Friday, March 23, 2007
What Makes A Spanko
Let us now return to the question of what makes a spanko.
First, I’d like to excerpt a comment that the famous Bonnie left me. As a note, the Bonnie indicated to me that she does not wish to be famous, so, for the time being, I shall refer to her as the infamous Bonnie. In any event, Bonnie eloquently opined:
Firstly, I find that I enjoy the term “spankoism,” so I shall make use of it for now.
Secondly, I think that this is a common feeling among spankos, and perhaps many non-spankos as well. We are born spankos. We can attempt to ignore that inclination, or we can explore and embrace it.
And, yet, this seems to my imaginary brain to be just a little too simple an explanation. One’s sexual likes and dislikes, I think, involve entirely too many factors to be genetic. Let us start with physical factors.
For simplicity sake, I’d like to present a couple of constants for the following discussion. Firstly, the couple involved in any spankings in this discussions are known to each other, and are on friendly terms. It should not be assumed that two people are spankos. Second, the spanking is consensual. This way we do not have to consider how the scenario of a stranger coming up to you and suddenly beating your ass against your will affects the discussion. We will leave the seeming incongruence of a non-spanko consenting to a spanking for later.
The human tochas is one of the bodies major erogenous zones. Touching a butt, or having it touched, brings most everyone pleasure. So, it stands to reason that a spanking, when given or received as an adult, will bring some pleasure, at least residually. If you gently pat a persons tush, we all find it pleasant. If those pats get a little harder, there might be some mild pain, but, when stopped, the pain will quickly ease and, I believe, leave a pleasant feeling.
Now let’s jump ahead to the extreme, making those pats very, very hard. Those will be painful to almost everyone. But I believe that the residual will still eventually be pleasant. It may just take somewhat longer.
Note that this is not true for other parts of the body. For example, if someone were to smack my knee cap repeatedly and violently, I would not find any pleasure in it at all, even after the passing of considerable time.
So, my first conclusion, which you may or may not agree with, is that, everything else being equal, there is something that everyone would find pleasurable in a spanking.
Please bear with me as I am now about to contradict myself.
No one likes physical pain. We reflexively strive to avoid pain. The more the pain, the more we wish to avoid it. Unless one has a total loss of feeling, known but rarely occurring, I know of no one who would be able to rest their hand on a red-hot stove burner without quickly pulling it away, except perhaps for G. Gordon Liddy. Spankings hurt. Some can be considerably painful, such as having ones exposed bottom struck hard and repeatedly with a belt or paddle.
So, all things again being equal, conclusion number two is that everyone dislikes pain.
Now you see the contradiction. If spankings are painful, how can anyone find any pleasure in them? But if there are some aspects to spanking that are pleasant, how can anyone dislike them? More to the point, why do some of us like spanking, nay even actively seek them out, while others wish to avoid them completely and totally.
Since this discussion is currently centering on only the physical, not emotional, aspect of spanking, the answer is quite simple.
Some of us, those of us who proudly call ourselves spankos, choose to disregard the pain. This would be true of both those on the giving and receiving end of the spanking.
Now, you certainly cannot ignore the emotional aspect of spanking. Those are probably more powerful than the physical aspect. But this is a multi-faceted intellectual discussion and this is just the first facet.
I believe that this can help those of you with so-called “vanilla,” or non-spanko partners, become more amenable to spanking, especially if you are asking them to spank you. Their first concern is almost certainly going to be that they do not wish to inflict pain on you. If you tell them that it really doesn’t hurt, you are being disingenuous. Of course a spanking hurts. But if you say that you have chosen to look past the pain to the subsequent pleasure, your partner may become less squeamish.
At this point, my typing fingers are tiring. So I shall pause to ponder the emotional aspect of spanking before continuing the discussion.
What we have so far, however, does raise a couple of interesting questions.
1. Why do we choose to look past the pain? Is this the part we are born with?
2. Or is there something more? Is the choice conscious, based primarily on life experiences?
Is it possible that we are all, at least to some extent, spankos?
Everyone a spanko? Wouldn’t that be fantastic?
First, I’d like to excerpt a comment that the famous Bonnie left me. As a note, the Bonnie indicated to me that she does not wish to be famous, so, for the time being, I shall refer to her as the infamous Bonnie. In any event, Bonnie eloquently opined:
“I believe there is a inborn component. I suspect it's more an inclination than
a deterministic destiny. To me, spankoism is a akin to a personality trait, like
adaptability, for example. It can be developed to a certain degree, but for the
most part, we possess what is granted to us.”
