this thing "WE" do

Once in a while along comes a really thoughtful post out in blogland.  For me it can be a springboard for a deep discussion with blog friends or even with Sam.  Last month Meredith wrote such a post.  

                                      Her Question was, 
              "Who carries the responsibility in a ttwd marriage?"


Back years ago now, when I convinced Sam that ttwd was something I had always wanted, we both had a lot to learn.  For a very long time, I would find a post or article that spoke to me and read it aloud to Sam.  It gave us a place to begin to shape our own version of ttwd. 

• What were our roles?  

•  How do we identify the components that will carry us to where we want to be?
•  Do we have to be perfect for it to be succussful?

I don't read Sam very many posts anymore.  He has a lot more confidence in himself now.  He knows how he wants things between us and takes care of business when there are troubled  waters.

But Mere's post really got me thinking, especially when she invited her readers to ask the same question of their husbands.  When Sam and I sat relaxing together after he got home that night, I read her post aloud to him.  It came at a good time for us.  Due to my health problems recently, ttwd could easily have been something that got pushed to the side, to be picked up whenever we both felt things were "back to normal."  Instead, it was the pillar and strength that held us up as we struggled with the disappointments of another ruined vacation and the reality of searching for a diagnosis with a new doctor and a myriad of tests.

Instead of dumping ttwd for the duration, Sam stepped up to be sure that I stayed focused on the positive and the belief that this would be resolved.  No crying, no silence, no distancing, and no depression.  He was kind and sweet and thoughtful, but he meant what he said.  There were several very serious spankings over the bed, I can tell you.  They were not fun events, although the hugs and kisses afterwards were wonderful.  As we look forward now with a firm diagnosis from a wonderful doctor and the prescribed medications, things are looking much rosier for us both.

Our discussion that evening went on for close to 2 hours.  Sam's response was different than Jack's, but just as quick.  It took him about two seconds for him to launch into an answer.  

                             "It's right in the title, for god's sake," he said.  
                             "It is called This Thing We Do."  

He talked about it being a joint proposition and a shared responsibility - like raising our kids.  If it is not shared, then any blame for it not working would be on just one partner's shoulders.

He said, "We both screw up and we both adjust.  It is my job to figure out what is needed, and sometimes that takes me a bit of time.  I am much better now at recognizing when you are in a funk, Ella.  Like sunny days and cloudy days, there are instances where I know giving you a longer leash, so to speak, is the right thing to do."

Sam went on, "I ask myself is this a hurricane or just a few clouds?  If I know that it is a superficial blip that will be gone in the morning, I do not need to spank you.  I need to hug you or make you laugh."

He said to me, "Ella, one thing about you is that everything is either black or white.  There is never any gray area for you.  Ha!  Grey! Just like that book you like.  Except, for you, it is 50 Shades of Funk!"   

That one really made me laugh, but Sam was far from done.

He continued, "I think I am slow to anger, but there is always an element of anger when I take a correctional course."   

Believe me, I nodded my agreement here.  

"It is your job to listen and obey and to watch your temper.  We are so lucky.  If I was a religious man, I might say we should count our blessings.  Nothing pisses me off more than when you look at the dark side of things.  I watch so I can prevent small bumps in the road from becoming potholes."  

He reminded me that most of our "weekend adjustments" need to address bossiness.  If I lose track of my responsibility to let him be the boss, then it becomes his business.

 

Sam was almost ready to wrap up this discussion, and there was a lot of humor here at the end.  He told me that he is not telepathic.  He laughed as he referred to Spock on Star Trek.  

"Not able to mind meld, El.  You have to talk to me."

"I will never understand why self-image is so important to women.  I know you need help with that, and I am just the guy to do it."  He laughed again, "Ha!  I don't know about other men, but as long as the old torpedo of love can get a hard-on, I am just fine."

Long before ttwd, I always appreciated our sex life, but there is simply no comparison to the intensity of the passion and the joy it brings us now.

