Saturday, June 28, 2008
Necessary Sweat
Here at the Spanko homestead, the summer has suddenly become quite the whirlwind of activity. Some friends of ours have taken an extended European vacation, and Angela volunteered to take care of their pets. They have two of those little hairy creatures that I will occasionally refer to as “mop dogs,” because if you stuck a broomstick up their ass they would function quite nicely as mops.
Now I have offended small dog owners. My apologies.
In any event, those dogs have decided that our house is their house. Not their home, mind you, but their house. They have determined it is their duty to make sure that the house is run according to their wishes. For instance, if someone does not get up at precisely 6 am to let them out for their morning pee, they maniacally run through every room in the house, emitting their characteristic “yip” (it would be misleading to call it a “bark”) until they are attended to. If we attempt to ignore them, they pee at the foot of our bed. Because of their profusion of hair and tiny little legs, after their toilet, one must take a towel and wipe off their hairy little bottoms. Otherwise by noon-time they will smell like a port-a-john that has been fermenting in the sun for several hours.
I could site more examples, except this is not a dog blog.
Moving along, Colette has joined a local recreation fast-pitch softball league, at the urging of her high school coach. My dear daughter wishes to improve her skills, and thus her chances of playing more for her school team next season. Now, Colette never does anything half-way, so she wants to practice during all of her free time. And, of course, she wants to practice with dear, old (with emphasis on old) dad. So, I’ve spent considerable time outside in the heat throwing balls to, catching balls from, and pitching to, my younger daughter.
To increase the exhaustion, the women’s Olympic basketball team is scheduled to play an exhibition game at the university about an hour from our house. They have asked Maribel to be on the team playing against them. Naturally, Maribel is excited and wants to play well, so she has been working out frequently. And, frequently, whom does she want to shoot against? Why, dear, old (with emphasis on the old) dad. So when I’m not playing softball with Colette, I’m playing basketball with Maribel.
My arms and legs are killing me.
I’m hoping that all of this exercise will assist me in losing some of the thirty pounds or so that I have accumulated around my waist in the last few years. Of course, after this kind of activity, treating myself to beer and pizza is probably somewhat counter-productive to weight loss, but it is important to replace all of that energy I just expended, isn’t it? After all, it is for the sake of my children.
And if my children are happy, that is just fine with me.
I do, however, wish that I were in fantastic shape.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
A Warm Butt For a Warm Day
June in the Midwest means that things are growing, and growing fast. If plants don’t grow fast, the warm weather will be gone and they will freeze to death. So the grass is long, the bushes are wild-looking, and the weeds have overtaken any bare patch of land they can find. Midwesterners are proud to say that we grow a fine weed in this part of the country. Not fine weed, mind you, but fine weeds. You can’t smoke them. Some of them you can eat. Some of them will give you a rash.
Last weekend, the weather was very warm and very humid. I was hard at work, cultivating the weeds. I had already saturated two t-shirts with perspiration, and was working through my third. I used to work without a shirt, but Bernie threatened to have me arrested for indecent exposure, and my family strenuously agreed with her. On this day, as I was wilting in the heat, Angela beckoned me to the guest house. When I came in, I saw that she had a nice, tall pitcher of iced tea waiting for me. After downing a refreshing glass, Angela suggested that I use the shower to rinse off.
After a rejuvenating wash, I donned a towel and returned to the kitchen and another glass of iced tea. It was then that I noticed, in a conspicuous spot, lay a paddle. It was sturdy and wooden, in a teardrop shape, sort of like the ones that kids get with the little ball attached to it with a rubber cord, only this paddle was not made for whacking balls but rather for whacking butts.
“Drop the towel, mister!” said Angela with a smile. I returned her smile and obeyed, showing her my still-moist bottom. I grabbed a chair, turned it around, and assumed the classic spanking position. Angela came around and took a moment to admire the view. She took my butt in both of her hands for some pleasant squeezing, then prepared for her prime objective – reddening my rear.
