I began hating New Year’s Eve the year I was old enough to fully comprehend failure, rejection, and suicidal depression. As a child, I spent every New Year’s Eve like every other child, sitting on the floor and dutifully stuffing myself with popcorn and Lipton’s onion dip, and drinking ginger-ale out of plastic Champagne glasses. Determined to take full advantage of this opportunity to stay up late, the children in my family all waited eagerly for the “ball” to drop in Times Square, counting down the last ten seconds as though they truly cared, or would even know the difference between one year and the next. And then, at the precise instant the ball came to rest, when every adult in the room went briefly insane, all the kids would leap up and take this one golden opportunity to throw confetti all over my mother’s tidy living room without fear of reprisal. We watched with utter distaste as the adults began the required midnight kissing orgy–kissing everyone on the mouth. Yuck! Those of us wishing to avoid being marked indelibly with my grandmother’s blood-red lipstick generally beat it upstairs before the drunken adults ran totally amuck and broke into that loathsome song that Robert Burns probably STILL wishes from his highland grave that he had never written.

You get the picture, right? I’m not really crazy about New Year’s Eve.

I learned to hate it even more when I got to high school, and learned that not having a date on New Year’s Eve was the accepted yearly penalty for being short, plump, and an “egghead.” Even if you managed to snag a date, the rules said that if HE wasn’t a major jock or a hunk, or if HE didn’t take you dancing at someplace like the Rainbow Room, you simply didn’t get points for him. I had one New Year’s Eve date all the way through high school. The poor guy had mild acne and thick-rimmed glasses Scotch taped together over his nose, and he took me to the movies. His name was Willis, and his mother drove us to the theater and picked us up.

Then, after college, along came David, and life finally changed. David was handsome, and funny, and he took me dancing. (At an abandoned mansion, with a pre-WWII wind-up phonograph, just like the Great Gatsby–the most purely romantic date of my entire life, before or since. He proposed that night, and now, I had a date for New Year’s Eve, for the rest of my life! Whoopee! Except that neither one of us really likes New Years, or icy roads, or drunks. So we usually stay home that night, drink Champagne AND ginger-ale from plastic glasses with our kids, and watch the “ball” fall in Times Square. And eat Lipton’s onion dip, of course. Tradition IS tradition, after all.

Christmas, though, is a little different, because until I got old and cranky, I used to like it, a lot. I liked the decorations, and the smells, and the lights, and all that peace on Earth, good will to men. Then I got older, and figured out that making Santa pop down the chimney every year requires an expenditure roughly equal to the national debt of Liechtenstein. Still, I learned to live with the expense, and hoped the kiddies don’t demolish 784 dollars worth of crap before the sun sets on Christmas day. (I read shortly before the holidays last year that 784 dollars was what the “average” American family planned to spend that year on Christmas.)

Leaving aside the fact that there are WAY too many average and less than average families out there who don’t HAVE 784 dollars to blow on mindless shopping, let us direct our attentions now to one of those of us who DID have sufficient dollars, but who had been warned well in advance of the customary holiday shopping orgy not to spend more than my own allotted figure–or else. The exact meaning of “or else” was not carefully defined, but I had reason to know that it would involve a good deal of discomfort on my end. (Pun absolutely intended.) This stern warning about holiday extravagance did not come from Ebenezer Scrooge, as you might think, but from the lips of a normally generous and forbearing husband who still remembered with some irritation the PREVIOUS year’s Christmas outlay, which had cost just a smidgen in excess of …well, never mind. Suffice it to say that after the husband of whom we speak had threatened to coat his wife’s naked body in honey and spread-eagle her on an ant-hill, he relented, and drew from her a sincere promise that she would NEVER be guilty of such extravagance again. (The husband in question, by the way, is a very pleasant, trusting fellow, which should be a lesson to husbands everywhere.)

The difficulty with Christmas is that once it’s over– on the very next DAY, for God’s sake, mail delivery resumes! Is this dumb, or what? What happened to all that Christmas spirit? Adding to this problem is the unhappy fact that the very banks that so considerately closed their doors early on Christmas Eve, tend to REOPEN the very day after Christmas! Those of us who have papered the town with last-minute worthless checks have scarcely any time at all to make good our errors by secret last minute financial adjustments ( i.e. transfers from savings to checking, hasty loans from understanding mothers, or checkbook forgeries.) Thus, those long envelopes with little tell-tale windows sometimes begin appearing in our mailboxes as early as the day after Christmas.

