Tuesday, July 1, 2014

US Supreme Court Endorses 1950s Lifestyle: Back to the Kitchen Bitches!

Dear 1950s Wife:

I normally don't watch TV news during the day, as I'm only allowed a 30-minute break from housekeeping and prefer to view my soap opera instead. And my husband forbids me using the internet except to read "wife discipline" sites, as he knows I'd waste time Facebooking, Twittering and Pinteresting when I should be cleaning house, cooking dinner and washing clothes.

So naturally I was clueless as to the reason for his exuberance when he came home from work yesterday.

Hubby kissed me hard and gave me an extra-firm swat on the behind as I greeted him at the door with his martini. I followed him into the living room where Hubby sat in his easy chair while I knelt before him and prepared to administer his pre-dinner blow job.

I had no more than slipped Hubby's nine-inch "Big Unit" into my mouth when he blurted out the exciting news: Running a family business, my husband is beleaguered with busy-body federal regulations. But, with the US Supreme Court's wise ruling in the Hobby Lobby case, all a business owner has to do now is say a federal regulation violates his religious beliefs and he's free to ignore it.

In my husband's situation, he can now fire this irritating woman without fear of legal consequences by claiming his religious beliefs oppose federal law that prohibit employment decisions based on sex discrimination.

This gal at work is rather plump and been venting frustration at not being able to catch a man by making ridiculous demands. In her latest outrage, she claims that just because she completed a business administration degree at night school, she's entitled to a promotion from factory floor to management trainee.

Sure, my husband gave this opportunity to a dozen men. But they need higher executive pay because they have families to support. This gal would only waste extra money on junk food for herself and designer-brand meals for her pet cats. Plus my husband is better certain the men he promoted can handle the increased responsibility because they're men.

My husband was in such a good mood at the prospect of firing this woman that his libido was on power drive.

As Hubby excitedly explained what he'll tell this woman when he fires her -- how he doesn't appreciate litigation threats when his company offers its factory workers decent $10-an-hour wages and good benefits, including paid holidays on Thanksgiving and Christmas and four hours additional paid vacation a year for every five years of service -- the head of his cock swelled inside my mouth till at last it exploded with such velocity that his "love juice" sluiced down my throat without me needing to gulp.

I went upstairs to the bathroom to brush my teeth and use mouthwash. Next we sat down to a hardy dinner: I enjoyed fruit salad and bowl of lentil soup with a six-ounce yogurt for desert, while Hubby ate his usual 24-ounce T-bone steak, baked potato loaded with butter and sour cream, followed by an apple pie covered with vanilla ice cream.

Hubby usually relaxes after dinner by inspecting the house, then taking me into the living room to give me a chin-held lecture about my housekeeping and cooking faults, occasionally emphasizing his points by swatting my backside with the "naughty girl paddle."

But Hubby was in such a good mood at the thought of firing this woman -- he told me at dinner that he can't wait to see tears stream down her chubby cheeks as he jokes while firing her that she'll at least be able to lose weight with only unemployment compensation to pay for groceries -- that he dispensed with my discipline.

Instead he led me by the hand to the bedroom and ordered me to strip. He turned me over his knee and spanked my bottom cherry red with his hand just to prove his dominance. Then he laid me on the bed, took off his clothes and climbed aboard for three hours of bed-shaking sex!

The only issue to be resolved is which religion to convert to. As part of our town's "smart set," Hubby and I attend an Episcopal church. Unfortunately, that brand, while long on social cachet, is short on theological justifications for sex discrimination in employment.

We considered Mormon and Southern Baptist congregations, but they both proscribe alcohol and Hubby and I are fond of our cocktails.

My husband says you're pretty smart for a woman. Can you suggest a religion?

Good woman:

No I can't. And even if I could, I wouldn't if the only purpose for joining is to escape the consequences from firing this unfortunate woman who must rely on your husband's meager pay for survival.

For as happy as I am filling my days with cooking, cleaning, ironing and exercisizing and my nights with spanking and sex, I recognize that not all women are as fortunate and some must seek work outside the home.