Firstly, I find that I enjoy the term “spankoism,” so I shall make use of it for now.
Secondly, I think that this is a common feeling among spankos, and perhaps many non-spankos as well. We are born spankos. We can attempt to ignore that inclination, or we can explore and embrace it.
And, yet, this seems to my imaginary brain to be just a little too simple an explanation. One’s sexual likes and dislikes, I think, involve entirely too many factors to be genetic. Let us start with physical factors.
For simplicity sake, I’d like to present a couple of constants for the following discussion. Firstly, the couple involved in any spankings in this discussions are known to each other, and are on friendly terms. It should not be assumed that two people are spankos. Second, the spanking is consensual. This way we do not have to consider how the scenario of a stranger coming up to you and suddenly beating your ass against your will affects the discussion. We will leave the seeming incongruence of a non-spanko consenting to a spanking for later.
The human tochas is one of the bodies major erogenous zones. Touching a butt, or having it touched, brings most everyone pleasure. So, it stands to reason that a spanking, when given or received as an adult, will bring some pleasure, at least residually. If you gently pat a persons tush, we all find it pleasant. If those pats get a little harder, there might be some mild pain, but, when stopped, the pain will quickly ease and, I believe, leave a pleasant feeling.
Now let’s jump ahead to the extreme, making those pats very, very hard. Those will be painful to almost everyone. But I believe that the residual will still eventually be pleasant. It may just take somewhat longer.
Note that this is not true for other parts of the body. For example, if someone were to smack my knee cap repeatedly and violently, I would not find any pleasure in it at all, even after the passing of considerable time.
So, my first conclusion, which you may or may not agree with, is that, everything else being equal, there is something that everyone would find pleasurable in a spanking.
Please bear with me as I am now about to contradict myself.
No one likes physical pain. We reflexively strive to avoid pain. The more the pain, the more we wish to avoid it. Unless one has a total loss of feeling, known but rarely occurring, I know of no one who would be able to rest their hand on a red-hot stove burner without quickly pulling it away, except perhaps for G. Gordon Liddy. Spankings hurt. Some can be considerably painful, such as having ones exposed bottom struck hard and repeatedly with a belt or paddle.
So, all things again being equal, conclusion number two is that everyone dislikes pain.
Now you see the contradiction. If spankings are painful, how can anyone find any pleasure in them? But if there are some aspects to spanking that are pleasant, how can anyone dislike them? More to the point, why do some of us like spanking, nay even actively seek them out, while others wish to avoid them completely and totally.
Since this discussion is currently centering on only the physical, not emotional, aspect of spanking, the answer is quite simple.
Some of us, those of us who proudly call ourselves spankos, choose to disregard the pain. This would be true of both those on the giving and receiving end of the spanking.
Now, you certainly cannot ignore the emotional aspect of spanking. Those are probably more powerful than the physical aspect. But this is a multi-faceted intellectual discussion and this is just the first facet.
I believe that this can help those of you with so-called “vanilla,” or non-spanko partners, become more amenable to spanking, especially if you are asking them to spank you. Their first concern is almost certainly going to be that they do not wish to inflict pain on you. If you tell them that it really doesn’t hurt, you are being disingenuous. Of course a spanking hurts. But if you say that you have chosen to look past the pain to the subsequent pleasure, your partner may become less squeamish.
At this point, my typing fingers are tiring. So I shall pause to ponder the emotional aspect of spanking before continuing the discussion.
What we have so far, however, does raise a couple of interesting questions.
1. Why do we choose to look past the pain? Is this the part we are born with?
2. Or is there something more? Is the choice conscious, based primarily on life experiences?
Is it possible that we are all, at least to some extent, spankos?
Everyone a spanko? Wouldn’t that be fantastic?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Franks Asks "Why?"
“Young Lady, do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, sir. I broke the rules.”
“And do you know what happens to people here who break the rules?”
“They get punished, sir.”
“And how do they get punished?”
“They get a spanking.”
“Correct!” He paused. “And, young lady, how exactly are they punished?”
She swallowed hard. “They have to take their pants down and get spanked with the paddle on their bare bottoms, sir.”
