Mary and Daphne #69 (Patreon)

Mary thinks she’s so funny. I stared, and it stared back. She knows I hate the Elf on a Shelf. The whole concept of deceiving innocent kids into behaving is dubious enough without adding a prop narc. But she insists I’ve gotten to be such a handful she and Santa need an extra set of eyes. I mean, I’m a smartass, but if I ever trotted out a little gem that smartassy, I’d get my mouth washed out. And my protests that Santa was gonna listen to the elf one–handed when he heard the report from our house (because reasons) didn’t dissuade Mary one bit. But let’s not forget, in case this episode should make anyone question Mary’s insistence that she doesn’t want a little, that no way doth she protest too much. Glad I never do that, self–awareness being one of my most sterling traits. But that wasn’t what was wrong.

“Alrighteeo, Daffodilio,” the spiritual incarnation of a kinky lesbian Flanders said to me before she came around the corner and saw me hugging my knees on the couch. Then she did see me and asked, “What happened?”

“You’ll be mad,” I said. I knew she wouldn’t be, but saying it would win me extra sympathy when I confessed. I don’t know if this qualifies under the Make-Mary-happy-by-letting-her-take-care-of-me thing, but it seemed like a good fit. Maybe I need to start pretending to be sad more often just for her benefit. But I wasn’t pretending.

“I won’t be mad,” she said and sat down next to me. “What’s the matter, baby?”

“I ... I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to.”

“Just tell me and we’ll make it all better.”

“I listed to the Christmas Shoes song.”

“Awww,” she said and put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a kiss on my hair, “I married the silliest goose.”

“You’re not mad,” I said knowing a hundred percent that she wasn’t but it makes her feel special to comfort me.

“No, but why even do that to yourself? It’s not even a good song.”

“I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Literally. Maybe we need to add that to the list of things you’re not allowed to google.”

Said list currently contains (1) pictures of skinny polar bears, (2) videos of dogs and children greeting returning soldiers, (3) anything having to do with childhood illness, and (4) Lake Island Resort and Boat Rental. Everybody likes that movie until the last ten minutes.

“Okay,” I said and got snuggly.

“I know what will make you laugh,” she said. Before I could tell her no (because she’s been dipping into the well for this joke kinda twenty times a day ever since), she poked me in the side and whispered, “Hippopotamus.”

“Marrrry! Don’t! I’m gonna start singing it if you don’t stop that,” I threatened.

“Try it and I may just decide the only way to purge that song from your head is an enema.”

“What song? I don’t know any songs. What even is a song?”

“Ha!” She settled in close to me again. “But how are you really feeling? It’s okay we didn’t go get it ourselves?”

She was referring to the Christmas tree, which we’d had delivered. We always go and pick it out together. That was one of our first dates, getting a Christmas tree for her apartment. Maybe it’s because I’m from where pine trees actually grow, but when she said she was going to put up the artificial tree like always, I about decided we were incompatible for more than the occasional butt spankin’ session. Let the poseurs have their plastic trees and tinsel. I’m a traditionalist: I like my whisky neat, my Christmas trees wooden, and my sex partners to own vagina the way God intended for me. Plastic is for dishwasher–safe sex toys, not Christmas trees.

“Yeah. It’s okay. We have lots of other Christmases to go buy trees. Are you okay with it?” Mary is, after all, a Christmas tree convert, and converts can be even more zealous than people born into the faith.

“Yeah, I’m good. You ready to decorate it?”

“Mhmm.” I gave Mary a kiss and smiled at her because ooooof(!) she makes me happy inside. I hopped off the couch.

“How is it you can go from mopey because of a sad song to bouncing off my knee in the space of two minutes?”

“I told you I can be an emotional pinball when we first met.”

“I remember.” She leaned forward and looked inside my glass. “Surely this has nothing to do with it.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yet.”

“Ooo, ya gonna take advantage of me?”

“I thought you stick with whisky this time of year.”

“I do, but then I thought, you know who understands drinking, winter, and tragedy really well? The people who come from the Vodka Lands. Plus it has cranberry juice so it’s healthy.” True story. Really.

“Maybe I shouldn’t trust you with the glass ornaments this year,” she said and got up off the sofa. “In fact,” she said with a finger on her chin like she was having an epiphany (which isn’t until January sixth – we celebrate all twelve days of Christmas around here, in spirit if not fact). But anyway, Mary continued, “Just to be safe, I think you should take your pants off.”

“That is such a non–sequitur,” I retorted as I complied.

“Good girl.”

“Dawwww.” Hear what she called me? Not that I’m bragging but my wife thinks I’m a good girl.

“Daffy!”

“What?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I know, but, um, what’d I do?” One thing you learn in a domestic discipline relationship is never take credit unless you know what for.

“You put on a pullup.” Well, yeah, I sometimes do as a defensive measure. It’s proven to be semi–effective at not getting put in diapers. And not that I’m bragging, but my wife is proud of me.