She gave me ten nice, hard, deliberate swats to my right butt cheek, then gave it a squeeze to make sure it was warm enough. She then repeated the process on the left cheek. I thanked her with a kiss, retrieved my towel, downed another iced tea, dressed, and resumed slaving in the heat. As I was going out the door, Angela called after me, “Don’t stay out there for more than a half hour so you don’t overheat.”
Thirty minutes later, I was again drenched in sweat. I returned to the guest house, where Angela was waiting with a fresh pitcher of iced tea and a different paddle, a rectangle-type school or fraternity style board.. This time I didn’t bother to shower, so Angela pulled down my shorts and paddled my sweaty bottom, giving me ten good whacks. I sat down and enjoyed my tea for a few minutes, then stood up for another ten swats. It is interesting how a hot bottom makes one feel cool when one is quite … well … hot. After downing another glass, I presented my derriere for a third set of swats, then once again returned to work.
After another 45 minutes or so of yard work, I was completely spent. I headed back to the guest house to see if Angela had more tea and spanking ready for me. Instead I found her laying, naked, on the sofa. When she heard me come in, she sat up and motioned me to come over, where she again pulled down my shorts. However, there was no spanking this time, but rather we engaged in an activity that can also cause one to become sweaty.
I’ve decided that this will be the way that I handle my yard activities henceforth, with a period of work followed by a period of spanking. The iced tea is welcome, but not strictly required. Of course, on cool weekends, I can always use some warming up as well. Indeed, I do believe that this is a fantastic idea.
Last weekend, the weather was very warm and very humid. I was hard at work, cultivating the weeds. I had already saturated two t-shirts with perspiration, and was working through my third. I used to work without a shirt, but Bernie threatened to have me arrested for indecent exposure, and my family strenuously agreed with her. On this day, as I was wilting in the heat, Angela beckoned me to the guest house. When I came in, I saw that she had a nice, tall pitcher of iced tea waiting for me. After downing a refreshing glass, Angela suggested that I use the shower to rinse off.
After a rejuvenating wash, I donned a towel and returned to the kitchen and another glass of iced tea. It was then that I noticed, in a conspicuous spot, lay a paddle. It was sturdy and wooden, in a teardrop shape, sort of like the ones that kids get with the little ball attached to it with a rubber cord, only this paddle was not made for whacking balls but rather for whacking butts.
“Drop the towel, mister!” said Angela with a smile. I returned her smile and obeyed, showing her my still-moist bottom. I grabbed a chair, turned it around, and assumed the classic spanking position. Angela came around and took a moment to admire the view. She took my butt in both of her hands for some pleasant squeezing, then prepared for her prime objective – reddening my rear.
She gave me ten nice, hard, deliberate swats to my right butt cheek, then gave it a squeeze to make sure it was warm enough. She then repeated the process on the left cheek. I thanked her with a kiss, retrieved my towel, downed another iced tea, dressed, and resumed slaving in the heat. As I was going out the door, Angela called after me, “Don’t stay out there for more than a half hour so you don’t overheat.”
Thirty minutes later, I was again drenched in sweat. I returned to the guest house, where Angela was waiting with a fresh pitcher of iced tea and a different paddle, a rectangle-type school or fraternity style board.. This time I didn’t bother to shower, so Angela pulled down my shorts and paddled my sweaty bottom, giving me ten good whacks. I sat down and enjoyed my tea for a few minutes, then stood up for another ten swats. It is interesting how a hot bottom makes one feel cool when one is quite … well … hot. After downing another glass, I presented my derriere for a third set of swats, then once again returned to work.
After another 45 minutes or so of yard work, I was completely spent. I headed back to the guest house to see if Angela had more tea and spanking ready for me. Instead I found her laying, naked, on the sofa. When she heard me come in, she sat up and motioned me to come over, where she again pulled down my shorts. However, there was no spanking this time, but rather we engaged in an activity that can also cause one to become sweaty.
