I've been married years and years, and have one professional family portrait to show for it. Professional that is, --if you call professional having a picture taken in the garage of my husband's high school buddy who does some wedding photography . . but I don't care. At least he had the computer contraptions and programs that allowed him to paint over my face until I was barely recognizable, and under a fog of goddess skin.
(Yet somehow, I'm sure you can see my poorly tweezed eyebrow from space.)
So anyways, I'm getting a lot of grief over my glam shot. And in case you aren't sure that is my husband's gray clad shoulder still in the frame -- not my football pads. (I didn't wear them for this pic.) (Only to ward potluck dinners, and when my kid is driving.)
I will tell you it was my husband who made me use the photo. I had this wonderful picture of me, reflected off the bathroom mirror, back arched like a gymnast, with a slammin' good-hair day that would make Shania Twain jealous. Unfortunately in that position my chest looked the size of hot air balloons -- and as I had my tech (husband) crop and crop them out - I was slowly turning into a neck with pimpled chin.
Hubby forced the glam shot on us all. (Maybe he likes it because there is a piece of him in it. I gotta tell you, his opinions seem to be getting way too involved in my girl time. I actually overheard him say to my friend the other night before handing over the phone "isn't this something you could take care of on the blogspot comments?")
You know it's not unusual that I give him an inch and he takes the whole ship by the helm. Last week at back-to-school for the kids, he kept insisting I clench a rose in my teeth for a picture by the hall drinking fountain. "A little something for the Site," he tells me. He's fancy'ing himself way too much the blog stylist now, and confidant.
This from a man who's own back-to-school attire consisted of an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt and cub scout pants.
I guess when all is said and done, I'm just going to stick with my current photo. It helps with my 'allure'. The only photo I have that's more 'alluring' has something to do with a bathing suit, and me bending over. Oh yeah. It's fascinating all right.
But you'll never know.
(Yet somehow, I'm sure you can see my poorly tweezed eyebrow from space.)
So anyways, I'm getting a lot of grief over my glam shot. And in case you aren't sure that is my husband's gray clad shoulder still in the frame -- not my football pads. (I didn't wear them for this pic.) (Only to ward potluck dinners, and when my kid is driving.)
I will tell you it was my husband who made me use the photo. I had this wonderful picture of me, reflected off the bathroom mirror, back arched like a gymnast, with a slammin' good-hair day that would make Shania Twain jealous. Unfortunately in that position my chest looked the size of hot air balloons -- and as I had my tech (husband) crop and crop them out - I was slowly turning into a neck with pimpled chin.
Hubby forced the glam shot on us all. (Maybe he likes it because there is a piece of him in it. I gotta tell you, his opinions seem to be getting way too involved in my girl time. I actually overheard him say to my friend the other night before handing over the phone "isn't this something you could take care of on the blogspot comments?")
You know it's not unusual that I give him an inch and he takes the whole ship by the helm. Last week at back-to-school for the kids, he kept insisting I clench a rose in my teeth for a picture by the hall drinking fountain. "A little something for the Site," he tells me. He's fancy'ing himself way too much the blog stylist now, and confidant.
This from a man who's own back-to-school attire consisted of an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt and cub scout pants.
I guess when all is said and done, I'm just going to stick with my current photo. It helps with my 'allure'. The only photo I have that's more 'alluring' has something to do with a bathing suit, and me bending over. Oh yeah. It's fascinating all right.
But you'll never know.
No comments:
Post a Comment