Since this appears to be the week of Mr. Hall, perhaps it is time to tell the real story of the time Mr. Hall gave Mrs. Hall a spank. This story, sort of a fib/metaphor based on the real story.
This is the real story of the spank.
Pancake must have been about eight months old. That means were married about eight months +nine months (17 months total). A very young marriage indeed.
We planned a getaway to Las Vegas. It was my first time there. Very happy and giggly was I. I danced around a lot, pretending I was Vegas Showgirl with a fancy headdress. Things changed about three days before we left.
I began to endlessly worry about two things:
1. Making sure Mr. Hall mailed something the Saturday we were to leave. I can't remember why it had to be mailed THAT Saturday, be it absolutely had to be mailed THAT SATURDAY!!!
2. Arriving at the air port two hours before our flight. This was the national, post 9-11 recommendations for all who travelled via air plane. TWO HOURS!!!
My obsession with these items grew steadily and unchecked during the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday before our departure. Obsession. I was kind of like a parrot, repeating my instructions over and over.
"Make sure we wake up in time, we have to get there two hours ahead of time. And make sure you mail that thing!!!"
The Saturday morning comes. Mr. Hall gets out of bed about 1 hour and forty five minutes before the flight. I am livid. I hover like a bee, crazily buzzing. Telling him over and over and over, we have to get there, we are already late.
I can still see him at our old computer desk. Printing out our flight confirmations. Sipping coffee and ignoring me. Putting the thing that needs to be mailed in an envelope. I am livid but silent. I march away in a silent huff.
I take the luggage, put it in the car, start the car, come back in, he's still sitting there.
I get his clothes, put them next to the computer desk. He dresses.
Then, he looks right at me and says, "huh, I think we have to stop and get stamps so we can mail this."
A brick of dynamite goes off in my chest. I am reeling.
I push in front of him, my back is to him, my hands have grabbed the envelope.
"MOTHERFUCKER!!" I spit through clenched teeth.
That’s when he spanked me. It was a quick, swift and surgical smack. Right on the kisser. It hurt and I buckled.
We didn't talk the entire 2 hour flight to Vegas. I was pissed beyond belief.
When we touched down, we finally spoke.
Turns out, a lot of my anxiety and obsession was unwarranted. The thing that needed to be mailed, didn't need to be mailed that Saturday. And the airport we left from, well, it's a little airport. And we only had carry on bags. And we only lived about 5 minutes away from the airport. We got there about 30 minutes before the flight and that was plenty of time.
Of course, all my anxiety could have been diffused if Mr. Hall had helped me understand the reality of the situation. But, the more I obsessed and got bossy, the more he shut down and said nothing. Which only made me get more obsessed and bossy.
The final straw though, was the swear. We have a strict policy in the house of Hall against swearing and negative words. Even before we had kids we promised to elevate our communication above the use of foul language. Also, swearing is a pet pea with Mr. Hall.
He, to this day, regrets the spank. I regret the spank. Well, not really. It broke up a pattern of communication that was beginning to cement itself in our marriage. It gave us cause to pause.
And I am glad to say, there has not been a spank before or since. Unless requested of course. (and really, I don't request it, I mean, jebus, that hurts!!)