Ah, blessed be the years when Christmas falls on a Thursday, or even a Wednesday, providing a relatively peaceful weekend before all Hell breaks loose!

You see, I NEED a week of peace on Earth before being forced to face New Year’s, and this year– the year about which I write, I wasn’t going to get it.

Correction. I WAS going to get it. Big-time!

By Wednesday of the week after Christmas, I had collected and hidden away in my underwear drawer seven windowed envelopes, and maybe half a dozen bills, any one of which would put me well over my spending limit, and smack (yet another pun) in the middle of the Danger Zone.

It had started, as it so often did, with the obligatory visit to Santa Claus. And then another, and another, and another………….

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

“Ho-Ho-Ho!” Santa roared...again. Four hours shopping, five stores and SIX Santas today, some of them bearing more resemblance to the jolly old elf than others. Not that it mattered to Amanda and Michael of course. At five and eight, my younger children are already jaded consumers, and don’t give a shit if Santa looks like Tyrannosaurus Rex, just so he forks over the free candy canes. This particular Santa looked more like Fidel Castro, and unless I was mistaken, Fidel had pinched my ass when I walked by. It might have been one of the damned elves, of course. You never can tell with elves.

I wondered if either of the kids still believed that one of these cloned Santas whooshed down the chimney on Christmas Eve and left presents wrapped in the same paper they’d seen me snatching up on sale at the Hallmark Store last year. I was afraid to ask, and the moppets weren’t divulging anything. A definite don’t ask, don’t tell policy. My older kids, twin girls now almost sixteen, had done the same thing. They milked the Santa cow as long as they could get away with it, then dumped the old guy over the side of the sleigh without a backward look.



I watched as Michael grabbed his candy cane and coloring book from Fidel, evaded the grasp of a shouting elf, and ducked under the velvet rope into the store’s roped-off North Pole display. Tearing a wide swath through the store’s artfully arranged artificial snow banks, he made a cross-country dash to where I sat, waving the cheap candy cane in triumph. The elf followed close behind, using a lot very unelflike words to describe my youngest. I removed as much of the “snow” from Michael’s sneakers as I could untangle, and handed it back to the belligerent elf in a ball.



“I’m sorry…really, ” I began, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to...”

“Okay, lady, just cut the crap and give me the fuckin’ snow!” The Elf snarled. He yanked the wad of fake snow out of my hand. “Shit, what a job!”

Yeah. Heartwarming.

Michael’s tennis shoes still glittered with wisps of artificial snow as we walked out of the mall into the dazzling sun. Eighty-six degrees. Another sweaty California Christmas. My feet were swollen, I had a blister on my heel, and as we approached the car, I noticed a new dent in the rear passenger-side door. A big one, and no note on the windshield. “Merry Christmas to you, too, asshole,” I muttered under my breath. This one wasn’t my fault, thank God! The last serious dent HAD been my fault, of course, caused by an ill-timed attempt to change lanes on the Hollywood Freeway while chatting on my cell phone. The mishap had been witnessed (and ticketed) by an observant highway patrolman, and had cost the insurance company over 4600 dollars in damages to MY car and to the brand-new Mercedes I had clipped.



David had paid the deductible and my ticket, then taken me home, dumped me over the arm of the couch, and given me a truly spectacular spanking. It was certainly one of the hardest I’d ever had, and delivered with the sturdy wooden hairbrush he reserves for my worst offenses. I HAD been warned, as he reminded me between each agonizing swat on my bare ass, not to talk on the phone while driving, especially with the kids in the car. AND I had lied to him. (Yes, dear readers, my own sweet-faced children HAD ratted on me, by declining to back up my version of the tale, in which the cell phone was not a factor.) Halfway through the blistering, I became a convert. David was right. I would NEVER use the phone again while driving, I wailed, in between kicks and howls. “See how easy that was,” he said afterward. He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes, start to finish.”