“That’s right.” He stood up and took the paddle down from where it was hanging on the wall. “Your behavior lately has been disgraceful. You have been utterly irresponsible and have acted like the rules apply to everyone else except you. For that, you are going to be paddled especially severely.”
He walked around the desk to where his charge was seated. “And,” he said, “you will be naked while you are punished.”
She swallowed hard again and shivered.
“Now, young lady, stand up and remove your clothes. And then turn around and bend over that chair, and get ready for a good, hard, long paddling.”
Now that I have your attention, I shall leave the remaining details of this little snippet to your undoubtedly fruitful imagination. Feel free to write your own story for your own blog around it. After all, I cannot claim copyright to it since I don’t exist.
But while you are here, perhaps you can join me in doing a bit of pondering. Last weekend, the famous Bonnie, author of My Bottom Smarts, posed the following dilemma that she received from one of her loyal readers:
I've been married for eleven years to a wonderful, loving man. He is completely dedicated to our son and to me. He has a good job and no real vices. My only complaint is that he has zero interest in spanking me. He claims that's "just not us." I feel trapped between my love for my husband and the kink that has always lived within me.
Thinking about this, I began to, well, ponder. During my pondering, several questions entered my imaginary brain:
- What would I do if I had not have married a spanko wife?
- Why do we spankos often feel that we are somewhat “weird” or even “sick?”
- How does our “spanko-ness” define the who we are? How does it affect the rest of our lives?
- Finally, why are we spankos?
It is the last of these questions that I shall begin to address tonight. Although I’m afraid that I may only pose more questions than I answer.
I suppose to begin to explore the question of what makes a spanko, one must start in one’s youth. For instance, I first discovered a curious stirring when I saw a girl in my neighborhood, whom I did not know, spanked by her mother. I was perhaps twelve years of age. But what was it that made this particularly spanking memorable? I never enjoyed being spanked by my parents, or on the couple of occasions when I was paddled at school. I enjoyed knowing that my siblings were being spanked because it meant that, at that time, I was a “better” child in my parents eyes than they were. I did not, however, wish to witness those spankings. Further, we were never spanked on the bare bottom, or with implements.
So why was I so curious? Yes, it was a girl being spanked, but she was about the same age as my younger sister. The mother was attractive, but at the age of twelve, I was not interested in “old” women, which was anyone high-school age and up. Was it the approach of puberty? Or was it, as a number of bloggers have postulated, something that I was born with? Or, is there some combination of nature and nurture, i.e. both a biological and environmental factor, that causes us to manifest ourselves as spankos? It would have been interesting to have been with one of my friends, or perhaps several, while witnessing the afore-mentioned spanking, and to somehow be able to learn if they had grown up to be spankos. But, alas, I was alone.
Still more questions assault me. If I had have been spanked more frequently as a child, would I still be a spanko. My childhood spankings ended when I was perhaps ten. Had I been spanked when I was older, would I still be a spanko? If my parents had spanked me with a paddle or a belt, perhaps on my bare bottom, would I still be a spanko? Would I be more of a spanko?
Tomorrow, I shall attempt to offer my own personal analysis to the question of what exactly it is that makes a spanko a spanko. I still fear that you shall find my explanation to be lacking, because I expect that I will agree with you. But, at least, it will give you something with which to ponder.
I shall leave you with one final question: Is pondering fantastic?
Saturday, March 17, 2007
On Getting And Giving
Some time ago I read an entry in a blog of a young lady who had asked for, and then received, some cash donations so that she could maintain her current lifestyle, mainly that of not living under an overpass and not starving. 
This seemed like such a good concept to me that I asked for donations to the Frank Spanko Retirement Fund so that I may maintain a preferred lifestyle, namely that of lavish living on a large estate in a comfortable climate.
Unfortunately, no one has chosen to send me any money. Perhaps asking for minimum donations of $10,000 was a bit much.
I have received one gift, however. One kind soul was generous enough to send a package of dung. Now, this was not the fetid, steaming, squishy type of dung. It was clear that this person was one of class. The dung had been dried, hardened, and cut into cute little animal shapes. Were it not for the labeling on the packaging, they might even have been mistaken for cookies, rather than healthy nutrients for plants.
They did, though, taste like shit.
