Saturday, March 21, 2015

Too Many Upsets in "March Madness" Results in Wife's Well-Spanked Ass

A Gentleman Writes:

As a life-long resident of a Major Metropolis with requisite NFL, NBA, NHL and MLB teams, I consider enthusiasm for college sports an infliction shared by unsophisticates living in in Alabama, Kansas and other dullard states forming the "Pumpkin Patch." (Or as those of us important enough to fly first-class on business travel sometimes say "Flyover Country.")

As hiring partner for the firm, I do inquire as to an applicant's interest in sports, as effete fellows who spend weekends hunting butterflies and practicing the violin rather than cheering the home town's professional football, basketball, baseball and hockey teams won't fit in with the jocular nature of firm culture.

But I take a hard look at interviewees who express undue interest in college sports. Our firm consists of professionals at making money. Why take a chance on applicants who care about sporting efforts of amateurs?

So I was surprised when word got round that some of the younger fellows at the firm formed a betting pool based on results of the so-called March Madness college basketball tournament. I considered firing them all for wasting time on such nonsense. But, after discussing the matter with a younger partner with more insight as to the ways of the "Milennial Generation," I changed my mind.

The fellows playing the pool don't actually care about the teams, only about the games' results, the younger partner explained. Similar to how we at the firm don't care about our clients, only the money we make off them. And while betting on March Madness games used to be the province of employees at saving-and-loans, office supply stores and other rubes, in recent years even those talented enough to work in Big Business have gotten in on the action.

We partners aren't slavedrivers with our associates. In the course of the 16-hour work day, associates are permitted a stray minute here and there to glance at the internet and visit the water cooler or restroom. So long as associates aren't watching or listening to games at work via streaming media, just checking on scores, "March Madness" wagering is an acceptable diversion, I decided.

Moreover, as it's good management practice for a boss to take notice of his employees' outside interests, I decided it would boost office morale if I participated.

Initially I was at a loss as to how to fill out my bracket. Of course, I hadn't watched any of the teams on television. I doubt any of the associates watch much college basketball either, though as long as an associate clocks his 80 hours Monday through Friday, plus 12-hour "half days" on weekend, what he does in his spare time is his own business.

From their conversation, I gathered the associates based their picks on high-powered analysis of team statistics. All well and good, I decided. The firm is in the number-crunching business, after all, so this March Madness activity is practically a training exercise. I contemplated billing the matter to a deep-pocketed client but realized that would be a bit of a stretch.

However, I haven't used a spread sheet since I made partner a decade ago, so preparing my own analysis wasn't an option. Finally, I decided to go with the experts and base my picks entirely on the brackets' official seeding.

Playing it safe has always done well by me, as attending the right sort of preparatory school and college, choosing the right sort of major, entering the right sort of profession and choosing the right sort of first wife and her trophy successor made me the success I am today.

For a high-powered, Type A, successful businessman such as myself, there's only one way to watch televised sports: sitting on my luxurious leather-upholstered couch before my movie-projector style TV with 120-inch screen, my shapely trophy wife spread across my lap so I can vigorously spank her bottom throughout the game to express joy for good play by my favored team and disappointment for bad.

While I require my wife to be completely naked during games, I decided it would be fun to decorate her a bit. So for each game she must wear nipple clamps weighted with a locket resembling my favored team's mascot, plus a ball gag in team colors. (It's amazing what you can buy on the internet these days!)

While interviewing for a trophy wife, demonstrating an affinity for taking a sound spanking and the requisite round rump ranked high in the job's criteria. My trophy wife certainly meets the requirement and is a far improvement over her predecessor. (Wife number one wasn't into spanking and would only accommodate me by stuffing a pillow under her pants, hardly a satisfying option.)

But I hadn't counted on so many upsets. We're only through round one and already several favored teams have been booted from the field. These so-called experts who prepared the official seeding of the tournament brackets obviously aren't Big Firm material.

I've spanked my wife so hard in frustration that she must cool her blistered behind in icy water in the bathroom sink for several hours post-game while I stick my aching hand in next to her. And my wrist hasn't hurt this much since we fellows at prep school realized they were spiking the cafeteria milk with saltpeter and quit drinking it.

At round one's conclusion, I assigned our firm's token female associate, who's not participating in the March Madness betting pool, with a top secret assignment. She crunched the numbers and with so many upsets the odds of my winning the pool are unacceptably low.

You strike me as pretty smart for a woman. Would it be bad form for me to cancel the betting pool and tell the associates to get back to work?

Kind Sir:

While we normally have little in common with the moneyed set, I must admit that my husband and I share your disdain for college athletics.

Hubby was far too busy during his college years selling encyclopedias door-to-door during the day and attending class at night to pay attention to his school's athletic teams. Meanwhile, I went on scholarship to a private women's college, St. Scholastica Heart of Mary Sisters of Mercy School of Education and the Secretarial Arts. (Among my work-study obligations was serving as whipping girl so students training to be teachers could practice with the ruler.)

Though my college, the Novitiates, was at one time a small-school volleyball power, the stubborn refusal of the NCAA to allow us to continue fielding teams clad in the traditional knee-length gymslip caused us to abandon sports.

So while we watch in the humble living room of our 800-square-foot Chicago bungalow on a 12-inch black-and-white TV, professional sports, namely da Barez, Bullz, Hax and Sax, are what's televised in our home. (There is another well-known Chicago team, but they're famous mainly for losing and playing in a nostalgia-ladened park popular with tourists and we don't care about them.)

But, no matter how trivial college sports may be, I certainly would call foul if you cancel your firm's March Madness betting pool. Such action would make you a poor employer, for just as you allow your trophy wife to enliven her day by mixing in trips to the gym and beauty parlor with overseeing the servants cooking and cleaning -- I assume a man of your means employs household help -- your firm's hardworking associates deserve their momentary recreation.

While I don't know if you plan to watch the  tournament's remaining games, I certainly don't feel you're obligated to continue spanking your wife during the contests. As my husband likes to remind me, spanking is for my benefit and his pleasure, and if neither end is being met perhaps you should try an alternate means of entertainment.

Instead of spreading your wife across your lap for spanking, perhaps you can allow her to forego a ball gag so she can kneel before you sucking your Big Unit. During half-time she can entertain you by doing cheers causing her nipple-clamped boobs to bounce up and down.

While my husband normally doesn't make me wear nipple clamps during discipline, the idea of wearing a pair weighted with a locket bearing resemblance of our favorite professional sports teams does sound appealing. Putting that on my list for an anniversary present.






