cindy's world

My mom, grandma and I went to the photo studio yesterday to look at the engagement photos. To my surprise, the makeup lady (who apparently is also Photoshop Queen) had busted her rump to get our order done so that my mom could pick them up for us. All the larger photos had weatherproofing done on them, giving them a canvas effect, and were mounted on cardstock backing so that we don’t need to find glass-covered frames to put them up. When we got there, the makeup lady opened our package and laid out our photos on a large table for our inspection. The first thing my grandma said was, “NONE of these look like you! How come you look so thin?! Why is your face so long and narrow?”
My mom actually defended me with, “That was the way she looked the day they took the photos. The hairstyle is flattering on her.” And then she said happily, “HEY! Your arms don’t look big in these photos!”
The makeup lady aka Photoshop Queen said, “I’ve cut all those arms down for her in the computer.”
Then the three of us were seated in front of the large monitor as the makeup lady displayed all our photos for my mom and grandma, making note to tell them which ones we’d purchased and which ones we were letting go, giving my mom the option to buy some photos on her own if we didn’t select them. I didn’t select a lot of photos with just me in them, cuz I can’t justify making Mr. W pay half for photos that he isn’t even in. But my mom definitely wanted those. The women discussed how of COURSE the bride gets all these solo photos cuz the wedding is about the BRIDE; the GROOM is just the prop to accompany the bride in all these photos. The makeup lady said engagement/wedding photo session breakdowns are typically 1/3 solo bride photos. And then she added hesitatingly that sometimes a vain groom would fight for camera time with a bride. How funny.

So I asked her, “What DID you change on me? I can tell you altered the arms and you softened my skin and removed my bug bite scar on my shoulder.” The makeup lady opened up an unaltered file of me to do a side-by-side comparison, pointing out her changes. She redefined the jawline (I knew it! I knew I had more significant chipmunk cheeks!), softened the coloring on the face, took AWAY my tan, carved off the bicep, tricep and deltoid muscles on my upper arms, shaved off some forearm muscles (I got those from gripping heavy weights at the gym), and trimmed off my calf muscles! I’m cool with complexion repairs, but SERIOUSLY, how much time have I invested in making my body look a certain way, only to have it photoshopped OUT?! But of course my mom and the makeup lady were happy, talking about how all the customers leaving this studio are delighted with the effects. Obviously they don’t have a lot of Americanized gym rat customers.

(Arms, calf and hamstring shaved off in the above photo. To me it looks like I have the limbs of a quadriplegic. Not that there’s anything wrong with atrophied muscles, it’s just that I don’t have them.)

My grandma out of nowhere said, “Why do you have that on display? I think neither person in there is good-looking.”
I turned and saw her still sitting in front of the monitor with two of my solo photos on the screen. I thought she was implying shutting the monitor off, but then my mom asked her, “Ma, what are you talking about?”
And my grandma pointed to a giant sample portrait of a couple hanging on the wall. “They’re both ugly.”
My mom hit her mother on the shoulder lightly in embarrassed horror, as the makeup lady said awkwardly, “Well, only some people would allow us to use their photo as our sample, others who may look better may not want their photo on display in our store…”
Is this what happens in old age? Like, tact? Tact is for sissies who can’t handle the truth.

(My hands look HUGE in the photo above cuz they slimmed down my arms so dramatically.) This is the photo I’d written about before. My mom said I should’ve done the mouth open, hand on my cheek “ooh!” expression which she thought was really cute, but I DID do that and the photographer didn’t snap that.

My mom ordered 8 extra poses that we hadn’t ordered, and a couple of enlargements of her and the makeup lady’s favorite pose, the one I wrote about in which the makeup lady kept talking about the bust and waist proportions. She did that again this day, fluttering her mouse pointer around the bust and waist and the arc in the back.

(You can ALMOST see the shadowing around my shoulder created by deltoid, but WHERE’S the deltoid?! Where’s the tricep?)

