"Jingle Bell Hell," a "Why I Hate Christmas Tale"

Dear Readers,

1950s Wife is recuperating with a sprained arm in a sling after getting caught in the scrum at a "Holiday Season Super Savings Vacuum Cleaner Sale." To tide you over, her alter ego, Claire Colinsgrove, presents this Christmas tale. It's a bit of a downer, but hey, so was "The Little Matchstick Girl."

This story is fiction.

Saturday, December 14, 1974

Dear Diary,

I take pen to paper at the conclusion of another day of joyous accomplishment. As I've previously written, it's my honor this holiday season to coordinate our Junior League chapter's annual project to give toys to underprivileged children.

With all this hullabaloo in the news about inflation, the OPEC oil embargo and high cost of gasoline, I was a bit worried that the poor economy might result in our offering falling short of the standard set in years past. But I must say that, after listening to my pep talk at the toy drive's beginning about our duty of "noblesse oblige" to the common folk, the gals in our chapter came through like troopers.

Such an abundance of marvelous toys we collected. How it warms my heart to envision an underprivileged boy on Christmas morning, who might otherwise go empty-handed, opening the smartly-wrapped box containing his holiday present from the Junior League to find his very own yo-yo to play with while sister takes delight in her gift of miniature crocheted Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.

My station wagon became so crammed full with toys after I stopped at League headquarters yesterday to pick up the gifts that I could barely see out the back. Our chapter's president was there to let me in the office and graciously offered to come by today to help me wrap them.

But I turned her down. No need, I said, when I've got two extra sets of hands to help me, namely those of my 12-year-old daughter Claire and my nine-year-old son Charlie.

Well, Dear Diary, as might be expected, it turned out to be one extra pair of hands, as Claire, typical of her when there's work to be done around the house, was no help at all.

Such a surly, disagreeable child she's turning into, so different from the cheerful obedience that marked my relationship with my mother when I was Claire's age. The fuss she put up when I told her and Charlie at dinner last night that they'd spend Saturday helping me wrap gifts, you would have thought I was putting her to work picking crops on the plantation.

She didn't pipe down until I told her she might prefer spending the day in her room writing an essay on how lucky she is having parents who can afford to get her loads of expensive presents each Christmas, and how ungrateful she is compared to underprivileged children across town who must make do with yo-yos as gifts.

Claire presented herself at the breakfast table this morning in an acceptable mood, though she did object when I told her that she and Charlie could only watch one 30-minute cartoon on TV rather than their customary two. As they wouldn't outside playing with their friends today, I made them run laps around the yard the other 30 minutes for exercise.

After they cleaned up, I presented Claire and Charlie with what I naively expected would be a delightful surprise. Knowing how important fantasy is to children, to make their day as "Santa's helpers" even more fun, I purchased through mail-order elf costumes for them to wear consisting of green sweaters that fell to mid-thigh, red tights, blue felt boots with toes curling up, and knitted red caps with pointy "elf ears" attached to the sides.

Charlie was delighted with the gift and immediately ran upstairs to his bedroom to put his costume on.

Claire, however, absolutely refused to change, shouting at the top her lungs "I'm not gonna wear a stupid outfit like that!" It wasn't till I threatened to tan her backside with the "ouchy stick" that she begrudgingly agreed to don the costume.

When the children returned downstairs in their elf outfits they looked so darling that I simply had to get a picture made. Our next door neighbor is a photo buff, so I marched Claire and Charlie over to his house to get a picture taken with his fancy camera.

The neighbor told me the kids looked swell in their Christmas costumes. His son is in Claire's grade at school and he happened to come downstairs to the living room just as his father took the picture. Claire's face turned red as Rudolph's nose when the boy walked into the room. Deciding that her pretty blush added a festive look, I asked our neighbor to take another snapshot.

The neighbor said he'd bring me prints as soon as he got the film developed. He added that he did freelance work for the local paper and would like to submit a photo of my two jolly elves. I said that would be fine as long as he told the editor Claire and Charlie were dressed up to help their mother wrap presents for the Junior League's project to give Christmas toys to underprivileged children. Won't that be grand publicity!

As we walked back to our house, Claire complained that I had ruined her life, that the neighbor's son was going to tell everybody at school how stupid she looked in her elf outfit and if the paper ended up running the photo of her and Charlie dressed as elves she would just die.

In response, I told her she needs to get over worrying what other children think of her. The only people's opinions I cared about when I was growing up were my parents' and my teachers'. That's how I became house captain senior year at boarding school, president of the student disciplinary board with a straight-A average and admitted to a "Seven Sister."

Back at the house, I had Claire and Charlie fetch the boxed-up presents from my station wagon in the garage and bring them into the dining room while I retrieved wrapping paper, scissors, scotch tape and green and red ribbon from the sewing room.

I also retrieved the "ouchy stick," which is a 12-inch ruler affixed to a four-inch grip, from the coat closet. I needed a ruler for Claire to use to measure when cutting wrapping paper and seeing the ouchy stick would remind her to diligently attend to her task and not bellyache.

