The Devil's Hand !

I am heartily sick of fireworks this summer.  The constant question in my mind is, "When will the people in my neighborhood run out of cherry bombs!?"  It started the Friday night before July 4th and continues still.  The racket stops for a night or two, and I am lulled into a false sense of security.  Then "Boom!" it begins again.


Cherry bombs and aerials are illegal in our city, but the next county over has huge tents along the highway with all the fireworks you could ever want.  Please, don't get me wrong.  I love the 4th of July, and I love a good show with lots of boomers.  But almost 8 weeks later, I was so hoping they would save their leftovers for New Year's Eve.

When these stalwart supporters of our national freedoms start up after I am asleep, I get really grouchy.  Our older dog could care less and snores right through the blasts on the next block, but our younger rescue dog is literally petrified.  If an unexpected explosion disturbs the night, she shakes uncontrollably and tries to burrow in back of the furniture, regardless of electrical cords and my lamps.  It can go on for several hours.


Anyway, I was already asleep when Sam took both our dogs out to do their business before coming to bed.  All the windows were open because the evening had cooled down and was very pleasant.  Suddenly, I was jolted out of my sleep.  There was a horrendous boom that rattled the glass in the windows, and then every dog in the whole neighborhood started barking and howling - ours included!  The cacophony went on until I finally gave up and got out of bed to stand at the window.

Yes, some temper was showing.  I yelled out the window at our dogs to "Shut up!" and then heard Sam's voice in the darkness.  And there was an edge to it.

                 "I am handling this and don't need any help from you."

It was the tone of voice that made me realize, without even seeing his face, that I had crossed some line.  When he came to bed, I apologized for the incident.  He drew me over to spoon but whispered that I needed to "Butt out," when he was taking care of a situation.  I agreed, and we both went off to sleep.

The next morning I was writing an email , still in my nightgown and drinking coffee, when Sam went to get ready for work.  My fingers were flying over the keyboard when he suddenly appeared in the doorway to the office.  His eyes were narrowed (never a good sign,) and he was crooking his finger. 

                                         "Come with me," he said ominously.


I followed him down the hallway.  I could see that he had closed the bedroom windows and was rustling in the bottom drawer of his dresser.  In happier times, I refer to it as the "Toy Box."  When he came up with the rice paddle, I knew he was dead serious.


                                          "Close the door," he said quietly.

I know I have mentioned the rice paddle before, but I am not sure I have explained that it was me who bought it.  Long ago, I had read a story that mentioned such an item.  I had never heard of it before.  About 2 years ago I was out antiquing/junking when I spotted this utensil in a display of old kitchen utensils.  When I remembered the spanking story, I thought it would be a fun implement to have in our toy box.  I shall tell you sincerely that I rue that day.



With the handle included, the entire rice paddle is probably 14 inches in length.  The paddle portion is a slightly oval shape with a concave dip in which to pick up the rice.  Sam says that it is exactly the size of one rear cheek.  I believe it is made of bamboo and is as deadly a weapon of ass destruction as I have ever experienced.  After "playing" with it once or twice, I convinced Sam to leave it in the drawer.  This thing is simply not conducive to an erotic spanking.

It stays at the bottom of the drawer and has only made an appearance once in a great while.  When Sam gets really riled up about something, he will dig to find it.  The tears start before the paddle ever hits its target.

"Oh, Sam, not that one.  Pleeease."  This came out as a bit of a whine, which was probably not the right thing to do at the time.  

           "Yes, this one.  Next time you will remember to butt out."
  

                              And then he just stood there 
                          waiting for me to put my butt out.
  

This did not seem one bit funny at the time.  Perhaps if we had been playing, I would have seen the humor.  Good god, my friends, that thing is the devil's hand!
  

  

The spanking lecture was all about knowing that Sam was in charge.  That if there were fireworks, then the dogs were going to bark.  That's life.  My yelling out the window for all the neighbors to hear was not only useless, it was just as irritating as the rest of the noise.  The fireworks on my butt continued until Sam's message was crystal clear to me.

The loud explosions in our neighborhood continue to go off every few nights.  I have not even been tempted to complain.  Adjectives that could describe the change in my reaction would be serene, peaceful, calm, and even tranquil.
  

                               Halo restored and that's a wrap.