Sunday, March 20, 2011
Okay, so maybe that title is a bit overstating things. A bit. Just a little bit. For the past few years Mr. Clean has requested a family portrait. You know the kind. You get all scrubbed up, put on matching white shirts and trendy jeans, haul the family to some place in the mall and smile, BIG, even thought you want to punch the photographer for saying stupid things, like... "Say Pumpernickel! Everyone, say pumpernickel!" I would rather have a mammogram.
I am not sure what has turned me off of the business side of a camera. I love taking pictures, and seeing pictures, and admiring other people's family portraits, but the thought of my own stops me in my tracks. Probably because I have seen pictures of myself and I usually look like I want to bite someone's head off, or I pour on the cheese. Mega cheese. And now that I am 30 something, cheese is no longer endearing. Nor is looking like my great grandmother in pictures from the old country. Back when you had to wait a hour and a half for the shutter and looked like you were seriously ready to punch the photographer. He probably said something stupid too, like, "Cha toir a’bhòidhchead goil air a’ phoit." You know, the classic goofy mall photographer lingo.
Recently my sister-in-law had the complete gall to send us gorgeous photos of her family, taken professionally. None of them looked like they wanted to hurt someone. Their photographer was probably mute. Lucky ones. But after seeing them, guess who started talking about the lack of family photos in his house. Uh-huh. Mr. Clean. The big whiner.
It made me panic for a minute, as thoughts of me reigning in five kids under hot lights, as my handsome hubby sits looking quite dapper (does anyone actually use that word anymore?), resulting in my forehead so shiny from stressing over what child is, or is not, picking their nose in public and on film, that it could be used as a solar panel, well... makes me want to hyperventilate. And the mental image of the Mr. Clean clan in their white shirts and trendy jeans all smiling sweetly while Momma is breathing into (or drinking from) a paper bag? Not so good.
But then the nostalgic Angel kicks in. The one who can stare off into the atmosphere and dream of a photograph where I look like Rita Hayworth, perfect matte forehead with coiffed tresses, and a three year old who would not dare make his favorite "bad guy face" right before the flash goes off.
This makes me want to call the mall and make an appointment. Or mortgage the house and book a photo shoot with a real photographer, make-up artist, lighting specialist and stand in children who resemble my own, but without peanut butter in their ear or magic marker tattoos. But then reality kicks in. And I schedule a mammogram instead.