Cranky husband makes a big production of studying the thermostat, like he’s checking a bank of high-tech, top-secret gauges at a super-secret nuclear facility. Thousands of lives are apparently hanging in the balance as he peers closely at the thing, and then taps the plastic cover on the plastic dial with his finger, like the world famous nuclear scientist he thinks he is. “It’s seventy-two degrees in here,” he says, in his official, scientific expert voice.
“The hell it is,” I say, just a tad grumpily. “It’s sixty-two – maybe. That’s when my nose gets red and begins running. I start turning blue at fifty-five, in case you’re interested.”
He shakes his head, obviously disgusted at my appalling ignorance of things electrical. “That is a state of the art German instrument, for your information, brand new four months ago, and it says it’s seventy-two.”
“I don’t care if it’s made in the Black Forest, by gnomes,” say I, haughtily. “Your state of the art German instrument is wrong.”
“Why would it be wrong?”
“Because it’s a piece of plastic crap, that’s why. Ask your children about the durability of plastic. They’ve destroyed probably three hundred dollars worth of brand new plastic crap since Christmas.” (Neil and I now have two enchanting little ones – eight-year old Michael and his younger sister, Amy. Our children’s primary pastime, at this tender stage in their lives, appears to be smashing one another over the head with the few toys they haven’t already demolished.)
“Okay,” he said, grimly. “Let’s try this another way. Keep your hands off the thermostat – period. This is the second one you’ve wrecked, and we can’t afford another visit from the furnace guy. I’m beginning to think the two of you have something going.”
Just beneath the joking, Neil’s voice had begun to develop a slight edge – a very familiar edge that should have warned me the temperature in the room was, indeed, on its way up, and to back off before it got hotter than I liked. But I wasn’t about to surrender to a little husbandly bullying, so like the mature and intelligent adult that I am, I stuck out my tongue and gave him the finger.
“Jawohl, Herr Hitler. Anything you say. I’ll just lie here and quietly freeze to death.”
Before I saw it coming, Neil had flipped me over on my stomach, yanked down my pajama bottoms, and delivered a couple of medium-serious swats to my chilled, naked butt. I responded with a yelp of complaint, and tried to turn over, but he had me pinned down.
“Promise me,” he said. “And mean it.”
So, I giggled.
Whacks three and four were a lot more serious, and my response was more on the order of a howl of pain. Neil was definitely losing his sense of humor.
“One more time,” he said grimly. “Give me your promise, or...”
“What if I do?” I grumbled. “It won’t mean anything under torture – or stand up in court, either. I know about police brutality.” I suspected that he was bluffing, so I pushed my luck a little further. “Besides, we both know perfectly well you’re not going to spank me when I’m right and when you’re so obviously wrong. Why can’t you stop being so fucking pigheaded, and just admit that the damned thing is busted?”
Neil is always pretty good at listening to reason, and I can’t remember ever getting really spanked for simply arguing with him. It may have been turning around and whacking him in the eye with the TV guide that did it.
Seconds later, I was across his knee, with my hair in my eyes, my pajama bottoms in a puddle at my feet, and my bare ass starting to feel the consequences of my folly.
“Ow-w-w! Stop that, dammit! &#($*^@) Fucking (_*0&()_((& fucking *$@&´&$#*” This last part was a big mistake, because Neil has a policeman’s attitudes about profanity – meaning he and his fellow cops can swear like drunken longshoremen, whereas I am allowed only one or two serious obscenities per week, and even then only under duress. Without missing a beat, Neil shifted me slightly and trapped both my kicking legs beneath one of his. I was helpless, and at his mercy – never a good place to be when you’ve just whacked your husband in the eye and used the F-word multiple times. Moments later, with my previously chilly rear end beginning to catch fire, I very thoughtfully stuffed a sofa pillow in my mouth. There were, after all, innocent children asleep upstairs.
