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The Photo Shoot

Saturday morning found me heading north on I-5 by 8:30 a.m.  I needed to be in Ballard by 10:00 a.m.  According to Mapquest, the journey would take an hour and twelve minutes and I did not want to be late. 

Traffic through Seattle was light, despite the pockets of fog which obscured the city skyline.  I concentrated on staying in the correct lane, which is tricky with all the sudden “Exit Only” signs as you hurtle along the freeway. 

I found the house (“last of three mid-century brick homes on the right”) easily, but since it was only 9:30 a.m., I retraced my route and stopped at a Fred Meyer where I bought a People magazine and gum.  By the time I returned to the house, it was 9:59 a.m. 

I walked up the steps and knocked on the door.  Actually, Kathryn may have opened it before I knocked, come to think of it.  Both she and Tara welcomed me as if I were a friend, not simply the subject of the photo shoot they’d been hired to do.  They both had shoulder length brown hair, teeth that would make any dentist proud and wide-open smiles.

I felt at ease, which surprised me.  I kept waiting to feel nerves, to blurt out something stupid, to develop a facial tic.  But I didn’t.  Kathryn suggested we first look at the clothing she bought and so I followed her down a short hallway to a bedroom.  The bed had an array of blue tops and two pairs of pants, one gray with pin-striping and one khaki.  She draped two shirts over the pants and asked me to try them on.  “They want to show off your figure,” she said.  

I joked that I’d brought industrial strength undergarments, so she laughed.  It was a good thing I’d brought them, let’s just say.

So, we decided on an outfit.  (Rather, they decided.  I just followed their suggestions.) 

Then, Tara began her magic.  We sat facing each other while she smeared and dabbed and painted on my face.  I couldn’t help but notice her toothpaste-commercial perfect teeth.  She wore little make-up, if any, but had a dazzling smile and a zest for her job. 

And so we made small-talk for an hour and a half while she concealed and enhanced and made me look natural. 

Tara mentioned she was 44 years old, though I never would have guessed that from looking at her.  She told me that she’d worked in road construction and as a model earlier in her life.  Kathryn chatted, too, while she set up lights and a backdrop and checked settings on her camera.  She occasionally disappeared into the kitchen to fuss over her elderly, immobile dog.

I am sure I was just a job to them, but I savored the chance to glimpse into these lives so different from mine, and yet parallel in some ways.  (We live in the same area.  We are similar ages.  We’ve found work we’re passionate about.  We are all mothers.) 

The worst part, of course, was standing in front of the camera, trying to look natural, happy and photogenic.  Kathryn would crack a joke or I’d relay a story or Tara would grin her perfect smile and I’ve laugh and the camera would click.  Then, “okay, relax left leg . . . chin forward and down . . . can you clasp your hands behind your back?”  Or they’d both rush at me to smooth my hair or fiddle with my pant legs or pull up my sleeves ever so slightly. 

Oh!  And the funny this is that I didn’t wear my newly purchased mid-rise, boot-cut, lighter-washed jeans or my new boots . . . because they were brown.  I wore Kathryn’s black boots which happened to be my size.

So, I tried to grin.  Kathryn stood on a little stool, so I told her about having my son stand on a ladder to take a picture of me from above so I’d look thinner.  (She wore a wide black belt with a sturdy silver buckle around her size-8 jeans and a black shirt.  Bare feet.  I doubt she’s ever insisted someone stand on a ladder to take a picture of her so she looks thinner!)

I stood in her living room, a clutter-free, bright, cheery room with a giant photographer’s light on my right and a fill-light reflector (I think that’s what it’s called) on my left.  Pinkish rug under my feet, faintly Asian themed.  Luminous wood floors, not a hint of dust anywhere.

Our lives intersected in those three hours and then, she was done.  I changed back into my baggy black shirt and lavender sweater and Gap jeans and thanked them.  As we said good-bye, Tara said, “You are so pretty,” which I took with a grain of salt since she’d told me earlier about seeing beauty in whatever is before her.  (Which is a lovely way to view the world, I have to say.)

All in all, I have to say that meeting both Kathryn, the photographer, and Tara, the make-up artist, was a great pleasure and I’m not just saying that because I told them I write a blog and they may someday find this.  Honestly, spending a Saturday morning with strangers in a Ballard brick home was fun.  Who’d have guessed?

(She showed me one picture in her digital camera and I felt revolted, but perhaps they’ll Photoshop me and I’ll be unrecognizable and as pretty as Tara said.  And I will tell you where you can see those pictures, too, at a later date.  I promise.)

Preparing To Be Shot

I am going to talk about the topics I touched on last night . . . but not tonight.