I’ve decided that this will be the way that I handle my yard activities henceforth, with a period of work followed by a period of spanking. The iced tea is welcome, but not strictly required. Of course, on cool weekends, I can always use some warming up as well. Indeed, I do believe that this is a fantastic idea.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
The State Of The Spanko, Part Two
Maribel graduated from college three weeks ago. When they said her name during the matriculation ceremonies, she received a standing ovation from those in attendance. Afterwards, she informed her mother and me that, after a couple of weeks at home to “chill out,” she would return to school to help Coach E. with the new recruits. Of course, she will not get paid for this work, and she’ll need a place to stay. Mom has generously offered to handle Maribel’s expenses. Maribel has also had some phone calls from professional basketball teams in England and Poland. She and Bernie are reviewing her options, as Maribel has also expressed an interest in a career in coaching or perhaps law enforcement.
Angela continues to struggle with back problems, but the latest drugs seem to be giving her some relief. She has spent some of her convalescence time creating web sites for various churches and other non-profit organizations, as well as some local schools. Sometimes she even gets paid. She informs me that the rest of the time she is thinking up new and creative ways to spank me.
Colette’s cat, Furball, had developed a new way to torment our poor dog, Wacky. Wacky will be laying next to me, and Furball will creep up behind him. When Wacky swishes his tail, Furball will pounce and wrestle with it. Wacky will jump up and bark, but he will not go after any of the cats because he is afraid of getting his nose clawed. The other cat, Princess, just watches and sighs. She is entirely too dignified to engage in such silly behavior. Princess is twenty-one years old. She will never die. Death is beneath her. Typical cat.
I believe that basically covers everything for now. When something more exciting happens at the Spanko residence, I shall be sure to duly report it. If you believe that I have missed anything, I encourage you to leave me a comment and I shall be happy to make something else up to satisfy my omission.
I hope that the remainder of the weekend is fantastic for all of you.
Angela continues to struggle with back problems, but the latest drugs seem to be giving her some relief. She has spent some of her convalescence time creating web sites for various churches and other non-profit organizations, as well as some local schools. Sometimes she even gets paid. She informs me that the rest of the time she is thinking up new and creative ways to spank me.
Colette’s cat, Furball, had developed a new way to torment our poor dog, Wacky. Wacky will be laying next to me, and Furball will creep up behind him. When Wacky swishes his tail, Furball will pounce and wrestle with it. Wacky will jump up and bark, but he will not go after any of the cats because he is afraid of getting his nose clawed. The other cat, Princess, just watches and sighs. She is entirely too dignified to engage in such silly behavior. Princess is twenty-one years old. She will never die. Death is beneath her. Typical cat.
I believe that basically covers everything for now. When something more exciting happens at the Spanko residence, I shall be sure to duly report it. If you believe that I have missed anything, I encourage you to leave me a comment and I shall be happy to make something else up to satisfy my omission.
I hope that the remainder of the weekend is fantastic for all of you.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
State Of The Spanko
I have been somewhat reticent lately in giving you, my faithful readers, a Spanko family update. I spent much of the winter talking about Maribel and her run to basketball greatness. I’ve offered some brief comments, but no proper explanations outside of Maribel. So please allow me to take this time to give you, my faithful readers, a recap that I shall call the State Of The Spanko.
Colette is completing her sophomore year in high school. Since Maribel has been so successful, athletically, and since I am an avid baseball fan and former softball player of some fair talent, Colette decided that she would join her school softball team. Now, my younger daughter has a great many talents, but athletic coordination is not one of them. I feared that her new interest would result mostly in embarrassment, frustration, and tears. I thought that she might spend most of her time viewing the games from her team’s bench. But I kept my worries to myself and supported and encouraged her.
Fortunately, Colette does not enter into any endeavor part way. She immerses herself in it, and tries to learn as much about the activity as possible. Mom and Dad Spanko, Angela and I, worked with her as much as we could, sometimes tossing a ball around in the rain or even snow. The results were rather interesting. Colette proved to be an utterly awful hitter. The girls play fast-pitch, which Mom and Dad have always avoided. Colette usually swung well after the ball reached the catcher’s mitt, and it didn’t seem to matter to her whether or not the ball was over, or even close to, the plate.