Moreover, while a manly subject such as law is impenetrable to my feminine brain, I checked with my husband who's knowledgeable on the subject. He strongly suggests your husband consult with corporate counsel before making employment decisions, as the Hobby Lobby case is apparently "narrowly construed" (lawyer talk) to pertain only to certain contraception medication.

Otherwise, your husband may find himself on losing end of a sex discrimination lawsuit where, when it's all said and done, you'll be stocking the pantry with cat food for you and Hubby to eat, not your pets. And it won't even be designer brand.






Monday, June 16, 2014

World Cup Blows: Literally

A Gentleman Writes:

I normally don't watch soccer on TV as I prefer more rugged sports such as American football, ice hockey and professional wrestling for my spectating entertainment. But, as a proud American, I will cheer for the USA in the World Cup.

When it comes to televised sports, I'm rather lenient with my wife and let her join me on the couch to watch regular season games and non-marquee wrestling match-ups.

But when football and hockey playoffs and high-priced pay-per-view wrestling are aired, my wife sits in the naughty chair facing the living room corner with ear muffs on so she won't distract me with silly questions and observations such as "why do they call it 'football' when players feet hardly ever touch the ball?," "hockey players have sexy butts," and "professional wrestling looks fake."

With the World Cup consisting of so few fixtures -- if the USA doesn't make it out of the group stage we'll only play three games -- I naturally consider televised matches to equate to "naughty chair time" for the little woman.

So I was rather taken aback when my wife complained that she should at least be allowed to watch USA play its three "group-stage" games. Of course I turned over over my knee, lifted her skirt, lowered her panties and spanked her bottom cherry red for challenging my decision.

But, as I've mentioned, being on the permissive end of the husbandly spectrum, I ultimately decided a compromise could be reached.

Instead of sitting in the naughty chair wearing ear muffs, once the TV is switched on, my wife will place herself naked across my lap on the couch. During the pre-match analysis, I'll give her plump behind a resounding spank with my hand every time a commentator says the word "ball."

This will ensure my wife is in proper submissive mindset and my manhood properly charged for her task during the Big Game: blowing my Big Unit.

Once the match begins, my wife will kneel before me, unzip my fly and take my nine-inch shaft deep into her throat, sucking diligently throughout the game. And, every time USA scores a goal, I'll celebrate the occasion with a Fourth-of-July-worthy explosion, blasting my love juice down my gal's throat.

(I'll permit a five-minute break after each goal to allow my wife to gargle with mouth wash and brush her teeth and for my batteries to recharge. I'm also allowing her a break at half time, as long as she maintains complete silence so I can concentrate on the experts' game analysis. The first peep from her and she's sitting in the naughty chair till the second half begins.)

Must sign off. USA's first match of the tournament is about to start. (I'm typing this message on my smart phone with my left thumb while using my right hand to spank my wife. The commentators said "ball" several times during the pre-match analysis and my wife's backside is beet red.)

Hoping for lots of American goals. Let the fun and games begin. USA!! USA!! USA!!

Kind Sir:

What a loving husband you are, allowing your wife to enjoy the audio portion of big soccer game and the pleasure of sucking your Big Unit at the same time. Two treats in one!

My husband no longer makes me sit in the naughty chair while sports are on TV, as I've learned from many spankings over the years not to disturb his concentration with silly questions and observations that untrained wives are apt to make.

But I found your plans for the Big Game so intriguing that I asked Hubby to treat me to the same.

As we're nearing our golden years, we normally require more preparation before indulging in such recreation. My adrenalin is pumping, though, and I've managed to loosen my jaw with the aid of a banana held in my left hand while typing this reply with my right. Now I'm off to the "powder room" to put on a shade of "blow-job red" lipstick and fetch Hubby an ED pill from the medicine cabinet.

Hubby just turned on the TV. I can hear the crowd's chanting. It's almost like being in Brazil.

USA!! USA!! USA!!






