So I decided that I wanted to spice up my marriage.
I always hear that dressing up is a big hit for men. So I greeted Tom when he got home from work in this:
Complete with a curtsy. Which, okay, I'm sort of glad that curtsies aren't really done anymore. Because I gave an awkward curtsy. I nearly lost my balance and landed flat on my face. Then my skirt would have flopped up and I'd have exposed my chemise.
I'm joking. I did not have a chemise on.
But anyhow, yes, that would be my Anne Boleyn costume. I guess it doesn't HAVE to be an Anne Boleyn costume but that's just what it was called over at BuyCostumes.com.
It's no secret that I've always been facinated with the Tudor-era. You know, Henry the Eighth? The guy who had all those wives?
I decided to buy the costume as a surprise.
And a surprise it was for Tom. When he walked through the door and saw me go down into a curtsy his first words were, "What's going on in here?"
As though I were having some costume party or something. I mean, I guess I could understand why he'd think that. It's not everyday that a woman approaches you in sixteenth century garb. Unless you're at a Renaissance Fair or something. Or, you know, Medieval Times.
I got up from my curtsy and smoothed out my dress.
"Do you like it?" I asked and fluttered my eyelashes at him like I was a fair maiden.
Tom eyed me up and down as though he were at a loss for words. Maybe he was.
So I went down into another curtsy and said in what I hoped was a sultry tone, "How was work today, Sire?"
Tom wrinkled his nose. "Amber. I've got to say, I've had a long day and I'm confused. Oh, and please don't call me Sire."
You know, I bet there are thousands of men out there who wouldn't mind being called Sire for a day. I was about to point this out but then Tom said,
"Just an FYI, men like their wives to dress up in things like tiny nurse costumes. Or a school girl costume. Not..." Tom gestured wildly in my direction. "...this."
Well, excuse me!
Maybe I was going for originality. Don't I get points for that?
I just curtsied again. Because what I wanted to say was, "You're being a total asshole who smells like feet." Because his feet DO stink when he comes home from work since they've been in boots all day. But I bit my tongue. Because I was trying to play the part of a demure woman.
You know, it really would have sucked to be a woman back in Henry VIII's time. Because they really weren't meant to speak. Basically, a man wanted a woman to be arm candy. Oh, and to pop out a bunch of sons.
Also, and this really sucks, a woman was rarely allowed to pick her own husband. Her family usually did it for her. So the woman would just pray that she wasn't married off to the old fogey who lived across the Moor.
"Please stop doing that!" Tom's voice cut through my thoughts.
I peeked up from my cursty. "Stop what?" I wondered in what I hoped was a sweet voice.
I wonder what my dowry would have been? Maybe a lot of money, perhaps? In reality, it probably would have been cows. And maybe some sheep sprinkled in for fun. Maybe even a chicken because eggs rock.
"Curtsying! Stop Curtsying!" Tom said and then plopped down on the couch.
I walked over and settled down on his lap. I'm not sure if this was what women would do back then. It probably was frowned upon. But oh well.
"Isn't my dress pretty though?" I asked. "Surely it could be as nice as a nurse costume?"
Tom made a face. "Not really. There's like...yards and yards of fabric. There's like two feet of it hiding your boobs. And..I'd feel like I were playing Where's Waldo to get to your--"
I jumped off then. "You stop right there. That's not proper speak towards a lady!" I even wagged my finger at him.
Tom sighed. He was probably wishing for a normal wife. One who would put on a school girl uniform and do some dance where hips are swayed wildly or something. But I'm sorry, I can't move like that. I could try but let's be honest, when I dance it looks as though I'm trying hard to get an ice cube that has fallen down my back out.
"You do look pretty," Tom spoke up. He was probably worried that he had hurt my feelings. "It's just...it's different."
I took a seat beside him on the couch. "Maybe you could get a Henry the Eighth costume!" I said brightly.
I had already worked out the scenerio in my head. We could have Henry the Eighth days and Tom would be all, "Give me sons!" and I'd be all, "I gave you one!" and Tom would be all, "Bring the ale!" and I'd be all, "Yes, Sire!"
