But Honey, I Can Explain! Read online

  In the meantime, something else had changed. Dear Vanessa, who had gotten the whole idiotic scheme rolling, had gone AWOL and begun devoting herself exclusively to her own mini-beauty queen and the new pageant— in faraway Kansas. In desperation, I was forced to crawl on my hands and knees to my best friend, Karen, and beg her for help.

  “I can’t back out, now,” I pleaded. “And I can’t do it alone. I’ve already spent a fortune, and if Emma doesn’t get to go to this damned three-ring circus, she’s going to throw a fit and tell Sam everything. I can’t set up the props for the dance number and keep an eye on her at the same time. And there’s all this other crap I have to do. All you have to do is stay in the room across the hall and take care of Emma while I’m arranging everything.”

  “Oh, all right,” Karen said finally, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. “I know you’re in a pinch, so I’ll do it. On one condition. You have to promise me it’s the last time you let yourself get roped into something this stupid. You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? When Sam does find out?”

  Two years ago, I had blushingly confided my little secret to Karen— that I occasionally paid for some of my worst screw-ups by being spanked. It was hard enough to tell her, but her initial reaction had been even worse. She wasn’t shocked by my admission. She was amused!

  “It’s not all that funny, believe me,” I growled, when she began to giggle.

  “Not for you, maybe,” Karen conceded, trying to get herself under control. “I’m sorry to tell you this, kiddo, but I think it’s perfect.”

  “Perfect!” I shrieked. “What kind of friend are you, anyway?”

  “One who’s known you since the second grade,” she said. “And one who’s watched some of those epic screw-ups in the making. My dad always said what you needed most when you got into those awful scrapes wasn’t someone to bail you out, but someone who cared enough about you to paddle your behind. And now, someone has. Tell Sam my hat’s off to him.”

  I didn’t tell Sam, of course, and I didn’t speak to Karen for three weeks after that, but eventually, I realized she was probably right. And to her everlasting credit, she never mentioned it again, even to Sam, or even on those days when it was obvious that I wasn’t able to sit down comfortably at our weekly lunch date in town.

  * * *

  When the pageant weekend finally arrived, I told Sam yet another big, fat lie––that Karen and Emma and I were going to spend an all-girl weekend at Karen’s mother’s place. Karen had stored the costumes and all the other necessary crap in her garage, so I picked it and her up, and off we went. I felt bad about being away that specific weekend, because Sam and I had met the first time on Valentine’s Day, and we always tried to celebrate in some little way, even if it was just dinner at our local pizza place and a rental movie. Maybe it was some sort of poetic justice that Emma sang “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer” on the entire trip to Atlantic City.

  The drive was miserable, the hotel was gaudy and overheated, and I’m not even going to try to describe the pageant itself, except to say that it was even more demeaning and mean-spirited than I had expected. We had barely checked in when I met this enormously overweight woman in the hallway, with her emaciated five-year-old daughter. The woman had just popped open a huge can of sugar-free Red Bull and poured it into a Little Mermaid sippy cup. The poor kid looked like she was half asleep, so Mom had to hold the cup while she drank.

  “It gives them a little extra pep,” she explained, since I was so obviously a newbie on the pageant circuit. “And makes them more vivacious. You know, that extra little bit of pizzazz the littler ones need to do their best up there on stage. You just have to be sure to get the dietetic kind. Every extra ounce of weight shows up when they’re this small.”

  As I stepped onto the elevator, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the woman lying on a silver platter, like a roasted suckling pig, with sprigs of parsley tucked around her and a can of Red Bull in her mouth instead of an apple. It was a very satisfying image.

  The funny thing was, Emma had an absolute ball. She loved the tacky décor and eating the overpriced junk from the mini-bar. She was delighted when they spray painted her with a fake tan, but then she absolutely insisted on wearing a pair of rolled up jeans under her two-hundred-dollar purple bikini because she felt cold. At this point, I couldn’t have cared less about the rude stares and comments she got. It was kind of cute, and innocent. Karen and I applauded, stomped our feet, and whistled and cheered at the top of our lungs. Emma didn’t care much for the glamour wear competition, though, and she showed her disdain by accessorizing her slinky, gold-sequined cocktail dress with an Elmo pajama top, a hotel pillow case, and her trusty green water pistol. The judges looked a little confused, but I think they may have regarded Emma’s peculiar costume as an attempt at avant-garde.

