Uncle Sam wants YOU. Mars needs women. Some whiny kid wants his Maypo. And Genuine wants pictures.
I don’t know. Should I send him a picture of me THEN, when I looked great and strangers stopped me in the street to tell me so? Or should I send him a picture of NOW, and possibly scare away a person I like to think of as an awesome online friend?
What if he looked at my NOW picture and screamed out loud? What if his sweet wife Mrs. G fainted dead away at the sight of me? What if one of their precious children caught a glimpse and had nightmares? Or worse, what if they all laugh and tell me that a joke’s a joke but they wanted a picture of the real me, and not a snapshot of a Macy’s Parade balloon?
This requires some thought. Fortunately, it’s the weekend, and my thought center is on vacation, so I’ll probably break down and send a picture. Whether it will be THEN or NOW, I’ll leave it to them to judge. No pressure, though.
One teensy problem might be that all the photo albums are in my cedar chest, and the cedar chest is in Belle’s old room with a big heavy bookcase on top of it. It’s not exactly designer-chic, but there just wasn’t room in the room for both pieces of furniture as they were meant to be displayed. To move the bookcase, I will have to remove all the books. The books are in there three-deep, so it will take a while. And once removed, the books will take up all the floor space, so there will be no vacant spot on which to put the empty bookcase after I remove it from atop the cedar chest.
Of course, the biggest problem of all will be that once I have easy access to our photo albums, I will sit on the floor and look through every single one of them. That means no laundry will be done today, no bills will be paid today, no dusting or vacuuming or cooking will be done today, and nobody will unload the dishwasher and fill it up again.
Hahahaha, gotcha. As if I ever did those things on a regular basis anyway. . . .
If you must know the truth (and you know what, people do tell the truth on their blogs!) I haven’t looked through those albums for a long time even though I adore doing it, because almost every night after I’ve looked at thousands of precious pictures of my children as babies, toddlers, children, teens, etc, I dream that they are dead.
I don’t know for sure why that happens, but it happens. Maybe because the babies, toddlers, children, etc, that they once were, are gone. I just don’t know. All the dozens of framed pictures of them at all ages that adorn the walls of my house don’t affect me like that. It’s just all those random, informal, unposed, pieces of frozen time, take me back to smiling days and then bring me abruptly forward again to now, where the smiles are fewer and much farther between. . . .
Maybe I just fear that if you saw me as I really am today, it would make you say “Whoa, she’s BIG!”
I’d have to email it to him. I still don’t know how to post a picture.
Maybe I’ll just say ‘Oh, piss it.’
Hey. Hugh Grant liked it when Martine McCutcheon said it.
Hugh, what do you think? In that movie, you liked the chubby girl. (Although if she was chubby, then I must be a Blue Whale.)
Come on, Hugh. Answer me. I know you’re shy and unsure of yourself around women, but you can talk to me. Stop stuttering. Look me in the eye. Now. You sweet bashful clueless thing, you.
He really is, isn’t he? I mean, he’s the same in every movie. It HAS to be his real self.
What to do, what to do, what to do. . . .