We had family portraits taken this weekend.  Like, real portraits, outdoors, by a real photographer.  It’s been four years since we’ve done this.  Now I remember why.  I was thinking of writing up a huge narrative about his most dismal experience, but I think a timeline will suffice:

  • 2:00      I make sure each child is showered and mostly clean
  • 2:30      I take my shower, adding rarely used ‘product’ to my hair to make it silky shiny
  • 3:00      I want sexy curls for my pictures so I begin the laborious job of curling my hair with the curling iron that gets hotter than satan’s butt.
  • 3:40     The curls are in, time to let them set while I do makeup… but OOOH, I have time to do a teeth whitening strip, yes, yes I do.
  • 3:55     Make up is done.  Time to finger out the curls.  OH MY LIMA BEANS, I went overboard, I look like Shirley Temple.  Brush them out.  NOW I HAVE AN AFRO.  What to do?  Quick, I have to rewash it.  But my makeup is done… and it’s almost time to take out my whitening strip…
  • 4:05     Hair has been meticulously washed, upside down, not spoiling the makeup, and I am now foaming at the mouth like Cujo with rabies; rinse out the mouth… damn cheap store brand whiteners!  I still look like I live on coffee. 
  • 4:20     While madly trying to redry and restyle my hair I scream like a wild woman to the family to get dressed. Both male members of my family are making it clear that the coordinated outfits I spent enormous amounts of money on are not up to their fashion standards.  Nothing can beat holey t-shirts and ages old denim, I know, now put the frickin clothes on! 
  • 4:25      I end up with hair that looks like rodents built a nest then gave birth in it and my attempt at a ‘smokey eye’ has yeilded more of a ‘battered wife black eye’ kind of look. 
  • 4:30     Time to load up in the van.  Boy Child has managed to lose one shoe.  Shouldn’t it be in the same vicinity as the other shoe?  I mean, does he take them off while literally running through the house?  Yes, yes he does.
  • 4:35      We are heading to location.  Everyone is grumpy and I am no treat myself.  I’m suddenly remembering my initial thought that we ought to just stick with the lovely generic model pictures that come inside the frames when you buy them. 
  • 5:00     We are at our ‘spot’ and the camera starts clicking… what was that?  Oh, that pained expression on my son’s face… That is pre-puberty angst, and anger, and hate all attempting to rise as one oozing adolescent boil in the next few years.  Never mind his sour expression, just take pictures of the super-fake-over-the-top-cheesy grin of the 6 year-old that suddenly is smiling like a drunk after a tequila shots.
  • 5:30     We are finally poised to take the perfect family photo and the 6-year-old Girl Child yells, “WAIT, I’m not ready.”  She whips a tube of shiny lipgloss out of her pocket, takes the time of a pop star to apply it, and then smacking her now gooey, pink, drippy lips lets us carry on.
  • 5:45     The kids are done listening to any direction and are acting as photogenic as a baboon’s butt.  The Voice of Reason Husband is reminding me that the World Series Game will need his full attention soon and all I can think about is how to figure out the  lethal dose of antihistimines, because that’s all I have in my purse.
  • 6:00     After almost an hour of the children fighting over who gets to stand by dad and who HAS to stand by mom, the photographer gives up and drives to the nearest tavern to drink away any memories of our family; or at least, that’s the way I imagined it. 

We did make it home in time for the World Series game.  I haven’t heard back about our pictures though.  I’m sure our poor photographer is trying to think of the nicest way to tell me that we ought to stick with pictureless Christmas Cards.  I did enjoy an adult beverage that night.  I’m pretty sure that four years won’t be long enough for me to decide to try this again. 

Be sure to check your mailbox often for our Christmas Card.  It might just have a picture of  me in my padded cell.



One thought on “The picture you see is no portrait of me…

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