      Sam totally agreed with Jack about never giving up ttwd.  
                                         It is here to stay.  


                                      For better and worse,
  
                                       For richer or poorer,

                                    In sickness and in health,

                                     Until death do us part,

                                        This Thing We Do.

 

    

Spit Medals

When I was a little girl, I started helping my dad in the family business by the time I was 5 years old.  By the age of 8, I had a steady job for 4 hours every Saturday morning.  He was a tough but huggable boss.  He loved to tease me with really silly phrases and a healthy dose of gentle sarcasm.  I would laugh so hard, the milk would run out my nose.

One of his favorite jokes was that instead of giving me a standard warm and fuzzy compliment on a job well done, he would grin and tell me to give myself a "spit medal."  This meant that you were supposed to lick your thumb and wipe it on your shirt right over your heart.  If you giggled and didn't give yourself your medal, he would break into a big belly laugh, lick his own thumb, and take a step toward you.

            "OK!  OK, Dad.  See, I gave myself the spit medal!" 


I have never heard of anyone else ever talk about spit medals.  My dad was a crazy Irishman, so maybe somebody reading this post will know of this silly game.  I still give myself spit medals but for a much different purpose now.

Several weeks ago, Meredith wrote a post about -
                       
                            "Going On and On and On...."

I loved it, and her story about nagging reminded me of how I use spit medals these days.

I agree with Mere and others that nagging or trying to have the last word isn't really conducive to a happy ttwd home.  It is tempting, though, and Sam tempts me on this fairly regularly.  There are so many times I want to put my two cents in or suggest a better way to do something (that would be my way.)  Sam will always hear my ideas, but he does not need or want me to tell him....

•  a better way to drive to our destination.
• why he should google something to check his accuracy.
• the reasons my idea should be reconsidered.
• how to cook my steak.
• what he forgot to do when we clean.

 Now days, when I open my mouth to say anything that might be construed as nagging, I really try to close it again and give myself a spit medal.  I don't do it ostentatiously, and (up until now) I don't think Sam has really noticed.  Just a little lick on my thumb and a quick tap on my shirt.  In my head I congratulate myself as well as bestowing the deserved medal.

  


    "Well done, Ella.  You kept your mouth shut.  I'm proud of you." 

• Sam chooses the route with the most traffic at this time of day - Ella does not make a peep.  "Give yourself a spit medal, girl."

• For the third time this month, Sam forgets to finish in the dining room......Ella bites her tongue and earns another spit medal.

• Company is over for dinner, Sam is manning the grill, and Ella does not offer any advice.  You guessed right; she collects another spit medal.

Actually, this little ttwd wife has swept the Olympic event in keeping one's mouth shut.  It may sound silly, this little game of mine, but it has become a way for me to see real improvement in the battle against bossiness and nagging.  I think Sam feels the improvement, too, even if he doesn't know about spit medals.  Whatever works, I guess.

      Always love to find a reason to include a quote from the Bard.

I have a quote for everything.

                              "But no perfection is so absolute,
                           That some impurity doth not pollute."


In the interest of honesty, I confess that even regular awarding of spit medals does not make me perfect.  When the inevitable happens, Sam has a favorite quote, too.


                                 As he takes my hand, I hear
                                      "Come along, Ella." 

Meredith Says For Me To Get Off My Ass and Write Something!

These were not Mere's exact words.  She said it much more nicely, but that was basically the message.  It made me laugh anyway!  Besides, she is right.  I need to write something before I forget how to type.  Ella is alive, just not that well. 

Still dealing with lots of medical issues here, so there is not much new happening since I wrote Roses and Gatorade.  Dr. Sam is ready to step in at any time I start to get "mopey," as he calls it.  I am staying as positive as I can.  Sam says we are only 

                                      "Looking forward."

So, I have decided to complete the popular meme floating out there in blogland these days.  It is my turn to purloin and join this band of meme rustlers. Yeehaw!  Here goes.