Since interest in the Frank Spanko Retirement Fund appears to be slight, if you are so inclined, perhaps you could direct your generosity towards more helpful causes. At the risk of sounding like a shill, I can recommend one such organization. It is called NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. It is a grassroots organization the provides support, education, and advocacy for those with serious mental illnesses and their family and friends. To learn more about this fine organization, please see their web site at www.nami.org. You may donate online there, or you may mail your donation to:
NAMI
Donor Services
P.O. Box 630577
Baltimore, MD 21263-0577
If NAMI is not your cup of tea, there are many fine groups that always need your help. If you do not prefer to donate money, please consider donating your time. One thing that I have learned over the years is that, even for an imaginary spanko, helping people is fantastic.
This seemed like such a good concept to me that I asked for donations to the Frank Spanko Retirement Fund so that I may maintain a preferred lifestyle, namely that of lavish living on a large estate in a comfortable climate.Unfortunately, no one has chosen to send me any money. Perhaps asking for minimum donations of $10,000 was a bit much.
I have received one gift, however. One kind soul was generous enough to send a package of dung. Now, this was not the fetid, steaming, squishy type of dung. It was clear that this person was one of class. The dung had been dried, hardened, and cut into cute little animal shapes. Were it not for the labeling on the packaging, they might even have been mistaken for cookies, rather than healthy nutrients for plants.
They did, though, taste like shit.
Since interest in the Frank Spanko Retirement Fund appears to be slight, if you are so inclined, perhaps you could direct your generosity towards more helpful causes. At the risk of sounding like a shill, I can recommend one such organization. It is called NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. It is a grassroots organization the provides support, education, and advocacy for those with serious mental illnesses and their family and friends. To learn more about this fine organization, please see their web site at www.nami.org. You may donate online there, or you may mail your donation to:
NAMI
Donor Services
P.O. Box 630577
Baltimore, MD 21263-0577
If NAMI is not your cup of tea, there are many fine groups that always need your help. If you do not prefer to donate money, please consider donating your time. One thing that I have learned over the years is that, even for an imaginary spanko, helping people is fantastic.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Dance Ends Early
It is not Sunday morning.
Yes, that is perhaps the most obvious statement that you’ve heard on this fine day. Yet I say this for a reason. As you remember, I had promised an update on the results of Maribel’s basketball game on the Sabbath morn. As you can clearly see, I did not provide that update. I shall therefore, at this time, attempt to provide the promised update.
So that I do not keep you in suspense, I will first offer the results. On Saturday, Maribel and her mates prevailed again, in dominant fashion, winning 70 – 38. After a rest day Sunday, they were unable to continue their season, losing 80 – 77 in a terrific game.
In the first game, their strategy was to tire their opponents out by pounding the ball inside to the mighty Maribel and let her show her stuff. She had 18 first half points, including 8 for 8 from the free-throw line. In the second half, they took their time, protected their lead, and continued to feed my daughter, who could choose to shoot for pass back out for a jump shot should the opponent collapse on her. She only had 6 points in the second half, but she had 6 assists and was able to rest for the last 8 minutes as her team’s lead was insurmountable. It turned out that the rest was needed.
On Monday, they played a team whose center was their team leader. Now, Maribel is seventy-three inches tall (that is 6’ 1” for those of you who are bad at math, or about 1.8 meters for those of you in Europe or Canada). She takes her basketball seriously, and works out regularly and strenuously. She plays center excellently. Her opposing center was, as the late, great Al Maguire might say, was an aircraft carrier. She was six foot six, easily two hundred twenty pounds, and very strong and graceful. Her nickname was Lady Shaq. Maribel was quicker than Lady Shaq, but was not as strong, so her strategy was to play her away from the basket.
Maribel’s strategy worked excellently. Lady Shaq was reluctant to come out too far, and Maribel has a sweet twelve foot jump shot. If LS tried to guard the jump shot, Maribel drove past her for a layup. The problem was that LS was equally effective scoring over Maribel. Maribel tried everything, defensively, that she knew, but was unable to find a way to slow the big lady.
As the game went on, it became more intense, and the two centers played each other harder and harder. At one point, they both grabbed a rebound at the same time and wrestled so hard for the ball that both players ended up on the floor, still fighting for possession. When the whistle blew, they both sprung to their feet, glared at each other, and had words. The officials and their teammates quickly moved to separate them.