It could be so much fun!
But Tom, boring old Tom, rudely went, "No way."
"What about for Halloween?" I begged, clasping my hands together.
Tom shook his head firmly. "No. Way."
"When we renew our vows then?" I pressed.
Tom looked flabbergasted. Then he exploded with, "NO! I will not ever wear a Henry the Eighth costume! Never!"
Well, this stinks.
I had already had a wedding ceremony in my mind, too. Tom would be dressed in a royal blue ensemble and okay, he'd probably be upset over the codpiece which basically held in a man's...well..package..but then he would brighten up when he'd realize that he got to carry a sword.
What man wouldn't want to carry around a sword?
He might fuss and whine about the tights but really, he has nice legs and I'd promise him that it would be okay.
Then all our guests would be in sixteenth century clothing and we'd lift up our ale cups and shout, "Huzzah!" and there would be jousting.
When has anyone seen jousting at a wedding?
Never, I bet.
Our wedding would be fantastic.
But no. Tom had to go and crush my dreams.
He probably just wants to have a traditional wedding. Well, technically a renewal of our vows. We've been married for seven years and would like to renew our vows at our ten year mark.
Tom probably just wants some boring old church wedding where I'd be in a long white gown even though it's obvious that I'm not pure anymore. And Tom would be in his Air Force uniform and we'd repeat what the Priest told us to say and I'd be thinking, "Lalala this would have been SO much fun had there been jousting."
"You're no fun," I told Tom and then flounced off. And nearly tripped on my dress that really needs to be hemmed. But I pretended that I meant to stumble and then marched upstairs.
Then I realized I had to use the bathroom and I realized, crap, how am I meant to use the bathroom with all this fabric around me?
I suppose I could have taken it off but I never seem to form logical thoughts when I'm annoyed. And annoyed I was. I mean, Tom wasn't even giving the Henry the Eighth costume a chance!
So I wandered over to the toilet and sort of lifted the dress around me. And then, before I went, I wondered how I was meant to, erm, wipe if I was holding up my gown.
"TOM!" I shrieked. "TOM!"
How on Earth do people getting married use the bathroom when they have poofy dresses? Do they just not drink during the reception? I wouldn't know. Tom and I got married in a courthouse and I was seven months pregnant and wearing an ugly (black) pregnancy outfit.
Tom appeared a few minutes later. He gave me a bemused look when he saw me hunched over the toilet with my dress poofed around me.
"I need to pee," I explained sheepishly.
"Take off the dress," Tom replied knowingly and turned to leave.
"TOM!" I yelped. "I can't now. Since I'm hunched over the toilet my body is all set to...go.."
It was true. My bladder was starting to feel really uncomfortable and I did not want to mess up my new dress.
Tom gave another one of his famous sighs and even rolled his eyes up to the Heavens. He was probably silently asking the Big Guy why he had been saddled with such a crazy wife. Then he walked over and took a hold of the material and...kept looking at me.
"Um," I said. "Please turn away. I can't...you know..when you're looking at me."
"Are you kidding me? You ask me for help and now you're dictating where I can and cannot look? Are you KIDDING--" Tom began to rant.
Tom ended up looking away but he was muttering under his breath. I caught the word "insane" and I did not appreciate it.
Then when I was finished Tom went to head back downstairs but I asked if he could please take some pictures of me.
"I guess," he grumbled.
Tom, I love him, but he takes the most unflattering pictures. He always takes pictures when he's sitting down which makes it looks as though I have more than one chin. And I feel like I have to pull his teeth to get him to take more than one photo. He snaps one picture and is all, "I'm done!" But he doesn't comprehend that I'm not Heidi Klum and that it takes a couple of shots to get a good one.
So he took this:
And then the dress came with a hood which I tried to get on. It was not working for me though.
The dress is not figure flattering. That's a size small but it still ran huge. It looked like I had Matt Roloff stuffed up my dress or something.
But I still like it.
I wish one of the costume designers from the show The Tudors would loan me a dress. I wonder if I should write them a letter and ask? But then, I think all the actresses who wear the dresses are like a size 0 or something. Which, I can't assure you, I am not.