the naughty list

I was in Victoria’s Secret a few days ago. Brad expressed a Christmas wish for me to dress up in holiday lingerie so skimpy that it will certainly earn me a place on Santa’s naughty list. I often hesitate to spend much money on lingerie because my husband’s litmus test is this — throw it on the ground; if it looks good, buy it because it’s going to end up there in about a millisecond after donning it anyway.

But it’s his Christmas wish. And I aim to please.

The trouble is: When did Victoria’s Secret get so . . . un-sexy? I saw five or six truly skimpy and sexy nighties. The rest of the store was full to brimming with cotton pajama bottoms, rhinestoned tank tops, and soft knit baby doll nightgowns in little floral prints.

Victoria’s Secret used to be a store I could not take my kids into and, indeed, often felt the need to cover their eyes when walking past because the mannequins and posters in the windows were so scantily clad and provocatively posed. When I was there the other day, mothers were pushing their toddlers through the store in strollers!

How sexy can the lingerie be when the store is overrun by children and harassed, sleep-deprived mothers? I ask you.

I did find a few hot little numbers that I wanted to try on. One of which was a red vinyl micro-mini skirt trimmed in white faux fur with fishnet stocking for added effect. But the entrance to the dressing room was clogged by a pre-teen who was watching her baby brother in his stroller while her mother tried on bras. Besides that, I couldn’t find a clerk who could help me.

So, I turned to the Internet. I may or may not have ordered a skimpy, sexy li’l red outfit. And it may or may not have arrived on my door step — in pink.

No worries, though. I can make do with my Santa’s helper outfit from years past. This year’s not the first that Brad’s asked for lingerie, after all.

The old outfit is a little bit sexy and a little bit sweet. It may not earn me a place on the naughty list, but Santa will definitely be checking twice.

TMI #1

We celebrated my darling husband’s 31st birthday on Saturday. And when I say “we,” I mean “Brad and I” because my in-laws drove an hour and a half over here Friday evening just to take us to dinner and they were kind enough to take our children away with them when they drove home late that night. The following day, my parents took the kids. So Brad and I had a whole weekend alone together.

I know that almost anyone who comes here regularly thinks Brad and I are like a couple of hormone-crazed teenagers. I don’t exactly disabuse you of that notion when I post pictures of us pashing* (like my Aussie slang, Jelly?) for the world (or the four people who read my blog) to see. It’s true that my sister-in-law once caught us making out in the laundry room during our son’s birthday party. It’s true that our kids roll their eyes and tell us to get a room when Brad walks into the kitchen and nibbles on my neck as I cook supper.

After all these years, we still got the heat! Yeah, baby.

But what you may not realize is that we’ve known each other for a very long time and we were friends for years before we were lovers. We are still best friends. We enjoy being together. We put the top down in the convertible and cruise around. We go to pizza buffets and stuff our faces together (especially on the cinnamon-sugar dessert pizza *drool*). We go to movies and order popcorn with extra butter and two large sodas and laugh out loud at all the same parts. We go shopping in furniture stores and spend too much money buying blingy collars for the puppies at the pet store.

We just like to be together.

That being said, I would like to take a moment to make this public service announcement:

Dear neighbor children and Schwan’s man,

If, on any given day, you see both cars in the driveway yet there is no answer when you ring the doorbell, PLEASE don’t keep ringing said doorbell, open the glass door and rap on the big door and, finally, bang on the door with all your might.

There’s a REASON we are ignoring you. You are not important enough for us to cease and desist from any recreation in which we might be engaged. If you insist on irritating us, we may be forced to answer the door in the buff and embarrass the hell out of you. Not to mention the fact that, if it is me who opens the door naked, you may be scarred for life and I can not and will not be responsible for your therapy bills.

Sincerely,

Heather and Brad

Also, an open letter to my husband:

Dear Brad,

Thank you for being my best friend for all of these years. I know I didn’t exactly appreciate your romantic interest in me in high school, but I am so glad you never quite managed to stop wishing I was yours.

But I am yours now, heart and soul, and I loved spending time with you on your birthday and I look forward to many more.

Love,

Me

*”Pashing” is Australian slang for passionate kissing. At least, that’s what Jellyhead tells me.