Oh, Did I Ever Get Spanked Today...

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Yes, it is true, I am writing this note to you with the aid of a feather-filled pillow. At 9:10 am (but who's counting?) I got spanked like I've never been spanked before. This spanking was unlike no other because it was not Mr. P doing the spanking. I enjoy his spankings but as usual, I am digressing. Suffice it to say, if there was Rogues Gallery of the worst mothers of our hamlet, this morning Michangelo would have been be summoned from his grave to carve my image out of marble -- with no fig leaves either just to heighten my embarassment. Oh well, it could be worse : I could be still be an Episcopalian.

Anyhoo, the few friends I do have are marveling at how well I have accepted my punishment (public ridicule). While there are loads of reasons for the grace under fire, the main reason is punishment is often loads of fun. Yes, really fun. At least I've always tried to make it so.

You see, the summer I was 12, actually it was the spring I was 12, a new man came into my life. Yes, a new man. A 12 year-old man but who was counting? Well, I was. This new man did something no other man had ever done for me in all of my 12 years. He fought for me. Yes, he most certainly did. He fought the previous man in my life, another 12 year-old who had held my attention since he had been all of 9 years old. More than just fighting for me, this new man fought for me in front of other girls. Girls who some were much richer than I by 100's of millions.

This all happened at the barn I had begun my riding career at the tender age of 9. The first man and I had met up that summer and become best of pals. Since we were both short, once we had been taught to jump, we'd tool around the outside course on Shetland ponies at high rates of speed trying to best each other. Everyone thought we'd kill ourselves but we didn't. Instead we had a ball. That was until the spring I was 12 and the new man showed up one cold morning. By this time, I had grown a tad and was now seated on much larger ponies. The new man was taller that I and rode an actual horse.

But Man No. 2 rode a horse terribly. He needed help. Lots of help. Out of all the girls available that year, he asked for my help. I gave it to him, freely. And do you know what? It was just a few years later that he was showing in Madison Square Garden but as usual I am digressing. Anyway, the first man in my life had been too busy to come to the barn during the early spring months. In about June he showed up just in time to see me riding side-by-side with the new man instructing him on how to better hold his hands on the nape of his horse's neck. Man No. 1 was furious with me and being 12, he didn't know enough to hide it. When Man no. 2 and I exited the ring to dismount, Man No. 1 was sitting on the mounting block waiting for us. I was happy to see him. Very happy. He, being a hot-headed 12 year-old, ignored my delight and went right after Man No 2, verbally. He ridiculed his riding right there in front of me and many other girls. Man No. 2 had been my private student for a few weeks now and I thought this was totally out of line. So I got mad. Then Man No. 2 handled my outrage and his own outrage, quickly. He punched Man No 1 right in the face. And what the punch hadn't wounded, I finished off, forever, by not chasing after Man No. 1 when he responded by turning around and walking away --hey, I was only 12 and not sophisticated in the art of men. Well, old Ichabod, whose family had owned the riding stable, technically land, since before the Revolutionary War, wasn't too pleased with me for allowing one of his better playing customers, Man No. 1, be chased off his land. But since the new man, Man No. 2, was casting about for a horse of his own and promising to board it there, old Ichabod said nothing. He just glared at me whenever he could and told me in no uncertain terms to watch my step.

Which of course I didn't. I was 12 and this was the land the Pequot indians had once roamed on and so I thought riding without a saddle and a bridle was the way to go. If the indians could do, then why couldn't we? Well we couldn't because the indians had lived there in the days before law schools had been established in this country and the land was filled with lawyers eager to sue. Not to mention the insurance guys that had to be paid vast sums of cash to keep a man in his riding stable. But we were 12 and didn't understand this. But Ichabod did. So when he emerged from his house after one particularly unsatisfying lunch one late August day, it was just in time to see Man No. 2 and I racing each other across his lower field with absolutely nothing on....

....Nothing on our horses, that is. And technically-speaking, they were old Ichabod's horses which we had borowed for a small sum of cash. Or even more technically-speaking, had told Ichabod's wife, who handled the books, to put the small sum of cash on our accounts.

Boy, were we ever spanked when we got back to the barn.

