Remember that scene in Pretty Woman when Edward and Vivian are in the giant bathtub in Edward’s hotel room and candles are lit and it’s all like, romantic and stuff?
Of course you do. It’s a tale as old as time, really, where a hooker meets a rich dude and she is so virtuous and beautiful with excellent dental habits and so totally brilliant at blow jobs that he falls in love with her after they take a bath together and she laughs at his jokes and it’s exactly what I thought of when I walked into the room of a romantic inn in Vermont where my husband and I were celebrating our wedding anniversary.
The bathtub in the room was enormous, and the huge picture window behind it overlooked a snowy field bordered by a snow covered forest.
Of course, this romanticness was all pre-children and pre-mortgage because the chances of actually doing that sort of thing now? are like, forget it.
I think the trip cost us about eight million dollars.
Anyways, we had quite the evening planned for ourselves and did I mention I was about four months pregnant with our first daughter at the time?
Well, I was and I was workin’ the glow and the little tummy and I was feeling like the prettiest princess in all the land, or at least in Vermont anyway.
I got myself dressed in a hot little black cocktail dress with all sorts of beads and crap on it and I wore my fuck me shoes and put on a ton of mascara and piled my hair high in a big mound of carefully constructed party curls which I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed relentlessly because my hair is a stupidbitchasshole and doesn’t hold a shape longer than a millisecond and that really pisses me off.
I get all kerfuffled about my hair.
So, I’m all pretty for my husband and our romantic night and I’m feeling awesome because my morning sickness had finally started going away. We had the most wonderful gourmet dinner and just about everything was dripping in butter and cheese and there’s pretty much nothing better than that, especially to someone who has spent the past four months throwing up at the thought of eating.
During dinner, I may or may not have ignored the whole pregnancy thing and had my first glass of wine in months, so I had a little wine buzz (don’t judge! The baby is fine now after the fourth round of surgery) and I was really looking forward to that bathtub and my plan to make pretend I was Vivian and my husband was Edward.
I was workin’ it, baby.
I was owning it.
As we left the restaurant it started to snow, and I totally suck at walking sexy in the fuck me shoes never mind walking sexy in fuck me shoes in the snow.
I sort of looked like a newborn giraffe trying to get to its feet, only the giraffe is way more graceful and so my husband had to carry me back to our room.
In the snow.
With twinkly white Christmas lights all around us.
You’re ready to barf right now, aren’t you?
Yeah. Me too. I hate the mushy shit.
JUST GET TO THE FUCKING PART, CRISSY!
So we get back to our room, and I got all nakey and put on the satiny little bathrobe thing I brought with me. I started the bath, put some candles around the tub, and lit them with the matches I found by the fireplace.
We got into the tub and I about flooded it my own self if you know what I mean in anticipation of the Water Aerobics that were about to take place. We were just starting with our hot and our heavy when I noticed that the lights got a little brighter.
Then a lot brighter. I chalked it up to a power surge and kept on touching him on his naughty parts, when suddenly my husband, out of nowhere, began swearing, hitting me in the head and pushing it under the water!
I fought him and I struggled and had someone been looking through that picture window at us, it probably looked like a scene from Jaws or something more than Pretty Woman with all the splashing and struggling going on, and I thought “Holy shit! This is it! He doesn’t want the baby and now he’s going to kill me! I’m too pretty to die! Help!”
“He wants a blow job and he wants it rough. Rrrrraaaawwwwrrrr!”
I clearly didn’t know what to make of this sudden turn of events and when he finally stopped punching and pushing my head in the water, I was all “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
And he was all “Your HEAD was on fire! I had to PUT IT OUT!”
So that’s why the room got so bright only seconds before he tried to kill me!
I must have gotten a little too close to a candle and the shit went up like, well, heavily sprayed hair in a candle.
And the smell of burning hair was just, like, oh my god you guys. It totally overpowered the scented candles and the sweet, peachy Victoria’s Secret bath stuff.
When we got out, my face was covered in running mascara and there were bits of my burned hair floating around in the tub.
Needless to say that my head catching on fire pretty much derailed the sexy time.
For the rest of the trip.
And when we got home, I had to call Shannon the Hairdresser immediately because after the fire, I looked a little bit like Helena Bonham Carter and not in a fun, Bohemian crazy lady way, but in a Bride of Frankenstein on crystal meth kind of way.
And she inspected the ends of my hair and looked up at me in the mirror and said “I hate to ask this but, were you on fire at some point?’
So then I told her this story.
And now she tells it to everyone.
And so will you because it happened to someone else and that makes it fucking funny.