We gathered round the dining room table and I instructed the children on the procedure: Claire would cut paper, I'd wrap, and Charlie would use his finger to hold the ribbon down while I affixed it into a smart bow. We fell to work and soon became an efficient team, though I had to threaten a time or two to rap Claire's knuckles with the ouchy stick for cutting off too much paper. "Waste not, Want Not," the Good Book says.

After two hours, it was time for lunch, so we sat down to a nutrious meal of tomato soup and tuna fish sandwiches. Twenty minutes later we were back at work.

Claire was so placid and compliant during the first two hours of gift wrapping that I almost felt like I had a new child. But I suppose the tomato soup was a bit too spicy because it wasn't more than a few minutes into the afternoon session when "Lil' Miss Hot Head" made her presence known.

First she complained that she was sick of the Christmas music I was playing and wanted to put a Partridge Family record on. Well, even though I get more than my fill of that insipid show watching it each week with Claire and Charlie to make sure they shut their eyes and cover their ears during inappropriate parts, I graciously allowed her to play the record just to prove that I'm not, as Claire has impertinently called me more than once, "the world's meanest Mom."

We weren't more than two songs into the record when Claire said her hand was cramping and needed a break. So I allowed her to rest two full songs but almost immediately upon returning to work, she cried out that her wrist still hurt and I needed to put liniment spray on.

So up we went to my bathroom and I applied a generous amount of liniment spray even though I strongly suspected she suffered from a dose of "malingeritis" rather than a strained wrist.

We returned to the dining room and she managed to work through the end of side one of the Partridge Family record. But were only one song through Side B when she announced she needed to go to the bathroom.

Upstairs she went while Charlie and I continued to wrap presents. Charlie is such a good boy. He graciously offered to cut paper in Claire's absence but I don't trust a nine-year-old with adult-sized scissors.

Several minutes passed. The Partridge Family record droned on, the noise giving me a headache. Finally, I went over to the turntable and shut off the music. I called upstairs, "Claire, are you OK? Do you need me to come up there?"

"I'll be down in a minute," she shouted back.

Charlie and I returned to wrapping. Five more minutes passed and still no Claire. I walked to the foot of the stairs.

"Claire, get down here this instant," I called out in a sharp voice.

"OK. OK," she shouted back. "Gosh, I can't even take a few minutes break to use the bathroom."

Claire returned to the living room. "Can I put a 'Brady Bunch' record on?" she asked.

"No Claire, I need a break from the noise," I told her. "If you want music, play a Christmas record."

"I don't wanna listen to stupid Christmas music," she cried. "I wanna hear the 'Brady Bunch'!"

"Claire, you're pushing your luck," I scolded. "Get to work!"

"I don't wanna wrap presents anymore. I've wrapped enough," she cried. "This is so stupid. None of my friends would have to spend their whole Saturday wrapping presents for kids they don't even know!"

"Claire without our help, those unfortunate underprivileged children would get no presents at all," I chided. "Think how lucky you are to have parents who can afford to get you so many wonderful gifts at Christmas."

"I don't care!" Claire screamed, her face flushed red. "I'm not lucky. You're the lucky one. Grandma and Grandad are rich and you had a maid growing up to do all the work. You never had to do stupid stuff like this!"

"Claire, I've had enough!" I shouted. "Start wrapping now or Santa won't bring you any presents."

"I don't care about presents!" Claire screamed as she ripped her elf's cap off and threw it on the floor. "And I don't believe in Santa. There is no such thing as Santa Clause. Even Charlie knows that."

I looked over at Charlie and my heart nearly broke as I saw his lips quiver and a tear roll down his cheek.

"There is a Santa Clause," he said in a hurt tone. "Right Mom?"

"Yes Charlie. There is a Santa Clause," I reassured him.

Turning to Claire I told her, "Upstairs to your room, young lady, and take the ouchy stick with you."

"No Mom, I'm too old for that," Claire said, tears starting to flow.

"Save your tears, young miss," I scolded. "You'll have plenty to cry about in just a minute."

Claire ran up the stairs and slammed the door to her room.

I turned to Charlie. "I'm afraid Claire needs a spanking, Charlie," I said. "You're such a good boy. I'm so glad that you always behave and never need an "ouchy." Santa will be bringing you lots of presents.

Now go put a Christmas record on so the noise from me punishing Claire won't disturb you. But be careful and don't scratch it with the needle."

"Yes Ma'am," Charlie cheerfully replied.

I walked upstairs to Claire's room. While I'm a firm believer that the ouchy stick should be used sparingly, if outright defiance by refusing to do just a little bit of work to bring Holiday joy to children less fortunate than her, plus ruining Christmas for her little brother by telling him there's no Santa Clause, doesn't call for an "ouchy" than nothing else does.

I opened the door to Claire's room. Seeing the face of a child who just a few years ago ran down the stairs on Christmas morning shouting with delight at the many gifts Santa brought in the night softened my resolve.

I picked up the ouchy stick from where Claire set it on her nightstand.

"Last chance Claire," I told her. "If you apologize and come back downstairs to wrap presents, we won't have to go through with this. We're more than halfway done. It'll just take a few more hours. What do you say?"

Claire stared at me for a second. Then she spoke in a voice I scarcely recognized, the tone so calm and even.