Monday, June 9, 2014

May a Gentleman Splash Semen in His Sweetheart's Face?

A Gentleman Writes:

As a proper 1950s-style couple, my sweetheart and I agree to postpone sexual intercourse until marriage and I have heretofore contented myself during our courtship with hand jobs from her. But now that my lovely made me the happiest man in the world by accepting my marriage proposal, I thought it might be acceptable to upgrade our intimacy.

After discussing the matter with our minister, my father-in-law-to-be, my boss and other older men whose opinions I respect, I decided that allowing my fiancé to pleasure me with oral sex would better meet my manly desires for sexual gratification while enabling her to remain acceptablly "pure" prior to our wedding ceremony set several months hence.

I informed my fiancé of my decision and we've scheduled the Big Event for Friday night.

My fiancé, under my mother-in-law-to-be's tutelage, has practiced with a banana all this week. To ensure proper potency, I'm limiting my masturbation to just three climaxes Thursday night rather than my customary six-times-per-evening when home alone and I won't visit the bathroom stalls for a mid-day tug at work Friday as I'm sometimes inclined to do.

Naturally, I bragged to the other salesmen at the office that I've got my first blow job coming and basked in the admiration of their congratulatory "attaboy"s and "way-to-go"s.

The only thing that concerns me are the comments of a co-worker, Joe.

Joe insists that, for a couple's first blow job, it's only fit-and-proper that, rather than coming in my fiancées mouth, I splash semen all over her face including trying to get some in her eyes and up her nose. Doing such a thing sounds rather unsporting, but Joe insists the procedure is expected just like the tradition of the newly-married man smashing his bride's face into the wedding cake which I certainly intend to do.

I'm not sure what to think.

On the one hand, Joe is a ladies man and has a good thing going on with the office's very attractive receptionist, Polly, so he probably knows a lot about how to please a woman.

On the other hand, Joe is a practical joker and is always pulling hilarious pranks on our nerdy co-worker, Doug, such as moving his desk into the men's room or wrapping his chair in Christmas paper. Joe might be trying to pull a fast one on me.

You strike me as pretty smart for a woman. May a gentleman splash semen in his sweetheart's face?

Kind Sir:

Despite what the blue movies convey, a lady most certainly doesn't appreciate having semen splashed in her face and it's most ungentlemanly of a man to do so.

Think of your fiancé diligently practicing with a banana for several days in the hopes of giving you the best blow job possible.

Earlier Friday, she had her hair done at the beauty parlor in sexy style just for you. After your return to her apartment from your Friday night date of dinner and a show, she excuses herself to change into a baby-doll nightie and freshen her makeup, including fashioning her lips into a perfect heart-shaped bow colored "blow-job red."

She comes back to the living room where you're seated on the couch. You turn her over your knee and spank her bottom with your hand to put her in a submissive mind set where she's eager to please her man. She then kneels before you while you stand and lower your trousers and briefs.

You cup her delicate chin in your hand and hold her pretty face up so she can stare reverantly at your cock, which stands to attention at its full ten inches. While she worships your "Big Unit," you lecture at length about how she must give you proper blow job and better not stop sucking till you're satisfied else you'll blister her bottom with the "naughty girl paddle."

Then the blow job begins. She starts by twirling her tongue over the tip then slides the shaft deep into her throat pressing her tonsils back. In-and-out. In-and out. Pausing at times to lick your balls.

For 20 minutes she goes, never needing to stop to take a deep breath. (Credit her regular attendance at Zumba class for keeping her in excellent cardiovascular condition.) The veins on your penis bulge till, at last, your fiancé senses the coming explosion and prepares herself for the ultimate act of sexual devotion: swallowing your love juice down to the last drop!

Are you really going to ruin that magic moment by pulling your weiner out at the last second and spewing sticky goo all over her face?

You'll ruin her makeup. Not to mention your semen is likely to spurt out in such velocity that it may cause injury should it get in her eyes. Won't that be an embarrassing conversation with the emergency room doctor for the pair of you!