Sunday, February 15, 2015

Hubby's Valentine Gift of Snowblower Warms Wife's Heart. Excessive Late-Night/Early-Morning Snowblowing Results in Wife's Warm Bottom.

Dear 1950s Wife:

My husband is such a sweetheart and he never ceases to amaze me with the thoughtfulness of his gifts.

This Christmas he delighted me with a pair of custom-designed mink-lined pot holders and, being a New Year's baby, just a few days later presented me a fancy fly swatter with teak handle. (Being wintertime, I haven't used it on the little critters yet, but the implement works wonderfully as an impromptu punishment tool for minor offenses that don't require me to fetch the "naughty girl paddle.")

Hubby having splurged, I certainly didn't expect a big-ticket item for Valentine's Day.

But with so much snow in the northeast this year, I did mention in passing to my husband the other day that my back was a bit sore from shoveling the driveway so often. Hubby graciously offered to take over the chore, but I could never stand for my man to do such 'skirt work." What would the other submissive wives in the neighborhood think if they happened to spy him shoveling away? They might get the wrong idea about "who wears the pants" in our home.

We had a wonderfully romantic Valentine's night out, stopping first for dinner at an Italian restaurant in the mall followed by a movie in the adjacent theater.

(I recognized several of my non-submissive gal pals from the gym standing in line with their husbands to buy tickets for "Fifty Shades of Grey" but, as genuine practitioners of the 1950s domestic discipline lifestyle, my husband and I would never waste time watching such a trashy portrayal of so-called BDSM. We instead viewed the new "SpongeBob" movie. I recommend it highly!)

A big nor'easter was due to blow through and by the time we arrived home from the show a couple of inches had fallen. Once Hubby pulled the Cadillac into the garage, I said I would fetch the snow shovel, as clearing the driveway now would mean less to dig out when it came time for us to drive to church in the morning.

But Hubby told me to never mind that. He opened my passenger door and helped me out, then turned me round and administered a firm swat to my bottom. He told to stand with my nose in the corner of the garage and not to dare peek out else I'd get licks with the naughty girl paddle.

So I stood in the corner wondering what I'd done wrong. Perhaps I'd gone a bit too far in my light-hearted antics at the movie, including shouting out "Skidmark Testicles" when SpongeBob's friend "Squidward Tentacles" made his first appearance. I heard Hubby rummaging around in the utility closet and I worried he might be looking for a length of rubber hose to whip me.

But then he called out for me to turn round. I squealed, not from fear but with pleasure. For what to my wandering eyes should appear but a brand-spanking-new snowblower wrapped up in ribbon.

I rushed into my husband's arms and kissed him passionately on the lips.

"Oh sweetheart," I sighed as our lips parted. "You shouldn't have!"

Naturally, I couldn't wait to try out my toy. The machine was gassed up and ready to go, so Hubby went inside to build us a fire in the den and I wheeled the snowblower out of the garage and gave the starter cord a rip.

Boy oh boy, what a sweet sound the engine made!

As I wheeled the machine down the drive, chewed-up snow spewing out the side onto the yard, my heart filled with joy at recognition of what a kind, loving husband I have. I couldn't help but break out in song and what else would I sing but the "SpongeBob" theme.

With only a couple inches of snow to remove, plowing took just a few minutes. I was finishing rounding the edges of the drive when I spied the irritating elderly woman who lives next door walking determinedly across our yard wearing nothing but flannel pajamas, ratty housecoat, rubber boots and most unbecoming stocking cap.

I wasn't surprised at her costume: she and her husband are "outer borough people" who somehow managed to squirrel away enough pennies over the years from their blue-collar jobs to move from their 'Archie Bunker"-style bungalow in Queens to spend their golden years in our tony Westchester County suburb.

As I turned off the snowblower, the neighbor stopped walking about halfway across our lawn.

"What's da madda wit' use?" she growled at me in outer-borough-speak. "It's ten a' clock at night fer Pete's sake."

"Just giving the driveway a plow. I'm nearly done," I replied politely. "What do you think of the new snowblower my husband gave me for Valentine's Day? Isn't it a dandy?"

"Aint'cha heard da weather report?" she growled. "It's gonna snow all night. Why da hell ya gotta plow now? And why use plowin'? Yer college boy husband too soft fer da job?"

"My husband is in plenty good physical condition, thank you very much," I replied curtly. "But he works very long hours at his bank preparing alternative payment plans for people such as your husband who've fallen behind on their mortgages. So I do all the house and yard work."

The woman scowled at me even worse. But she said nothing. She knows I know that my husband sent her husband a letter the other day inviting him to come by the office for a "consultation." They've missed two payments. One more and my husband will call in the foreclosure lawyers unless he can be convinced to show mercy.

I continued: "Now if you'll excuse me, I've a bit more plowing to do."

The woman turned to go. But just before I pulled the snowblower's starter cord, I heard her mumble "stupid bitch."

"Well that does it," I said to myself. "This old woman needs to learn to mind her Ps and Qs."

I bent over and scooped up a handful of snow. I'm certainly not the butch-dyke girl-jock type. But Dear Ol' Dad was a Yankees fan and I spent many summer nights playing catch with him in the back yard. Roger Clemens has nothing on me. My snowball knocked the old lady's stocking cap right off the back of her head.

The old lady turned round, her face beet red. She marched furiously towards me.

"Stop right there. You're trespassing on private property,' I shouted. "Private property that I might add includes several hundred thousand dollars in home equity, the balance of the loan being subject to an interest-only loan 75 basis points below the prime rate, a fee only available to the most credit-worthy borrowers."

The woman stared at me in bewilderment shaking her head. "Yer one crazy bitch," she finally said. "I'm callin' da cops."

As she turned to walk home, I realized that, while I was naturally taken aback to be insulted by a social inferior, I may have gone a bit far in beaning a woman 40 years my senior in the back of the head with a snowball and the police would likely take her side. Though I was confident my husband's position as a BMIOS (big man in our suburb) would spare me getting arrested, Hubby would certainly beat my bottom black and blue for causing trouble.

I rushed over to her. "Please, no need for that," I said. "I apologize. You're right. It's far too late to use a snowblower."

I continued: 'A little bird told me that you and your husband are in a bit of a pinch with your mortgage. I'm going to talk to my husband. I'm sure he can work something out with his bank. And, if you play nice, I'll let your husband borrow my snowblower to earn extra money clearing neighbors' drives."

"OK. OK," the woman said, pulling her stocking cap back on her head. "Just no more snow blowing tonight."

I watched the elderly woman return to her house, then wheeled the snowblower back in the garage. I was a bit irritated that I wasn't able to finish the job by getting the edges of the drive perfectly square. But it probably didn't matter that much. Two more feet of snow were on the way.