I should tell you here that I HATE it when David uses a hairbrush. Not only does it seem childish, but a hairbrush hurts like hell, and makes a kind of embarrassing sound on bare flesh that leaves no doubt at all what’s happening, should anyone be listening. I swear it even hurts to hear the damned thing! First you hear this awful anticipatory rush of air as the brush comes down, descending like the sword of Damocles, and then the awful crack of it, “SPLAT!” Dead in the center of one cheek of your ass– with a scalding sting that almost lifts you off the arm of the couch. A split second later, in a kind of a weird delayed reaction, you hear yourself howl bloody murder just as the damned thing lands on the OPPOSITE cheek, with just as much fire. And so on, and so forth, first one cheek, then the other, until your ass looks like a ripe tomato and feels like you sat down on a kitchen burner.

A sweet and tender fellow, most of the time, David’s temper usually only flares when I repeatedly ignore his more gentle warnings. When I do, (or when I get caught, anyway) I often pay for my error by being spanked. (“Spanked” is sort of a generic term, encompassing a variety of other chastisements. Each individual incident might be accomplished with any one of several implements, with the sole common factor being the presence of my naked rear end.) David and I reached this odd agreement (that I would be spanked, on occasion) a couple of years after Amanda was born, when I entered my second or third mid-life crisis. Overall, the plan has worked pretty well. I agreed to it originally as a tool with which to kick the smoking habit. Don’t laugh. It worked. It took longer than the cell phone thing did, but it DID work. Actually, I think you could open a chain of clinics devoted to helping women to give up smoking, using exactly this method.

The offending ladies would simply appear at the clinic every day, you see, as though they were going to see their parole officer. There, they would have to submit to being sniffed at by a counselor– like my husband, who has the nose of a pedigreed Bloodhound. If the slightest whiff of the foul weed is detected, the “counselor” would promptly turn the client across his strong, masculine knee, lower her panties to her knees, and apply a strong, masculine hand, a folded belt, or a wooden hairbrush to her bare ass for perhaps two minutes. (In my case, it took almost four weeks of visits, but then, I went through a lot of mouthwash, afternoon showers, and cologne to beat the system until the counselor figured out what was going on.) The treatment was free, after all, and I had no financial incentive to finish the program.

I don’t get spanked too often, these days, but when it happens, I will have to admit that I usually have it coming. As a “boss,” it could be said that David is tough, but reliably fair, and the fringe benefits of the system have been nice–a more peaceful, more orderly life. Alas, this season tends to bring out the worst in me. You see, I am by nature a disorganized person. I’m disorganized about just about everything, from my somewhat careless, (okay, abominable) housekeeping to my inept bookkeeping. You could call me sloppy, but I prefer disorganized, because it sounds more creative.

Well, anyway, that night, after I got home from Christmas shopping and the encounter with the nasty elf, I added up my day’s spending, and discovered that in one hideous afternoon, I had managed to add close to seven hundred dollars of NEW purchases to my already considerable total. I sat for a moment, staring at the figures and feeling my life begin to spiral out of control. My GOD! I was doomed! (Please don’t be overly alarmed. This happens fairly regularly.)

What I needed now was chocolate, and a good night’s sleep. I would confess tomorrow, maybe the next day? It had begun to rain, and the evening had turned chilly in that perverse way it does in California in the winter. I liked it, though. Having grown up in the east, I want it cold on Christmas, no matter what it takes. I have been known to turn the air conditioning to its lowest point to achieve the desired effect during the holidays. Tonight, I had already wolfed down two Hershey Bars and was settling down cozily into my pillow, dressed in my warm flannel pajamas (with clouds and stars ) when David came to bed.



He stroked my flanneled hip, and leaned over to kiss me. When I politely returned the kiss and snuggled against his chest, David slipped his hand between my legs, and with the other, began to unbutton the top of my pajamas.

But I was too tired to be trifled with. I slapped his hand gently. “Just a minute there, please!” I protested. “Do you have a very good reason for doing that?”

He grinned. “Yeah, as a matter fact, I do.”

I yawned. “Is it going to require any exertion on my part?”

“Well,” he said, finishing the line of buttons and doing something very distracting to my breast with his mouth, “that would be nice, but I suppose I COULD just prop you up against the headboard and wing it alone. I gather one of us isn’t in the mood?”



“The spirit is willing, but the body’s been at the Mall all day with your offspring,” I groaned, “on its aching feet.”

“ I promise not to touch your feet,” he said.

I yawned again. “Okay, then, help yourself. Just remember to close up when you’re done.”



