Monday, February 22, 2016

Not a Model-Mom: Boudoir for Beginners

I've kept this under wraps because it was a surprise. But now that the cat's (no pun intended) out of the bag, I can finally talk about it.

Boob-Drawer pics. Boudoir pics. Basically the same thing. You have to get your knockers out and dust them off. Kind of.

Not me, but dang. Smokin'.

I'm known in certain circles as an "old married lady." Since there are a lot of other "old married ladies" out there who think getting some naughty pics taken for their husband is a stupid idea, I'm here to tell you: You're so right. It's preposterous.

Do it anyway. I did it. It's so dumb in all the best ways. Your mate will be over-the-moon and you'll feel better when it's over, in just 63 simple steps. Always begin step one with a photographer you know and trust. Not like some dude at the mall who says he thinks you could be a model. That's gross. Mine was my amazing lady friend who did our family pictures (everyone totally clothed) and I previously wrote about here. Also, in all NOT do this if you are in a manipulative or emotionally abusive relationship. This will not fix that. This will be another thing your abuser will use to lord over you, to control you, and to shame you into staying in a shitty relationship. While no matchup is perfect, this is for those who are in trusting, happily boring and drama-free situations.


  • Realize your friend/photographer is hosting Valentine's boudoir mini sessions the weekend your husband is out of town with FirstKid for hockey. Your husband? You know. The one who is impossible to surprise. The one who would fancy a texted pic of your boobs and be just as happy. But you're not that chick. You gave him a similar gift about five years ago, but you took those pictures by yourself and it was incredibly difficult and in hindsight you should have just called a friend to help you because you almost broke your neck and you didn't have great editing software and then you got them developed at Costco before they had a data breach and now hackers have your almost-nudie pics. Because of course they do.
  • Message your friend and ask if she has an opening for you. Offer her the use of your oddly slutty-looking-in-an-old-timey-saloon-whore-way computer chair for the weekend. Let her know that it is clean other than the graham cracker residue and applesauce that otherwise riddles the crime scene that is your house. Request that she find a way to incorporate The Beaver and some books (not necessarily together) because you read in bed and you just KNOW that secretly he thinks it is sexy that you are literate. Also, nothing says bow-chicka-wow-wow like seeing your wife with almost nothing on but your Great-Grandmother's fur coat, am I right? Maybe one day it will be a strategically-placed antique turkey roaster or your Mother in Law's Pfaltzgraff Winterberry salt and pepper shakers...but dishware inheritances are a LONG way off.

"How did we get dragged into this?"

  • Fill out the form that she emails you. Respect the fact that even though she is your friend, she is a legit businesswoman and you are supporting her by answering her questions honestly.

Q: "What features do you like about yourself? Is there anything you want me to focus on?"
A: "My eyebrows are on point and I have a bangin' underboob that I never get to show off."

Q: "If you are doing this for your partner, what features would they say they love about you?"
A: "Anything he can see before I say 'quit staring at my tits, you weirdo'."

Q: "Is there anything that you would like me to minimize, conceal, or otherwise de-emphasise?"
A:"Pretty sure you'll figure it out. Everything from my first double chin to my ankles, really."

When she asks if you have questions for her...any question at all, take the opportunity to ask what you really want to know:
"What book are you reading right now?"