Earlier tonight, I went shopping for jeans, a blue shirt and boots–with a heel!–to wear with the jeans.  This shopping excursion went against everything I stand for.  For one, I started at Nordstroms where I actually accepted the salesgirl’s offer of help.  I told her what I needed and she helped me pick out six pairs of jeans to try on.  (Normally, I shop the clearance rack at Marshall’s.)

I’m just glad that the jeans that looked the best weren’t the ones that cost $158!  I settled on a baby blue cable-knit sweater after trying on a dozen shirts in various shades of blue.  I purchased clothing at full-price.  (Ack!)

Then, I went to Macy’s where I ignored my instincts to pick comfortable shoes, flat shoes, shoes with rubber soles . . . and bought a pair of boots, kind of like these.  I bought them specifically to go with the long jeans.  (At least they were twenty bucks off.)

Why?  Good question.  On Saturday, I have a photo shoot (with a “blue color palette.”)  That’s why I was desperate to get my hair cut and highlighted . . . I will be posing for pictures.  This freaks me out, especially in light of this post by Quinn Cummings who recently endured a photo shoot.  I have actively avoided cameras for the past fifteen years, but I am willingly driving to Seattle and wearing heels on boots to have my picture taken.

Clearly, I’ve lost my mind.

Also, I’ve lost 48.4 pounds as of today. 

When you have nothing to say, pass the microphone to someone else.

It’s 11 p.m. and the reason I haven’t written anything yet today is that I really have nothing to write about.  No wasps have stung.  I haven’t solved the puzzle of “fling, flang, flung.”  And for that matter, why can’t we say, “The wasp stang me?”  Huh?  Tell me that!

By the way, I wonder what the difference is between a wasp and a yellow jacket?  The television news just reported that a swarm of yellow jackets stung a bunch of high school seniors who were posing for a class picture today.  A student unwittingly stepped on a nest.  Perhaps we have yellow jackets in our yard, not wasps.

Now, if you are looking for something more interesting to read by someone who is way smarter than me and about ten times more adventurous, you ought to go check out Stacy’s blog, Smoov.  She also takes amazing pictures, works full-time, attends school (perpetually), and has a genius pre-teen girl and darling twin boys.  Go and read her blog . . . but don’t forget to come back. 

By then, maybe I’ll actually discuss something of substance, like the intolerance of non-Christians towards Christians I keep noticing or my recent realization that I mistrust most people or the fact that these days, if you are a virgin (or were a virgin when you married) you are considered to be some sort of freak. 

Meanwhile, go visit Stacy and tell her I sent you.  (She’s one of the original women who started blogging with me three years ago.)   Stacy rocks. 

Untitled Just Because

Today the half-day of school was canceled because the power was out at the school.  However, we had power here at home.  So, all my boys had the day off and they spent their free time bickering, arguing and annoying one another and thus, annoying me.

I made the 13-year old twins watch “Schoolhouse Rock” on DVD as their “school” for the day.  And later, they chose to watch a Disney movie, “Robin Hood,” for awhile.  My daughter spent most of her time this morning outside, chasing and running and pretending.  Despite the fifty-something degree temperatures, she refused to wear even a jacket.  This child does not get cold.

I spent my day pondering the absence of the word “flang” in the English language.  If you have “sing, sang, sung,” why don’t you have “fling, flang, flung”?  I cannot let this conundrum go.

Stream of Consciousness, Mom-Style

I should say something.  Or answer some of the 151 email in my box.  (Is “email” the plural of “email”?  Or would it be “emails”?  Stuff to ponder.) 

Or I could work on one of the Bible-time costumes I’m in charge of creating for the Saturday night extravaganza.  I came up with something unbelievably creative to wear–you’ll just have to wait so it doesn’t spoil the surprise–and also, my husband will be wearing something spiffy, but I have to create both of them.  (Get to, have to, what’s the difference?)

But not today.

My husband’s making dinner tonight and furthermore, he bought a blender so he could make the boys milkshakes for dessert.  When he slid the box onto the kitchen counter, I flung open (fling?  flang?  flung?) the cupboard door and said, “But we have an awesome blender, right there!”  An Oster, for the record, a shiny silver one.  He said, “The boys said ours doesn’t work and I said, “It does work!  It works perfectly!”  And he said, “Dear, don’t spoil our fun,” and “The kids are only home for a few short years,” and I shut up.

Now, we own two blenders.  Too bad we don’t drink Margaritas. 

Um, so, earlier today, just after I finished posting on my other blog, my daughter began banging on the patio door, hysterical and screaming.  I jumped to the door in one giant leap and opened it . . . she was yelling about her friend who had a bee in his shoe and he ambled and sobbed, apparently incoherent with terror. 

“Is it still in there?” I asked.

