I'm a Naughty Little Santa

No, not that kind of naughty Santa—although I admit that would be fun.  I have often thought it would be nice to dress up in one of those sexy Santa-girl costumes and pose for my husband á la Mariah Carey on one of her album covers... you know, where she is attempting to look cute but unfortunately only succeeds in looking like she's anxiously waiting to do it "reindeer style." 

I mean, if this pose doesn't say, "Come and get me, Rudolph," I don't know what does.

But unfortunately, dressing up in a sexy Santa costume would just be a waste of time and money, for I found out a long time ago that my husband prefers me in my boring tees and sleep shorts.  I learned this difficult lesson early in our marriage when (look away now, mom) I thought I'd spice things up a bit by donning a naughty french maid outfit—fishnets and all.

We were away on some couples' getaway (probably for Valentine's Day), and I sauntered from the plush hotel bathroom in my getup, ready to see my husband's jaw drop and the tv remote hit the floor.

Unfortunately I didn't get the reaction I was hoping for.

When my hubby saw me, he screwed up his face, furrowed his brow and said, "What the hell are you wearing?"  I did my best "I've been a bad, bad girl" impression, clasped my hands together in front of me and pouted, and said in a rather suggestive voice, "I've been a naughty maid—I forgot to clean the bedroom.  I think you need to do something about it."  I winked at him.

He laughed as if he had just witnessed a particularly offensive scene from one of the Jackass movies.  "Honey, take that crap off," he said.  "You look ridiculous." 

Now it was my jaw that dropped. "You don't like it?"  I asked, completely crushed at being so obviously snubbed. 

"No. It's trashy," he said. 

"But isn't that the point?  I did all of this for you!" I argued, my feather duster trembling in my hands as I grew more upset.  How could he not appreciate all the effort I had gone to for his benefit?  I struggled not to cry; tears would certainly ruin the five coats of extra-black lengthening mascara I had meticulously applied for the occasion.  As I stood there fuming, I realized that my rock-hard lashes could probably be used as weapons if need be, and I considered going in for a kiss and stabbing him purposefully in the eyeball for his obliviousness.    

"Honey," he said gently, "I love you the way you are—in your flannel jammies or your tee shirt and boxers.  This whole... getup... just isn't you." 

I wanted to tell him that it was indeed me—that there was a part of me that longed to be naughty, but my husband was just too "nice" a guy for that, so I sullenly changed back into my plaid pajama pants, scrubbed the mascara off my face (half of my lashes came off with it) and snuggled up next to him to watch an episode of Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel.  After the Mythbusters had produced a few massive explosions, my hubby grew more excited, rolled over and asked me if I'd be up for some nookie. 

I realized I'd been barking up the wrong tree with the french maid outfit; it's likely I would have gotten a much better reaction if I had just set myself on fire instead.

I suppose I should have anticipated his behavior to some degree—after all, he'd always been the "nice guy."  When we were dating, I was never able to uncover any reading material racier than Popular Science or Consumer Reports in his apartment.  He didn't own a single issue of Playboy, or even Maxim. There were no posters of scantily clad girls anywhere in his bedroom; instead he displayed tastefully painted landscapes and the occasional motivational poster depicting a mountain climber with the word "Inspiration" printed in large letters underneath.

He confirmed his "clean" image when he saw my belly-button piercing for the first time and nearly had a seizure. 

"Ugh!  You've got one of those?" he said with revulsion.  I looked at my belly, worried that perhaps I had grown a third nipple since the last time I had seen my midsection; I couldn't fathom what he was so upset about. "Your belly button is pierced! That's such a turnoff!" he complained.

"A turn-off?" I asked, completely shocked.  At the time, my pre-baby belly was flat and firm; I was taking martial arts classes and had developed quite the set of abs.  I thought the sparkly adornment would be the perfect surprise for him to find underneath my usually stuffy schoolteacher attire. 