"I'd rather be spanked with that stick than wrap one more stupid present," she said. "Why should I care about kids I don't even know? It's not my fault they're poor."

My mouth hung open in shock at her defiance.

"And there is no Santa Clause," Claire continued. "Charlie knows it. He's just playing you for a fool by going 'boo hoo' because he likes to see me get in trouble."

Well that did it. I'm afraid, Dear Diary, while my philosophy is never to punish in anger, I may have lost my temper a bit at my daughter's hateful words.

I grabbed Claire by the shoulder, turned her round and gave her backside six sound swats with the stick, scolding as I spanked "There is too a Santa, you little brat. He brings presents on Christmas Eve to good children like Charlie and leaves lumps of coal in the stockings of bad girls like you!"

Even though I spanked Claire longer and harder than I intended to, it didn't appear to hurt that much, as she didn't cry nor do the after-spanking "ouchy dance" like she sometimes does. I suppose the thickness of her elf sweater and tights spared her.

So, to make an additional impression, I told Claire she could stay in her room until she wrote a letter to read to me aloud apologizing to Santa for being bad and asking him to give her a second chance for presents by being extra good from now on.

Claire didn't write the essay, however, as her father, upon returning home from playing golf, told me she'd been punished enough. He went into Claire's room and told her she could come out. I also overheard him reassuring her that she was getting Christmas presents and that she should try to remember how much pressure her mother puts on herself when it comes to Christmas projects.

He also told Claire that she was too old for spanking and he was going to tell me so and to toss out the ouchy stick.

A few minutes later Claired headed out the door in a change of clothes to visit a friend, calling out "I'm eating supper at Sharon's. I'll be back at nine o'clock. Bye Dad. I love you."

After Claire left, my husband informed me that a "no spanking" policy was now in effect and to put the ouchy stick in the trash. He added that it was too much to expect children to work all Saturday wrapping presents when they wanted to be playing with their friends and I was putting too much pressure on the family by going overboard with Christmas projects.

Too much pressure! Doesn't he realize the strain I'm under? The entire Junior League is counting on me.

Enough writing for tonight, Dear Diary. Church in the morning. And no matter how much Claire complains, she's getting up early for Sunday school before services. I've been far too lenient about that.

And once we get home from lunch at the country club, I'm getting out the guidebook to private schools I ordered. I'm having second thoughts about no boarding school for Claire even though my husband says we can't afford it. He can always get a second job at night to help pay tuition.

Goodness knows Claire's surly attitude would make her a poor candidate for my alma mater where school spirit is placed at such a premium, but perhaps we can find a less-expensive second-tier school that would be a good fit.

I wonder if those military schools that advertise in the back of the "New Yorker" accept girls?

No Football Championship for Crimson Tide Earns Alabama Wife a "Crimson Hide"

Dear 1950s Wife,

As an Alabama gal, I'm no stranger to being spanked. Daddy turned me over his knee and tanned my tailfeathers when I was naughty up through my college years and passed the job of maintaining discipline to my husband after I got married.

As a proper Southern wife, I graciously submit to my husband's stewardship of our happy home and let him make decisions regarding finances, weekend activities, sex and the like. I content myself with keeping the house clean, clothes laundered and supper on the table, knowing full well that if I fail in the slightest in my household duties or ever come across as other than cheerfully obedient, Hubby will put me over his lap, lift my skirt, lower my panties and spank my bottom as red as the britches of our University of Alabama Crimsonettes majorettes.

So, after reading on your blog that your husband spanks you OTK during Chicago Blackhawks hockey games to celebrate home team's goals and wins, and swats you with the "naughty girl paddle" to express his frustration with visitor wins, Hubby decided to adopt the practice this season when we watch on TV the only sport that matters to us Southern folk: college football, specifically the University of Alabama Crimson Tide.

Here's our game routine: Just prior to kickoff, I change out of my cooking clothes of stockings, heels, pearls and a smart dress into my cheerleader outfit of a tight-fitting white halter top with a maroon "A" across the chest, maroon short shorts and white go-go boots. I fetch a big platter of pulled-pork barbecue sandwiches and a tub of cole slaw I made for Hubby to snack on, pop the top of his beer and position myself over his lap as he reclines on the couch.

There I stay, his firm hand resting atop my perky posterior ready to beat my bottom like a bongo drum whenever Alabama scores. Except when Hubby shouts "Beer. Wife, Fetch!" Then I roll off his knee and scamper into the kitchen as fast as my shapely legs will take me to bring him a malt beverage.

I'm also allowed to get up during halftime. As Alabama's "Million Dollar Band," accompanied by the Crimsonettes majorettes, perform on TV, I put on my own show for Hubby as I pop my top and jump up and down singing our fight song "Ramma Jamma, Yellowhamma, give 'em hell, Alabama."

After the inevitable Alabama win, I slide off Hubby's lap onto my knees, unzip his fly and give him a celebratory blow job. Hubby typically stays hard throughout the post-game interviews with players and coach, ejaculating into my mouth moaning "Roll Tide" just as the broadcast ends.