Maribel finished with 30 points (a career high), 14 rebounds, and fouled out with 59 seconds to go. When she left the game, all of the people watching gave her a standing ovation as she limped to the bench. Her shoulders, feet, and hands were quite sore after the game. She also had a nasty scratch across one side of her face. Lady Shaq had 27 points, 19 rebounds, and 7 blocked shots. When the game ended, she collapsed on the floor in complete exhaustion. In a show of great sportsmanship and respect, Maribel was the first person to reach her, helped her up, and gave her a hug. They have since exchanged emails, crediting each other for bring out the best in the other person.
Since the season is now over, and her school is on spring break, Maribel came home with us. We were all so tired from all of the excitement, there was very little talking on the return drive. When we arrived home Tuesday, Maribel went to bed and, I believe, that she just arose perhaps an hour ago. She had left everything she had on the court on Monday. Despite his disappointment, her father was very proud of his daughter, as was her entire family.
So now that basketball is over, life at the Spanko household will return to normal, if there is such a thing. I will return to work, Maribel will soon return to school, Angela will return to rehabilitating her sore back, the flowers will bloom, the birds will sing, and all will be right with the world. Perhaps there might even be a spanking or two exchanged between Angela and I. Things will, once again, be fantastic.
Yes, that is perhaps the most obvious statement that you’ve heard on this fine day. Yet I say this for a reason. As you remember, I had promised an update on the results of Maribel’s basketball game on the Sabbath morn. As you can clearly see, I did not provide that update. I shall therefore, at this time, attempt to provide the promised update.
So that I do not keep you in suspense, I will first offer the results. On Saturday, Maribel and her mates prevailed again, in dominant fashion, winning 70 – 38. After a rest day Sunday, they were unable to continue their season, losing 80 – 77 in a terrific game.
In the first game, their strategy was to tire their opponents out by pounding the ball inside to the mighty Maribel and let her show her stuff. She had 18 first half points, including 8 for 8 from the free-throw line. In the second half, they took their time, protected their lead, and continued to feed my daughter, who could choose to shoot for pass back out for a jump shot should the opponent collapse on her. She only had 6 points in the second half, but she had 6 assists and was able to rest for the last 8 minutes as her team’s lead was insurmountable. It turned out that the rest was needed.
On Monday, they played a team whose center was their team leader. Now, Maribel is seventy-three inches tall (that is 6’ 1” for those of you who are bad at math, or about 1.8 meters for those of you in Europe or Canada). She takes her basketball seriously, and works out regularly and strenuously. She plays center excellently. Her opposing center was, as the late, great Al Maguire might say, was an aircraft carrier. She was six foot six, easily two hundred twenty pounds, and very strong and graceful. Her nickname was Lady Shaq. Maribel was quicker than Lady Shaq, but was not as strong, so her strategy was to play her away from the basket.
Maribel’s strategy worked excellently. Lady Shaq was reluctant to come out too far, and Maribel has a sweet twelve foot jump shot. If LS tried to guard the jump shot, Maribel drove past her for a layup. The problem was that LS was equally effective scoring over Maribel. Maribel tried everything, defensively, that she knew, but was unable to find a way to slow the big lady.
As the game went on, it became more intense, and the two centers played each other harder and harder. At one point, they both grabbed a rebound at the same time and wrestled so hard for the ball that both players ended up on the floor, still fighting for possession. When the whistle blew, they both sprung to their feet, glared at each other, and had words. The officials and their teammates quickly moved to separate them.
Maribel finished with 30 points (a career high), 14 rebounds, and fouled out with 59 seconds to go. When she left the game, all of the people watching gave her a standing ovation as she limped to the bench. Her shoulders, feet, and hands were quite sore after the game. She also had a nasty scratch across one side of her face. Lady Shaq had 27 points, 19 rebounds, and 7 blocked shots. When the game ended, she collapsed on the floor in complete exhaustion. In a show of great sportsmanship and respect, Maribel was the first person to reach her, helped her up, and gave her a hug. They have since exchanged emails, crediting each other for bring out the best in the other person.
Since the season is now over, and her school is on spring break, Maribel came home with us. We were all so tired from all of the excitement, there was very little talking on the return drive. When we arrived home Tuesday, Maribel went to bed and, I believe, that she just arose perhaps an hour ago. She had left everything she had on the court on Monday. Despite his disappointment, her father was very proud of his daughter, as was her entire family.