Our punishment was to dust the barn. A barn that parts of had been built in 1770. The dust in that barn was older than our country. More than that, I'm allergic to dust. Ichabod handed us an armload of white rags and said, "Dust or go home - now!." Well going home was the last thing either one of us wanted to do so we scaled the box stalls and got to work first by dusting the crossbeams and lightbulbs. Then we moved on to all the box stalls and the tackroom. Ichabod did not make us do the feed room because he was concerned we might disturb the rats.

While we dusted, all the trust fund babettes in their little jodphurs, boots and Lacoste shirts who had felt very slighted by Man No.2 for months now, followed us around sipping their Fanta orange and root beer sodas pointing out when we missed a spot. They had him and I exactly where they wanted us..in total disgrace. But when Man No. 2 and I made a swing from the rafters in the hay loft and declared it to be only for 'the dusters' we spoiled their pleasure. And we had a ball. I can still see Man No.2 there that day in his blue jeans with a spare rag hanging out of his back pocket laughing.

It was a ball until much later that night the 200+ year old dust back up my system so much that I was unable to breathe. But a long hot bath cured what ailed me. And do you know what?

It will cure me now.

Comments

[Card's wife]

So what happened at school?

[Mrs. Peperium]

I got sent to the Reflection Room....

[Card's wife]

Does this have any thing to do with the auction? Did you get the wrong tea towels again this year?

[Mrs. Peperium]

You know, there's a very real reason why women have, only until more recent and incredibly foolish years, been allowed in leadership positions in the military...women are incapable of tracking the enemy properly...

As you may recall a certain someone has been out to get me since the begining of the school year...and she hasn't been able to...yet...until this week...she received an email from what can only be described as a Hillary Clinton style of woman saying she had nearly run over RKFDIL at pickup....I never saw RKFDIL nearly get run over though I was driving the Jeep and holding the door open for RKFDIL...but we'll allow that I did do something wrong and against regulations, I cut in line and ALSO, allowed RKFDIL to leave the curb and get in the Jeep which was double parked in the center lane....the Hillary Clinton style of woman was miffed....and she did what Hillary Clinton always does...she told a whopper that everyone who has gone through that school would know was a whopper if they were not blinded by a strong dislike of me.....the Hillary Clinton style of a woman put in writing that she has witnessed Little Bertie doing the same many times at Kindergarten pickup....the Kindergarten teacher is an institution as she's been there over 30 years...her nickname is 'Sargent'....she would never, ever allow a pupil of hers to leave the curb....

So, at pickup I told the Kindergarten teacher that I am the evil mother who the note went out to (the email concerning me was published) all of the parents in the entire school and that the mother who wrote it is saying she, the Kindergarten teacher allows Little Bertie to leave the curb and climb into the Jeep in the center lane....

Well, Sargent doesn't take lying about her well. Neither do I. So I went to the Vice-Principal first with "you can let mothers lie about me all you like but do not let them lie about Sargent just because they are mad at me. It's not fair to her as she is probably the most responsible teacher in the school and never once has Little Bertie's feet ever left the curb...Yes, I did allow RKFDIL run in between two parked cars to get into the Jeep. I admit that and I have to ask you a question...that mother is claiming she almost back over RKFDIL, if that is true then why was she moving her car when I was double parked in my Jeep right next to her?"

The Vice-Principal was speechless as you might imagine and agreed that while I should never allowed RKFDIL to leave the curb what was the mother doing moving her car and yes, Sargent would never allow one of her pupils to leave the curb.

Then I had lunchroom duty and the one who has been out to get me all year never showed her face in there the entire time. Not even for the third shift which she is in charge of.

Basically, the one who has wanted to get me let an incorrect version of battlefield events get the better of her. She finally had me. She printed it up and sent it home to ALL parents. She's never done this before. Now instead of just me in the woodshed, she's got the kindergarten teacher mad at her for allowing her to be maligned to the entire school and already several parents on her back for doing such an unprofessional thing.

Oh, and I left out that RKFDIL was also called in front of the entire school into the Principal's office to discuss her mother's driving....There was never a need for that child to be in there since the problem resided entirely with me....

[Old Dominion Tory]

This one is for you, Mrs. Peperium!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPjhb3D587Q

[MCNS]

Mrs P's theme song:
http://www.toontracker.com/magoo/mrmagoo1.ram

[Joules]

There was an Orange County grandmother who accidentally hit the gas and jumped the curb from the pick-up line several years ago. I believe I recall that no one was hurt seriously. It could be much worse.