Priorities

Sometimes I wonder about Ron's priorities.

Take last weekend, for instance. I was bent over the bed and he was giving my bottom some very emphatic attention with a thick leather paddle. I was past the initial, ouchy stage and was settling in to enjoy the thuddy slap of leather on flesh.

All of a sudden it stopped. "Sonofabitch!" I heard Ron exclaim.

"What's the matter?" Was my bum turning a strange colour? Had the paddle broken? Was someone watching through the window?

"The other light's out." I looked up and saw that the bedside table lamp on Ron's side was off, while the one on my side was on. Let me give you a bit of background here. A week earlier, the bulb in my lamp burned out. Ron had taken the lamp apart in order to replace the bulb and had spent a good half hour trying to put it back together again. It was only after I came to his rescue that together we succeeded in reassembling the lamp.

"Never mind about that. We'll fix it later."

He then said some unprintable words, followed by "That makes me mad!" He illustrated his point with a rapid flurry of swats on my bare bottom. Then he tossed the paddle aside and headed over to the lamp.

"Well, I guess we're finished," I said to myself. As I rubbed my bottom Ron rushed past me and headed to the basement to get a new bulb. I had to rub soothing lotion on my own bottom and put the implements away.

I dressed, went downstairs and busied myself in the kitchen. A few minutes later Ron appeared and proudly announced that the crisis was over and the bulb had successfully been replaced.

"It didn't even take you an hour and a half this time. I'm impressed." This last remark earned me a couple of hard swats. It was the least he could do after so rudely interrupting our session.