m not going out there!” She says.

I’m-not-going-out-there? I was so caught off guard by this last line that I actually tilted my head up to make sure that I was looking down through the most powerful part of my lenses. I squinted and slowly lowered my head until I could see those fateful words with the sharpest focus and clarity available. I just wanted to be sure that what I was seeing was actually what I was seeing. And that's exactly what I was seeing! Perhaps I had a virus that affected my vision. Nah. Maybe the computer had a virus? Nah. Perhaps she had a virus! Perhaps.

But there they were: “I’m not going out there" – followed by the ubiquitous exclamation point!

I mean, I can’t be seeing this! This cannot be true. It is not possible that these words were uttered from the loving pixelips of Her Royal (characteristically compliant) Sweetness. Surely there is something wrong with the World Wide Web – a glitch, perhaps, in the configuration of the electromagnetic forces, fields, rays and waves that pull and push words from keyboard to the screen and on to the screens all over the world. The World Wide Web was obviously broken!!

“Really.” My response was more a statement than a question.

“It’s just too cold”, she said. And the chat went silent for a moment.

I’m just not quite sure I’m believing this. At this point I could’ve picked up the phone and gotten to the heart of the matter. But I kinda like these chat exchanges we have each day. We actually get each other – even in chat.

I break the silence.

“You always have a choice in these matters Sugar” I veil my threat at first.

“But you’ll regret it.” Uh-oh! Here we go! It-is-on! I put my electronic bark up against the bite of the pit bull.

“I’m not going out there!” Wha’th-? There it is again! That frickin’ glitch!

"MickyD’s 3:16”, I say.

"???” She doesn’t understand.

“Have it your way”, I clarify.

“That was actually a Burger King campaign”. Oh no she di’int! She MUST have a virus!

“You know what I mean!” If the glitch were equal opportunity those letters would’ve been capitalized.

“I’m going to bed”.

That being settled we went on to chat quite amicably about other unrelated stuff. I spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon nervously planning a big “tweed” event. And event that outright defiance called for. 

The reality of Sugar’s outright defiance was driven home quite humorously later that afternoon. It was as if God was watching out for her. I had the unusual (and unfortunate) opportunity to be called out of the office in the late afternoon – the warmest part of the day mind you. I park in a garage but I had to stop for gas.

And when I stepped out of my car the breath of that pit bull wrapped around me and the damned thing bit me right on the ass! All I could say was “OH-MY-GOD!” And I said it out loud too (yeah, I’m the pastor - smirk). I, quite literally, quelled the urge to say to other people pulling up to the pump, “DON’T! Don’t get outta your car!!” I'm serious. I was freezing my ass off!

Needless to say, the plans for a big “tweed” event were blown away by the breath of that pit bull. Yeah, I got the paddle out when I got home. I postured; even threw a little intimidation around – at first. But ended up laughingly explaining how I came to understand her outright defiance. Amnesty International is not one of my charities. But amnesty was in order and amnesty was bestowed.

But don’t think I didn’t spend a few spanks - loving spanks that is - on her willing bottom.

“’Tweed’le Need? ‘Tweed’le Duh!”



Not "tweed"

 What is “tweed”? No, it’s not a professorial sport coat with patches on the elbows. Or a punky little frock that I’d love to jack up in order to “melt her Mounds” (much to my Almonds' Joy). Nope. “Tweed” is short in our house for “this thing we do” or TTWD. Both of which have just too many syllables for someone who is as verbally efficient as myself to say again and again. So when we comb the blogs in the neighborhood together (as has become a morning ritual of late), rather than say “this thing we do” – or the even more syllabically burdened TTWD - we’ve shortened it verbally to, simply, “tweed”.

SugarAnne thinks I’m a bit crazy. She says that every time she turns around I’m “threatening” to spank her. She says I need “tweed”. But she says it more accusatorily, as in, “Not me, but “YOU! YOU'RE the one that needs ‘tweed’”!

I tell her, “I’m not 'threatening' you. I’m just ‘infoorrrrming’ you”. And frankly, “informing” her has been more than enough to keep her on the right track and out of trouble. But that brings an interesting development in yours truly as a result. B’Man needs to spank - and spank well.