When we got back to our neck of the woods, we called my dad to join us for lunch. He did, and we handed him the envelope of developed photos. My dad knows me so well. He took one look and said, “Hey, they cut out all your muscles!”
“I know,” I wailed, “And I worked so hard for those muscles!”
He chuckled. Then looking more closely at the other photos, he said, “They made you look like a movie star, but you look like a Japanimation cartoon, all white with skinny stringy limbs.”
“I know!” I wailed again.

I totally understand old or fat people loving this type of photoshopping, but I’m not sure I’m a fan. Maybe it’ll grow on me. I’m just not the ultra-femme type. When I brought the photos to Mr. W, pointing out where the editing was done, he (a fan of healthy toned women) exclaimed, “What makes her think she can take this type of liberty with other people’s photos?!” I explained that it’s the cultural and generational difference in perception of beauty. Well, there’s always the wedding day photos that have a chance of looking like me.

You can compare what I actually look like with the (crappy) photos I took of myself yesterday morning.

Hi Cindy,
Quick note with good news

Dr [K]

Wow, I’m behind. Not having internet at work sucks ass. It really blows. …It sucks AND blows. a-whoo a-whoo a-whoo!

I got a bad-news call from my bridal party’s dressmaker earlier in the week saying that the fabric Mr. W’s daughter had chosen for her dress design is no longer available, and that she would have to select a different fabric or a new color. Of all people to have this happen to, it would be Daughter, who is slippery-er than an eel when you’re trying to get a hold of her. I left a couple of unreturned voice mails on her cell. She finally picked up on Thursday afternoon and I explained the problem to her. She was sad, but to my surprise, offered to come with us that evening to select a new fabric. Mr. W and I had an appointment to view and choose our engagement photos after work that day, and the studio was only blocks away from the dressmaker’s shop. Daughter canceled her volleyball event with her friends and drove out to my work to meet up with me.

We hit a couple of snags at the dressmaker’s, as certain other fabrics weren’t available to go with the second fabric Daughter had selected, but I think eventually we did arrive on something Daughter was relatively content with. Next was the engagement photo appointment. Daughter oohed and aahed over how I turned out in the photos, but I was less impressed. I mean, the photos looked pretty, blah blah, but can they photoshop me any more?! I know what I look like in the mirror, unless all my home mirrors are distorted, and in these photos they narrowed my face, lost my chipmunk cheeks, and I could swear that at least on one pose, they totally CUT OUT half my upper arm. It just makes me wonder what *I* would’ve looked like in these photos, not this strange girl they’ve created by manipulating my likeness. Mr. W and Daughter disagreed with me and said it’s clearly me in the photos and Mr. W thinks that when I see myself in a mirror, the image that enters my brain is distorted by anorexia anyway, but they both did agree that Mr. W himself apeared to be severely airbrushed. He looks something like a man-boy in some poses, instead of the man I’ve come to love when I look at him. I guess this way, we appear to be closer in age… =P

Anyway, out of the many poses the three of us viewed on the large computer monitor, we only selected 15 to purchase. The makeup lady and her husband the photographer had their favorites, and they kept raving about certain features on me that make me “model” material, such as the way the corners of my lips angle up when I smile (apparently a lot of their customers angle back or down, like Kate Winslet), the great teeth, the way my body is SO unlike an Asian’s body because I have a chest and butt and proportionally smaller waist. She complained that most of her Asian customers’ torsos are shaped like a square. She REALLY pushed for purchase and blow-up of one photo in particular (her “favorite”) in which I slightly had my back to Mr. W as I lounged on a chair, and her mouse pointer kept traveling embarrassingly to circle my chest and delineate the arc in my back as she explained the figure thing.

Okay, I just did a similar pose right now from my computer chair and looked in the mirrored closet door, and the woman apparently photoshopped out the definition in my deltoid and tricep! I know that traditional Asian women are totally anti-tone and don’t think it’s feminine, and they’re always telling me to stop weightlifting, but I WORKED HARD FOR THAT DEFINITION! I wanna see the “before” pictures!

Wanna hear something more exasperating? I tried to take photos of myself to illustrate my point, but either 1) the flash kept going off ruining the photo, 2) taking the flash off made the exposure time longer so it was totally blurry, or 3) finding a setting that turns off flash and does the steady-hand thing changed the lighting (or maybe I turned funny) so that you can’t see definition in the photos after all, altho it’s clearly in the mirror.