I congratulate you both on your coming nuptials and hope your first blow job goes well. If you discover your fiancé has trouble swallowing, a problem at times for the novice cock sucker, I suggest you read my advice column on the matter, which is one of several helpful essays on domestic life in my e-book, "The Best of 1950s Wife." The book is reasonably priced at $2.99 and may be purchased from Amazon.com by clicking "The Best of 1950s Wife" book cover photo on the right side of this page.

Critics agree: marital advice from "1950s Wife" can't be beat! You don't have to live in the 1950s to be a 1950s Wife!









Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Bent, Bared, Beaten. What's Next? Spanking "Aftercare" Analyzed

A Gentleman Writes:

I recently acquired a wife and am training her. I seem to have a handle on the pre-spanking scolding, and, judging from how she hops around frantically rubbing her bottom shouting "Ouchy! Ouchy!" after I've given her a dose of the "naughty girl paddle," the spanking part is coming along nicely as well.

But colleagues at work and the gym who practice the 1950s lifestyle talk of providing "aftercare" to their wives following a spanking. I fear I may not be up to speed on the procedure. Can you elaborate?

Kind Sir:

Certainly. Just as in every aspect of wife training, ritual is key.

Once she's done entertaining you with her "after-spanking dance," your wife must perform a display of affection and a recitation to show she's truly remorseful for her misbehavior and properly thankful for her loving correction.

Depending on how hard you spanked, she may need a few moments after dancing for her sobs to cease and nose snot to dry. Then, after you've granted your wife permission to pull her panties up, she must curtsy sweetly, kiss you softly on the cheek and recite a saying of gratitude.

As my housekeeping is sterling and adherence to my husband's commands nearly always absolute, Hubby normally spanks me each night after dinner for my general well-being, not for specific rule violations. (As Hubby says, "spanking is for the wife's benefit and the husband's pleasure" and I've learned not to question the reason why.)

Consequently I'm required to say "Thank you Daddy for spanking me so long and hard. I know you do it because you love me and care about how I behave," rather than show remorse for specific misdeeds.

The recently married wife, however, is more apt to actually break her husband's rules, though usually due to the carelessness that stems from a woman's flighty mind rather than willfulness. Thus, you may want your wife to specifically account for each misdeed and solemnly promise to try her best not to do it again, always paying close attention to her tone of voice to ensure genuine remorse.

Even the slightest hint of insincerity in her recitation should be dealt with severely. Rare is the wife to be so bold as to roll her eyes or to let a note of sarcasm slip in during her apology. But if you feel your wife is not properly enthusiastic in saying sorry, return her to her customary place across your lap and spank away.

Once trained, a wife will accept spankings as a matter of course and a sign of her husband's love.

But the young wife, less sure of her self and desperate to please the man who gives her life purpose, often needs reassurance of forgiveness following a spanking. So, after recitation is done, you may want to allow your wife to sit in your lap for a few minutes with her head against your chest as you soothingly say "there, there" and wipe the boo-hoo stains from her cheeks with your handkerchief.

Next comes the post-spanking blow job.

Some couples new to the 1950s lifestyle are curious why this particular sex act is an essential component of post-spanking aftercare. Reasons are twofold:

One, a wife kneeling before her husband to take the 9-to-12-inch penis typically sported by the "Alpha Male" while erect deep into her throat till it tickles her tonsils is the ultimate act of sexual submission. (The more modern among us may argue for anal sex as an alternative, but I'm an old-fashioned gal and never have been too fond of that particular procedure.)

Two, as a red-blooded, virile man, the sight of your wife's round behind turning crimnson as it bounces up and down from application of the naughty girl paddle (and the feel of her soft, warm skin if you spank her with your hand) will naturally produce a raging hard on. And you certainly can't be expected to suffer the discomfort of a "stiffy" left unattended, or the humiliation of self-abuse, during your wife's several minutes of post-spanking cornertime, also an essential component of aftercare.

Once your wife has swallowed your love juice down to the last drop, wait a minute so she can savor the flavor before allowing her to go the the bathroom and brush her teeth. Once she returns, cornertime is next.