So now that basketball is over, life at the Spanko household will return to normal, if there is such a thing. I will return to work, Maribel will soon return to school, Angela will return to rehabilitating her sore back, the flowers will bloom, the birds will sing, and all will be right with the world. Perhaps there might even be a spanking or two exchanged between Angela and I. Things will, once again, be fantastic.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Basketball Update
Here is the story, as reported by the IP (Imaginary Press), on Maribel’s basketball game Friday night:
"Maribel Spakowiak played the game of her life Friday night, scoring 26 points, hauling in 15 rebounds, dishing out 7 assists, and blocking 5 shots, as her school won their NCAA Division II first round game, 86 – 70.
"Spakowiak dominated the low post, scoring on a variety of interior shots and demanding the ball every time down the floor. She was also 9 for 10 from the free throw line.
"Spakowiak’s school scored the first eight points of the game and never relinquished the lead. They led 40 – 35 at the half, and pulled away in the second half , at one point leading by 24 points. They also got a fantastic effort from Bailey Sommerset, the wily point guard who had 16 points, twelve assist, and five steals.
"The highlight of the game was early in the second half when Spakowiak blocked her opponent’s shot to Sommerset, who drove the ball down court and then dished back to Spakowiak for a layup."
Their second round game is this evening. I will try to deliver the highlights Sunday morning.
I’m so excited!Friday, March 09, 2007
The Dancing Spankos
The sands of time seem to be falling faster than I can catch them. It seems that a full week has gone by without my adding to my little piece of the internet. During that time, much has taken place in the Spakowiak residence.
First of all, Maribel’s college basketball team finished second in her conference tournament. As a result, her team received an “at large” bid to the NCAA Division II tournament. Since the Division I tournament is often called “the big dance,” when Maribel called with the news, I referred to her division’s championship as “the little dance.” Maribel promptly informed me that “the little dance” was reserved for the really small schools, like those classified as NCAA Division III, NAIA, etc. Their tournament, she told me, should be called the “not-quite-as-big dance.” For that, I stand corrected.
Now, the difficult thing about the “not-quite-as-big dance” is that, rather than playing two rounds per week, they play the first three rounds in four days. The first round is today, the second is tomorrow, and the third is Monday. The games are played at “campus sites,” which are the home courts for the top eight seeded teams. Maribel’s team was seeded ninth, so she has to travel. We did not know this until last Monday, so since then we have been scrambling to make arrangements to be there to watch her.
Secondly, Angela’s back problems have become worse again. She’s informed her employer that she will be taking a leave of absence until her back improves. Since her back pain has made it difficult for her to walk, she’s been staying mostly in bed, so when she needs anything, your’s truly gets summoned to fetch. I do this gladly, however when she wishes to summon me, she bellows “FRAN-CIS!” repeatedly until I respond. As I work from home, this can be problematic when I happen to be on the telephone on a business call.
I was afraid that Angela would have to miss Maribel’s tournament games, but my darling wife informed me that she would be there even if it meant perching her casket at courtside. Since I didn’t care for that extreme, I rented a van and a wheelchair so that she would be more comfortable.
So that we could get an early start, Angela’s best friend, Bernie, stayed at our place last (Thursday) night, since she shall be accompanying us. Being an athlete and a police woman, Bernie is in terrific physical shape and is well capable of assisting my ailing wife. So Bernie is on Angela duty, I am on driving duty, and Colette is on direction duty, which she is very good at.
So it is likely that, as you read this, we will either be waiting for Maribel’s second game, or, although the event is likely, returning home lamenting a first round loss. All of this activity has left me completely exhausted and utterly unspanked. More’s the pity. But the excitement of the possibility that my eldest daughter can be a champion has me practically giddy. At least Maribel gets to work off her nervous energy on the basketball court. I have just sit and watch. And cheer like a maniac. It should be a fantastic game.