*sigh*

(As w/all my photos, resting your mouse pointer on it brings up a caption.) But anyway, see what I mean? Chipmunk cheeks. Please ignore the glasses, messy hair and jammies. I just got up.

Oh, and the studio, as I expected, absolutely does not sell the digital images. You pay for every print you want.

After I got home, I grabbed a bag of DVDs Busykitty Vanessa had wanted to see and brought them over to her place, as she was on lockdown for 10 days after her surgery. I met the last sister I hadn’t met yet, and the three of us ended up chatting until I was dozing off on Vanessa’s comfy couch. MAN her TV is huge. I’m happy to report Vanessa is recovering well and her doctor doesn’t expect the lab to return any significantly bad news. Oh yeah, my Happy Bunny jammies (above) was a 30th bday present from Vanessa!

Speaking of no bad news in lab results, I see my doctor had left me an email regarding my pap last week. I’m gonna read it and I hope I don’t have another abnormal pap that requires further cutting, like last time! *crossing fingers*

A major flaw with people, or with myself more specifically, is that bad stuff could drop me 10 notches whereas good stuff largely go by unnoticed. I think it’s also a woman thing to fixate on a negative thing or flaw, cuz we want so badly to fix it or to will it into oblivion. Nag it into oblivion, for some. But I like to try to notice the good stuff, stop myself from dismissing it, and give the good the proper weight it deserves.

I was having that crappy evening yesterday, and then I called Mr. W, who proved why he’s worthy of my dedicating the rest of my life to. Even though I didn’t tell him much except that I was in a foul mood, he was nice about it, didn’t pry, and said with a smile in his voice that I need to get my nightly dose of comedy. I realized then that I hadn’t had the TV on all evening, which is a rarity for me. But by the lateness of the hour, I’d already missed my favorite sit com of Two and a Half Men, and Friends and Will and Grace wouldn’t be on for another hour or so. There was a little silence, and then he did the closest thing he could to giving me my show: he sang the theme song of Two and a Half Men to me. “Men men men men, manly men men men…” I laughed and felt better instantly.

After we hung up cuz it was past Mr. W’s bedtime, I got online and saw that James was on. I IMed him and we chatted online for a bit, when I realized I’d forgotten to eat dinner and had only a smoothie for lunch. I did have birthday cake for breakfast, though. James said that if I wanted to go out and grab a bite, that he would pause his work and keep me company. “I could use a beer,” he said. I’d been wanting to hang out for days, but Dwaine’s been MIA so I’d just been moping at home. James and I hadn’t seen each other forever; he’d gotten busy picking up a contracted job on top of his regular job, I got busy with random stuff and stopped Zaino-ing my car, and hence went our regular contact. We looked online for nearby restaurant-bars open late, and decided on BJ’s. I got there first, and waited for James at the bar.

I hadn’t sat by myself at a bar during late night for a long time. I’d forgotten about the regulars, the drunks, the overly-dressy women, who hang there at weeknights hoping to catch some male attention. I remember Sandy saying that it’s pretty sad when we see women all decked out to go to a restaurant bar cuz that means this is the highlight of their social life. I had thrown on a fitted t-shirt and shorts and despite being seriously underdressed for the ridiculous crowd, still turned a few male heads. When James showed up, we had a nice chat over a thin-crust appetizer pizza (me), glass of Framboise Lambic (me) which is a raspberry ale off tap, and he had a Hefeweizen off tap. And then he ordered and we split a Pizookie, BJ’s specialty giant cookie fresh-baked into a tin and topped with vanilla bean ice cream. James told me that he’d thought about me recently in a personal problem he’d encountered, and remembered what I’d told him some time ago about how to address and resolve uncomfortable issues. He said he was going to let it fester and go, but actually evaluated the situation from the perspective I’d shown him before, and he addressed it the way that, according to him, I’d “taught” him. And it completely worked out and appears to have resolved everything. It was really nice of him to give me credit for an interpersonal success he’d accomplished, and I felt special that something I’d said to him or demonstrated on him before had been taken seriously, remembered, and adopted.