If you're the mood to admire your handywork, yank your wife's panties down and have her stand facing the corner of the living room holding her skirt up.

(My assumption is that you administer discipline in the living room, but a special "punishment room" is OK. However, don't use the bedroom, as your wife should associate that room solely with the pleasures of sleeping and sex. And by no means conduct the disciplinary process in your "man cave," as that room should be reserved entirely for watching sports on TV, smoking cigars and other hardy masculine pursuits with your wife never allowed to enter except to vacuum and dust.)

As standing is more onerous than sitting, adjust the amount of cornertime accordingly. But whether she stands or sits in the naughty chair, make sure your wife understands that if you catch her peeking out of the corner just once she'll be soundly spanked again with her time starting over.

As with the blow job, post-spanking cornertime serves two purposes.

One is to allow your wife time to somberly reflect on why she's been disciplined. The second is to allow your vigor to return so you can undertake the subsequent hours of carnal pleasure that is your right as a man to expect each night and your wife's duty as a woman to provide.

If you're like most Alpha Men younger than 40, you'll only need five minutes or so before your husbandly desires return. But, nevertheless, have your wife serve at least 15 minutes cornertime and preferably up to a half hour if you can stand waiting that long. It's a sacrifice you must make for her sake!

Once cornertime is done, send your wife to the bedroom to freshen her makeup, tease her hair and change into a baby doll nightie, the standard sleepwear of the submissive wife. (I have seven of them in separate colors, one for every night of the week.)

Your wife's eager cry of "Honey" will signal it's time for you to come to bed. Once you've entered the bedroom and stripped down to your birthday suit, you may want to entertain your wife for a minute by flexing your biceps and your six-pack abs.

Then climb aboard for the most essential, and most enjoyable, component of post-spanking aftercare: three hours of bed-shaking sex!

And for more observations from talented spank fiction writers on the exciting subject of post-spanking aftercare, click on the following link: spankingromance.com/spanking-round-table-discussions/













Saturday, March 22, 2014

Naughty Wife Caught in Pajamas During the Day. Spanked that Night!

Dear 1950s Wife:

Until recently I was a hard working associate at a high-powered corporate law firm. Then the senior partner made my dreams come true by rewarding me with an engagement ring!

Of course I said "yes" to his wedding proposal, happy to trade my sad career gal status for the life of happiness for a woman: laundering my husband's clothes, cooking his meals, cleaning our house, being spanked for my faults and three hours of bed-shaking sex every night.

Along with giving up that silly lawyering stuff for the much more meaningful life of a housewife, I assumed another advantage would be wearing more comfortable clothes during the day than attorney's business suits. But my husband, a practitioner of the 1950s lifestyle, had other notions.

Upon our return from our honeymoon, Hubby told me to visit the dressmaker to have five smart dresses made in the 1950s style as my weekday housekeeping outfits. Of course, heels, stockings and pearls are also worn For weekend yardwork, I dress in Lilly Pulitzer floral shifts and plain white tennis shoes.

I quickly adapted to housewife life. After six months, my husband decided he could trust me to go to the gym in the afternoons and not waste time after exercising chit-chatting with my gal pals at the juice bar instead of hurrying home to vacuum the morning's dust and get dinner on the table. So I put away my "Richard Simmons Stepping to the Oldies" tape and bought several sets of Lululemon workout clothes. (Their hot pink line goes so well with pearls.)

All was well until I progressed to advanced Zumba class. Upon my return home that afternoon, I found myself so tuckered out that I selfishly decided to finish my afternoon chores in my workout clothes, rather than showering right away and putting my smart dress, heels and stockings back on as my husband expects me to. (I never take my pearls off even in the tub.)

I made sure to get housework done and dinner ready in plenty of time to shower and change clothes before my husband got home. Hubby was so pleased with the state of the house and meal I prepared that he didn't give me any punishment swats with the "naughty girl paddle" after dinner, just a 20-minute warmup spanking with his hand before taking me upstairs for our customary three hours of bed-shaking sex.