He rolled me over onto my stomach, and began to massage my back. “Better?” His thumbs worked the sore area between my shoulder blades, and I moaned with pleasure.

“Oh, God, yes! Keep that up and I’m yours!”

“Rough day, huh?” he asked.



“You may as well know it,” I said. “I tried to sell our children today. The youngest two, anyway. I knew no one would take the twins.”

David chuckled. “Any takers?”

“No. From what I could see at the mall, I think there’s a glut on the market. Maybe we could advertise. They ARE very cute, when they’re clean. All day long, I thought about what you’d do if I did sell the children, or just gave them away, for that matter. You know, leave them standing by that little Salvation Army red kettle and disappear into the crowd. But then, I realized that would probably merit a pretty good spanking, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, probably. I’d notice them missing after a couple of days, I’m sure.”

I groaned. “God, how I hate Christmas!”

“You love Christmas!” David said, kissing me again.

“No,” I sighed. “That was your first wife, the one who used to read books, and had a waistline, and who liked sex. Remember her?” I rolled over to look at him. “Do you think I’m insane?” I asked.

David thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. Then again, maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. Why?”

Not the answer I was looking for. All this silly chit-chat WAS building to something, but I had to approach it from just the right angle. Before I could own up to going over my budget, I was looking for sympathy, followed by very long, tender, romantic sex and its pleasant afterglow. Then, and only then would I drop my bomb, while David was feeling warm and accepting, and well-loved and appreciated. (Please try not to judge me too harshly for using sex as a tool. I was in a pinch, here, and needed to use whatever tools I had.) I began the approach to my confession slowly.

“I bought some really nice Christmas cards,” I said. “On sale.”

“To go in the drawer with all the others?” he asked, grinning. David knows me too well. It’s another of my most treasured Christmas traditions. I buy Christmas cards every year, but never use them. Like the iron, David says.



“Oh, and I put six hundred and thirty-eight dollars today on the Visa.” I said this very quickly, hoping it would get lost in all the banter. No such luck

David stopped kissing me, and sat up. “Repeat that, please.”

I moved away slightly. “You heard me. I did my best to stay in the budget, but I just couldn’t do it. Come on, now, you wouldn’t really spank the shit out of me for buying you a few little Christmas presents, would you? That would sort of miss the entire point of the season, don’t you think?”

“I would like to still be solvent at the end of the Christmas season,” he said firmly. “Were you joking about how much you spent, or do we need to set aside a few minutes before bedtime for a little chat?” David didn’t really mean to “chat,” of course. A “little chat” is a code he uses in front of the kids. Minus the code, a “little chat” means five agonizing minutes across his lap, (the end of the bed, the arm of the couch, etc.) with my underwear puddled around my ankles, and my bare ass on fire.

“Well, no matter what you do to me, it’s too late to change anything,” I said sullenly. “I’ve already spent the money.”

“You’re going to walk a little funny when you have to take everything back tomorrow morning,” he replied. “And I wouldn’t plan on sitting down anywhere for lunch, or dinner.”

“That bad?” I asked. I was beginning to rethink my decision to be honest. Honesty is an overrated virtue, in my opinion.

“That bad,” he assured me.

“What if I told you I was just kidding?” I asked sweetly

“Then I will be very relieved, and blister your adorable butt for lying to me.”

“It was a joke,” I said, yawning again.



Evidently, David didn’t enjoy the joke, because before I could roll out of range, he had yanked me across his knee, pulled my pajama bottoms down, and delivered three or four solid, painful slaps to my bared backside. He rolled me off his lap and onto the bed on my stomach, then smacked my butt once more before I could get my pants back up. I yelped, and scrambled out of his reach.



“Ouch!” I knelt on the bed and rubbed my stinging bottom. “ God, David! You’re losing your sense of humor!

“I lose it real fast when you get close to what we agreed on as the Christmas budget.”

“You’re the one with two sisters with six greedy children between them!” I protested. “I’m just the one who has to do all the stupid shopping and stay within YOUR damned budget!”

“Let’s look at another way,” David suggested mildly. “ I’m the one with the wooden hairbrush hidden in my sock drawer, and you’re the one with the rear end that’s going to pay for every penny over budget!”

I left David with the impression that my budget-overage crack WAS all a little joke, and decided to worry about it the next day.

Worrying about things the next day is what I’m best at.

* * * * *