“Is it dry,” she asked and didn’t wait for an answer before she her hand cupped ... places … and squeezed ... things.

“Of course it is. I don’t ... yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“Hmmm, maybe I need to bring back the rule about using one if you’re wearing it.”

“Ugh! Scoff! Why would you do that?”

“So you wouldn’t have to feel so conflicted about your pants piddling. You can go back to pretending it’s all my fault. Would that be a good Christmas present for you, plausible deniability?”

Sometimes I think there must be a hidden camera somewhere and a studio audience ready to congratulate Mary on her sick burns. Like she doesn’t have enough rules for me already. But I can recognize a cry for help when I hear one. I can be selfless. Far be it from me to deny Mary, who takes such good care of me, her little jokes and jibes. I decided to politely but firmly let her down gently by telling her, “Fine, I’ll follow your stupid rule.”

“I didn’t even make the rule yet.”

“O no, don’t take it back on my account. You make the rules, you made the rule. I’m just your subby little rule follower.” And stuff. Complicated stuff.

“Well,” Mary said, “I guess let that be a lesson to you about who makes the rules?”

“I’m so mistreated,” I reminded her, in case, ya know, she ever forgets.

She made her I’m–gonna–finally–say–it face and said, “Have you ever noticed you’re better at following some rules than others?”

“I’m a very good rule follower.”

“Like the spending limit rule?”

“A very. Good. Rule follower.”

“Ya know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. You’re the best rule follower,” she conceded in the face of my white-hot truth. Not something she’d just to protect my carefully selected delusions. Really.

“Yes I am. Can we decorate now or is there anything else you’d like me to take off?”

“If you’re my good Christmas helper I’ll let you take off my pants later, and if you’re extra good, you can do it with your hands tied behind your back.”

“Eep,” I eeped. So intimidating is my Mary.

“Silly goose.”

Christmas tree decorating went the way it always does: belatedly remembering not to neglect the lower half (and bending over in our house for any reason is always a risk for me; just because I am, allegedly, a silly goose doesn’t mean I can’t get goosed or get my tail smacked); taking the ornaments I made in preschool and putting them in the back; Mary taking the ornaments I made in preschool and moving them to the front; having a second drink; remembering cranberry juice goes right through me; reminiscing about the time we got this or that ornament, which reminded me of the hilarious story of that one time at that Christmas partyl and Mary telling the second half of one of those stories about how I got spanked in front of all the guests and had to do bare bottom corner time with my red butt peeking out from under my Christmas sweater. Sigh … Good times.

“And good job with the lights,” Mary said when we were about done. I did that part all by myself. “Star or angel this year?”

“I think we need all the angels we can get this year.”

“Awww. You wanna put it up?”

“If you won’t hurt yourself,” I said and stepped over. “Don’t drop me.”

“If I haven’t dropped you while you’re trying to wiggle off my knee yet I think I can manage this. One two three!” She tried to hide it, but she definitely went, “Uff,” when she got her arms around my hips and lifted me high enough to put the angel on top.

She set me back down, and we stepped back so we could admire our tree. She hugged me from behind and gave me a Christmas kiss on my cheek.

“We did a good job,” I told her.

“Yeah we did. Sit with me.” She sat down in front of the fireplace, and I joined her. We watched our tree glow and enjoyed the warmth of the fire on our backs and held hands and played footsie.

“So far so good,” I said to her.

“What’s that?”

“Christmas. We’re doing a good job.”

“Yeah we are. Thanks for making our house so festive.”

“Thanks for helping.”

“You ready for dinner,” Mary asked.

“Mhmm.”

“Anything else you’re ready for?”

“Such as?”

“Silly goose.” Mary let go of my hand and got up just enough to reach the diaper changing basket by the couch. “If you’re not gonna tell me...”

“Why should I tell you? You made the rule.”

“O, so that’s how it’s gonna be.”

“They’re your diapers after all. I just use ‘em ‘cause you make me.”

“Little girl ...”

“I’m not a little girl!”

“C’mere,” she said and grabbed my ankles and pulled me in front of her. “I oughta tickle the sass right out of you. Do you know why I don’t?”

“Because you love me?”

“And because if you have another accident we’ll need to clean the carpet ... Aww, look at the blushing pants piddler!”

“I’m not blushing! It’s the fire.”

“Ironic, huh,” Mary said.

“What?”

“That my little too girl is almost too big for what a pullup can handle.”

“Marrrry! I’m not a little girl.”

“Hippopotamus.”

“Hehehehehe! Marrrry!”

“I can’t change you into a dry diaper if you’re gonna wiggle and giggle, Daffodil. Don’t you wanna hold still and be my good girl?”

“I be good.” And I wasn’t wiggling. I was squirming. Huge difference, and she knows it, too, because she loves to make me squirm.

“Hippo.”

“Marrrry!”

“I thought you we’re gonna hold still.”