  Predictably, the worst part of the pageant, for me, anyway, was the so-called mother-daughter skit. Sewing is definitely not my thing, so the bodice on my Queen Mother of Hearts gown was so tight it split down the middle the first time I leaned over. Always the trouper, I finished the stupid skit holding my ravaged top together with both hands, which prevented me from grabbing my skirt when it began to slip down around my knees. I looked like a Renaissance slattern, after a couple of pints of gin.

  And then, after two horrific days, the final judging began. Finally.

  You know how in sappy movies, the very last person you’d expected to win the big race actually wins the big race? Well, folks, I’m here to tell you that it can happen.

  Emma was chosen, or crowned, or anointed—whatever they called it—Little Miss Hearts and Flowers. Excuse me, Grande Supreme Little Miss Hearts and Flowers. At these shows, you see, everybody who enters wins something. Even the kid who comes in dead last gets a dinky trophy or a ruffled ribbon the size of a cabbage. Charitably, you could see this as being sensitive to the kids’ feelings, but it’s done primarily to placate the mommies who’ve spent their last dime buying their way into what’s basically a money pit and a scam. The down side is that nobody but the families ever come to watch the show, but the up side is that every hopeful kid in the place goes home with at least one gaudy “prize.”

  My kid went home with six gaudy prizes. From Little Miss Congeniality, to Most Photogenic, and all the way to Grande Supreme, a sort of all around category that’s apparently roughly the same as a Basset Hound winning Best in Show at the Westminster Kennel Club’s annual extravaganza. She even took home the prize for Most Talented, with her slightly odd but highly original rendition of “Someday, My Prince Will Come.” Even I, the number’s original choreographer, was surprised when Emma chose to sing the song, as well as dance to it, and then invent her own lyrics and dance steps. Something having to do with cowgirl turtles in a spaceship, in a duel to the death with Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Emma walked off the crepe-papered stage with a five-tiered black and gold trophy taller than she is, a handful of gigantic multi-colored ribbons, and an unspeakably hideous, foot-high crown encrusted with enough rhinestones to make even a four-year-old giddy with delight.

  Who could have guessed that the judges would have shown such impeccable taste in their selection?

  And now, all Mama Bear and Baby Bear had to do was pack up and get their asses back home before Papa Bear figured out what was going on.

  The place had emptied out unbelievably fast, but a few disappointed mommies were still milling around, wiping their eyes as they tried to corral their whining kids and herd them down the hallway to the elevators. It seems pageant people aren’t especially good sports about losing, and the prevailing mood in the room at the end of the awards ceremony had been decidedly hostile. I was eager for Emma and I to escape back to our rooms, where Karen was already mostly packed. With any luck, we’d be home before dark.

  I was still cramming our stuff into cardboard boxes, and Emma was still waltzing around the ballroom with her trophy, when the doors to the ballroom opened and Sam walked in.

&
nbsp; He glanced around for a moment or two before he saw me, and then started in my direction with a look on his face that told me there was a storm brewing. I headed for the nearest exit, dragging my screaming kid and her gaudy pageant loot behind me. We had almost reached the relative safety of the elevator when I felt a strong hand grab my elbow. Sam pushed me into the elevator, then swept Emma up into his arms and stepped in after me. Emma had begun wailing in outrage at having her parade rained on, and the heavy makeup was now pouring down her face in rivulets. Several other pageant mothers were already crowded inside, holding on to their own wailing children.

  “What floor?” Sam demanded.

  At this point, Little Miss Hearts and Flowers got seriously annoyed, and promptly hauled off and bopped her father over the head with her Grande Supreme trophy. Two of the mothers shook their heads with disapproval.