I put my coat in the closet by the front door and walked into the den. My husband was sitting on the couch in front of a roaring fire. He'd uncorked a bottle of wine. I sat down next to him and nestled in his arms.

I was still a bit flustered from coming out on the losing end in the argument with my irritating neighbor. But a glass of wine helped restore my mood. So did the warm-up hand-spanking that came next, followed by my husband carrying me upstairs, throwing me on our bed, stripping off his clothes and mine and climbing aboard for bed-shaking sex. It was only a few moments after he rolled off of me that I fell fast asleep.

          -----

I awoke at the crack of dawn and looked out the bedroom window. The snow had stopped.

While we didn't appear to get the two feet that were predicted, many more inches had fallen since evening. But with my new snowblower, the driveway could be cleared in a jiffy, leaving me ample time to prepare Hubby's hearty breakfast of flapjacks, scrambled eggs and T-bone steak and finish my beauty preparations for church.

I changed into winter clothes, entered the garage and wheeled the snowblower onto the driveway, all the while whistling the happy tune of the "SpongeBob" theme song. I pulled the starter cord of the machine and commenced to plowing.

With my high-powered snowblower, the job was done in a matter of minutes. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time to get breakfast made. So much time, in fact, that, just to show there were no hard feelings, I decided to do a neighborly good deed.

I'd only been plowing the neighbors' drive for a minute when the old lady's husband stuck his wizened face out the door. He was hollering something but I couldn't make it out over the snowblower's roar. I turned the machine off.

"What da hell use doin'?," he shouted. "It's da crack a dawn, fer Pete's sake!"

Naturally, I was taken aback at his angry reaction. But I still managed to politely reply that I was trying to help them out clearing their drive with my new snowblower, that way they wouldn't be pressed to make it to church on time.

"We ain't going ta church today. We went ta mass last night," the old man sputtered. "Monday through Friday fer 40 years I gets up at 5:00 am ta get ta da loading dock on time. I sleeps in on Sundays."

He paused to shake his head, then shouted: 'What da hell is wrong with use, ya crazy bitch? Ya wuz runnin' dat damned machine when we wuz tryin' ta sleep last night. Ya wakes us up today. Get da hell offa my property or I'm callin' da cops!"

The old man slammed the door. I turned to go, tears rolling down my face at his impertinence.

"Such crust," I muttered as I wheeled the snowblower back to my garage. "Try to do a good deed and look what happens. Serves me right for trying to make friends with uncouth 'outer-borough people'."

I put the snowblower away and walked into the kitchen. By the time I finished my morning cup of coffee, I felt a bit better. Time to get started on breakfast, I thought, but then I heard our beloved pet bulldog "Sparky" waddling down the steps. Sparky scratched at the kitchen door letting me know he needed to go out in the back yard to "do his business."

I retrieved his leash and a paper bag and led him into the back yard. (Our busybody town council recently banned the use of plastic bags at the grocery store. Consequently I must spend good money at the pet store on overpriced "environmentally correct" poo bags made out of recycled paper.)

Sparky took his time pawing at the snow but finally found a suitable place. His turd was rather impressive. I made a mental note to check the size of his feed rations more thoroughly. I bent over and picked up the steaming piece of poo and placed it in the bag. Then inspiration struck.

I took Sparky back in the house. Of course, neither I nor my husband smoke. But we do keep a box of matches on hand to light candles in case of a power outage.

I walked out the garage onto our paved driveway then onto the street. Best strategy is to not be furtive, I thought, but to walk straight up to their front door. If they happen to see me out the window I can pretend I came by to apologize.

I clomped through the neighbors' snowy driveway onto their porch. So far so good. I pulled the paper bag and box of matches from my coat, bent down and lit the bag, pausing for a second or two to make sure fire took hold.

Then I rang the bell and ran.

          ----------

My husband speaks animatedly to the police officer at the front door. I cower in a corner of the kitchen. Normally, Sparky defends the home by barking vigorously. But, sensing the gravity of the situation, he cowers in the corner with me.

"I can assure you officer that neither I nor my wife would do such a thing," my husband says adamantly. "I'm a high-ranking executive at our town's local bank, head of the mortgage department. My wife's in the Junior League. We belong to the country club. I'm a Yale man, for Pete's sake."

"I don't care if you went to Yale, you and your wife are going to jail if you don't fess up," the cop says.

"There are foot prints in the snow leading from their front door to your garage. The prints are from a distinctive style of female L.L. Bean winter boot. You own a dog. There are remnants in the feces of a particular type of dog treat sold only at the fancy pet store on Main Street. Now I'm asking you again: does your wife wear such a shoe and do you feed your dog such a treat?"

My husband looks over at me. The policeman taps his foot. Sparky whimpers. I clear my throat.

They say confession is good for the soul. But it's not so good for the bottom. Boy oh boy it sure was hard to sit through the Sunday sermon on those hard wooden church pews without wiggling after my husband was through with me.

The good news is Hubby talked the cop out of issuing me a ticket after assuring him he'd make good with the neighbors. The good news for the neighbors is that my husband worked out a very lenient mortgage forbearance plan that will allow them to catch up on their missed payments. More good news for them in that I will be clearing their driveway of snow at no charge for the rest of the winter, making sure to never run my snowblower too late at night nor too early in the morning.

And the neighbors and I are starting a snow-clearing business for neighboring driveways that will last until their mortgage payments are caught up. The old man and his wife are managers. I'm the employee. And if my husband hears one word of complaint from the neighbors about my attitude, he's paddling my backside 50 shades of red.

Oh well. At least I get to use my totally awesome snowblower!

Good woman:

I can only trust this humbling experience taught you the duty of respecting one's elders, even if they speak in working-class "outer borough" accents.

Good luck to you and the neighbors in your snow-removal business. More good news exists in that the lower cost of gasoline from plummeting oil prices will increase your profit margin.












Wednesday, December 24, 2014

A Brand-Spanking-New Chastity Belt: Perfect Christmas Gift for a Young Bride with Wandering Hands

A Gentleman Writes:

At the mature age of 39, I thought I was ready for the responsibilities of marriage. But I fear I made a major misstep in being far too lenient with my much-younger bride.

You see I intended to forbid my wife from watching daytime TV, as Dear Ol' Mom advised me that a new bride not yet accustomed to routine and drudgery of housewife life might be tempted to waste time watching soap operas, judge shows, hen party gab fests and other frivolous fare that should be spent cleaning house, cooking dinner and washing clothes.