I put away Hubby's left-over barbecue in the fridge and toss his empty beer cans into recycling. Then I go upstairs to brush my teeth and change into sexy lingerie. I climb into bed with a romance novel to pass the time, as Hubby usually spends an hour post-game on the computer reading several sports blogs and posting opinions as to whether the margin of victory was sufficiently wide enough to uphold Alabama's honor and, if not, which players should be demoted to second-string and which assistant coaches fired as a result.

Once done, Hubby joins me in the bedroom for our customary Saturday night session of hours-long bed-shaking sex. (Though he could go longer, I ask him to stop at midnight, so I can get a good night's sleep prior to being up at 5:00 am to prepare a hearty breakfast of biscuits, grits, eggs, hamhocks and gravy for Hubby then attend to my beauty preparations for church.)

Naturally, Alabama won its first 11 games this season so I wasn't too worried when I put myself over my husband's lap to watch the regular season finale last Saturday against our arch-rival Auburn. Though Hubby's certainly enthusiastic when he spanks me with his hand to celebrate Alabama's big plays and scores, hand spanks don't hurt that much for a well-spanked wife such as me, particularly when I'm wearing my cheerleader-style booty shorts.

But after Auburn came back to tie the game 28-28 with just a few minutes left I started to get worried. You see, my husband decided it would be such a calamity should Alabama ever lose that he would have no choice but to express his dismay by paddling me with the "Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer."

That's the nickname Hubby gave this super-sized paddle that he only uses to punish me for extreme misbehavior like the time I didn't put enough lard in the collared greens I made when his parents came by supper and his mama said they tasted "stringy."

We bought the "Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer" at an estate sale after the high school principal passed away. It's got a two-handed grip with the spanking part being 16 inches long and four inches wide. "OUCH" is written in big block letters on the face of the paddle and the rest of it is filled with signatures from students who got whipped with it over the years including "Jimmy Joe," "Johnny Joe" and "Janey Jo."

The few times I've been spanked with it sure did leave me feeling sorry for those "Joe" kids because that paddle stings like the dickens. But I relaxed after Alabama moved the ball down the field.

With one second left, the Tide kicker came on the field for what I was sure was the winning field goal. I could tell Hubby was confident too because I felt his boner poking me in the stomach. As soon as the referee put his hands up signaling good, I'd slide off Hubby's lap, unzip his fly and give him the sort of blow job that an undefeated regular season record and entry in the college football national championship game for the third year in a row deserved.

Well I suppose you don't have to be a football fan to know what happened next. Such cries of agony my husband made. I don't think I ever yelled in pain that much even when Daddy whipped my hind parts with a peach tree switch when he caught me sneaking a cigarette as a teenager.

What made it worse is our next-door neighbors are Auburn fans. They went out on their driveway shooting off fireworks and making fun of our "Rammer Jammer" cheer by singing "Ramma Jamma, Alabama, we just beat the hell out of you!"

After my husband finished crying, he went into bathroom to wash his face. When he came out, he said he felt bad about doing it, but he knew I wouldn't respect him as a husband and a man if he didn't live up to his promise to properly paddle my posterior for an Alabama loss. (He's right.) So he led me by the hand out to our sound-proofed woodshed where we store the Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer.

I sure am glad we decided to soundproof the shed because I'd hate those obnoxious Auburn fans next door to hear me holler as Hubby heated my hiney. He gave me 34 swats, one for every Auburn point, as he scolded "Missed field goals. Dropped passes. Sloppy tackling. Missed blocks," etc...

I spent the rest of the night icing my bottom in the kitchen sink. Hubby said he'd make do with cereal in the morning so I could sleep in till 7:00 am. What a kind, thoughtful, caring man I have!

I could have done with a pillow sitting in the church pew for Sunday services, but other than that I wasn't too worse for wear.

We attend a mixed congregation and our pastor was very solicitatious of each side's feelings. He reminded we Alabama fans that in times of crisis we must turn to The Lord for comfort while encouraging both sides to love our neighbor as we would ourselves. To that end, Pastor preached, we would best further the cause of social justice by sending e-mails to sports editors of major newspapers arguing the fairest result would be to place one-loss Auburn, should it beat Missouri in the SEC championship game, and one-loss Alabama in a "do-over" for the national championship game come January, despite other teams finishing with undefeated regular-season records.

My husband doesn't allow me to use the computer except to read your blog, as he wisely realizes I'd waste time "Facebooking," "Twittering" and "You Tube-ing" when I should be cleaning house, cooking his meals and washing his clothes. So I wasn't able to send out e-mails to sports writers urging a "do-over" and I quickly put Saturday's disappointing loss and college football from my mind.

So imagine my surprise when my husband came home the other day with an Auburn football jersey on. He said one of the guys at work gave it to him as a joke, but, after pondering Pastor's sermon, he decided it was incumbent to show loyalty to his state and root for Auburn against Missouri.

My husband reminded me it's my wifely duty to support him by donning a slutty cheerleader outfit in Auburn colors and going over his lap for the big game against Missouri. I'm to be soundly spanked with Hubby's hand for every Auburn point. And, should the unthinkable happen and our beloved Auburn Tigers, aka War Eagles, aka Plainsmen, lose the game, I can expect a repeat session with Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer.