To some of you this would come as no surprise. It has been apparent for some time. After all, I am BabyMan – he of “have paddle will travel” fame; he who is “quick to spank and slow to listen”; he whom anyone but Clutch Cargo might ascribe the name “Paddle-foot”. For you it’s easy to see: “'Tweed’le need BabyMan? Hmmpf...uhh…'tweed’le duh BabyMan”

Wasn’t I just helping her out – helping us out when we started “tweed”? Wasn’t I just assisting in getting her life in order? Wasn’t I just being the strong and dutiful husband who does what it takes to bring order to our lives so that we could have the liberty to love, and the emotional freedom to pursue our brand happiness? Wasn’t I? I mean – I was, WASN’T I?

Funny, the season and the weather normally call for “tweed”, but she’s running around here as happy as the hell as she can be right now! And I’m not wishing any less upon her. I’m simply noting that I’m not getting to wear “tweed” as often as I like (need?). Perhaps the emotional funk I’ve been experiencing the past couple of weeks is an indication that I ain’t been getting m’spank on sufficiently. I don't know.



"Tweed"

 I mean, there’s been those pet peeve patty-pat-pats with the wooden spoon here and there. And a "slap and tickle" recently. But there hasn’t been a “get your ass over here now, paddle popping, booty stinging, tear inducing, 'Now get your tail in that bedroom and gimme some of that thang'”, spanking in a while.

Hm…I’m probably doing all this “threateni- er, I mean "infoorrrrming” because I ain’t getting the full extent of my necessary spank on. And, come to think of it, if "threateni- er, uh, I mean, if "infoorrrming" her is working so well, can she be a true, blood running through the veins, spanko? I don't know. But if she ain't, some kinda sacrifice will have to be made! 

Ah...it’s probably easier for you than for me to see. So let me just say it for y'all,

“’Tweed’le need B’Man? Hmmmpf...uhh...‘Tweed’le duh B'Man!”

"Hero Complex or Complex Hero"

I had to go in and save my girl. Yesterday she was all down in the dumps. The thermometer reading was SAD and rapidly falling toward depression. The weather had changed drastically. The sky went gray and a wisp of falling flurries could be seen. She didn’t have enough energy to complete all of her tasks. So in the late morning she called me. She received the measure of mercy she needed.

In the late afternoon when I got home I wasted no time. After a small amount of banter I grabbed a paddle, commanded her over my knee, peeled back those baby blue pajama bottoms and went to work ever so slowly and quite deliberately. I “raised her temperature” and set the thermostat to "function". It wasn’t punishment. Nah. The woman needed saving.

Like Mighty Mouse, I’m always looking for an opportunity to rip my shirt open, stick out my chest (with that big bold superhero husband insignia on the undershirt) and proclaim boldly and confidently,

“Here I come to save the day!!”

I need to be her hero. Husbands naturally feel this way about their wives. At least I think they should. I love taking care of Sugar. But more than that, I think I need to take care of her. In fact, it goes well beyond all of that chivalrous stuff: beyond the opening of doors and the walking down stairs in front of her. It goes beyond the anticipating her need of a sweater, an umbrella or a toothpick after popcorn. It even goes beyond fulfilling her wants and desires – and protecting her from them when her indulgence could lead her into harm’s way. 

I need to protect her from the world. Need.

Yes, I confess I have a hero complex in that regard. But a hero complex can actually get in the way of me being the man that she really needs me to be. You see, there’s a difference between a man with a hero complex and a man who is a complex hero.

A man with a hero complex lets his wife get whatever she wants, whenever she wants it, however she wants it. He lets her engage her tendencies and desires – even if they could lead to harmful conclusions. He does it just to get his hero “fix”.

But a man who is a complex hero strives to give his wife whatever she needs, whenever she needs it, however she needs it. He sets clear guidelines for her and their relationship. He holds her accountable to those guidelines. And he follows through with punishment if necessary – even if that means spanking thoroughly and consistently – on a regular basis. He don’t need no hero “fix”.

I go back and forth between operating out of a hero complex and operating as a complex hero.

I once had a mentor who used to tell me, “Sometimes the person you think is lovin’ on ya, is actually really hurtin’ on ya. And sometimes the person you think is hurtin’ on ya, is actually really lovin’ on ya.”

I think the women who consent to “this thing we do” probably have a better understanding of that than we – the men they actually submit to.