When I informed my bride of the rule, tears streamed down her pretty face as she sobbed that she wouldn't be able to gossip with her gal pals at the gym about news from her favorite daytime talk show, "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny," the new show hosted by Jenny McCarthy now that she's been fired from "The View."

Seeing my wife cry tugged at my heart strings so that I'm afraid I put aside Dear Ol' Mom's warning about woman's ability to produce crocodile tears at will. Moreover, recalling Jenny McCarthy on TV from my college years in the 1990s as a fine specimen of femininity, I rationalized by telling myself that her show would likely include advice on breast-enhancement exercises, beauty tips, love-making skills and other useful information that would aid in my wife's role as help meet.

So, in exchange for my wife washing my Cadillac every Saturday, which will boost my time watching sports from my customary 15 hours to 18 per weekend, I agreed she could watch "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny" for 30 minutes per day during the week.

Alas, fool that I turned out to be, I didn't bother to program the TV with parental controls and left the matter on the honor system. All was well and good for a week until car trouble forced my return home shortly after I left for work one morning to use my sports car instead.

(In case you're wondering, my wife has no car of her own. I figure there's no sense buying her a mini-van till we have a "bun in the oven." And, as Dear Ol' Mom points out, having her own car would tempt my wife to indulge in illicit excursions to the shopping mall during the day to sample freebies at the perfume counter and what not. Our local grocery store is just two miles away, so it's no hardship for my wife to use a bicycle with buggy attached to haul groceries back.)

I was a bit perplexed when my wife didn't meet me at the door as I assumed she'd hear my Cadillac entering the driveway. I was further preturbed upon entering the vestibule to hear the TV blaring from the living room.

But I hadn't actually asked my wife what time of the day "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny" comes on. I'd assumed the program broadcasts in the late morning or early afternoon, rather than 9:00 am, but I could be wrong I told myself as I walked to the living room.

Imagine my shock then as I entered the room and saw a "Batman" movie starring George Clooney on the tube!

No wonder my wife didn't notice my return home, as she was lying across the couch, her eyes half shut and hands under her skirt, rapturously moaning, "Batman, oh Batman! Stick your bat pole up my butt hole, please dear Batman!"

My wife sat up on the couch with a startle as I shouted "Busted" at the top of my lungs. I switched the TV off, strode to the couch, threw my wife over my shoulder and carried her upstairs to the bathroom. After thoroughly soaping her mouth, scolding her all the while for masturbating without my permission, I grabbed hold of my wife's earlobe and marched her to the bedroom.

I ordered her to strip while I retrieved the "naughty girl paddle." Upon my return, I sat across the bed, ordered my wife across my lap and commenced to beat her bottom as red as Robin-the-Boy-Wonder's vest.

While she may have been fantasizing about George Clooney a few minutes earlier, there was no question my wife knew who attended to her bottom as I paddled her posterior.

"Oh Hubby, please Hubby, my bottom's on fire," my wife cried as tears rolled down her face. "Please stop spanking me. I'll be good!"

Her fanny fried, I ordered my wife to stand in the corner of the living room with her hands on her head while I considered the next phase of her punishment.

I walked downstairs to my study and closed the door. While I of course maintained my manly composure when disciplining my wife, as I sat alone in my study brooding over her betrayal with Batman I was the one with tears rolling down my face.

When a man's upset, there's no one better to seek solace from than his mother. Thank goodness I called. It took just a few minutes of Dear Ol' Mom's wise counsel to make me realize suicide was the coward's way out.

Divorce was discussed, but Dear Ol' Mom wisely noted I live in a community property state and thus would forego half my savings. I certainly didn't work my tail off the past 15 years building my successful insurance agency only to see half my wealth go to some silly woman who'd waste it all on a life of unearned luxury lying on the couch all day masturbating to George Clooney movies on TV.

No, after talking to Mother, I realized the problem was I simply hadn't put in the time to properly train my young bride. The manly thing to do was to "put on my big boy pants" (one of Dear Ol' Mom's favored expressions in encouraging me to face hardships), accept my marital responsibilities and attend to the task at hand.

First step was programming the TV's parental controls. Wise woman that she is, Dear Ol' Mom knew step two: outfitting my wife with a chastity belt to wear while I'm at work or otherwise away from her presence.

Astutely recognizing this problem may arise, Mother already researched chastity belts available for sale on the internet. While the modern chastity belt is certainly well manufactured, allowing the wearer to attend to her bodily functions while simultaneously preventing any erotic stimulation front or rear, leading brands can be quite expensive, Mother noted.

As she's talented at crafts, Dear Ol' Mom offered to create one for me.

There's nothing Mother enjoys more than putting her hands to good use. (The luxury cat house she built with its automatic food-and-water dispenser and self-cleaning kitty litter box that she uses to store her beloved pet "Whiskers" while away from home is a marvel to behold.) I could hear the excitement in her voice as she described the belt.

Mother said she'd attach paper machet to a pair of panties my wife's size to create a light and comfortable, but completely impenetrable, shell. She'd create a drawstring out of highly durable plastic very difficult to cut that can be drawn tight at the back and securely fastened with an attached lock. The legs of the garment would also be fitted tightly with durable plastic to prevent creeping fingers from below.

The belt would be dyed a feminine shade of pink with "Mustn't Touch" embroidered on the front and "Solely for Hubby's Use" on back.

Mother noted this style of chastity belt forces the wearer to ask permission for removal to attend to bodily functions, thus reinforcing the wife-in-training to accept that use of her private parts is subject to her disciplinarian's whim. A disposal diaper can be placed inside in the event of accidents with the disciplinarian to decide how long wife must suffer being "wet" and/or "stinky."

I must return to work the day after Christmas, but Dear Ol' Mom is flying in from Florida on December 26. (Mother insists on spending Christmas Day with her cat Whiskers.)

Mother's been on a tight budget ever since Dear Ol' Dad died and I know she was a bit embarrassed she could only afford to give us a modest wedding gift. Presenting my wife with a handcrafted chastity belt on Christmas would show how much Dear Ol' Mom cares for our happiness.

Mother also noted that spending two weeks after Christmas in daily company with my wife as she regularly lectures her about the evils of masturbating without permission and that the proper wife never fantasizes about anyone other than her husband would certainly strengthen their mother-daughter bond.

And once Dear Ol' Mom returns to Florida, the kindly spinster lady who lives next door can be recruited to be available to unlock the belt while I'm away should my wife need to ask permission to go. As a token of our gratitude, Mother can build a state-of-the-art dog house for the spinster's beloved pet "Spot."