  • Find a babysitter who will keep track of two-thirds of your heathens for a couple hours, keep them from killing each other, AND keep her mouth shut about babysitting at all.
  • Text that one friend who knows all your secrets and bully her into going with you. It will be good for her. It will be good for you.
  • Decide that you need to lose 37 pounds in the next 6 days.
  • Pick out something to wear. Hope you already have something suitable. Realize that your bras fall into two categories: nursing and sports. Do the math and realize you have not had a kid on your boob in like...three years. Do more math and realize you have not worked out in like...ten years. Begrudgingly go buy something new. But not "lingerie" because you have a weird body shape. And because realistically it would be the only time you would wear it. Decide that the underwear industry is significantly underestimating how big normal women's asses are. Decide one of the outfits is just going to have to be that old gray t-shirt you wear around the house all the time because it's comfy and he still thinks it's hot.
  • Realize that here in the middle of winter, your feet are disgusting. Begin grinding six pounds of dead skin off your heels. Gag at how utterly deplorable this is. I mean,'s absurd. Paint your toenails. Preferably right before bed so your sheets can smash a pattern into the polish that you believed (erroneously) was dry.
  • The day of your appointment realize you have gained two pounds instead of losing the 37.
  • Shave your legs. Note that this is the second time this winter you've had to shed your fur leg-pants (last time was your annual gyno appointment that screwed up no-shave November). Realize that you can't let your husband anywhere near your smooth legs when he gets home or he will assume you've been having an affair while he was gone.
  • Slather your body from head to toe with exotic oils and fragranced lotions your proprietary blend of vitamin E cream (for your stretch marks), olive oil (for all the dry patches), hydrocortisone (for your perpetual itchiness), oatmeal (same), and preparation H (in hopes that your entire body will shrink into oblivion).  Notice that it didn't work and you are still fat.
  • Slip into something that won't leave marks on your skin. Like the sweatpants with graphics he gave you for Christmas that you wouldn't be caught dead in public in. Those are good. And a sweatshirt. With no bra. This is basically the best outfit you will wear today. Wonder if she could just do all the pictures in this outfit.
  • Notice that the lightbulbs above the mirror are cranking out 900 million BTUs, and that you are sweaty. Run the fan to cool things down.
  • Now is definitely the best time to try "contouring" your face for the first time ever. Any color of makeup is fine. Except the one you have. Shit. It's completely orange. Your friend has some great YouTube tutorials and it just cannot be that complicated. Until she gets to the part where she says "If you're going to be photographed, make sure your powder isn't reflective." Or something. Decide that if all else fails, the photog can just default everything to black and white. Black and white is sexy. Decide the only people who contour in real life have names that rhyme with "Slim BarTrashyCan". Oh, and your friend. But she is a cosmetologist, so she knows WTF she's doing. But you? Today you feel like you are in the 5th grade and you're putting makeup on for the very first time without guidance, supervision, or permission. And you suck at it.
  • Rummage around for false eyelashes. These are recommended to really make your eyes "pop". Locate the only pair you own and attach them with glue. Blob the glue directly into your eyeball. Remember why you only wear them on Halloween. Which is also stupid because you only ever answer your own door, and the people on the other side are three feet tall and are only interested in your candy, not your eyes.
  • Regard your one beet-red eyeball. Wonder if your husband would be into a sexy pirate theme. Begin to question your friendship with the photographer. Begin to question your marriage with your husband. Shake it off and proceed with your hair.
  • Realize that although you have finally embraced your hair in its straight-ness (albeit a touch frizzy from all the work it's had done), your husband prefers curls. Do not curl your hair in the "new, trendy, healthier for the ends with a wand" manner which you have learned this year, but rather the clampy manner which fries your ends but which your husband recently pointed out in an old home video that he "loved" and that although you can't understand exactly what he's talking about, that he refers to as "woo-fy curls". This is about him. Know that the curls will fall out. Do it anyway.
  • Put on more makeup. More. More than that.
  • You look like a clown. A clown prostitute. Your friend shows up. She tells you that you look amazing. Your friend who knows all your secrets and your husband are the two people that will tell you you're pretty no matter what. Unless you look really shitty. Only the friend will tell you that.
  • Get in the car. Guesstimate where the hell your friend/photographer lives and realize you've never been to her house. Wing it. Second guess yourself when you do not see her truck in the driveway. Decide she either lives there or you're about to make a new friend who will immediately peg you for a clown prostitute who's lazy and wears sweatpants.
  • Spend what feels like the next 72 hours practicing a contortionist act for a circus that nobody wants to watch. Dutifully attempt what can only be achieved by an 11 year old Romanian Olympic gymnast or an 83 year old yoga master. Get 94 charlie horses. Decide you should probably go to the gym. Change your mind. Feel your brain turn to jello as simple instructions don't register. When your friend says things like, "Breathe out your mouth," be sure to confuse your mouth and your nose and keep your mouth shut like an idiot.
  • Stick your butt out. More. Further.
  • Stick your hip out. More. Further. Dislocate it altogether. You will need a new one in less than five years anyway.
  • Decide modeling is hard. Decide that Gigi Hadid really does have a real job.
  • Be thankful for those poses that just require you to lay there. Just laying there is your area of expertise. You just lay there like a professional. You can just lay there all day.
  • Return home to find the children unscathed. Drive the babysitter to her house but do not talk to her parents (who are your friends) because it is Noon on a Sunday and your face looks like an eight-dollar hooker for no apparent reason.
  • Go home and wash your face. Put your hair in a messy bun. Lounge around in your sweats and bingewatch Netflix until your husband gets home. Pretend you have had a boring day.
  • Keep up your ruse until you are delivered one little black book filled with glorious photos that you're convinced are just your head on someone else's body. Marvel at the editing skills that this woman possesses. Know that they make you want to take the photos you took yourself and torch them in the backyard firepit with the nine jugs of gasoline your husband stores in the shop. Decide against it because the jugs are heavy.
  • Gift your husband the book on a random Monday, like a week after Presidents' Day. Because you've been married for a hundred years and if you give it to him for Valentine's Day he will feel like an asshole because he got you nothing, because that's generally the type of relationship you have (which is just fine with you...really. No...really...Valentine's Day is a stupid, made up, commercialized holiday filled with pressure and candy). Wait for the look on his face when you give him the box. See that he is super excited to open a present and that he remarks, "A present? For me? I sure hope it's vodka." See his face change to slightly less smiling when he notices it is a book. Remember that he does not share your love of literature. See his face change again when he opens the book. That alone makes all the sweat, all the charlie horses, all the sneaking-around-shenanigans worth while. Notice that it is the same look he gives you when you have bed head and you need coffee badly. He loves you. He thinks you are beautiful. He is so proud that you are his. He shows you this by saying, "Holy shit. JACKPOT. Who took these? I know for sure it wasn't you this time. These are good."
  • Tell him he better find a SAFE place for that book because if anyone ever sees it you will murder him.
  • Let your lady friends know if they're on the fence about it, they definitely should take this leap. Do it once. Do it for you. It's too wonderfully ridiculous not to.

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