BIO

Marriages - 1
Proposals - 2
Divorces - None, Nope, Never
Sugeries - At least 7 - Too many!
Tattoos - Not gonna happen, ever
Piercings - Just my ears


HAVE YOU EVER?


Shot a gun - Quite often.  Sam and I go out to a private range.

Quit a job - Twice

Been on TV - With my 4th graders

Fallen in love -  Only once, but I got it right the first time.

Driven cross country - Well I have been to both coasts,
                                      but not on the same trip.

Hit a deer - Yes, on our wedding night.  Sam always said if
                    we survived our first 24 hours of marriage, we
                    could get through anything.

Watched a birth - Just kittens.  Didn't get to see my babies
                             because they took away my glasses.  
                             Yes, I was pissed off.

Ridden in an ambulance - Twice

Sung karaoke - Goodness, no.  I can't even stay on key
                          for the Happy Birthday song.

Ice skated - I tried many times, but I was much better at 
                    drinking cocoa by the heater.

Been surfing - Absolutely not.  Couldn't even water ski.

Seen the ocean - I love the ocean - doesn't matter which one.

Ridden a horse - Did this as a kid at camp.  I sucked.

Almost died - Drank insecticide when I was 4 or 5 years old.
                       Had my stomach pumped.

Been punched - Quite often as a kid.  My nickname could
                          have been Scrappy-Doo.

Punched back - Most assuredly.  Must confess - it was me
                          who threw the first punch once in a while.
                          Don't pick on my baby brother!

ARE YOU:


IN LOVE NOW? – Oh, my.  The answer to this one has been 
                                "yes" since I was 15 years old. 

 

Roses and Gatorade

 

To miss a dream vacation once because of a health issue is a major disappointment.  It happened to me last fall, and I can't tell you how miserable I was for many weeks.  Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and couldn't care less if people thought I was over the top.  Ignored consolation from family and friends and wallowed in self-pity.  The illness was so awful, and I just couldn't put the sorrow aside.  Sam ached to help me get over being so sad and so sick.  I finally started talking to people again.  It even helped when I was able to go back to work.   Didn't really come around until my guy propped me up in front of the computer and said we were going to plan our trip once more.  That was when I started being me again.

Self Pity - ...the grave you're digging for yourself.

Unfortunately, the health issue cleared up before the gastroenterologist could get it properly diagnosed.  Of course, I was overjoyed that it was finally gone after almost 7 weeks, but the thought that it would ever happen to me again left me as twitchy as a canary with a cat staring into its cage.  The doctor calmed me down with a plan to have a "miracle" drug with me anytime I planned to go farther that the city limits.

Slowly I began to travel again - always with my miracle medicine in tow.  Never a hint of a recurrence.  But as Sam and I prepared and packed for our 2nd go at our dream trip overseas, the symptoms started up again, albeit milder at first.  "Not to worry," I thought.  Went to the doctor immediately, had several tests done, and was directed to begin the medicine I had in reserve as well as another med she prescribed.  There seemed to be a stronger connection between two of the symptoms this time.  After some internet reading, I also added a homeopathic treatment.  I was confident that I was improving quickly and that with plenty of refills on hand, it was a sure bet that we could leave on schedule.

Well, we did, but it all came to a screeching halt in the international terminal of a large east coast airport.  The horrible condition from last year was back in spades.  I just didn't want to believe it.  This couldn't be happening again a whole year later.  Sam took charge as I deteriorated physically.  As the illness gained momentum, I was more than willing to sit back and let Sam get us back home.  There were tears for sure, and Sam took care that I was on board with his decision.  He was the pilot.  My heart was broken, but I knew he was right.