As a proper submissive wife, I know it's my duty to obey my husband without question. Still, I can't help but wrinkle up my nose as the thought of being spanked for Auburn's sake. Should I try to talk my husband out of it.

Good woman,

As a confirmed northerner, I can't help but be bemused by you southerners and your folksy ways, including your infatuation with something as silly as college football.

Still I must encourage you to graciously submit to your husband's will. For it is not up to us wives to question the decisions of our "superior officers." God intended man to rule over woman. That's why He gave us soft behinds and men strong arms and firm hands.

Besides you may luck out and Auburn win the game, thus sparing you a date with Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer.

Housewifely Subjugation, Spanking, and the "Feminine Mystique."

Dear 1950s Wife:

I recently moved with my husband from California to a town in the Midwest and joined the neighborhood book club as a way to meet new people.

Our club is for married women and meets once a week at our subdivision's community center and is a sort of "gals night out" with wine and cheese on the menu along with book discussion. While I normally don't approve of wives gallivanting in this manner unsupervised by their husbands, I decided the mental fortification from reading a stimulating book justified the risk of being in a situation where I might be tempted to partake of a libation or break my diet by eating cheese on a cracker.

At my first meeting, the club president asked me introduce myself and I advised that I'm 29 and married for three years to an important business executive with no children but that we hoped for a "bun in the oven" soon. In the meantime, I busy myself with cooking my husband's meals, cleaning our house and washing his clothes with trips to the gym and beauty parlor for fun. My husband's interests, I advised, include morning calisthenics, evening martinis, improving my culinary abilities via continual criticism and nightly sex.

As it was my first time, I hadn't read the book under discussion, "Men Are From Mars. Women Are From Venus." But I picked up from the conversation that the book is about the differences between men and women in communicating their feelings in a relationship and how best to bridge gaps in understanding.

The discussion was so lively that I couldn't help but throw my two cents in: the best way for women and men to avoid misunderstandings is for the gal to do everything her guy tells her to and to gracefully submit her bottom to spanking when she strays.

Well I must tell you that I was surprised by the response. Having moved from a state where the "1950s Lifestyle" isn't whole-heartedly appreciated, I was prepared for objections. But the other wives completely agreed with me. They were totally silent after I spoke and several looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. I'd obviously hit the nail on the head and there was simply nothing more to be said.

The meeting broke up shortly after that. As we were readying to leave, the club president asked for suggestions for next week's book. As I'd obviously won club members' respect with my forthright views, I confidently declared "The Scarlett Letter" the book to read.

I'd read the book ten times before. Nevertheless I found the eleventh time through as entertaining as the first, as I became thoroughly engrossed in this well-told tale of a wicked woman properly punished.

The book provoked much discussion at our next meeting, though I was disappointed that several wives were a bit dismissive of the benefits of societal shaming in promoting feminine virtue. And there was this one gal -- judging by her unkempt appearance her husband must keep her on a very tight budget as far as clothes and beauty products are concerned -- who seemed depressingly ignorant of her American history, as she kept referring to the people in the book as "patriarchs," not "Puritans."

Knowing that I shouldn't hog the limelight, I graciously kept quiet when the book club president asked for suggestions for next week's book. As I assumed she only came to consume more than her fair share of wine and cheese, I was taken aback when the woman with no money for a nice haircut suggested "The Feminine Mystique."

Not having heard of the book, as we exited the community center I asked the dowdy woman what it was about. She wrinkled up her unpowered nose and told me in a tone of voice a bit too haughty for my liking that it was written in the 1960s and inspired the feminist movement.

I recalled "feminist" as a slang expression from my college years for a gal not cute enough to bid the popular sororities, so I assumed that the book must be about the founders of the sororities on campus that homely girls join.

While I joined in teasing the "feminists" at college, from the perspective of a mature adult it is noble that people went out of their way to found fraternities and sororities for ungainly guys and chubby chicks to socialize because even people who aren't good-looking deserve a chance at happiness. I anticipated reading heart-warming stories of college romances between pimply guys and fat girls who fall in love and get married and live happily ever after raising pimply, fat children.

But instead the book turns out to be nothing more than an outrageous screed condemning the "1950s Lifestyle" and the well-founded notion that true happiness for a woman comes from a life of loving devotion to her husband as shown through enthusiastic performance of household chores.

I don't mind telling you that I plan to vociferously protest this so-called book at the next meeting of book club. I thought about pouring a glass of wine on it and lighting it afire, but we're supposed to drink no more than two glasses and, quite frankly, I need that much to get through a meeting because listening to some of these gals drone on and on in their nasal Midwestern accents drives me nuts. Plus I paid a dollar for the book at the used bookstore and I'd like to get some of that money returned by selling it back.

So I've decided to filibuster the meeting. Along those lines, I'll need material to read aloud for the two hours and I feel your columns on the benefits of housewifely subjugation would be especially beneficial for the group to hear.

Permission granted?

Good woman:

Permission denied.

