Last night I emailed a naked photo of myself to my husband.

Before you get the wrong idea about me and think I often email naked pics of myself to Boo, let me stop you. I don’t. I prefer to tease him by telling him I’m going to send him a naked picture of myself and then switch it out for a grotesque image of some chick with boobs that hang down to her ankles and more facial hair than grizzly bear. He tends to get annoyed (and disgusted) by this bait and switch, but I like to think it keeps things interesting.

At the very least, it’s demonstrating to him that no matter how bad I look naked, he could always be hitched to someone who looks worse.

So far, it’s worked wonders at keeping our love life healthy.

But yesterday, much to my husband’s surprise and delight, the pictures were actually nude photos of my jiggly white arse.

“Holy crap! You look beautiful!” he crowed when he called after viewing them for the first time.

“Jeez Boo. Don’t sound so shocked. My ego is fragile.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just when you said you were posing naked for that charity calendar, I somehow pictured you fully clothed, wearing a burlap sac and a paper bag over your head. It must be a defense mechanism upon learning your wife is going to show her bits to people she’s not married to.”

“The human mind is a powerful tool,” I laughed.

“You look really nice. Like a classy porn star.”

“I can cross that off my life list now. I always wanted to look like a classy whore.”

“I can honestly tell you, I don’t think I’ve loved you more than I do right now.”

“You wouldn’t have said that if you saw me after the shoot.”

“Why’s that?”

“Boo, I was naked in a farm field in early evening. I was bug bait. My boobs are still full of skeeter bites and for days after I was scratching my arse cheeks like a two bit hooker does after a busy Friday evening. All that and I sat on a thistle.”

(I also may have trespassed and broke a law or two in order to get the photo. But let’s not talk about that.)

“You know, I always knew your blog would lead you to new things. But I think I hoped it would be for new things requiring you to keep your clothes on.”

“Heh. Look at the bright side Boo. Think of your family’s faces when I can honestly tell them my job is posing naked for the Internets.”

And that, right there, is what I like to call the upside of life.

Heh.

A big hearty thank you to Kristina at Gingerlily Boudoir for not blushing when I accidentally flashed her my cooter as I swatted the bugs away. Not only are you a true professional, but you take mighty fine pictures of slightly overweight, pale, white girls wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots.  Also, a round of applause to Nicole for her special efforts of painting me up to look like a true porn star.

You can purchase the Blogger Body Calendar here. All proceeds after printing costs are being donated to the National Eating Disorders Association.

A charity totally worth getting bit in the arse for.

I’d like to take a minute to thank each and everyone of you who read my previous blog post and helped donate to make my young friend, Tanner’s, final dream come true. Thanks to Scott Stratten and each of you we were able to raise over 26 000 dollars in 30 hours.

Tanner will be able to die at home now. And that’s the best gift anyone could have given him and his family.

I was originally supposed to be in New York to join Tanner and his family and celebrate his life while wearing a tutu but it didn’t work out. However, I am a woman of my word and promised I would still wear my tutu and think of Tanner while I’m homebound in Alberta.

For the record, a tutu stops looking attractive on anyone once you hit the age of 12. Or weigh more than 50 pounds.

My children are still laughing at me.

Oh go on and giggle. I know if would. If it weren’t me looking like a giant elephant in tulle.

There’s shorts under that tutu. I swear.

The cowboy boots really add something, no?

If I never see another tutu again, it will be too soon.

Turns out I enjoy sticking my head through wooden cutouts and making faces.

When I tell people my middle name, they laugh. Not with me but most definitely at me. I take comfort in the fact my name could have been worse. It could’ve been Elmo.

I have a birthmark on the back of my thigh which is the exact shape of the country of Italy. I sincerely believe this is responsible for my shoe fetish.

I collect watches but I never wear them. The hair on my wrist is too long and I’m tired of yelping when the watch rips the hairs out.

I’m scared of cows. This can prove troublesome when one is married into a cattle farming family.

I call my husband Boo on my blog because it was his childhood nickname, bestowed onto him by an older sibling.

I hate parsnips.

I’m tone deaf and vocally challenged yet I love karaoke.

I once filled a dozen Barbies doll heads with ketchup and then used the dolls for target practice to sight in a rifle.

There are three nipple hairs on my right boob that only sprout whenever my husband is home for the weekend. I’m debating on letting them grow and seeing if I can put beads on them just to freak my husband out.

I did an interview for The Daily Femme and you can read more about me here. (Go read it. You won’t be disappointed in my jackassery.)

Random Fact Monday has been brought to you by holiday Monday and my ego.

You are welcome.

Care to share a random tidbit about yourself so I don’t feel all alone in my quirkiness?