Though I "got away with it," I woke up the next morning filled with remorse that I had deceived my husband in such a callous manner and vowed never to slip up again.

But, like the desperate alcoholic formerly on the wagon who takes her first drink, the lure of vacuuming in the comfort of Lululemons was so overwhelming that there I was that afternoon and the next days thereafter not changing after getting home from Zumba.

Believe it or not, my tale of shame grows worse!

After a few weeks of advanced Zumba, a gal pal talked me into staying for 30 minutes of "hot yoga," which felt wonderful but also left me so sweaty that I simply had to take off my Lululemons and hop in the shower.

Once clean, I walked into the bedroom sincerely meaning to change into formal housekeeping attire. But then I felt a comfortable set of pajamas calling my name.

My husband believes a good night's rest is best had by keeping the window open and sleeping in the nude with no covers. I found that a bit chilly, so he generously allows me to wear a gossamer thin baby doll nightie

Hubby threw out most of the clothes I owned before we got married. But he did allow me to keep a couple of sets of old pajamas to wear in lieu of a baby doll nightie in case I catch a cold or the flu.

So ratty, but comfortable, PJs is what I began wearing for afternoon chores. I became so addicted to the comfort of keeping house in pajamas that I soon began changing into them once my husband left for work in the morning.

And I might have gone forever living my shameful double life, my poor deceived husband being none the wiser, if car trouble hadn't caused him to return home one morning before getting to work so he could borrow my car for the day.

Hearing the sound of his car entering the driveway, all I could think to do was run upstairs and hop into bed. I heard my husband walking up the stairs and began moaning and groaning feigning illness as best I could.

"Car's acting up. Need to borrow yours," my husband said as he entered the room. Seeing me in bed, he asked what was wrong.

"Oh honey," I moaned, "I must have caught a bug. I was feeling queasy when I got up and as soon as you left for work it really came on strong."

"Poor baby," my husband said as he sat down beside me. He placed his palm against my forehead.

Ut oh!

"That's odd," Hubby said. "You don't feel warm. But I better take your temperature just in case."

"Oh sweetheart, that's not necessary," I cried. "A few hours rest and I'm sure I'll feel fine."

"Now, now," my husband said as he returned with the rectal thermometer. "I need to check you out. Be a good girl, pull your pajama bottoms down and roll over."

I did as commanded and Hubby stuck the thermometer in my crack. And it wasn't long after that I found myself over his knee getting my bare ass cracked with the naughty girl paddle.

It only took a few swats before I began sobbing out the story of my deception.

While confession may be good for the soul, it's not so great for the bottom. My husband spanked me so long and hard that I had to spend the first hour after he returned for work icing my bottom in the kitchen sink. Then it was upstairs to change into my smart dress, stockings and heels.

You better believe the house was neat as a pin for Hubby's inspection upon his return home from work and the dinner I prepared for his consumption that night was the best he's tasted. I didn't eat any of it, as I dined on oatmeal, dry toast and water as further punishment.

I thought that would be the end of it. But my husband informed me that, as I like spending daytime hours in pajamas so much, I must wear a baby doll nightie all day for the next month, including when I go to the gym and grocery shopping, as well as when we go out to eat Friday night and lunch at the country club after church on Sunday.

I must also wear a homemade placard around my neck saying "Ask Me Why I'm Wearing Pajamas" and give an honest account to anyone who asks.

Being an important man in town, my husband called the mayor and asked him to tell the police chief why I'm going about in public in a baby doll nightie so I won't get ticketed for public indecency. Having run for office on a "family values" platform, the mayor heartily agreed, noting that any prurient stares that result from my wearing PJs in public that barely obscure my nipples and bush would be far outweighed by my accompanying explanation of my failure to be a properly submissive wife.

My husband also required me to send you this note as warning to all submissive wives who can't resist the lure of comfortable clothes, especially pajamas,
during the day.