For as much as you and I enjoy the life

Of loving submission practiced by a well-spanked wife

'Tis not all gals' cup of tea

And the freedom to be "you and me"

Makes this merry ol' world go round you see

And for more thoughts from my fellow "spank fiction" writers on the relationship between submission, including spanking, and feminism, visit the following link: 

Spankingromance.com (Note: My apologies, dear readers, but you may need to "cut and paste" the link into your web browser. I'm using a tablet to make this post and can't figure out how to make a hyperlink.)

"Miss ENFP" Meet "Mr. ISTJ," the Perfect Psychologically-Matched D/s Couple

Dear 1950s Wife:

Have you heard of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test? My gal pals, submissive and non-, say it’s essential that a couple contemplating marriage take it to ensure they’re appropriately matched.

Boy oh boy, I sure hope they’re right because I recently kicked my fiance to the curb based on his shocking result on the exam.

You can find the quiz online and we took it together the other night. I went first and wasn’t at all my surprised to learn that I’m an “ENFP” with strong psychological preferences for extroversion vs. introversion, intuition vs. sensation, feeling vs. thinking and perceiving vs. judging.

As a vivacious “girly girl,” naturally I love chatting and texting with my gal pals on my smart phone and flirting with handsome men at social gatherings.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Daddy checks my cell phone usage, even though I’m 26 years old and pay the bill myself, and spanks me soundly for exceeding my allotted minutes, I’d probably be on the phone 16 hours a day.

And since we became a couple, my ex-fiance kept my innate desire to be “belle of the ball” in check by turning me over his knee when I engaged in excessive conversation with other men at dinner parties.

As a woman, naturally I use my intuition and feelings to make decisions, knowing that I can always rely on Daddy or a boyfriend to correct me if I stray. As my Mama says, “God made men stronger thinkers compared to women for a reason, the same reason He blessed women with soft bottoms and men with firm hands.”

As far as perceiving vs. judging is concerned, as a selfless individual, I refrain from judging others except when it comes to bad haircuts or fashion faux pas. And I advocate looking beyond the plain meaning of a rule to achieve a just result tempered by mercy, especially when I’m trying to talk Daddy or a boyfriend out of spanking me.

Prior to taking the test, my friends told me that it didn’t matter that much if my fiance was shown to be an extrovert or an introvert.

But, as I’m a submissive woman looking to make a lifetime commitment to a dominant man, it’s essential that he show strong preferences for the manly characteristics of sensation, thinking and judging vs. the feminine psychological qualities of intuition, feeling and perceiving.

My fiance's scores were acceptably strong in sensation and judging. (And, FWIW, he showed a slight preference for extroversion.)

But imagine my horror when the test showed him having only a moderate preference for thinking over feeling!

With a lifetime of marital satisfaction at stake, I certainly couldn’t risk getting hitched to a “softy.” With such affinity for “feeling,” he might embarrass me by tearing up at sad scenes in movies or similar unmanly emotional displays.

And if he’s that in touch with his feminine side, for all I know I might surprise him coming home early from a “girls night out” to find him staring at the bathroom mirror dressed in a set of my pink panties, bra and camisole.

I must say that he certainly didn’t “take it like a man” when I took off my engagement ring and told him to hit the road. The way he carried on as I ushered him out the door bawling and blubbering that I had broken his heart. What a crybaby!

My parents were a bit upset when I broke the news, particularly as the wedding was only two days away and they’d already paid for the arrangements. But once I explained to them the importance of the test in predicting psychological compatibility, they understood.

To recover money spent paying for the wedding, Daddy fired the maid and I must work it off spending my weekends for the next six months cleaning my parents’ house. And Daddy says I’m getting spanked at the end of each weekend as punishment for not taking the psychological test before I accepted my ex-fiance's proposal.

If I knew six month’s worth of spankings were in store, I’m not sure I would have made the same decision. What do you think?

Good woman:

First let me say that your comment about possibly catching your fiance wearing your underwear as one of reasons for breaking your engagement is completely unfounded.

Cross-dressing is a perfectly acceptable hobby for the dominant man, as it’s attitude that counts, not choice of underclothes. If adorning himself in pink frillies in the privacy of his home gives a man pleasure, it’s the duty of the wife to support her husband in his choice.

That being said, of course you made the right decision in calling off the wedding. I’d not heard of this test before, but if men of science declare the proper match for an “ENFP submissive woman” is an “E or I + strong preference STJ dominant man,” then it’s folly to do otherwise.

(For you gals who don’t understand the part of the previous sentence that reads like an algebraic equation, get your husbands or boyfriends to translate.)

Besides, my quick internet research on the topic shows that the legendary psychologist Carl Jung had a hand in designing the test and everyone knows he was into spanking.

And for more info about this sort of personality test, here’s the Wikipedia link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myers-Briggs_Type_Indicator

Naughty North Shore Madam Taken Out to the Ballgame. Then Taken to Woodshed.

This story is now included in my latest anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link: The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2

 

"Christian Chicks" Take Note: It's Cool to Submit

This story is now included in my latest anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link: The Best of 1950s Wife

 

May Gay Married Men Live the "1950s Wife" Lifestyle?

A Gentleman writes:

After years of hard work, my company rightly rewarded me with a promotion and healthy raise. The new job requires me and longtime companion, Billy, to move from Miami Beach to company headquarters in Iowa.