Oh, yes. I realize that I may have forgotten to explain, here, about the “spanking thing.” I’ll call it that for lack of a better term. “Domestic Discipline” sounds a little formal for what happens between my hubby and me. Anyway, it happened for the first time just after Neil and I began dating, and for reasons I can’t quite remember right now, I actually consented – to being spanked again, that is. The very first spanking was kind of an impromptu event, and my approval or disapproval was more or less immaterial at the time. It just happened, sort of like in a John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara movie, only without the funny lines.
As I said, I can’t recall precisely when or where, or in what specific words I gave my consent to being spanked on a regular basis – as determined by my beloved. I like to believe that it occurred during a period of sensual delight, or after way too much in the way of strong spirits. I think I may have envisioned being spanked as some sort of erotic variation on one of the lovely activities Neil had already introduced me to. (Yes, I was a late-blooming virgin when we met.) I certainly don’t remember it being mentioned in connection with discipline, or pain, or in any way involving my not being able to sit down for prolonged periods of time without a cushion.
Neil, on the other hand, tells me that it was all very clearly discussed, after an episode in which I borrowed his new Corolla without permission, discovered mid-excursion that I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, and ended up in Santa Monica Bay, in three feet of skuzzy water. Neil is a forbearing sort of guy, but since he’d only had the car for two days, he was understandably peeved when I drowned it. Especially when I stubbornly refused to admit that I might be the tiniest bit guilty of poor judgment. My contention, as I recall, was that it was the highway department’s fault, for having placed a curve on a scenic roadway, where someone trying to read a road map and talking on her cell phone at the same time might not notice it. Fortunately, a very understanding highway patrolman came along and fished me out of the bay, but Neil’s new car wasn’t quite as lucky. (Salt water is apparently very bad for leather upholstery and all that electronic stuff they put in vehicles, today. Who knew?)
The highway patrolman drove me home, and by the time someone called Neil and he got back to the apartment, I was sitting in his tidy living room, waiting for him to come home and comfort me after my ordeal. Which is exactly what he was doing, until I began explaining about how none of what happened was really my fault.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked, apparently incredulous. I said that no, I wasn’t kidding. Someone should file a complaint with the state – or something. Neil opted for the “something” alternative, by pulling me across his lap (on an impulse, he said later) taking down my panties, and laying into my bare behind with his wooden desk ruler and a whole lot more gusto than I believe was called for. When he was finished, I ran to the bathroom in tears, mainly to inspect the damage. I expected to find livid welts, but all I saw were some reddish splotches. Actually, it was kind of disappointing, but the sting more than made up for it.
I know now, from fairly extensive experience, that it wasn’t an especially hard spanking, but since it was my first, I did find it a bit shocking. Especially the part where my pants came down. Embarrassing doesn’t begin to cover how I felt at the time. Removing my underwear was something he’d done quite a lot before, of course, but never when he was scowling, and armed with a fat desk ruler.
Thermostats and drowned Corollas and all that aside, one of the most important things that men don’t “get” is why some women have an inherent need to see everyone happily paired off. You’ve probably heard that old joke about what a man needs to do to get a woman in the mood. First, he has to dress up in a suit and tie
and take her out to a romantic dinner. Then, he has to ply her with fine wine, flowers and candy, put on the soft music and dim lights, and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. It also helps to pretend that he likes her parents, her dog, and her driving.
And what does a woman have to do to achieve the same result? Arrive naked, and bring beer. And if it’s not summer, she can skip the beer.
The joke may be old, but the concept behind it is still true. Most men just don’t “get” romance. They learn enough to get by, and that’s it. And once they’re married – happily or otherwise – they have little or no interest in seeing their buddies paired off, as well. Women, on the other hand, like everything in sets of twos. Most married women I’ve met look upon any unmarried friend as a challenge, and in need of help. Which is why matchmakers have traditionally been women. Kindhearted, concerned, caring women.
Like me.