Definitely much better than feeling sensitive about some lame 4 minute phone call.

In keeping with my now crappy mood and old diary-reading, here’s something raw from several years ago. I haven’t had writing like this for a long time. That’s a testament to the wonderfulness of Mr. Wonderful. But JUST IN CASE you “don’t care to know” what’s in my past writings, you don’t have to click on the “more” below. (I’m not bitter.)
(more…)

Turns out that I may have as frail an ego now as I did a decade and a half ago, altho I’d like to think that I’ve grown up, mellowed out, and grew more centered in myself.

An old friend and I had been musing last week over how we met and became friends 14 years ago, and neither of us could remember how we exactly traded digits. Well, in my diary excavation last nite, I turned a page and there it was, right there. Down to the exact detail. I called him last nite kinda excitedly to share the story with him, but first I asked whether he was busy. He said he’d just gotten out of the shower. So I told him to go ahead and finish whatever post-shower routine he has and call me back. He agreed, but never called me back. 20 minutes ago, I thought I’d call him again, and he picked up as he was driving home from work. He apologized for not calling me back last nite, saying he has a lot on his plate with his new job, and I casually dismissed it, but he insisted on the apology. So we’re good, right? I told him all excitedly and laughing that I found my old diary from high school, and he said, “REALLY.” I told him I found out exactly how we started talking. Apparently I’d played a really lame prank on him and after doing so and kinda upsetting him, I’d felt bad so we traded pager #s and started talking. I’d kept laughing at myself and how idiotic I was back then, and said I don’t know how or why he’d ever put up with me, because even if he reads this diary now, he’d never speak to me again. He asked amusedly, “So what are you saying, I should just never speak to you again?”
I said, “No, just that you should never read this diary.”
He said, “Why would I?”
“Oh, no reason, just that sometimes people are curious what’s said about them if they know they’re mentioned.”
“I guess I’m just not that curious of a person.”
I flipped a few more pages and saw another amusing couple of lines about him, so I read it to him and laughed. There was only road noise on the other side of the line. And then he said, rather flatly, “I thought I’m not supposed to know the contents of your diary.”
I was still in an obliviously jolly mood, so I said, “Oh, you’re not getting much, just a couple snippets.”
From his end, more road noise. Then, “That’s okay. I really don’t care to know what’s in there.”
I finally heard the coldness in his tone, and inside I started backing up. “I just thought it was funny and that you’d be interested because we had been talking the other week about how we got here and neither of us could remember, so…”
There was a looooot of silence. So much so that I thought his phone went thru a bad reception area. I finally heard him say something I couldn’t really make out, and I asked, “Were you talking this whole time?” thinking that the silence I heard was really missed conversation.
He replied, “No.” And then said something else that I couldn’t really make out, but his continued cold disinterested tone was unmistakeable.
I asked, hating the small voice I heard, “Do you want to go so you can concentrate on driving?” Giving him an out.
“I’m almost home, just another light and around the corner and I’m there.”
What does that mean? That it’s okay to keep talking because he won’t be driving for long? Or that he’s almost home so he’d like to go? Whatever he intended, I knew what I wanted. “Your phone’s been going in and out and I can’t really hear you well, so I’m just gonna talk to you later.”
“Okay. Talk to you later, Cindy.”
“Bye.”

Why do I let people do this to me?! Now I feel like shit. And I feel stupid.

I dug out my old handwritten diaries from back in the day. It’s weird cuz just this week alone, I’d thought back to certain things that happened decades ago, and wondered why they happened. For example, I remembered a high school crush hanging out with bridesmaid Vicky and me at this guy Pete’s apartment our freshman year in college, and I’d wondered why he was with us since he didn’t know Pete. I also wondered whether he’d sat in the front seat or the back seat as I’m sure I drove to Pete’s house. (Pete, btw, is its own drama that became something of a triangle involving Vicky. I’d also thought about him recently. My proudest sting operation involving three-way calling and call-waiting was in exposing Pete.) In randomly flipping in this diary, I read about that exact incident. And it was way more embarrassing than I’d expected. I cringed reading it and remembered that Dwaine had said we’re programmed to forget things for our own psychological protection. To show that I am a good sport, I’m gonna let you guys in on what a spazz I used to be back in the day. Some background; the crush and I were insanely close at that time, we’d talk for hours on end on a nightly basis. Vicky had met him a couple of times through me, but as far as I knew they barely qualified as acquaintances. Usually they did not say kind things about each other to me.