While we’re sad to leave the Florida sunshine behind, my increased pay coupled with the lower cost-of-living lets us upgrade from one-bedroom condominium to 5,000-square-foot “McMansion.” Just as important, moving to a sophisticated state such as Iowa gives me and Billy the chance to finally “tie the knot.”

Billy’s never brought in much money from his career as professional body builder. To make up for it, he takes primary housekeeping responsibility.

Though he averages 12 hours a day at the gym, Billy’s cooking and cleaning have heretofore proved acceptable. But, now that we’re getting married, I expect a bit more from Billy than the bare minimum. It’s high time he puts dreams of body-building stardom on the shelf so he can spend the majority of time attending to my needs.

I came across your blog researching vacuum cleaners online, as Billy carelessly broke the old one running it into a set of barbells he left on the living room floor. I must confess the thought of Billy hard at work during the day keeping my mansion immaculately clean and cooking me fancy dinners while being at my beck and call anytime I desire sex at night is most appealing.

But, as a rising corporate star with dreams of CEO-ship dancing in my head, I dare not commit a faux pas in my domestic life.  As your blog is required reading among the smart set, I must ask: Is it acceptable for gay married men to practice the “1950s Wife” lifestyle?

Kind Sir:

First let me congratulate you and Billy on your impending nuptials. If only more states followed the lead of the Hawkeye State, then these United States would be a better place.

Of course it’s perfectly acceptable that you and Billy, now that you’re becoming Mr.-and-Mr., to incorporate 1950s Wife-values into your daily routine.

Having spent so many years in the Florida sun, Billy may chaff at first at being kept in the house most of the day cleaning house, cooking your meals and laundering your clothes. His previous routine of 84 hours a week in the gym should help in the adjustment, as will Iowa’s eight-month winters.

While proper housekeeping is certainly strenuous, it probably doesn’t burn as many calories as pumping iron 12 hours every day. As you don’t want to risk losing your sexual desire for Billy by him getting all flabby with “man boobs” and a big fat gut, you should limit his diet to 1500 calories a day of fruit, nuts and protein shakes.

Allow him one hour out of his 12-hour housekeeping day to devote to push-ups  jumping jacks, “Burpees” and other calisthenics and weightlifting. While he’s working out, you should require Billy to recite phrases to remind him that the purpose of keeping a toned body to please you.

When I do my 15 minutes of eight-pound curls, my husband requires me to recite “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.” I suggest a more gender-appropriate song for Billy such as “I best, I best, I best increase my pecs.”

As far as Billy’s daily costume is concerned, remember that it’s your needs that count, not his fashion sensibility. Whether you prefer him in preppy gear, or leather vest and hot pants with “butt flaps” that unzip, or cross-dressed, he should wear his outfit with pride and not be shy about greeting the mailman, home repair guy and other daily visitors while wearing sexy clothes.

Billy should be made to greet you upon your arrival home each night with a martini in hand and a kiss on the lips.

My Hubby prefers to spend cocktail hour sitting in his easy chair sipping his drink while I sit on the floor massaging his feet, all the while “oohing-and-ahhing” as he recounts his businesses successes that day. You should engage in similar relaxation, perhaps reclining back in your chair while Billy feeds you fat grapes. Once refreshed, you can reciprocate by feeding him your “fat banana.”

When dinnertime comes, have Billy serve you first. Once you’ve tucked in to your steak tartar or roast duck, Billy can sit down to his 400-calorie oatmeal-and-yogurt spread.

While Billy’s busy washing the dishes, you should retire to the living room to review your lecture for Billy and limber up your “spanking arm.”

Whether rules are broken or not, nightly spanking is a necessity in the early months of marriage. Even if Billy isn't silly, pretending that you’re displeased will encourage him to do better. As my husband likes to remind me, the head of the household doesn’t need a specific reason to spank.

Spankings are for my benefit and his pleasure, Hubby says, and I should always remember to be grateful. If I voice the slightest protest about a spanking being unfair, I get spanked harder.

Once you’ve blistered his bottom, Billy should arise from your lap, bow, kiss you softly on the cheek and say “Thank you Daddy for spanking me so hard. I know you do it because you love me and care about how I behave.”

Then you and he may retire to the bedroom for three hours of bed-shaking sex.

Congrats again on getting hitched! If you need my recipe for beer ice cream and fried beef jerky for ‘ours devours for the reception, please write.

Hot off the Presses: "The Best of 1950s Wife"

Critics agree: Marital advice dispensed by 1950s Wife can’t be beat! An internet sensation since 2011, 1950s Wife’s sage advice suggesting spanking, cornertime and other corporal discipline for naughty wives is sure to promote a happy home.

And now you can have your own copy of ten of her best columns for ready read on your Kindle via Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link "The Best of 1950s Wife"

“The Best of 1950s Wife” includes such gems as “Spanking and Soap Paste for the Wife Who Won’t ‘Swallow’,” “Usefulness of ‘Bulls-Eye Spanking Panties’ in Wife Training,” “Are Hippie Husbands Acceptable,” “Silly Wife Spanked for Operation Main Street Stunt” and many other pearls of wisdom.