  “I don’t care if she did win Grand Supreme Princess,” one of them growled. “What that brat needs is to have her royal little behind blistered—good and hard.” The woman had no way of knowing, of course, that in this royal family, the queen was far and away the more likely candidate to have her behind blistered.

  With the very real possibility of being royally walloped in front of an extremely appreciative audience of vindictive mothers, I decided it probably wasn’t the ideal moment to try explaining to Sam what had brought us to this ridiculous point in our lives.

  “Fourth floor,” I replied meekly. “Room 428.”

  When we reached room 428, Sam deposited me on the bed, and dragged Emma toward the bathroom. He had wrested the crown from her grasp, but she was still kicking, shrieking, and flailing away at him with the humongous plastic trophy, shedding glitter and pink rhinestones all over him and the room.

  “Sam!” I screamed. “You’re not going to spank her!”

  He rolled his eyes. “This one’s going to get some of the crap washed off her face,” he said grimly. “I’ll give you three guesses which one’s going to get the spanking.”

  I didn’t need three guesses. After Emma emerged from the bathroom in her red Elmo pajamas, a shiny faced four-year-old again, Daddy carried her across the hall and left her with Karen, who had made a tactful retreat to her own room. With that done, Daddy returned to our room, pulled Emma’s dimwitted Mommy across his manly knee, and gave Mommy the Grand Supreme spanking she so richly deserved. And he used Little Miss Hearts and Flowers’ very own Barbie hairbrush.

  Yeah, I had it coming. I’m not sure that being spanked into hysterics with a pink plastic hairbrush is the best way to treat temporary insanity, but in my case, it seemed to work wonders. Within seconds, I had admitted fault, blubbered a heartfelt apology to Sam, and promised to explain to Emma her mother’s peculiar behavior just as soon as she was old enough to understand the concepts of jealousy and greed, and about having a pushy, obnoxious, and all-round shitty mother. Sam paused long enough to inform me that I was actually a very good mother, who had gone momentarily berserk. Then he added a few extra swats, for putting myself down. And a couple more for using the word “shitty.”

  I would learn later that Sam had called Karen’s mother to ask me who the hell Mr. Bubbles was, and why he was sending us a bill for $275, for “services rendered.” In the confusion, Karen’s mother forgot the script she’d been given and gave us away. She also apparently told Sam that if he wanted to give Karen a sound spanking, as well, to do it with her blessing. Apparently, my dear friend hadn’t been quite as trustworthy as I thought. Being a gentleman, Sam didn’t take Karen’s mother up on her offer. Instead, he explained that he was adding Karen’s share to my own.

  Sam’s spankings seem to fall into two categories, and the way he describes them is this:

  The ones where he’s trying to simply get a point across.

  B.) The ones he wants to be sure I’ll still remember when I’m old and gray.

  The beauty pageant spanking was of the second variety––unforgettable, with the fact that I was in costume making it even more memorable. In order to get to the area he had in mind, Sam had to toss up my pink velvet skirt and fumble through three layers of crinoline and flounced petticoats. When he finally reached my matching pink satin panties and eliminated the final obstacle, he started whacking away with the Barbie hairbrush.

  I should probably mention here that Sam has never been a recreational spanker. Whenever I find myself across his knee, or bent over a convenient item of furniture, it’s fairly certain that things will not be going well for me in the next few minutes. Oh, there have been instances in the past when I’ve been pleasantly surprised, and when Sam’s bark turned out to be worse than his bite, but this was not one of those occasions. To add to my miseries, the brush was simply not up to the task and broke in two after the first few energetic swats, forcing Sam to use his bare hand, and forcing me, as a concerned Mommy, to wonder where I could find a replacement brush exactly like the one Sam had just broken. I didn’t care to explain how to Emma how her pink Barbie brush had met its end.