“…After this, Vicky and I went to Burger King. Sitting there, I got a page from [crush], ‘hi-sis’. I was all excited, then I thought, ‘What’d he MEAN, “sis”?!’ Then I got sad. Immediately after Vicky’s pager went off. [Crush] paged her ‘miss-you.’ I got really upset. She later went to a pay phone and called him. I threw an attitude and refused to talk to him tho he kept asking for me. I just stood and watched Vicky flirt w/him. I was really sad, yet I stubbornly refused to talk to him. She said [to him as a suggestion that] he could page me w/a buncha’ sorries, but I turned off my pager on the spot. And he never knew why I was upset @ him.”

The next day:
“This afternoon @ 12:48p, [crush] paged me, ‘5748801217.’ Then @ 12:56p, ‘1-177155-400.’ [I miss you] I couldn’t figure out what the 1st one was, so when I got it (@ 1:30 or so cuz I was at L.A. Fitness w/o my pager), I called and asked what it said. He said it said ‘stubborn.’ That was dating back to yesterday when I refused to talk to him. I kinda gave him the cold shoulder in the 3 mins I talked. He said he didn’t go to church today (yesterday Vicky tried to get him to go out w/us today, and he kept saying he has church till 3,no promises, he’ll ‘try’ to call, page, etc.) I called him back later and told him to come over. He kept asking why, I said no reason. He wouldn’t believe me, saying I always have a reason for everything, and I said I just wanted to see him. He came over. We sat around as I finished the last of my packing, and Vicky talked to Pete on the phone. [Crush] said he was gonna bring me a pic, but forgot it @ home. After awhile, we all went down to Pete’s apartment in Pomona and kicked it there for like 2 1/2, 3 hrs. At first, [crush] seemed kinda bored, but he loosened up and told some of his adventurous stories & everyone loved him (except Vicky, who flirts w/him in person but disses him behind his back). Then when we parted, he gave me a hug in front of Pete (Pete looked really surprised) and went to his car. My mom said to leave for LA today @ 5-6p, and we were giving Henry a ride, so I told him that, too. But since I didn’t want to leave (leave [crush], perhaps), I didn’t say anything and we didn’t leave Pete’s till 6p. [Crush] had an engagement too, he was supposed to take some Vivian Choe [a popular Chinese singer at the time] look-alike out for ice cream, and @ first, he kept looking @ his pager for time, and he sat, then stood, then sat, and didn’t leave either till she paged him again. Pete asked if he wanted to use the phone to call her, and he said ‘No, it’s all right.’ Heehee. Anyway, @ 7:32p, I was in the car on the way to LA, and I got this page: ‘44177-177155-400-999.’ I couldn’t read it, and Henry read it. It’s ‘will miss you-[crush].’ Then when I started writing this entry, he paged ‘Ring me’ @ 10:10p. I happily obliged and we talked till now, about 1 hour…”

This entire diary is scandalous with the different guys I gushed about on every page. And the way I behaved around these guys!!! I do remember the incident described in the diary entry above, and some years later I’d gotten back in touch with then-crush, and we’d caught up on people we knew in common, and then Vicky’s name came up. He said, “That girl never liked me. Hmmph.” But I had TOTALLY forgotten that APPARENTLY, they were FRIENDLY and it appears, even PAGED each other little affectionate pages! I should call him now and demand what the hell had been going on between him and Vicky.

But that’d be the old Cindy.

When I was a junior in high school, my English class crush told me, “I wish I were depressed.”
“Why?!”
“Because. It’s so artistic.”