Despite the occasional spanking, I wouldn’t trade my husband for any other man in the world. When I got mad at him, I used to say that I’d trade him for Henry Cavill or Liam Hemsworth, or maybe Scott Eastwood, but Neil retaliated by making his own list. The list kept getting longer, and younger, and more bizarre. He left me a note on the kitchen counter every morning, with the new additions to his list – always someone more outlandish. Then, he started calling me at lunchtime, to ask me what I thought of some new idiot’s qualifications to be his wife and mother to his children. I finally called a truce when he put Sarah Palin on the list.
Anyway, the point of this rambling monologue is that I, like most other women, don’t like to see any of my friends, or Neil’s friends, without a love interest. And since most of my friends are either happily married or living happily in sin, all I usually have to work with are Neil’s friends.
And what better time to get lonely people together than around Valentine’s Day, right?
Which is what my best friend, Sandy, and I were trying to do that cold February morning. The unattached male subject we had chosen as the beneficiary of our matchmaking efforts was a guy named Charlie Hanson – a really nice fifty-four year old retired cop, who’d been divorced as long as any of us had known him. The lucky unattached female we had selected for him was Janet Kellerman, a local attorney, in her early fifties. They were both divorced, both in law-related professions, and both of them were avid skiers. Charlie and Janet were perfect for one another, even if neither of them knew it, yet.
Sandy and I were putting the finishing touches on a plan when I happened to glance over at Neil. He was sitting at the breakfast table, shaking his head. I should have regarded the dour expression on his face as a sign of trouble, but sometimes, I can be a little slow on the uptake. When I hung up and explained the details of the plan, though, Neil gave an audible groan.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” I asked irritably. “That oh-so-theatrical groan?”
“Please don’t do it,” he said glumly. “I’m begging you.”
“Don’t do what?”
“What you’re about to do. Get involved up to your neck in somebody else’s love life – again.”
“And why not? Janet’s lonely, and so is Charlie. Why shouldn’t I try to help?”
Neil sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d take ‘because I asked you nicely’ as a reason, right?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Anyway, it’s already in the works. Sandy and Joe are going to invite some people up to their new cabin for the Valentine’s Day weekend. You and me, of course, and Charlie and Janet. Maybe even another couple, since it sleeps eight or ten.”
Neil arched an eyebrow, the way he does when he doesn’t want to outright accuse me of something. “Oh, I see. And you’re going to call both Charlie and Janet and explain your ‘plan,’ right? The way you just did to me? Explain that they’re going to be a couple of guinea pigs?”
“We can’t do that, and you know it,” I snapped. “Neither one of them would come. They’re both too proud.”
“Perfect! A double-blind setup. That way, we can make lifelong enemies of two former friends, all in one shot. Tell me, does Joe know about this pajama party he’s throwing?”
I hesitated for a long moment. Now was probably not the time to tell a complete lie. A partial lie would have to do. “Not exactly. He’s sort of out of town, now – on a business trip.” Since Sandy’s husband, Joe, was usually even less enthusiastic about matchmaking than my husband, he was in for a surprise as well. Sandy had suggested to him that the planned weekend was going to be a romantic getaway. Also not exactly a lie. Sandy had just left out the precise number of romantic participants.
Neil nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. You know, it’s a funny thing, but now that you mention it, I may just have to go out of town that weekend – on business.”
“I never heard of a cop going on a business trip,” I said smugly. “What kind of business, if I may ask?
“I’m not sure,” he growled. “But I’ll think of something.”
I began clearing away the breakfast dishes. “All right, then, don’t come. You can stay home with the kids, and I’ll invite Harrison to come along. I’m sure he’d love to get away for a couple of days’ skiing.”
Neil chuckled. “I’m sure he would. Harrison Walters has been trying to win you back from me for years. The only thing that keeps him from trying harder is our kids. He’s scared stiff you’ll insist on keeping them after you dump me.”
“Very funny.”
“Do you remember what happened the last time you tried to set someone up?” he asked.