He shook his head, clutched a rock and drooled as he cried louder.  I sat him on the stair, intending to take off his shoes to check for a sting and found two wasps clinging to the crotch of his pants.  I swept them off and yanked him away from the stairs because another wasp dive-bombed us.  My daughter, meanwhile, is unharmed, yet is shrieking with sympathy terror.  The boy continued to scream.

I shoved my daughter inside, then pulled the boy in and closed the door.  I said again, “Is the bee in your shoe?”  And he said, “No!” but pointed to his waist.  I said, “Did it sting you there?” and he nodded and a bit of drool dripped down.  I pulled the waistband down for a good look and there was a live wasp, crawling out of his pants.

I screamed, my daughter screamed louder, the boy cried out in greater fear.  I opened the door and dragged him out, closing my daughter inside.  I pulled his clothes off, leaving only his Spiderman underpants.  Then back inside the house.

I was examining the place where he was stung and asked him if his mouth itched.  (He’s a very allergic kid and I was afraid he’d have a bad reaction.)  The phone rang, so I answered and with racing heart, began telling my husband what had happened.  We were still all breathless from the excitement.

And then I felt a sting on the top of my foot.  I said, “I just got stung!”  I knew immediately, even though I had never before been stung in my 41 years on this earth.  I was wearing black, wool, plush scuff-type slippers, so I began to smash my right foot on top of my left foot to kill the wasp which had to be inside my slipper.  Then I opened the door, kicked my slippers outside and peeled off my sock.

Ouch!  That hurt!  A wasp must have burrowed into my slipper while I was outside flicking other wasps off the boy.

When I took him to the kitchen to get a band-aid (a cure-all for every sort of injury if you are four years old), I found Solarcaine, so sprayed a little on my foot to see whether it would numb the pain.  It helped a bit, so I prepared to spray the boy’s stung spot and my daughter burst into fresh, loud sobs–“DON’T SPRAY HIM!  DON’T SPRAY HIM!”  She thought it would hurt.

The boy began to cry afresh, too.

But I sprayed him.  He assured her it didn’t hurt.

(I just heard a neighbor say to my boys, “Are you going to come to my birthday party?”  My boy says, “When?” and the neighbor says, “Today!” and something about Chuck-E-Cheese’s.  Uh, hello?  No advanced warning?  No.  I don’t think so.)

My foot still hurts.  Perhaps I ought to start drinking Margaritas.

A Movie Review

Dear Lady in the Front Row with the Baby,

Don’t feel bad about your baby who cried three times during the 123 minute showing of Marie Antoinette.  I felt like crying, too, because that was the most boring movie of all time. 


Annoyed in the back row

 *  *  *

Dear Lady to the Right Who Made So Much Noise Snacking That I Thought Perhaps You Didn’t Realize You Were at a Movie and Not At Home,

You are an idiot.  I would have told you so, too, had I not feared that you perhaps carry a concealed weapon.  But, honestly, you inconsiderate lout, why must you rattle your candy and fondle the wrapper louder than an attacking rattlesnake?  Are you hearing impaired?  Or just stupid?


Miss Manners

*  *  *

Dear Sofia Coppola,

I hate, hate, hate the soundtrack for your dull movie, Marie Antoinette.  Perhaps I am not your demographic, but that does not matter to me.  I hate it.  Your movie’s costumes, however, were pretty, but satin alone does not an interesting movie make.  I want my money back.


The 41-year old Housewife in the Suburbs

Brains or Hearts?

Four-year old Grace and her friend, a boy her age, sat at the kitchen table, snacking and chatting.  I stood at the sink, washing dishes.  I heard her say, “I don’t have a brain!”

I looked over and said, “Yes, you do!  Everyone has a brain!”

“No,” she said, matter of fact.  “Girls do not have brains.”

Taken aback, I said, “Girls do not have brains?”

“No,” she continued.  “Girls have hearts.  Boys have brains.”

“Do boys have hearts?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

I chided, “Well, really, everyone has a heart and everyone has a brain.”

“No,” she insisted.  “Girls have hearts.  Boys have brains.”

My girl is working to set back the feminist movement one hundred years.

This startles me because I have always viewed myself as a Smart Girl.  I’ve never ever considered myself beautiful or kooky or adventurous.  I found my niche in life early on, possibly when I wrote and illustrated my own books about seals when I was a first grader.  Or maybe when I won all the classroom spelling bees as a fifth grader.  Or maybe when I was the first girl “to the moon,” when I learned my multiplication tables before everyone else in third grade.

My most-loved joke in college was when I called myself an airhead because I knew I was anything but.  My friend, Lisa, and I wore neon pink sweatshirts that proclaimed, “Airhead Alert!” which never failed to crack me up.  It was the ultimate sarcastic joke.

