It’s getting to be my 5th wedding anniversary and it’s such a romantic time of year–it’s cold outside, a little snowy at times, candles, fireplaces, Christmas lights…sigh.
Before Girlfriend was born, my husband and I went on a romantic anniversary trip to a gorgeous inn in Vermont. I was 3 months pregnant, glowing like moonlight, and sooo in love with my husband and my tiny baby.
It was one of the happiest and most romantic times of my life.
So you know shit was about to go down, right?
Crissy doesn’t do romantic and happy.
The inn where we were staying offered a 5 course, candlelit gourmet dinner every night and so despite my wanting to throw up alloverthefuckingplace, I spent about an hour makeup-ing and hair-ing and dressing myself in a sexy black stretchy spaghetti strap dress complete with plunging back, embroidery and beads to wear down to try not to puke all over dinner.
I wore my hair high on top of my head in a carefully sculpted heavily sprayed up-do.
I thought I was the shit.
I knew I was the shit.
And I was all proud of my pregnant belly sticking out like fucking Britney Spears at the Starbucks. All I needed was a wad of gum, a badly waxed snatch, and a Caramel Macchiato with extra whipped cream and I would have nailed that shit.
And I was so proud of myself because I ate all my dinner and didn’t even throw up once.
And everyone knows that people on anniversary vacations are supposed to have plenty of porn star sex and so we thought we’d take a bath and maybe get it on like there’s no tomorrow relax in our room’s giant two person bathtub.
So we turned the water on and lit candles, placing them around the perimeter of the tub. We got in and yada, yada, yada, I was workin’ it like Miss Julia Roberts herself in the bath tub scene from Pretty Woman until all holy hell broke loose and suddenly Mister is on my side of the tub, screaming “fuck! Motherfucker! Fuck! Holy shit!” and pounding me with his fists and forcing my head under the water between his legs.
“WTF??? Is this a blow job request or is he trying to kill me!” and so I fought against him as hard as I could and I think I even scratched him and made him bleed and then it dawned on me.
My fucking hair was on fire.
I leaned back into one of the candles and with all the hairspray, well, the shit lit up like a tiki torch.
And the funny thing is that when it first caught, the room got noticeably brighter and I wondered why because I am a stupid asshole.
A couple of weeks later when I went to have my hair cut my hairdresser picked up a strand of my hair, looked up at me all confused like and said “um. I hate to ask this, but, were you on fire at some point?”
And then I told her the story.
And then she laughed.