Having Mother build the belt would save a lot of money and that way I can still present my wife with the new lawn mower I'd planned to give her on Christmas.

You strike me as pretty smart for a woman. What's your suggestion on a chastity belt: manufactured or hand-made?

Kind Sir:

I support the notion that prohibiting the submissive wife from masturbating without permission is reasonable.

Moreover a wife should be reminded whether by spanking or other suitable punishment that dwelling on a visage of someone other than one's husband when touching one's nether regions is a definite no-no, particularly if the imagined assignation is with someone as unattractive as George Clooney. (Can't stand a man with pomade in his hair.)

And I'm all for a mother-in-law taking a hand in training the new wife. In the early years of our marriage, Hubby insisted his mother stay with me while he was away on business trips to ensure I didn't slack on my housework nor watch forbidden soap operas and to spank me when needed.

But, while others may disagree, I firmly believe that interfering with a wife's ability to attend to her bodily functions, especially making her wear a diaper, is not an appropriate part of the 1950s lifestyle.

So I'd go with a manufactured chastity belt. With your income as a successful insurance agent I'm sure you can afford to give one to your wife as Christmas present and the lawn mower too.

Lastly, from the tenor of your note, I can't help but wonder if you might be a bit too reliant on advice from your mother. Now that you're a married man, perhaps the time has come to cut those apron strings.

Note: The name of Jenny McCarthy, a public figure, is used fictitiously. So is the reference to the TV program "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny."








 





Thursday, October 30, 2014

Naughty Wife Plays Halloween Trick on Hubby. Treated to a Spanking!

Dear 1950s Wife:

I thought I'd play a funny trick on my husband for Halloween. Boy oh boy, did I learn that some things are no laughing matter!

It all began a few days before Halloween when I overheard some gal pals at the gym talking about sexy costumes they'll wear for their husbands' benefit on Halloween night. It sounded like a neat idea, except I knew I'd need to think of a more-creative costume because the outfits they mentioned are what I wear everyday.

For example, I always wear a sexy French maid's outfit during the morning as I dust the furniture, mop the floors, vacuum the carpet and scrub the toilet and tub.

My husband enjoys checking in on me from work via Skype during this part of the day for a mid-morning tug, particularly when I'm bent over scouring the toilet bowel with my short skirt riding up my ass and frilly panties on display. And, even during days when he has meetings or otherwise can't keep his office door closed, doing housework in a teeny-tiny dress, stockings, garters, six-inch pumps and a cute little maid's cap atop my head reinforces my belief that there's nothing sexier than keeping a clean house for my man.

After lunch, I devote the afternoon to laundry, including ironing my husband's button-down shirts dollar-bill crisp, and preparing the evening meal.

I work up a sweat from the iron's steam, not to mention the physical exertion of pounding dough for fresh-baked bread I serve with dinner and tenderizing the beef. So, for my afternoon outfit, I wear a gossamer thin cooking apron over bra and panties. (For comfort's sake, I change into more sensible four-inch heels.)

Hubby usually likes to check in around three o'clock via Skype for a mid-afternoon tug. So, a few minutes till, I slip off my underwear underneath the cooking apron leaving my nipples and bush practically exposed.

I also hold ice cubes against my nipple for five minutes till they're rock hard. Thus, even if work duties don't afford my husband sufficient privacy to close his office door and enjoy the smart-phone sight of my nearly naked body as I pound dough and beat meat, my nipples practically poking through my thin apron, I still benefit from the cooling sensation of iced tits.

My husband arrives home from work at 5:30 pm. A few minutes prior, I change into a cocktail waitress dress for our hour of martini time and pre-dinner blow job.

Hubby likes to watch sports on TV after dinner. (With satellite TV we can count on a game being on throughout the year, even if it must be a cricket match played in India or sumo wrestling in Japan.)

So, after I've washed and put away the dishes, I change into a bosom-enhancing, midriff-baring, panties-peeking-out "naughty cheerleader" outfit. I spend the game bent over my husband's lap on the couch. He spanks me with his hand to celebrate good plays by his favored team and to vent frustration if the opponent does well.

During halftime, I roll off Hubby's lap to entertain him with cheers about what a great guy he is and how lucky I am to have a dominant man who spanks me soundly for my faults. At game's end, I'm either on my knees giving Hubby a victory blowjob or bent over a chair for swats with the "naughty girl paddle" if the opponent wins to remind me to cheer harder for the home team next time.

For the final act of the night, I wear nothing but my "birthday suit."

My husband takes me to the bedroom, puts me over his knee and spanks me long and hard. Then he tosses me across the bed, strips and climbs aboard so we can finish the day with the most important of my wifely duties, providing my husband with three hours of bed-shaking sex!

I was really stumped as to what to wear to surprise my husband when he came home from work on Halloween night. Then inspiration struck: instead of dressing sexy in my everyday style, I'd wear the scruffy outfit of the so-called "liberated" non-submissive wife.

I figured if I was going to play the part I might as well go all out.

Rather than hopping out of bed at 5:30 am as usual, I slept untill my husband got up at six and asked him if he wouldn't mind making himself cereal for breakfast as I wasn't feeling well. Hubby was so gracious in the way he mumbled "I guess I can" that I almost lost my nerve. But, as I thought about the good laugh we'd share after I let him in on the joke that night, my resolve returned.

As soon as my husband left for work, I changed into my "costume": raggedy jeans and tee-shirt and a pair of smelly sneakers that I usually only wear when I don't want to ruin good clothes doing really grubby work, such as cleaning the gutters.

I didn't bother to dust. Instead I turned on the TV. As my husband programmed the set to display only sports channels, it took awhile to figure out how to change to stations that broadcast shows non-submissive wives at the gym like to talk about.

Well, I must tell you that one morning of daytime TV is more than enough for me.

The morning news programs aren't too boring -- I'm particularly impressed by cute clothes and stylish blonde hairdos sported by the gals on 'Fox and Friends" But the way the people hoot and holler on the 'judges shows." So unpleasant. I'd find them all guilty!

My husband called at 10:30 am. I clicked "answer" and quickly positioned the phone's camera so it only showed my face.

"I hope you're feeling better dear," Hubby said with a big grin on his face. "I've got a boner that just won't quit and the tub could really use a good scrubbing."

His smile turned to a frown. "No makeup today?"

"Oh honey, I didn't have time to put any on," I breezily lied. "A friend from the gym called. She's a campaign volunteer for this man running for town council and I agreed she could come by this morning so I could help her lick envelops. He's a Democrat but he sounds very sensible."

I told my husband goodbye and hung up the phone before he could reply.