Don’t delay. Get your copy today. And always remember: You don’t have to live in the 1950s to be a “1950s Wife.”

The Spanking Mother-in-Law and Other Fun Pinterest Pics

Critics agree: My new Pinterest blog "The 1950s Well Spanked Wife" can't be beat. It's the best thing since sliced bread! Maybe even better. Here are a few of my latest "pins."

Husbands take heed! In the early years of marriage, it's best to have mother-in stay over and assume spanking duties when you're away on business trips. Once the wife reaches her 30s, she can be trusted to spend a day or two on her own without slacking on housework or cheating on her diet.

As manly men, 1950s-style husbands are infatuated with technology. My husband's pride-and-joy is his state-of-the-art slide projector. Normally he shows slides from our excursions in the Great Outdoors.

But, when Hubby recently invited the neighbors by to view pics of "color season," instead of photos of fall foliage from our trip to New England, he showed slides of my spanked ass! Boy oh boy, was I embarrassed! But I must admit the "reds," "purples" and "blacks" from the paddle bruises, cane stripes and hand marks make a wonderful palette.

What a smooth-talking man this lucky gal has! My husband doesn't believe in being so effusive in his compliments. A grunt from Hubby at dinner is all I need to reassure me I've prepared an acceptable meal and put a big smile on my face!

For more fun photos and illustrations check out my Pinterest blog "The 1950s Well Spanked Wife'

Don't delay. Start "pinning" today!

"Pinterest": Appropriate Hobby for the Submissive Wife?

Dear 1950s Wife,

For the longest time, my husband wouldn’t buy me a computer tablet because he figured I’d waste time Facebooking, Twittering and watching “I Love Lucy” re-runs on You Tube when I should be cleaning house, cooking dinner and washing his clothes.

But after hearing from other 1950s-style husbands about useful computer applications for increasing housewife productivity, he bought me a computer tablet for my birthday. It’s been so helpful in keeping me on my toes.

For example, with the camera phone function, rather than taking my word for it, Hubby can visually inspect the house in his regular calls home during the workday to make sure on I’m on schedule.

Times before, I’ve been apt to take short cuts in the morning, such as giving the attic windowsills a quick once-over with the feather duster rather than a sound cleaning, in the hopes of freeing up time to watch my favorite soap opera. Then I’d down an afternoon “pick-me-up” of energy drink, three packets of sugar and a diet pill and “power clean” to catch up.

Now that I’m no longer tempted, I make steady progress through the day and give the attic windowsills the attention they deserve. And, by foregoing my afternoon tonic, I’ve gained five pounds in back, which makes Hubby’s spankings hurt less. Plus my breasts are once again full enough to balance the breakfast tray when I serve Hubby his bacon, eggs, coffee and toast in the morning.

They’re other great apps Hubby installed, including streaming music of John Phillips Sousa marching songs that are great for keeping time as I launder and iron, as well as a fabulous “time-and-motion calculator” that specifies the appropriate length for each household task down to the tenth of a second.

By implementing these measures, I’ve freed up seventeen minutes in my day, which affords me the opportunity to resume my cherished hobby of knitting Christmas sweaters for Hubby, Dear Ol’ Dad, uncles, brother-in-laws, nephews and male cousins in the family.

Of course Hubby refuses to allow Facebook, Twitter, You Tube and other time-wasting applications on my tablet. But, as sign of how pleased he is with my housekeeping and curvier figure, he’s decided I may install one recreational computer application on my tablet and expend eight of those extra 17 daily minutes on some “me time.”

After thinking about it, I’m going with Pinterest. All my non-submissive gal pals use it and they’re just a gaga about the neat “pin boards” you can find.

I told Hubby and he says OK as long as I don’t look at anything inappropriate such as boards advocating feminism and other liberal politics. But, as avid readers of your blog, we agree that I should check with you first for recommendations.

Do you know of any Pinterest boards especially appropriate for the submissive wife?

Good woman,

Interesting that you should ask for I just the other day heard word of a fantastic new Pinterest board, "The 1950s Well Spanked Wife" by Claire Colinsgrove.

While my husband normally allows me to use the internet just to post to this blog, in the interest of researching the noble practice of “wife spanking” and other cherished aspects of the 1950s lifestyle, I took a look. Certainly “The 1950s Well Spanked Wife” should be required reading for all submissive wives and dominant husbands, as well as vanilla couples willing to check it out as they certainly could learn a thing or two.

Along with hilarious 1950s-era “spanking cartoons” that celebrate the time when a husband wasn’t afraid to put his naughty wife over his knee and paddle her pert posterior, the board also includes totally awesome so-called “sexist ads” of the 1950s and 60s.

And for you gals whose husbands let you look at racier fare, Mrs. Colinsgrove also has a Tumblr blog "Well Disciplined Wives" The blog consists of far-out photos she’s found online of “ball gags, chastity belts, punishment outfits, restraints, shivery pre-spanking suspense, submissive posturing and all that good stuff for keeping submissive wives.”

Photos are NSFW and posted for artistic purposes only. You must be 18 years old or older to read the blog.