But in my hubby's eyes, the sparkly gem was the ultimate "tramp stamp."  Despite his protestations, I left the bangle in for several months anyway—heck, I was proud of my flat belly and it had certainly been quite the pain in the ass to get it pierced... I wanted to at least get my money's worth out of it—but eventually, as we got more serious, I realized that the belly-button piercing was way more of a turnoff for him than any dimples on my bum would ever be, so I removed it. 

And so the eight years of our marriage have passed by with no naughty outfits, no nudey pics, and no odd piercings or tattoos. 

But this year when my hubby gave me his Christmas list—which consisted of socks, dress shirts, a watch, boxer shorts, some new ties, and white tee shirts to go under his work clothing—I thought, wow... we have really hit rock bottom here.  I can't do anything fun with this list.  And something inside me sort of snapped.

I went out Christmas shopping and spotted a pair of killer platform patent-leather stilettos.  Instead of passing them over and reminding myself I was out shopping for my husband's socks, I just threw those babies right into the cart.  I did the same with a cute gray pair of Skechers boots (even though I already had two other pairs of gray boots.)  I bought myself some lip plumper and sleek hair serum, and on a particularly decadent excursion flexed my credit card at my favorite top-of-the-line makeup store. 

And then, one night, I called my girlfriends and we went on a pilgrimage to the nearest club to shake our tailfeathers and celebrate our sexiness.  I wore the killer stilettos and a slinky black mini that my sis had picked out for me, and we did shots of tequila and spent quite a bit of time shaking our fannies and twirling about on stage before the night was over.

Here I am pretty much assaulting one of my girlfriends with a bear hug at the end of the night.  Come to think of it, it's a wonder I didn't actually break my ankle in that footwear.

 But, you know, by 2 a.m. my feet were killing me—I was pretty sure I had at least four broken toes (said toes were actually purple when I took off the shoes), and I couldn't wait to get out of the uncomfortable dress and wash all the gloppy makeup off my face. 

Once I got home, I showered, changed into my comfiest jammies, and climbed into bed next to my softly snoring hubby.  He immediately turned over, entwined his fingers with mine, snuggled up to me and planted kisses in my hair.

I felt a swell of affection and was suddenly very thankful for this wonderful man in my bed—this man who didn't expect me to dress up for him—who loved my body exactly as it was and didn't want me to defile it with piercings, tattoos and other unnecessary adornments.

This man thought the most beautiful and sexy parts of our marriage were the normal, everyday interactions, the snuggles after a long day, the tender, exhausted kisses after putting our children to bed, and the special way we sleep with our fingers entwined under the pillow.

It's great to dress up and go out with the girls and feel sexy and naughty and daring, but I have to admit that it's even better to come back home to the man who loves me exactly as I am.

Although I do admit to wondering what he'd do if I showed up under the Christmas Tree one year looking like this!  

Photo courtesy of faceinhole.com

Who Wants a New Vajayjay for Christmas?

Warning—this one's not for the faint of heart!!  

Men, look away while you still can!

 *  *

I don't consider myself a fickle person, but unfortunately I have a bizarre tendency to adopt ridiculous fads once I've been exposed to them long enough.  Take capri pants, for example.

When capris first came out and women across the country began walking around in pants that stopped at their calves, I thought—damn, that looks freaking ridiculous.  I shall never wear that.  Well, after a summer or two of seeing my fellow ladies blithely—and often proudly—exposing their cankles, I began to waver. Then one day I was browsing through Target and I saw a rack of capris, and I thought—what the hell—I might as well try on a pair.  Twenty minutes later I had purchased a set in every color, and as I marched to the car with my bags of loot, I smugly congratulated myself on being "on trend."  I modeled the pants for my husband, who asked me what the hell I was thinking.  I didn't have an answer.

My dislike for capri pants was nothing, however, compared to my general opposition to cosmetic procedures.  I have always been staunchly opposed to plastic surgery and cosmetic injectables, fillers and all that fake stuff that people stick into their bodies.  When Botox made its debut, I went on a bit of a righteous rampage.  I believe I shouted something to the effect of, "The name of the product has the word 'toxin' right in it!  What idiot would get poison injected into her face?" 