I watched TV for another hour then had lunch. I was starting to feel really bored and I almost took a roast out of the freezer. I could easily catch up on the morning's cleaning while the meat thawed.

But my resolve to play my prank to the end returned. I was going to spend the day as a liberated, non-submissive wife even if it practically killed me of boredom!

So I retrieved a trashy romance novel I hid under the bed that I'd been meaning to read for months.

I sprawled across the bed reading. The pages turned, but I couldn't concentrate. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to three, the time Hubby normally calls for a mid-afternoon tug.

Suddenly, I lept from the bed and tossed the romance novel under it. I tore off my grubby jeans and tee-shirt, retrieved my gossamer thin cooking apron and a pair of heels. I went into the bathroom and quickly put on makeup. Then I raced down the stairs to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of ice cubes.

No time for the roast to thaw, but I'll get something together for dinner, I said to myself as I held the cubes to my nipples. I was so preoccupied calculating how to get a day's worth of cooking, cleaning and laundering done in just two-and-half hours before my husband returned home that I scarcely felt the chill.

I looked at my watch. One minute to three. I tossed what was left of the ice cubes in the sink. I held my smart phone up so the camera faced my chest and waited for the call, my heart beating wildly with anticipation.

Seconds passed. I looked at the phone: 3:01 pm. More time passed. Another look: 3:02.

My heart beat slowed, replaced by a sinking feeling in my stomach. I waited three more minutes, then glum realization set in.

Hubby wasn't going to call for his mid-afternoon tug.

I felt tears fall down my cheeks. "Boo Hoo Hoo!" I cried. "I want my husband. I want Hubby!"

As I sobbed, the sting of iced nipples at last registered in my brain. I walked into the den and reached into the liquor cabinet to pour myself a stiff drink.

I downed the drink in one gulp. The warmth flooding through my body removed the chill in my tits, but didn't improve my mood. I poured another drink and turned on the television. Dr. Phil was scolding a marital couple about mutual misdemeanors.

As I sipped my drink, I felt a buzz come on and took an interest in the program. The wife appeared the more guilty of the pair and Dr. Phil was giving her a good talking-to.

"You tell her, Dr. Phil," I shouted at the TV. "She's a bad woman. Bad wife. Bad!"

The program finished. I looked at my watch. Five o'clock. Nothing to do now but wait.

I went to the kitchen sink, washed my empty glass, and returned it to the liquor cabinet. I walked upstairs and took off my cooking apron, undies and heels. I retrieved the "naughty girl paddle" and walked downstairs in my birthday suit.

I took a foot stool from the den and brought it to the entrance way by the front door. I bent over and laid the paddle across the crook of my back.

The twenty minutes I must wait here for Hubby to get home is part of my penance, I told myself.
                                                               ----
"Honey, I'm home," my husband shouts as he walks through the door.

I awake with a start. I must have dozed off. Hubby looks at me with a bewildered expression.

"What are you doing bent over a stool naked like that?" he asks. "We usually have a drink before we get frisky."

"Oh honey," I cry not daring to get up. "I've been a very bad wife. I need to be spanked."

"There, there. It can't be as bad as all that," my husband consoles. "Now get up off that stool and tell me what happened."

I feel the tears begin to flow as I rush into his arms. As my husband holds me tight, I burble out my tale of woe.

"My friends at the gym were talking about how they were going to surprise their husbands by putting on sexy outfits for Halloween night, but I dress that way for you everyday cuz I love how you want me so much that you call home on your camera phone from work for a tug," I sob.

"So I thought I'd do something different and dress up as a lazy wife to prank you when you got home. And then I thought it would be cool to see what it's like to actually be a lazy wife. So I sat around all day watching TV and I haven't done a lick of housework and there's no dinner and by the time I realized it was a bad idea it was too late and I felt so guilty that I had a couple of drinks and now my head's all fuzzy. Oh boo hoo hoo! Boo hoo hoo!"

My husband just holds me and says 'there there" and "I'm not mad." At last I calm down.

My husband can tell I'm feeling better.

"Very well, young lady," he says. "I can tell from your tears that you feel bad but Daddy must still make sure his little girl learns her lesson."

"Yes sir, Daddy," I say.

"Now go upstairs and put on your 'spanking suit'. Then meet me in my study," he says. "'Lil' Miss Sassy Britches' needs to get reacquainted with 'Mr. Hairbrush'."

"Yes Daddy."

I walk upstairs to the bedroom and retrieve the little-girl-style party dress, ruffled panties, plain bra, white knee socks and Mary Jane shoes. This isn't an everyday outfit. I only wear it at special times like now when a special sort of discipline is needed.

I put on the costume and walk downstairs to the study. I knock on the door.

"Come in."

I enter the room and shut the door behind me. I take a few steps till I'm standing before him. I stand as I've been trained, with my hands clasped behind me looking straight ahead.

He stands and reaches out with his right hand to cup my chin with his palm lifting my head slightly so I look straight into his eyes.

"Do you know why I've called you to my study?"

"Yes sir, Daddy. Cuz I've been naughty."

"And what happens when you're naughty?"

"I get spanked. On the bare. With the hairbrush."

"Very well. Place yourself across my lap please."

I comply. He lifts the pleats of my party dress and pulls my panties to mid-thigh. He rests the face of the hairbrush on my bare bottom. Then come the inevitable words:

"I'm hate to spank you, young lady, but I wouldn't be a good Daddy if I didn't correct you when you misbehave. This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you."

He applies 25 firm spanks, twice my age and one to grow on. Not so much for the grown me, but more than enough to bring tears to the eyes of Lil' Miss Sassy Britches.

"You may get up," he says.

I rise and, pull up my panties, and wipe my eyes.

He opens his arms. "Give me my hug," he says. I rush into his arms.

After a minutes, we release each other from our grasp.

"I should make you do thirty minutes of cornertime, but not tonight," he says. "Trick-or-treaters will be here soon and Lil' Miss Sassy Britches needs to give out candy. Then she and Daddy are going out for hamburgers and ice cream."

"Hamburgers and ice cream. Hooray!" I cry. "Oh Daddy, I love you!"

He's made me go out dressed as Lil' Miss Sassy Britches before. Normally I don't like it. It's so embarrassing for people to see me like that.

But no worries tonight.

It's Halloween!

Good woman:

I can certainly tell that you've learned a good lesson from this experience. While I'm all for a good laugh, humor has it's proper time and place. Just as the operating theatre is no setting for a surgeon to make jokes, the wife who aspires to the 1950s lifestyle knows that the domain of hearth and home is sancrosanct and no place for pranks.