First of all, Maribel’s college basketball team finished second in her conference tournament. As a result, her team received an “at large” bid to the NCAA Division II tournament. Since the Division I tournament is often called “the big dance,” when Maribel called with the news, I referred to her division’s championship as “the little dance.” Maribel promptly informed me that “the little dance” was reserved for the really small schools, like those classified as NCAA Division III, NAIA, etc. Their tournament, she told me, should be called the “not-quite-as-big dance.” For that, I stand corrected.Now, the difficult thing about the “not-quite-as-big dance” is that, rather than playing two rounds per week, they play the first three rounds in four days. The first round is today, the second is tomorrow, and the third is Monday. The games are played at “campus sites,” which are the home courts for the top eight seeded teams. Maribel’s team was seeded ninth, so she has to travel. We did not know this until last Monday, so since then we have been scrambling to make arrangements to be there to watch her.
Secondly, Angela’s back problems have become worse again. She’s informed her employer that she will be taking a leave of absence until her back improves. Since her back pain has made it difficult for her to walk, she’s been staying mostly in bed, so when she needs anything, your’s truly gets summoned to fetch. I do this gladly, however when she wishes to summon me, she bellows “FRAN-CIS!” repeatedly until I respond. As I work from home, this can be problematic when I happen to be on the telephone on a business call.
I was afraid that Angela would have to miss Maribel’s tournament games, but my darling wife informed me that she would be there even if it meant perching her casket at courtside. Since I didn’t care for that extreme, I rented a van and a wheelchair so that she would be more comfortable.
So that we could get an early start, Angela’s best friend, Bernie, stayed at our place last (Thursday) night, since she shall be accompanying us. Being an athlete and a police woman, Bernie is in terrific physical shape and is well capable of assisting my ailing wife. So Bernie is on Angela duty, I am on driving duty, and Colette is on direction duty, which she is very good at.
So it is likely that, as you read this, we will either be waiting for Maribel’s second game, or, although the event is likely, returning home lamenting a first round loss. All of this activity has left me completely exhausted and utterly unspanked. More’s the pity. But the excitement of the possibility that my eldest daughter can be a champion has me practically giddy. At least Maribel gets to work off her nervous energy on the basketball court. I have just sit and watch. And cheer like a maniac. It should be a fantastic game.
Friday, March 02, 2007
A Smoking Spanko?
Being the man of the house (actually the only man in the house, unless you count the dog, which I don’t), one of my traditional tasks is to take out the garbage. That involves dumping the litter boxes, gathering the recycling, and emptying the waste baskets. This is, by family decree, the only time that I am allowed to, without express written permission from the commissioner or his representative, enter the bedroom of my youngest daughter.
I am not, by nature a snoop. If my children are going to try to hide something from their parents, they’re still dumb enough to find a way to give themselves away. I don’t need to dig through their undies drawer. However, to avoid even the smallest chance of conflict, I usually deal with the waste baskets whilst Colette is at school, as I usually work from home.
This past week, while doing my garbage duty, I chanced to glimpse something disturbing in Colette’s trash. I investigated further and discovered an empty, crumpled package of cigarettes.
Now, I do not smoke, nor does my wife. I may not be militant about it, but I find the habit filthy and disgusting. I also do not know why anyone would have any desire to suck burning, poisonous ash into one’s lungs. There is enough pollutant in our air without intentionally inhaling more crud. As such, I am adamant that my children will not smoke.
Such was my concern that, rather than awaiting Angela’s return from work, I decided to confront Colette as soon as she returned from school. As soon as she walked into the house and divested herself of her book bag, I addressed her.
“Young lady,” I began, “I found an empty package of cigarettes in your bedroom waste basket today.”
“I know,” she responded, nonchalantly. This rattled me somewhat, as I expected a much more confrontational rejoinder.
“Colette, I will not have my children smoking! It is a filthy, disgusting…….”
“Daddy, I don’t smoke. Yuck!”
“Then, why exactly, was there an empty package of cigarettes in your waste basket?”
“Because I was using them on my plants.”
I had not anticipated this. What good would a cigarette do for a plant? Was she trying to kill it from lung cancer? Make it’s leaves yellow and stinky? I posed this question to my youngest.
Her response: “One of the TAs at school (Teaching Assistant for those of you without children) told me that, if you soak cigarettes in water and then spray that water on plants, it will kill the bugs on them.”
“Dear, that is preposterous,” I stated.
“No it’s not. I looked it up on the internet to make sure.”
Skeptical, I insisted that she show me this particular internet verification. Sure enough, she showed me several gardening web sites that mentioned just such a trick. However, there was still a crucial question that needed to be addressed.
“OK, so, since you are not yet eighteen years of age, where did you get a package of cigarettes?”