Okay, so Sylvia Plath in her emotional cage and John Keats in his widower mourning wrote some pretty amazing stuff. Even my own poetry that bled out during the periods of deepest adolescent gloom were the most poignant and raw. But to wish for depression for the sake of artistic creation? Even if you’re getting a B in English, that’s not a worthwhile cause. B-, maybe. Depending on how Asian you and your parents are. Har.

Of the many voices I write with, two that I think are very prominent on this blog are 1) goofy tongue-in-cheek bordering on absurdity, and 2) a sort of struggling pain, a muffled cry trying to make sense of events and recover. In looking back I find that in 2005, I tried to stay optimistic while I struggled, then I went through a phase of euphoria when I broke free of previous emotional shackles, and then there was Mr. W whose appearance in my life added a calm stability that made most of my posts either dully reporting or if you’re lucky, somewhat anecdotally amusing.

I’ve read posts of others who are struggling, bleeding artists. The writing is beautiful and inspires me to want to write with the same honest emotion. But I don’t have any of those emotions and most of my prior wounds have healed. I *almost* want a little turmoil to add some flavor to my writing, except that I also recall a time when I’d thought all my posts were too depressing and wished for the emotional soundness to write the happy-go-lucky feel-good posts I’d read on other blogs at the time.

I think the moral is to embrace whatever state of mind you’re currently in, because it is human and beautiful in its own way. But I bet you’re thinking that the real moral is, I’m never satisfied, though I try. What color is YOUR grass?

*peeking over the fence into your yard*

Mr. W and I had our engagement photo shoot today. It was at a makeup/photography studio that also rents and sells wedding and special occasion clothing and accessories. I had so much fun! The hair/makeup lady is the woman I’d already booked my wedding day hair and makeup with for both myself and my bridesmaids. She looked at my face and said that she feels I’d look great in the newest trendy “funky” messy updo. What she did was reserve some hair in front for long side-split bangs, and the rest were knotted up in sections with the ends sticking out like a little fobby singer. She’d left a few thick curls on the bottom like in the Victorian days for the evening gown and bridal dress shots but put everything up for the traditional Chinese dress shots. The below isn’t a great depiction but it’s the best I can find online.

My mom and her good friend, our realtor’s wife, came directly from Tai Chi to watch us take photos. The photographer and makeup lady (who are husband and wife) were very sensitive to Asian parental interference. The makeup lady asked me discreetly whether having my mom in the photo studio with me during the photo shoot would distract or bother me. I told her it’s fine. Mr. W said that he saw both the photographer and makeup lady put their fingers to their lips, signaling to my mom and her friend that they are not to butt in or criticize. I think it went well, with minimal criticisms from my mom.

The first dress I put on was an incredible spaghetti strap corset-top ballerina dress I saw on a mannequin. It looked kinda like this but with vertical corset panels and pink accents. I asked if I could try that one, and the makeup lady said thoughtfully, “I think it will fit.” It fit to a never-before-experienced T. The waist was narrow enough for me but still accomodated my bust and usually the two are never right on the same outfit. The shoulder straps were the perfect length when usually they’d be too long since I have a short torso, and the side panel was high enough to go right under my armpits without cutting off and creating armpit fat like so many sleeveless tops do to me. My mom was even agape when I walked out with that dress on. Mr. W winked at me. “You’re the first to ever wear this one for a photo shoot,” the makeup lady said. With my odd proportions, I’ll bet that if it fits me this precisely (and the fabric and style did not have much give), it doesn’t fit many other people. Seeing that I was aglow in this dress, the photographer took extra photos of me wearing it. Mr. W was my accessory in a handsome classic black tux.

Next was the classic white wedding gown with a giant ornate train. My real gown does not have a train, so it’s nice to have these photos. This off-the-shoulder dress was wide for me in the middle, but they must’ve sensed it because they mostly had me standing with my side toward the camera, or sitting in this dress. It was ai’ight. The cut was something like this, but beaded and not corset-top. Mr. W decorated these poses by changing to a red bowtie and cummerbund.