Good woman:

How fortunate you are to have a husband who cares so much for your moral development. And a merciful man as well. A lesser man presented with such a sordid deception would likely commence divorce proceedings.

I'm certain your sad tale shall serve as warning to all submissive wives. Gals take heed: no matter the comfort that may be had in performing your housekeeping duties in comfortable clothes, particularly PJs, standards must be kept!

Many's the time I've been tempted in the late afternoon when piloting "Ol' Betsy" around the house vacuuming up the morning's dust to slip out of heels into a soft pair of slippers. But, no matter how much my bunions ache, the aching buns I regularly receive from Hubby's many spankings during our twenty happy years together train me to obey his dress code rules without question.

Authors message: this story is dedicated to Celeste Jones and Tara Finnegan, fellow spank fiction writers extraordinaire with strong feelings about the propriety of wearing pajamas during the day. Check out their blogs at writercelestejones.blogspot.com and tarafinneganromance.blogspot.com

My apologies, dear readers, for the inconvenience, but I wrote this story on a tablet so you'll have to "cut-and-paste" to make the links work, as I don't know how to make a hyperlink.



Friday, February 28, 2014

Too Much Watching "Oscars Night" Means Spanking and Cornertime for Naughty Wife

1950s Wife is on vacation. In the meantime here's an "oldie but goodie" appropriate for this time of year.

Dear 1950s Wife:

As sunny SoCal residents, I take it as a matter of course that my husband and I spend the first Sunday night of March each year watching the Academy Awards.

So I was a bit surprised when Hubby called me on the way home from the golf course near supper time yesterday to advise that the other members of his foursome and their wives were coming over to watch Los Angeles suburbanites’ favorite sports team, the Anaheim Mighty Ducks, play hockey on TV.

I’d spent the afternoon preparing beef Wellington for dinner. But, as a proper submissive wife, I told Hubby it’d be no problem at all to put it in the freezer and whip up plates of pigs-in-the-blanket and fried beef jerky for the men to eat while watching the game and slice up carrots, celery and other “rabbit food” for us wives to snack on.

My husband realized the gals would be disappointed not to watch the Academy Awards. And he also knew we’d disturb the men with our girlish chit chat during the game. So Hubby graciously allowed that we women could watch the Oscar presentations in the kitchen via streaming internet on one wife’s hand-held mobile phone, while the men watched hockey in the living room on our plasma TV with 60-inch screen.

(These new "smart phones" are so amazing! I wish my husband would let me have one but he knows I'd waste too much time "Facebooking" and "Twittering" when I should be cooking his meals, cleaning house and washing his clothes.)

I say we girls were "supposed" to watch the Academy Awards in the kitchen because it didn't work out that way.

After four hours spent preparing a beef Wellington that was now going in the freezer, I selfishly
decided that, instead of getting right to breading the beef jerky and other cooking tasks, I deserved a few minutes break to watch red-carpet interviews on TV of Hollywood celebrities arriving for the Oscars

I know I shouldn't have tarried, but the chance to see the beautiful actresses in their wonderful evening gowns and the handsome actors in their tuxedos was too much temptation. Before I knew it, I completely lost track of time.

Boy oh boy, did I hang my head in shame when my husband arrived home and I told him the hors d’oeuvres wouldn't be ready until five minutes after the guests were scheduled to arrive.

Hubby immediately turned me over his knee, bared my backside and soundly spanked my bottom cherry red. He let me up and I knelt before him, kissed his hand and said "Thank you Daddy for spanking me so hard. I know you do it because you love me and care how I behave."

I hoped that would be the end of it. But my husband made me change into a French maid's outfit to greet the guests and apologize as they arrived for snacks not being ready in time.

Once everybody was there, Hubby gave me twelve licks on the bare with the "naughty girl paddle," then sent me to stand in a corner of the living room for the entire hockey game with my lacy skirt tucked up, frilly panties down and blistered backside on display.

The only time my nose wasn't in the corner was hurrying to kitchen to get more appetizers for the guests whenever Hubby called out "Wife. Treats. Fetch!"

