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.


  1. LOL! But a snowblower is such a romantic gift! Neighbors can be the worst!

    1. Glad you liked the story Casey. I thought the cop in the story was particularly impressive with his forensic skills. Perhaps I can pitch the story as basis for the pilot script of "CSI: Suburbia."

  2. God I love her! And he is most definitely a romantic... :) Happy late valentine's day, Claire.