  The next problem was noise. While the sound of the Barbie brush had been almost discreet, the sound of a wide male hand landing repeatedly and at full force on bare female flesh makes a lot more noise, and a lot less dignified sound. Like a loud, squishy “splat.” I had endured the Barbie brush with little more than a series of dainty yelps, but Sam’s palm changed everything, and I began howling in earnest. Which was when Sam, thoughtful guy that he is, paused long enough to hand me a pillow. I have spent many unpleasant moments with my teeth clamped on the corner of a pillow, lest our precious children be awakened by their mother yowling at the top of her lungs. The problem with the pillow, of course, is that while it spares me a degree of humiliation, it also allows Sam to spank even harder, and longer, and to seek out and blister every previously unscorched inch. It also gives him an opportunity to pay some extra special attention to the insides of my thighs, and to that exquisitely tender little crease at the base of my scalded behind. Proving once again that while Sam is a very fine carpenter and contractor, he would have made a positively phenomenal Dickensian schoolmaster.

  During all of this, I was trying, without much success, to be brave. I fully understood that I had done a very, very bad thing, and that I deserved every last agonizing whack that Sam was giving me. But being only human, I soon slipped into begging and explaining to him, between howls, that what he was doing hurt quite a lot, and that maybe he should stop. The problem with complaining to the person spanking you that it hurts is that he’s very likely to respond by saying, “You bet your ass, it hurts. It’s damned well supposed to hurt,” or something similar— and then try his level best to make it hurt even more.

  By the time Sam had finished blistering my squirming behind, and doing a very creditable job on the tender backs of my thighs while he was at it, the reigning Little Miss Hearts and Flowers was snuggled up with Aunt Karen, warm and cozy, and fast asleep. I, on the other hand, found it much nicer to sleep on my stomach all night. And every time I reached back to give my throbbing rear a cautious little rub, I was reminded of something else— something I had almost forgotten amidst the pageant chaos. I began calculating how long it would be before the flurry of bills for all of Emma’s pretty new pageant costumes began to arrive in the mailbox.

  Two weeks, at most.

  THE END

  A WORK IN PROGRESS

  "So, what did you do today?" Jeff asked, looking around the studio curiously. "Anything interesting?"

  I had to think for a moment before answering. I had "done," of course, absolutely nothing since he left that morning, other than making a feeble pass at the fridge, feeding the goldfish, and consuming most of a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, but a confession of that nature could only cause trouble. I knew perfectly well that the situation wouldn’t be helped by a smart-ass answer, either. Unfortunately, smart-ass is what I do best, especially when my back is against the wall.

  "Well," I yawned, leering suggestively. "After Antonio Banderas left, I w
as pretty worn out, of course, but I did manage to clean out the fridge."

  Jeff didn’t smile. "That’s it?"

  "Ha!" I cried. "You wouldn’t say that, my dear, if you knew Tony like I do! The man is a sexual dynamo! Insatiable! Now, let’s see what else. Well, I did clean the toilet, but I don’t put that in the interesting column, of course. The fridge is like some alien planet, though. I just never know what I’ll find back in there, mutating into complex new life forms. By the way, a few of the little devils managed to escape, so watch where you walk."

  Jeff leaned against the window frame, shaking his head. He still wasn’t smiling. If he was going to be this grumpy the rest of our lives, I was going to need better material.

  "Cute," he said, his voice cool. "But you know damned well that’s not what I meant. Did you paint today, or not?"

  I let my shoulders slump wearily. "I tried." I made a real effort to look worn out from a day’s creative effort at the easel. "I swear to you, Jeff, I tried my best, but nothing came. Nothing! Besides, you know Jerry Springer? Well, he was discussing this really kinky sex thing where people use vegetables. Eggplants and melons and…. It was absolutely fascinating, trust me! Zucchini, we can all understand, but you simply wouldn’t believe what you can do with a nice, firm butternut squash."

  Jeff tossed his briefcase on the counter. I had definitely lost him. "I thought we’d had this out two weeks ago, Karen," he said. "These excuses are older than I am."

  I stuck my tongue out at him. Okay, it was childish and stupid, but give me a break, here. I was desperate. "Oh, they are not. I make up most of them, you know that." I made a quick stab at changing the subject. "You want dinner? I found a couple of interesting leftovers at the back of the fridge. You get first choice—the furry green one, or the gray lumpy thing with little beady eyes? "