The wives couldn't watch the Academy Awards in the kitchen because my husband insisted I miss the show as part of my punishment and knew I'd be tempted to sneak a peek when I fetched treats for the men. The girls sure were mad at me and would have been even more steamed except each was allowed a small scoop of beer ice cream that I prepared for the men for desert to make up for not seeing the Oscars.

I know from reading this blog that you agree I deserve such punishment.

But I missed the Academy Awards and, as revenge for making them miss the show, the other wives aren't talking to me for a week. Could you happen to tell me who won the Oscars for Best Actor and Actress and which movie was named best film of the year?

Good woman:

I have absolutely no idea, nor do I care in the least, who won the Oscars.

My husband and I agree that the cinema has been in a drastic state of decline for decades and "Hello Dolly" was the last decent movie made.

We haven't been to the moving picture show in years. And, unless the studios release a well-made boxing documentary that would suitably entertain my husband or a decent "I Love Lucy" remake that would suitably entertain me, we won't be patronizing our local theater in future.

As far as your punishment is concerned, of course you deserved such stern correction.

By selfishly setting aside your cooking to watch the pre-Oscars "red carpet interviews," you subjected your husband to horrible embarrassment of guests waiting five full minutes for snacks to be ready. How can Hubby hold his head high before other 1950s-style couples when they know he has such a lazy wife?

By paddling you in front of the guests and making you stand in the corner except when fetching treats, Hubby was at least able to retain some measure of dignity and assure the other couples he's not neglecting your discipline. As evidence you've learned your lesson, you should write each couple a letter of apology.

But I am curious: who won the hockey game?

Monday, February 10, 2014

And the Gold Medal for Best Chick's Butt Goes to ...

1950s Wife is busy preparing a refrigerator full of fried beef jerkey and a freezer full of beer ice cream for Hubby to snack on during the 2014 Winter Olympics men's ice hockey tournament starting Wednesday. In the meantime, let's hear from Our Man on the Scene in Sochi, Hornee Hanly.

Hornee, the Winter Olympics event that everybody cares about, men's ice hockey, has yet to start. But competition in lesser events is underway. Update us on what's happened in these minor sports, such as ladies figure skating.

Panties! Heh, Heh, Heh. Panties!

"Hornee, for shame! Ladies figure skating, though of minor interest compared to men's ice hockey, features some of the best female athletes in the world. Yet, all you care to talk about is competitors' underwear. A more nuanced analysis please.

The chick from Canada should've gotten the gold medal because she has the best butt and wore a thong.

Moving on, your impression of the gentlemen's figure skating competition to date.

Dudes figure skate?

Moving on again, Canada and the United States are once again dominating women's ice hockey competition and most certainly will meet in the gold medal game. But which other country do you see having best chance to take bronze?

Chicks play hockey?

Again moving on, are media accommodations in Sochi really as bad as reported?

Yes, it's awful. We must pay for our beer and only plainly seasoned chicken wings are available, no barbecue style.
On the bright side, every guest in the media's hotel is provided a free gallon of vodka per day for drinking and bathing to make up for lack of running water. And the motel's outhouse is amply stocked with toilet paper.

Once again moving on, media speculation is rife that, should Canada and Russia meet in the latter stage of the men's hockey competition, famed Canadian hockey broadcaster Don Cherry and Russian President Vladimir Putin will engage in a ceremonial scrap on the ice prior to puck drop. Any truth to the rumor?
And, as the United States and Russia will definitely play each other in the group stage, are the Americans pussies for not sending an emissary to fight Putin?

As answer to the first question, I'm unable to confirm the rumour but then again I haven't bothered to ask anybody. As far as the second question is concerned, yes Americans are pussies.

Finally Hornee, should Canada and the United States, as in the 2010 Games, meet in the gold medal match in men's ice hockey, who prevails?

Canada, bro. Canada.

I'm a woman Hornee. Please don't refer to me as a "bro".

Sorry. When it comes to old chicks like you, chicks who are 30 and older, I can't tell the "bros" from the "hoes."