We arrived home almost exactly 24 hours after we left.  The luggage was lost in 2 different cities and did not make an appearance for another 2 days.  In some ways I was more afraid of falling into depression than of the illness itself.  That mental state is a downward spiral that is difficult for me to stop.  As Sam gathered me into a big bear hug of comfort, I whispered that I was scared that it would happen to me again, like it did the previous year. 


                                         He whispered back, 
                   "Don't be afraid.  I will not let it happen this time."  

Even so, the tears started a dozen times that night.  The trip I had dreamed of for so long was not to be again .  By the next morning I was barely talking at all.  A hot shower felt good, but did nothing to improve my mood.  Knew I should try to eat something, but I had no appetite.  I forced myself to put an English muffin in the toaster and just stood there, head down and waiting. 


Sam came up and took me gently by the shoulders so he could look at my face.  "How is your stomach this morning?" he asked.  I told him that for now it seemed to have stalled for a bit.  


"But you are crying again, aren't you?"  I nodded my head even as the tears came back to my eyes.

"The moping isn't going to happen this time, Ella.  I won't let it," he said quietly and took my hand.  He led me to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled me across one knee.  There was no anger, and Sam was very matter-of-fact as he lifted my nightgown.  He spanked with his hand, but it was not soft and sweet.  It was not meant to comfort me.  Each spank was a way for me to release a bit of the sadness that I didn't want to let go of.  Sam's way of pulling me back from the abyss of depression.

He talked about what he expected of me and what I could expect from him.  There was to be "no mopey stuff."
 

"Do you understand?" and he continued the spanking and paused for my assent with each point he made.  I could count on him for all the encouraging hugs and all the support I would need to get through this same horrible thing again.  Doctors visits and medications and tests.  But there was to be no pity party going on at all.  I was to call family members to explain what had happened, and I was to write to friends that were expecting us to be off on our vacation.  No building of walls.  No silence.  No days and nights of crying.

When he pulled me up, I practically gave the poor man whiplash as I grabbed to hug him and to feel his strong arms around me.  There was a soft "thank you" whispered in his ear.  I felt safe from the overwhelming sadness, and I could walk away from the edge of that pit.  He wasn't going to let me fall.  He was right there, and he wasn't going anywhere.

We rested up from the airport ordeal for almost 2 days.  I ate some and drank as much as I could, especially drinks with electrolytes.  We quietly enjoyed being together.  We smiled and talked and even laughed.  I called and wrote the people I most love in this world.  I got through conversations with hardly a tear.  Slept a lot and read a lot.


Finally, Sam went back to work one morning.  The house was too quiet, and I felt a little down for the first time since that spanking.  I was on the phone with a dear friend who had lots of good advice concerning the health issue that had returned.  I paused and asked her to hold for just a minute.  I heard the key in the front door unlock and knew it was probably Sam.  I met him coming down the hallway.  He held a beautiful bouquet of a dozen red roses in one hand and a 6-pack of Gatorade in the other.

                                "Love you, Ella," he smiled.  
            "I will check on you again.  Call me if you need me."

There was a quick kiss and he was out the door again.  I finished my conversation with my friend.  She couldn't see me, but I wager she could tell there was a big smile on my face.  Later there was an unexpected dedication that touched my heart, and I really thought about how lucky I was.

I would love to end with a happily ever after.  That is the name of my blog, after all.  But this is real life, and that didn't happen.

Just so you don't get all gushy about a happy ending, I fell from grace with Sam big time again last Monday.  Feeling so sorry for myself and thinking only of what adventures we were missing.  Of another special friend with whom I wasn't going to get to collect any hugs or laughs or silly times together.  Sam was patient with me at lunch that day but not when he arrived home that evening.

                         "Not going to happen.  I mean what I say."
                                       "Come with me, girl." 

My roses were still lovely, and I was still drinking lots of fluids, but this time there was a paddle doing a lot of the talking.  

                          The kisses came later with a warning.

               "There will be NO mopey stuff around here.  Got it?" 
              
           "Yes, sir," was all I said and stepped away from the edge.

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.