In the field, initially, it was difficult find Colette a position. She did not seem to be very adept at fielding ground balls, and had difficulty judging fly balls. She could throw the ball well, just not terribly accurately. However, she was fairly consistent at catching balls thrown directly at her, so she started out as a first baseman, or first base person if you will.
Colette was reasonably competent at first base. She started out having difficulty on low throws, but appeared to be improving. She continued to struggle on ground balls. In addition, first base is a position traditionally given to a person who is one of the better hitters on the team, which was not one of Colette’s specialties.
About a week before the season started, the team’s starting catcher got into some difficulties with her parents (she liked shopping and boys more than grades and homework), and was not allowed to play for a couple of weeks. The coach began auditioning a new catcher, and asked Colette if she wanted a go. So Colette put on the catching armor and got behind the plate. As the story was related to me, the first pitch thrown to her missed her mitt by a few inches and hit her directly in the face. Colette remained in her crouch and barely moved. The coach rushed to make sure my youngest was all right. Colette apparently told her that she barely felt the impact, and thought that using the mask and padding was the best way to stop the ball.
To make a long story short, it turns out that it was nearly impossible to throw a ball past Colette, not matter how far from the plate it was. If runners tried to steal, she made strong, although not always accurate, throws. She used her natural leadership skills help the coach with pitching and fielding strategy. She was not, however, a very good hitter, but catching is frequently a position where hitting is not a priority. Indeed, she looked like a ball player.
Well, it appears that I have used up my allotment of writing time. I shall make an effort to pass along details of the other Spanko family members within the next day or so. For now, you will have to take my word that you will find their stories fantastic.
Colette is completing her sophomore year in high school. Since Maribel has been so successful, athletically, and since I am an avid baseball fan and former softball player of some fair talent, Colette decided that she would join her school softball team. Now, my younger daughter has a great many talents, but athletic coordination is not one of them. I feared that her new interest would result mostly in embarrassment, frustration, and tears. I thought that she might spend most of her time viewing the games from her team’s bench. But I kept my worries to myself and supported and encouraged her.
Fortunately, Colette does not enter into any endeavor part way. She immerses herself in it, and tries to learn as much about the activity as possible. Mom and Dad Spanko, Angela and I, worked with her as much as we could, sometimes tossing a ball around in the rain or even snow. The results were rather interesting. Colette proved to be an utterly awful hitter. The girls play fast-pitch, which Mom and Dad have always avoided. Colette usually swung well after the ball reached the catcher’s mitt, and it didn’t seem to matter to her whether or not the ball was over, or even close to, the plate.
In the field, initially, it was difficult find Colette a position. She did not seem to be very adept at fielding ground balls, and had difficulty judging fly balls. She could throw the ball well, just not terribly accurately. However, she was fairly consistent at catching balls thrown directly at her, so she started out as a first baseman, or first base person if you will.
Colette was reasonably competent at first base. She started out having difficulty on low throws, but appeared to be improving. She continued to struggle on ground balls. In addition, first base is a position traditionally given to a person who is one of the better hitters on the team, which was not one of Colette’s specialties.
About a week before the season started, the team’s starting catcher got into some difficulties with her parents (she liked shopping and boys more than grades and homework), and was not allowed to play for a couple of weeks. The coach began auditioning a new catcher, and asked Colette if she wanted a go. So Colette put on the catching armor and got behind the plate. As the story was related to me, the first pitch thrown to her missed her mitt by a few inches and hit her directly in the face. Colette remained in her crouch and barely moved. The coach rushed to make sure my youngest was all right. Colette apparently told her that she barely felt the impact, and thought that using the mask and padding was the best way to stop the ball.
To make a long story short, it turns out that it was nearly impossible to throw a ball past Colette, not matter how far from the plate it was. If runners tried to steal, she made strong, although not always accurate, throws. She used her natural leadership skills help the coach with pitching and fielding strategy. She was not, however, a very good hitter, but catching is frequently a position where hitting is not a priority. Indeed, she looked like a ball player.
Well, it appears that I have used up my allotment of writing time. I shall make an effort to pass along details of the other Spanko family members within the next day or so. For now, you will have to take my word that you will find their stories fantastic.