So you can imagine how surprised I was when I found myself pausing to read the Botox advertisement in my Glamour magazine the other day.  The ad featured an ageless, beautiful woman who gazed calmly at the camera with a look on her face that seemed to say, "Look how lucky and smart I am!  Don't you want to be pretty too?"

I walked to the bathroom and scrutinized my face in the mirror.  I frowned at the little creases in my face, but this motion only succeeded in making the furrows much more obvious. I forced myself to unscrunch my face, did some ridiculous facial shake-out maneuver that created a sound that was half "raspberry" and half gargle, and resumed perusing the article with curiosity.

I read through all the carefully crafted promotional speak and was starting to think that Botox might not be that bad after all... until I came to the part where they listed all the possible adverse reactions to it.  I bent closer to the magazine to read the small text, and there—in tiny little print—it said "Botox could cause death."

Um, holy crap... what?

So, you mean, I could go in for a simple facial line-softening procedure and... die?  I ripped out the page, crumpled it into a ball and angrily threw it in the trash.  I then spent the next week being disgusted with myself for being taken in by a Botox ad in the first place. What was happening to me?  I became convinced that our society was going to hell, courtesy of Hollywood and pop culture. 

Then, last night, I happened to see a post on Masshole Mommy's blog discussing Vaginal Rejuvenation.  Apparently Masshole Mommy had been harassed by so many radio advertisements for vaginal rejuvenation that she felt she needed to address it publicly.  I had to admit my curiosity was piqued.

First of all, I'm not quite sure what Vaginal Rejuvenation even is.  I know it involves a laser, and when I think of lasers, I remember a show I saw in middle school gym class where the teacher brought in a little fold-up screen and some dude came in with a projector thingy that made dancing dolphins appear in shiny green light.

I highly doubt there are dolphins involved in this particular procedure (although I'm not ruling out sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads).

I admit to quickly skimming Masshole Mommy's post, mostly because I didn't really want to know what the whole procedure entailed.  It sounded dreadful and unnecessary and vain, and I didn't want the disturbing details infiltrating my brain.

About three quarters of the way though the post I skipped down to the comment section to see what people had to say.  Most folks had a similar reaction to mine—WTF??!!   Many, I think, took the mere mention of vaginal rejuvenation as an insult to their own cha-chas, and used their comments to assert that their vajayjays were just fine—thank you very much (although many did suggest that perhaps Michelle Duggar might benefit from the procedure).* 

Then I happened upon a comment by a doctor, who proceeded to defend the surgery, discussing the many benefits the procedure can have for women with bladders or rectums that *gasp* bulge into the vagina... or...  (lalalalalalala)—this was the point at which I covered my eyes and shouted, "No more!  The horror!!"

I stopped reading.  I was afraid I wouldn't sleep for a week.

However, knowing my tendencies, I do fear that the whole concept of revitalizing my vajayjay might lodge itself into my brain like an insidious little worm, whispering from my subconscious that my own cha-cha would certainly look prettier if it were a tad lighter pink...or some other such nonsense.

I'm sure I'll start seeing billboards advertising the procedure soon; society is certainly quick to adopt any new beauty trend.  Heck, if Oprah were still on the air, I would half expect to see her do a Vajayjay Giveaway on her next Favorite Things episode.  I could just picture it... "And YOU get a new vajayjay!  And YOU get a new vajayjay!" (Cue shrieks and squeals).

In fact, I wouldn't be terribly surprised if, next year at Christmas, Target offers a sale on rejuvenated vajayjays.  I imagine I would be there—in spite of myself—perusing the rack and eventually selecting a petite one in the coveted "baby pink" shade.

I'M GOING TO HELL IN A HAND MIRROR.

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If you'd like to read Masshole Mommy's post, click here!

*Disclaimer—I am not slamming Michelle Duggar; I am just relaying what was written on another blog. I have nothing but respect for Michelle.  I might not agree with her, but I admire that she has the gumption to follow her beliefs even when it means being harshly criticized by much of society.  How many of us have the guts to do the same?