Mrs. Claus : galerie

Turns out today is Left-Handers Day — and Santa's always been a righty, which means he's never once noticed what my left hand gets up to when he's not looking. Want to see what it's doing right now, naughty elf? 💋

The eclipse finally swallowed the sun and for three perfect minutes the whole North Pole went dark — dark enough to make a woman forget she's standing on a rooftop in nothing but an open robe. Come watch the corona with me before the light comes back, naughty elf? 💋

The Perseids peak in two nights and the North Pole's endless sun won't let me see a single streak — so I drove south until the sky went properly black. First shooting star I catch, I'm making a wish Santa would never approve of. Care to guess what it is, dirty reindeer? 💋

Santa always said the workshop roof was for maintenance only — but he also said the Arctic would stay frozen forever, and here I am in a bikini catching rays on top of his precious toy factory. Thirty years of parkas and now I've got tan lines for the first time in my life. Care to come up and put sunscreen on my back, naughty elf? 💋

Three days until the eclipse finally kills this endless daylight, and I'm already out here bare on the snowbank rehearsing what I'll do when nobody can watch. Want a preview of what Mommy Claus does in the dark, dirty reindeer? 💋

Some town called Bethlehem is throwing a whole summer festival without a single candy cane — so I came to my wrapping room to show them how it's done, and my clothes fell off somewhere around the third spool of ribbon. Want to come untangle me, naughty elf? 💋

Santa locks the workshop on Saturdays but always forgets the back door — and I've been wanting to feel this workbench against my bare skin for months. Come join me before he remembers his keys, creamy snowball? 💋

Those Hallmark boys playing Santa don't know the first thing about what a real Mrs. Claus needs — but they're pretty enough to keep my hands busy while the real one snores upstairs. Care to join me for the next feature, creamy snowball? 💋

Thirty years running this workshop and I'm still the one climbing the shelves for the good ribbon — Santa's too busy sleeping off his cocoa. Didn't expect to catch me doing manual labor, did you?

Even the North Pole is melting and I can't keep my hands to myself — thirty years of eternal winter and suddenly I'm sweating like I'm on that beach vacation Santa keeps promising. Tell me, creamy snowball — does the heat make you reckless too? 💋