For next year's Halloween, might I suggest an appropriate prank such as playing "ding, dong, ditch," on an irritating neighbor's front door and leaving a lighted paper bag full of doggie poo for them to step on. Or perhaps TP'ing their yard.






Sunday, October 5, 2014

Naughty Wife Acts Up In Hubby's Tailgate Party Teepee. Gets A "Redskin."

Dear 1950s Wife,

I generally support a rule of no TV during the day for submissive wives, as we women are otherwise apt to squander valuable time watching soap operas, "Dr. Phil," "Judge Judy" and other empty-heady fare that would be better spent cleaning house, cooking dinner and washing clothes.

But as the spouse of a high-powered "Inside-the-Beltway" D.C. political operative, I make exception for myself, as I must be familiar with important current events to fulfill my role as a proper lobbyist's wife.

Consequently, from my 5:00 am wake-up to oversee cook preparing Hubby's hardy breakfast of flapjacks, scrambled eggs, biscuits, bacon and T-bone steak, throughout my busy day supervising the maid's cleaning our 10,000-square-foot home, my afternoon hour on the treadmill, during dinner and right up until 11:00 pm lights out following our customary three-hours of bed-shaking sex, Fox News plays loudly on all eight of our household TVs.

(I do turn the volume down during "martini time" after Hubby's return from work so I can listen appreciatively to his tales of the day's lobbying success before administering his pre-dinner blowjob. Also during the 30 minutes after supper he devotes to lecturing me for my faults and spanking me with the "naughty girl paddle" reminding me to be a better wife.)

As Fox News concentrates on serious issues, rather than "infotainment" and liberal blither-blather that dominates reporting and commentary on other networks, I'm as well-versed as a woman can be on all critical issues, including the subject that's dominating high-powered political discussion in D.C. at the moment: busy-body liberals' campaign to force Washington, D.C.'s professional football team to drop the nickname "Redskins."

How anybody can object to an east coast city using a caricature of a Great Plains Indian as team mascot is beyond me.

Sure the name "Redskin" had a bit of negative connotation back when cowboys and pioneers were settling this Great Land of Ours. But these days the term clearly means to honor the bravery of those marauding red raiders of the west as they descended on horseback on U.S. Calvary camps armed solely with bow-and-arrows, only to be sent to stay forever with The Great Spirit in the Sky after being mowed down by the Calvarymen's Springfield carbine rifles and Colt revolvers.

Besides, "Redskins" has been Washington's nickname for a long time, since 1937. If these "Johnny-come-lately Indians" don't like it, they can go back to wherever they came from.

With football season's return, Hubby and I are going the extra mile to show our support for our team and it's nickname.

As a high-powered lobbyist, Hubby considers it a wise use of firm funds to lease a 50-seat luxury skybox suite at the Redskins home stadium. It's a great chance to network with congressmen and their top-level aides, key players in the executive branch, high-powered corporate executives and other VIPs. And because we always give one of the 50 tickets to an underprivileged child, Hubby can write off the suite's cost as a tax deduction.

(By the way, I've been pleasantly surprised by the strong work ethic of the kids invited to the games who come from lower-income D.C. neighborhoods. Give them a broom and dustpan and promise of a dollar tip for sweeping up dropped beer bottle tops and cocktail napkins and they keep our suite as clean as a whistle. Obviously it's only the temptation of cushy welfare benefits as adults that prevents them from putting that work ethic to good use later on as high-powered professionals and business executives for Fortune 500 corporations.)

Along with the suite, Hubby's lobbying firm also shells out a pretty penny for a large block of parking spaces in the VIP section of the lot adjacent to the stadium. It's our custom to set up tables in the lot to serve our guests champaign, caviar, foie gras, oysters Rockefeller, frog legs and other tailgate treats prepared by one of D.C.'s finest chefs.

In years past, we've used a standard outdoor party tent to shelter the tables. But this season, with our team's venerated nickname under attack, we decided to show support by using a custom-made teepee in Redskins' team colors of burgundy and gold with the Indian mascot's war-painted face painted on it.

While my normal game outfit is a smart dress, silk scarf, stockings, heels and pearls, this season I wear a buckskin mini-dress that barely covers my bloomers, mocassins and a hairband with feather attached.

We got to the most-recent home game two hours early. I was pleased to see the teepee assembled --  my husband commandeered his firm's interns for the task and to serve guests drinks and food -- and the hors d'oeuvres prepared. Guests soon arrived and, as the champagne flowed, our teepee hummed with conversation and laughter.

Just for fun, men at the party greeted each other with "Indian names": "Him Whose Son Got Into Harvard" and "Him Whose Law Firm Grosses $100 Million in Annual Billing" are a few I remember. As more champagne was consumed, good-natured joshing took over and the names became dirty, including "Him With Puny Pee-Pee" and "Him Whose Squaw Won't Give Head."

Though my husband and I are ardent Republicans, I'm under strict orders to strike a bipartisan tone at social gatherings, as Hubby's lobbying efforts involve both sides of the aisle.

I was a good girl at first.

But, as I'm fond of saying, even though we've lived in D.C. twenty years now, "you can take the gal out of Orange County, but you can't take the 'Orange County' out of the gal." I'm afraid I had one too many glasses of champagne and, before you know it, I was in a heated conversation with a gal who didn't take too kindly to my descriptions of the many moral failings of our thankfully-soon-to-be-ex-President Barrick HUSSEIN Obama.

I didn't take her for a Fellow Traveler at first, as her blonde curls, pearls and Lily Pulitzer dress made her resemble the standard southern sorority girl a few years out of college working the Congressional GOP circuit. So I was taken aback when she wrinkled her nose when I cheerfully noted that the impending Republican takeover of the Senate in mid-term elections means a quick impeachment of Obama for his many high crimes and misdemeanors, thus sparing our country two more years of mismanagement and malfeasance.

"What high crimes are you referring to," she asked sarcastically in an accent far too "Bostonian" for my liking.

"Almost too many to mention," I said. "Saluting a proud member of the armed forces with a cappuccino in hand. Taking too-long vacations at taxpayer expense playing golf and walking on the beach in Hawaii rather than a quick weekend in a budget motel at places real Americans go to, such as Mrytle Beach and Panama City. Refusing to admit that he's a Muslim. The list goes on and on!"

Well, this "Jackie Kennedy wannabe" wouldn't back down, shouting at me that I sounded like a typical ignorant "Tea Partier" who gets all her misinformation from "F-A-U-X News." She spoke at me with such vitriol that finally I decided to cool her down by tossing my drink in her face.