I remembered – but I wasn’t about to admit it. It wasn’t one of the high-water marks of my matchmaking career. The woman was a friend of mine from college that I’d run into at the market – after years apart. Naomi was a truly gorgeous girl, a fellow art student and my roommate for a while in our junior year. At that time, we were both agitators against what we called “the corrupt political system,” a sort of all-purpose categorization that included every organized group from the United States Congress to the Campfire Girls. The only things we approved of back then were whales, dolphins, and endangered highland gorillas. On any given week, Naomi and I spent considerably less time in a studio or with a paintbrush in hand than we did picketing the administration building and hurling epithets at the overworked cops that arrived to keep order. All of which could account for why I am still plugging away at getting a B.A. at my advanced age. There is also probably a degree of poetic justice in the fact that I ended up married to a cop, who still tries to keep order, in some very specific ways.
Anyway, Naomi hadn’t changed a lot over the years. She was still a knockout who still wore her hair below her waist and dressed like a high-end fortuneteller in a traveling carnival. What I didn’t know was that Naomi had never abandoned her deep and abiding reverence for various controlled substances. In our years apart, while I was morphing into an unemployed ex-artist / middle class housewife, she had apparently discovered that certain of those same substances could provide not only an agreeable ambience, but a very nice living, as well. The shy, charming guy I set her up with was this devoted single father I’d met at a PTA meeting. The shy guy’s name was Harold, and he was perfect for her. He was a sensitive, bearded, politically left-wing jazz musician and widower, and – as luck would have it – an undercover narcotics cop. (Luckily, Naomi wasn’t the kind to bear a grudge. I still get a Christmas card from her every year, from a federal prison out in Wyoming.)
“The thing with Naomi was just really bad luck,” I insisted, beginning to pout a little, for sympathy. “But this situation is entirely different. I don’t see why you’re so set against it. Charlie’s a great guy, and all Sandy and I want to do is to make him a little happier than he is.”
“Charlie’s already happy,” Neil said wearily. “Hell, Charlie’s the happiest guy I know. Charlie invested wisely and retired early. Charlie’s got no kids, a thirty-five foot Chris-Craft, and all his weekends free. Charlie lives in a high-rise condomini
um, and gets to sit on his balcony and watch someone else trim the shrubbery and mow the damned lawn. Charlie drives a car with less than a hundred thousand miles on it that doesn’t have a balding tire and a lag in the transmission. What else does he need?”
“He still needs someone to love,” I said stubbornly.
“He loves Emily.”
“Emily is an Irish Setter,” I pointed out.
Neil grinned. “Yeah, but she’s got long, red hair, a terrific disposition, and she never drags him out to the mall, or to PTA meetings. Besides all that, Charlie once told me that she sleeps with him every night, keeps his feet warm, and never hogs the bed. The all-round perfect female.”
“Janet is an attorney, a very intelligent and interesting person, and quite attractive,” I argued. “And she has beautiful red hair.”
“The red hair’s out of a bottle, and okay, she’s attractive, once you get past the fact that everything on her has been surgically enhanced.”
“She’s in a highly competitive field,” I countered. “She needs to look her best.”
“The only women who need breasts the size of cantaloupes are strippers, and hookers,” he shot back. “Not defense lawyers. I’m sorry, Beth. I know you admire Janet for how far she’s gotten, and I can take her in small doses, but I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy as a wife. She’s dead sure she’s right about everything and she never shuts up about where she’s been and who she knows that’s important. High-powered women like Janet eat nice guys like poor old Charlie for breakfast.”
I sniffed. “That’s insulting. I hate men who can’t deal with women as equals.”
“Nobody’s equal to Janet. She’d scare the pants off Leonardo Da Vinci and Albert Einstein. I’ll tell you what, though. Call Charlie and let him know what’s up. If he agrees to come up there and get ambushed by the three of you, that’s fine. If he doesn’t, you promise to call the whole thing off. Okay?”
Heart Song Anthology Page 11