“Maribel bought them for me when she was home over Christmas.”
“Maribel bought you cigarettes?”
“Well, yeah. I knew that you wouldn’t buy them. When I showed her that stuff on the internet, she had no problem with it.”
Once again, my family was conspiring to send their father to an early grave. I explained to Colette that if she was going to bring substances like tobacco into the house in the future, to please discuss it with one of her parents first, and then I dismissed her.
When Angela arrived home, I asked her if she knew about Colette’s choice of pesticides. “Oh, yes,” she responded. “She told me about it a few weeks ago. I told her that she didn’t need them because she didn’t have bugs on her plants, but she wanted them just in case. Didn’t I mention it to you?”
I assured her that she hadn’t, then I excused myself so that I could be alone in the guest house, where I played some music quite loudly, opened myself one of my crafted beers, and spent a few minutes trying to convince myself that I did not need to pound my head against a rock.
So now the question becomes, should I spank Angela for her omission, or should she spank me for doubting the morality of my children? I shall spend some time pondering it. In the meantime, I am truly grateful that my daughters do not smoke. That is something that definitely would not be fantastic.
I am not, by nature a snoop. If my children are going to try to hide something from their parents, they’re still dumb enough to find a way to give themselves away. I don’t need to dig through their undies drawer. However, to avoid even the smallest chance of conflict, I usually deal with the waste baskets whilst Colette is at school, as I usually work from home.
This past week, while doing my garbage duty, I chanced to glimpse something disturbing in Colette’s trash. I investigated further and discovered an empty, crumpled package of cigarettes.
Now, I do not smoke, nor does my wife. I may not be militant about it, but I find the habit filthy and disgusting. I also do not know why anyone would have any desire to suck burning, poisonous ash into one’s lungs. There is enough pollutant in our air without intentionally inhaling more crud. As such, I am adamant that my children will not smoke.
Such was my concern that, rather than awaiting Angela’s return from work, I decided to confront Colette as soon as she returned from school. As soon as she walked into the house and divested herself of her book bag, I addressed her.
“Young lady,” I began, “I found an empty package of cigarettes in your bedroom waste basket today.”
“I know,” she responded, nonchalantly. This rattled me somewhat, as I expected a much more confrontational rejoinder.
“Colette, I will not have my children smoking! It is a filthy, disgusting…….”
“Daddy, I don’t smoke. Yuck!”
“Then, why exactly, was there an empty package of cigarettes in your waste basket?”
“Because I was using them on my plants.”
I had not anticipated this. What good would a cigarette do for a plant? Was she trying to kill it from lung cancer? Make it’s leaves yellow and stinky? I posed this question to my youngest.
Her response: “One of the TAs at school (Teaching Assistant for those of you without children) told me that, if you soak cigarettes in water and then spray that water on plants, it will kill the bugs on them.”
“Dear, that is preposterous,” I stated.
“No it’s not. I looked it up on the internet to make sure.”
Skeptical, I insisted that she show me this particular internet verification. Sure enough, she showed me several gardening web sites that mentioned just such a trick. However, there was still a crucial question that needed to be addressed.
“OK, so, since you are not yet eighteen years of age, where did you get a package of cigarettes?”
“Maribel bought them for me when she was home over Christmas.”
“Maribel bought you cigarettes?”
“Well, yeah. I knew that you wouldn’t buy them. When I showed her that stuff on the internet, she had no problem with it.”
Once again, my family was conspiring to send their father to an early grave. I explained to Colette that if she was going to bring substances like tobacco into the house in the future, to please discuss it with one of her parents first, and then I dismissed her.
When Angela arrived home, I asked her if she knew about Colette’s choice of pesticides. “Oh, yes,” she responded. “She told me about it a few weeks ago. I told her that she didn’t need them because she didn’t have bugs on her plants, but she wanted them just in case. Didn’t I mention it to you?”
I assured her that she hadn’t, then I excused myself so that I could be alone in the guest house, where I played some music quite loudly, opened myself one of my crafted beers, and spent a few minutes trying to convince myself that I did not need to pound my head against a rock.
So now the question becomes, should I spank Angela for her omission, or should she spank me for doubting the morality of my children? I shall spend some time pondering it. In the meantime, I am truly grateful that my daughters do not smoke. That is something that definitely would not be fantastic.
