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.