Don't Make Us Crazy

Let's go over the rules again, I say. Briefly. There is a point, I promise :).

1. Take care of myself. Do not endanger life, limb, or health.
2. Ask permission to orgasm. Only orgasm if permission is granted. If permission is not granted... suffer.
3. No panties in bed.
4. Keep a hairbrush in the car at all times.
5. Take multivitamin every day.
6. After the princess is asleep (and we're alone), take off clothes, kneel in front of Chris, and ask him if there is anything I can do for him. And then do it, whatever it is without fussing.
7. Receive permission to wear panties [add caveat: "on the weekend"] or don't wear them.
8. If asked to show Chris my panties (or bottom) anytime or anywhere, I am to do it immediately. No grousing.

So somehow, while at Iris & M's, I managed to get punished twice. In the same day. I'm not sure this has ever happened before. I'm still somewhat flabbergasted by it.

The first time was, in fact, somewhat playful but was enforced simply because I've broken it a couple of times already. Specifically, a week or so ago I went nearly half the day on Sunday wearing panties - and I hadn't asked.

So Sunday morning I skipped out of the bathroom in my panties and pants to show Chris. These are white cotton panties, with purple lace around the legs. And the words High Maintenance are imprinted in bright purple across the seat. I had put on a pair of white capris over them and - upon close inspection - the writing did show.

I wanted him to admire, yes. But I had a question, too. "May I wear panties today, sir?" I asked.

He looked at me, sat up in bed and said, "Yes, but go shut the door. And bring me the hairbrush paddle."

"But why?" I stuttered, even as I was doing what he said.

Did he answer before or after I was over his knee? I don't remember, but he said, "You're supposed to ask permission to wear panties, you know."

I knew, I knew, I knew. I told him I knew. That's why I had asked, after all. I wanted him to know what he was going to get to say yes to. (If he'd said no, I'd have had to change and wear different pants, as what was underneath my pants would have been very visible.)

He smacked anyway. "Next time ask before you get dressed," he said.

SarAdora would say, "Tsk." I say... Argh.

Now, admittedly, it wasn't terribly hard and he left my panties and pants on. The princess and Iris were watching Pollyanna in the living room, and M was still in bed. But it hurt with my bottom freshly showered and all stretched out over his knee. Ouch.

And then, later, I left my camera in a children's bookstore next to the restaurant where we had brunch. This technically is not a violation of any of the rule stated above but falls under the heading of Don't Make Us Crazy spankings. On Friday I couldn't find my cell phone and looked for it everywhere. On Saturday we nearly lost the princess's security toy in a restaurant. Actually, I had put it in my purse but had completely forgotten until we had left and then we couldn't find it and, naturally, only looked in my purse after having gone back to the restaurant and after having sent Chris off to search the adjacent parking lot. And then on Sunday I had my camera in my pants pocket and it slipped out while I sat on the floor reading the princess a story. There it stayed for a half hour until I rushed back in a panic and found it.

To top it off, this is not the first incident with a camera. I wrote about it on Punishment Book when I broke the first one. Its replacement experienced a recurring lens error after a trip to the beach last spring (it was so windy that it was more like a sandstorm than a beach). And its replacement is this one - a 6.0mp Nikon Coolpix - that I got as a birthday present just two months ago.

When I came back to the table, camera in hand, Chris gave me a look that everyone at the table understood. The princess said, "Mama, you found it!"

All I could do was suppress the urge to babble, argue and dig in my heels. Chris refrained as much as he could from scolding me (my reaction to scolding in situations that I am perfectly aware of having done wrong is to get angry and defensive, not repentant) but by the time we ate and walked back to their apartment, my lower jaw was stiff from the urge to not respond to his three or four comments. I had already resisted the urge to take the camera and throw it down the street and swear I would never touch one again and damn it to hell if he wanted pictures of the princess to look at when she was grown up he could take them himself. I thought a lot of other irrational things in my head too, as I am rarely - rarely - truly okay with things that upset me, even if I don't talk about it out loud. In my head, I can go on and on and on and while I generally don't scream and throw things and have crying tantrums and say mean, unhelpful, disrespectful things that doesn't mean I don't think them inside.

This time, he had the bathbrush. The awful bathbrush that I bought for him at the grocery store in a moment of weakness. This thing hurts. A lot. He used it, and asked at one point what I thought would be appropriate to finish.

I hate this question, particularly when my head is not in a great place. I didn't know what to say, since None would not have been appreciated. "Five," I eventually pronounced.

"Ten then," he said. "And count." Damn it all, I thought and he whacked me with it. I did manage to count, although he had to ask me a couple of times "How many was that?" and tell me to get back over his knee when I had jerked and scrambled away from that dreadful pain.

But then, when I squawked out "Nine!" and whimpered pitifully, he surprised me. "I guess that the last one will be with my hand," he said. And then he gave me the last one - as hard as any with the bathbrush I might add - before I could work out what he was talking about.

He was, of course, talking about this:

a dreadful one bites the dust

Was it worth the $7.99 + sales tax I paid for it? Yes, particularly in that he loved the gesture as well as the implement. Will I replace it? Not with that same version, of course!

Will I have an incident with the camera again? If he asked me when I was over his knee, I'd probably say no, no I won't lose it anymore. But the brutally honest answer is that I might. I will be more careful. I will remember not to stick it in my pocket where it can slide out. I will try to take care of it. But when the princess and I are having a beautiful moment or an awful incident, when I'm consumed by driving stress or bogged down with twenty bags and a 3-year-old who wants carried, anything can happen.

Repeat offenses suck, yes, but I can't walk around mired in guilt and worry over losing things the rest of my life, or I'll be paranoid before the end of the week over whether I've locked the door properly and forever focused on where my things are instead of where I/we are.

Which isn't to say that Chris is wrong. He's right, of course. It's not like we haven't discussed it before. I am sure that he brings balance and normalcy to my life, and without him I'd swing on a pendulum back and forth with more momentum instead of less.

In this vein, I think it's fair to say that rule # 9 is:

9. Don't make us crazy.

I don't know how much I like # 9 as a rule, but I see where it comes from. And Chris didn't say it - he just does it. It's not something that stated. I could have said # 9 was something more like "Anything that Chris decides," but he really doesn't decide things randomly or out of context - it's always about responsibility and safety and such.

I used to think of myself as fairly safe and responsible and able to care for myself - until he started overseeing me! Now, I think of myself as fairly competent but in need of help.

Which is why he's here, I suppose (also because I love him madly). Because I need him!