She tossed her drink at me and the next thing you know we were in a full-on face-slapping, fingernail-clawing, hair-pulling girl fight!

This girl is several years younger than me, but shorter and not nearly as limber dressed in her knee-length Lily Pulitzer dress as I was in my buckskin miniskirt. And no Indian maiden put up as much fight wrestling a wild bear as I did battling this bitch.

After drawing fingernails full of blood clawing her face, I yanked her by the hair and dragged her across my knees. Then I lifted her floral skirt, yanked down her panties and spanked her bottom several times with my hand shouting "Say Uncle!"

But before she did, I heard a man shout "Girl Fight!" in a drunk voice and my combatant and I were sprayed with champagne. I wiped foam from my eyes to see the man is a well-known billionaire hedge fund manager fond of making large-scale political donations.

He stumbled over and poured the rest of his champagne bottle over us.

'Come on you bitches," he shouted. "Let's have a wet tee-shirt contest. Get up and shake your titties!"

Another man came by and led the hedge fund manager away. The rest of the party quickly dispersed from the teepee. The only ones left were me, my combatant, my husband and a person I recognized as an older Democratic congressman from an Appalachian state.

My husband lifted me to my feet and the congressman helped my combatant up.

My husband turned to the congressman and said "Congressman, I'm sure you'll agree that's it's best to keep this matter as quiet as we can. I'll pay for the dry cleaning of your aide's dress, any medical bills she may incur due to the scratches on her face, and, if you determine it's appropriate and consistent with House ethics rules, a gift of some sort to compensate for her pain and suffering."

Hubby continued: "An intern at my firm was helping out at the party. He's already used his cell to call my second-in-command and you can be sure our firm is treating this episode as an 'all-hands-on-deck red-button-crisis alert.' I can assure you that, as we speak, all who may have witnessed this unfortunate incident are being contacted and made to see the wisdom in not mentioning the matter to the media."

"Well, that's mighty thoughtful of you," the congressman drawled. "But I 'spect my aide and I don't have much to worry 'bout. This lil' gal is the daughter of one of my closest friends from my Army days, we were POWs together in Vietnam. He's on his death bed now, got the cancer, but I bet he'd be mighty glad to hear his lil' filly has a mess of fight in her, whether he reads it in the paper or hears it from me. And, while my constituents don't think too kindly of President Obama these days, they still think well of me. I'm not too worried about not being re-elected."

The congressman continued: "Young man, there's been a sad change in politics in our country since I first ran for Congress so many years ago after being released from that bamboo POW cage way over yonder in Vietnam. Oh sure, we Donkeys and Elephants had in our differences back then. But even in the darkest days of Watergate, a sense of politeness in public discourse carried the day. We respected the Office of the President, even if we sometimes disagreed with the actions and decision of the man holding said office. Nowadays, I'm afraid most of that civility is lost."

My husband interjected: "Congressman, you've given me a brilliant idea. A million dollar donation, with perhaps more to come, to establish a non-profit, bipartisan organization dedicated to restoring civility in politics with much of that money earmarked to pay the salary of your aide as executive director. What do you say?"

"Oh I don't think that will be necessary young man," the congressman said. "I'm grooming this 'lil gal to take over my job some day. Don't have children of my own you see."

The congressman continued: "I 'spect 'bout all we'll need is an apology from your wife to my aide. A heartfelt one. Then this matter shall go no farther."

Crisis resolved. My husband beamed.

"Oh, she'll apologize," Hubby said. "And it will be heartfelt. I can guarantee that!"

Boy oh boy did I get spanked hard. Hubby turned me over his knee, flipped up my little buckskin skirt, pulled down my bloomers and made my bottom so hot with his hand that I'm surprised it didn't send off smoke signals.

After he finished, I stood up and hopped from one foot to another, frantically rubbing my backside as I shouted "Ouchy, Ouchy!"

The congressman chuckled: "That's a mighty fine rain dance your squaw does. I hope the game doesn't get rained out."

After I settled down, my husband ordered me to kneel before the congressman's aide and kiss her hand.

Then I was made to say: "Please accept my humble apology for my atrocious behavior. I must always remember to be respectful to those with differing opinions when talking politics. I must also remember that, though I didn't vote for President Obama and I disagree with some of his policies, I must respect the Office of the President by not referring to the president, no matter which political party he or she represents, in rude terms."

The congressman's aide accepted my apology, though I could tell from the look in her eye that she was loving every second of my humiliation.

"Well that's settled," the congressman said. "Let's get going. Game's about to start. Go 'Skins! Take some scalps!"

But I had to sit in our Mercedes during the game as further punishment. My husband made one of his interns return to the car to keep an eye of me and make sure I didn't sneak a listen to the game on the car radio.

And when we got home, Hubby informed me that an underprivileged child will use my ticket for the remaining Redskins home games this season. I must sit in the naughty chair facing a corner of the living room during the games with no sound on the TV and our au pair watching me to make sure I don't peek out.

I know I was bad, but don't you think a spanking and sitting in the car for one game is enough punishment? I don't care about actually watching the games, but I love the pre-game tailgate parties.

And don't you agree that "Redskins" is a perfectly fine nickname for a football team?

Good woman:

Never do I cease to be amazed by the excesses of the moneyed set.

When my husband and I sit down on the sofa in the parlor of our 800-square-foot bungalow to watch our beloved Chicago Bears on our 12-inch black-and-white TV, we certainly have no use for champagne, caviar and other high-priced delicacies. He's perfectly content snacking on fried beef jerkey and beer ice cream I make for him, while the jello salad I treat myself to is more than sufficient.

But I take heart that, despite his lust for power and riches that accompany the lobbyist's lifestyle, your husband is still "down home" enough to recognize the need to properly punish you for your faults.

My wish is that, as you sit in silence in the naughty chair during remaining Redskins home games, you realize the error of your ways and resolve to forego foolish attachment to creature comforts. Perhaps then you may convince your husband to use his considerable political skills to benefit the commonweal, as evidenced by the wise Appalachian congressman and trusty aide you describe in your note, rather than pursuit of filthy lucre.

As far as the nickname "Redskins" is concerned, my alter ego recalls fond memories as a child and young adult living in the Washington, D.C. area cheering for the football team during its glory years in the 1970s and 1980s.

But, while not much heed was paid to the issue back then, there's no dispute that, unlike the no-longer acceptable words "colored" and "Negro" in referring to an African-American person, the term "Redskin" has from the beginning been a pejorative term meant to cast aspersions and it still carries that meaning. The time has come to give it up.

Or, as my alter ego has seen expressed on Facebook posts on the subject, change the mascot to a "redskin potato."