If I were cast in a movie, I’d be the sidekick, the smart friend in sensible shoes with good ideas.  That’s just who I am.  A smart girl.  The girls with brains.

And now, I have this funny daughter who has proclaimed that girls don’t have brains.  Girls have hearts.  I can’t even imagine how she came up with this bit of whimsy.  I do know better than to argue with her because you can’t argue with someone who has no brain.

The Three Deans

Today, amidst the normal routines of my life and the demands of my children, I thought of an old high school classmate, a boy who was a year behind me in school.  We grew up in the same church and attended the same youth group.  For awhile, this boy had two friends named “Dean” . . . and since his name was also “Dean,” this was noteworthy.

The three Deans and my friend, Shelly, and I spent a lot of time together.  I remember playing pool at Shelly’s house while the soundtrack to “Grease” played in the background.  We had innocent fun together, unless you count the time the three Deans invited Shelly and I to a movie.  My parents were strict but they trusted me.  So, when I returned home from the movie and my stepmom asked, “What movie did you see?” I said, “Oh, the Pirates of Penzance.” 

That’s the only lie I remember telling as a teenager.  The three Deans actually took us to see Friday the 13th in 3D.  My parents would not have approved and honestly, I would have agreed with them–who needs to see an eyeball flying towards them while wearing 3D glasses?

Anyway, so I was thinking about the three Deans today.  I graduated from high school a year before they did and lost track of them.  I didn’t come home from college during the summers at all.  Even my closest friends fell away when I moved two thousand miles from home.  

Today, I did a Google search on “Dean Ullestad,” the tall, lanky, blond Dean from my childhood and adolescence.  That’s how I found out that he’s dead.

I found a Memoriam page on the 1994 high school reunion site.  Dean’s picture is posted, alongside three other deceased classmates.

I could not be more shocked.  I want to call someone, to email someone, to Google something to find answers, but I don’t know where to begin to uncover this news which is at least a decade old.

Other than that, my day was completely unremarkable.  Stumble upon tragedy.  Cook dinner.  Life interspersed with death.  I will never get used to it.

Pushing the Pause Button

I’m standing in a little square pause in my day, waiting.  Oh, the chicken is sizzling and I hear little footsteps upstairs.  But the light is waning.  The glow from the light-bulbs seems brighter as the day fades away.

I pause.  I’m waiting. 

I’m waiting for kids to come home and kids to go home.  I’m waiting for my husband to return, change into shorts and turn on the news.  I’m waiting for the big hand on the clock to move ahead two giant spaces indicating it’s time for Judo.  I’m waiting to change into my exercise clothes and to run myself into a lather.  I’m waiting for Judo to end, for kids’ bedtime to arrive and for darkness to settle over our house.

And under the surface of all that waiting, I’m waiting for the weekend to arrive, waiting for the month to end, waiting for the New Year, waiting for kids to grow, waiting for everything to change while hoping things stay the same.

The buzzer rings.  Dinner’s done.  Kids wander into the kitchen.  Time to move from this pause and step forward.

Notes from an Overachiever

I’m feeling pretty good about myself (and not just because I reached a new low weight).  No, I’m feeling fine because I have accomplished these things today:

1)  Prepared homemade spaghetti sauce which bubbles in the Crockpot as we speak.

2)  Supervised the boys’ schooling without once threatening to send them to public school.  (Okay, only once.  But still.)

3)  Changed the sheets on my bed.  Flannel is my friend.

4)  Washed, dried and folded four loads of laundry.

5)  Cleaned up the kitchen.  Again.

6)  Allowed three small children to paint with tempera paint and even labeled their finished projects in pencil for archival purposes. 

7)  Had a telephone conference with my supervising public school teacher.

8)  Coordinated schedules with my husband and subsequently made an appointment for a haircut, and different appointment with my colorist who makes housecalls for another time.

I needed these appointments quite desperately, which explains why I agreed to an 8:15 a.m. appointment on Saturday for my haircut and a 7:30 p.m. appointment for the highlights on a Tuesday night. 

(The reason I needed these appointments is really quite remarkable and also sort of freaks me out.  And I can’t talk about it anymore, so don’t ask. 

I am dying to talk about it, though, and at the same time, mortified that I will have to go through with this thing that is happening.  On one hand, I want to call someone to hold my hand, but on the other hand, I’m telling myself to just Grow Up.  I’m a grown-up, right?  I can handle this.) 

Anyway, I was feeling pretty fine about my day until I started talking about That Thing I Can’t Talk About.  And now, I’m a little anxious.  You’ll have to excuse me while I go fret.

(Don’t forget to go visit Brandie and say hello.)   

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