The last outfit was the classic overly sequined traditional Chinese dress. It’s cut similar to this, but pink and beaded to death. It was SO beaded that not only can you not see fabric, but it hurt to put my arms down. If I hugged someone wearing that and pulled away kinda fast, the huggee would be shredded into ribbons. No one would ever be successfully raped wearing that dress. It took two tries to find this dress in a size that fit me. The first one that the makeup lady brought to me fit so baggily that the sleeveless part hung over my shoulders and looked like cap sleeves. I walked out and said that I think this dress is too loose. My mom looked at it and said, “It IS?” I pulled three inches of excess fabric out from my side. She said, “Oh. And I told her when she brought that dress out that it would be too small on you.” Of course she did. Mom looked at me again. “Did you lose weight?” she asked.
“No. I’m just not as fat as you always think I am.” My mom looked a little hurt yet thoughtful, but any further discussion was squelched as the makeup lady brought me the same dress in a smaller size and pulled the curtain closed, separating us. This second dress was skin tight, hugged every curve and had the leg slits cut scandalously high, but my mom kindly only said complimentary things as I walked out in it. Mr. W was already changed to a grey old-fashioned tux with a tail, looking pretty swanky. Together we looked like East meets West 1920s.

The photographer and makeup lady consistently complimented us throughout the shoot, telling us we’re naturals, that they got perfect shots in the first try and hence didn’t have to reshoot the same pose or take multiple shots, raving about my great smile and great teeth. I think my mom was impressed at the shots, too. The photographer kept running back to my mom and her friend and showing them the digital image he’d just taken on his camera, involving them enough to make the shoot interesting for them. I would’ve liked to take shots where my expressions were different, but they just kept telling me to do my teethy smile, which they loved. There was one pose where they had Mr. W on his knee offering me flowers and jewelry, and I jokingly did an eye-rolling “not good enough” expression with my hands on my hips, followed by a Southern belle swoon with the back of my right hand on my forehead as if he were offering me the prize of a lifetime, and everyone laughed, but the shot the photographer took was one of my peering over my shoulder at the jewelry box with a happy smile. Mr. W said that the guy’s used to taking photos that you’d want to pay extra to blow up and have on display, and goofy shots don’t sell in the same way. I guess that’s true; I wouldn’t blow up and frame a giant photo me looking like a greedy gold-digger to hang over the fireplace mantle of our new home, and it wouldn’t be an appropriate engagement photo for display at the wedding venue.

…or WOULDn’t it be just so ME to have untraditional goofy shots?!

I took the afternoon off on Friday and hit the gym pretty hard for a couple of hours. It was only my second workout of the week! Gym Trainee sprained both her ligament and tendon in her right foot, so she’s hobbling along unable to put weight on her foot. I’ve known for awhile now that any motivation I have for gymming, I’ve borrowed from her, and without her, I am less than uninspired. But my afternoon off wasn’t just for the pleasant task of toning up my sleeping muscles.

I had an appointment for my 6-month pap smear. Why’s it called a pap, anyway? That term makes the procedure sound way cuter than it actually is. It should be called the foreign-object-vaginal-insertion-and-extraction-by-stranger smear. Yeah. I think that’s pretty accurate. I had the same doctor who did my biopsy and LEEP procedure last year. As he peered in between my spread stirruped legs and spread speculumed vagina, he said, “You know, the human body is so amazing. Your cervix healed so beautifully from the LEEP procedure. In fact, it looks better now than it did before the procedure. They should make LEEPs a mandatory procedure for cosmetic reasons.”
I said, “But you guys would be the only ones who could see it.”
His head poked out from behind the sheet covering my thighs. “And we don’t count? Okay, I’m gonna call the mechanic out there and have him come in to admire this. ‘Hey, c’mere, look in here and check out my beautiful work!’ ”
“I think I saw a plumber outside when I came in. Let’s get him in here to admire your work, too.”
“Good idea, let’s get ’em all in here!”
What a goofball.
Despite his running an hour behind schedule, my portion of the visit was through in less than 5 minutes. That was the quickest pap smear I’d ever been involved in. He told me he’d email me the lab results in about a week. Let’s hope all the precancer cells and bad abnormal stuff really ARE gone…