Taking my author photo... don't worry, Giselle - your day job is safe
I feel sorry for fashion models. Sure, those overpaid, rock star-dating freaks of nature don't usually conjure sympathy (despite their sob stories about being called --- gasp - "Giraffe legs" in junior high school). But two weeks ago, I had my author photo taken, and while I'm still not convinced supermodels should get the big bucks AND Leo DiCaprio, I don't think it's a completely cushy job any longer.
The photographer came over one afternoon during a narrow sliver of time when I'd organized a baby-sitter for my baby and a Wii extravaganza for my older kids. I was showered (a minor triumph), mascara'd, and though I hadn't managed to squeeze in a haircut or a trip to buy new Spanx, all things considered, I was feeling pretty triumphant about my grooming.
So there we were, me and the photographer, in my backyard, ready to take the picture that would proclaim to readers: See how friendly (but not too friendly, certainly not in a stalkerish way!) and smart (not too smart, though! No threats to you Mensa members here!) this author is? Isn't her novel just leaping into your hands and compelling you to start reading it?
The problem was, it was hot outside. Brutally hot. And I was wearing a sweater (even I knew better than to trot out my usual summer uniform of slightly stained Old Navy t-shirts).
"Perch on this chair," the photographer suggested.
I obligingly perched, smiled, and sweated while the camera clicked. After a few minutes, my thigh muscles complained about perching on the edge of a chair and suggested we all go inside for a little restorative chocolate treat.
"You don't look comfortable," the photographer said. "Maybe a different outfit?"
I raced inside, changed, came back outside, and posed again.
"Hmm..." Hilary the photographer said. "I'm not sure that shirt is the right color for you."
Since I know and trust Hilary - she shoots my photo for a magazine column I write - I dashed upstairs again to change. I tore through my closet, which was stuffed with shorts and t-shirts, maternity wear, and a few very outdated business suits. Where were all my clothes? My cute, trendy, flattering clothes? Did I really dress like this? The horror!
"Mom," one of my kids whined, "can we have popcorn?"
"I'm having a photo shoot," I said importantly. "You know, for my book." The kid looked at me blankly.
"The Opposite of Me?" I said. "Due out in March? At bookstores everywhere? Didn't Mommy teach you to say that whenever possible?"
"He bit me!" came an outraged wail.
"Stop fighting and I'll take you to the pool in ten minutes," I lied to my children, whose sense of time is seriously warped from scenarios just like this one.
"I've got to go," the babysitter said apologetically. "I have another job to get to."
"Let's put the baby on a blanket outside," I said desperately. "He can watch the photo shoot."
"Did you powder your nose? You really should," the photographer asked, clearly feeling this was no time for subtlety.
I powdered, brushed my hair, threw back my shoulders, and posed again.
"THARM alert!" The photographer shouted.
(A "Tharm" happens when you position your arm in such a way that it appears to be bigger than a typical arm -- more like a thigh. Like the Ebola virus and men with bushy toupees, it is to be avoided at all costs).
I shifted, sweated, and posed. The baby rolled off the blanket into the grass. The older kids made popcorn themselves and doused it with a pound of butter. Was the baby rolling onto a bee? Why were the older kids being so quiet inside? And why didn't I have cuter clothes? Wasn't it bad enough that I drove a minivan?
"Smile!"
God, it was exhausting. I'm still waiting for Leo DiCaprio to ring my doorbell and whisk me off to a private island to recuperate. Sadly, the only person who has shown up is a pimply teenager trying to sell me glossy magazines that feature supermodels (who I'm pretty sure have no "tharm" issues).
Anyway, the photo's up on my profile. And I'm taking a nap.
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The photographer came over one afternoon during a narrow sliver of time when I'd organized a baby-sitter for my baby and a Wii extravaganza for my older kids. I was showered (a minor triumph), mascara'd, and though I hadn't managed to squeeze in a haircut or a trip to buy new Spanx, all things considered, I was feeling pretty triumphant about my grooming.
So there we were, me and the photographer, in my backyard, ready to take the picture that would proclaim to readers: See how friendly (but not too friendly, certainly not in a stalkerish way!) and smart (not too smart, though! No threats to you Mensa members here!) this author is? Isn't her novel just leaping into your hands and compelling you to start reading it?
The problem was, it was hot outside. Brutally hot. And I was wearing a sweater (even I knew better than to trot out my usual summer uniform of slightly stained Old Navy t-shirts).
"Perch on this chair," the photographer suggested.
I obligingly perched, smiled, and sweated while the camera clicked. After a few minutes, my thigh muscles complained about perching on the edge of a chair and suggested we all go inside for a little restorative chocolate treat.
"You don't look comfortable," the photographer said. "Maybe a different outfit?"
I raced inside, changed, came back outside, and posed again.
"Hmm..." Hilary the photographer said. "I'm not sure that shirt is the right color for you."
Since I know and trust Hilary - she shoots my photo for a magazine column I write - I dashed upstairs again to change. I tore through my closet, which was stuffed with shorts and t-shirts, maternity wear, and a few very outdated business suits. Where were all my clothes? My cute, trendy, flattering clothes? Did I really dress like this? The horror!
"Mom," one of my kids whined, "can we have popcorn?"
"I'm having a photo shoot," I said importantly. "You know, for my book." The kid looked at me blankly.
"The Opposite of Me?" I said. "Due out in March? At bookstores everywhere? Didn't Mommy teach you to say that whenever possible?"
"He bit me!" came an outraged wail.
"Stop fighting and I'll take you to the pool in ten minutes," I lied to my children, whose sense of time is seriously warped from scenarios just like this one.
"I've got to go," the babysitter said apologetically. "I have another job to get to."
"Let's put the baby on a blanket outside," I said desperately. "He can watch the photo shoot."
"Did you powder your nose? You really should," the photographer asked, clearly feeling this was no time for subtlety.
I powdered, brushed my hair, threw back my shoulders, and posed again.
"THARM alert!" The photographer shouted.
(A "Tharm" happens when you position your arm in such a way that it appears to be bigger than a typical arm -- more like a thigh. Like the Ebola virus and men with bushy toupees, it is to be avoided at all costs).
I shifted, sweated, and posed. The baby rolled off the blanket into the grass. The older kids made popcorn themselves and doused it with a pound of butter. Was the baby rolling onto a bee? Why were the older kids being so quiet inside? And why didn't I have cuter clothes? Wasn't it bad enough that I drove a minivan?
"Smile!"
God, it was exhausting. I'm still waiting for Leo DiCaprio to ring my doorbell and whisk me off to a private island to recuperate. Sadly, the only person who has shown up is a pimply teenager trying to sell me glossy magazines that feature supermodels (who I'm pretty sure have no "tharm" issues).
Anyway, the photo's up on my profile. And I'm taking a nap.
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Tomi
(new)
Jan 27, 2010 11:04AM
The story of the photo shoot is hilarious and one that any woman who has ever been a mother can relate. I can remember days in which all I wanted to do was have our 3 boys nap at the same time just so I could actually take a bubble bath lasting longer than 22 seconds. As far as a picture is concerned, I am sure there are none to be found of me all by myself after age 20 (when our 1st son was born) until about 45 when I had my drivers licence renewed without children tagging along. Anyway, this is such a funny piece that I can hardly wait to read the book.
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Tomi,Thanks so much - and as a fellow Mom of three boys, I raise my glass of vodka (okay, it's one of the kids' glasses of leftover chocolate milk) to you and toast you! It's exhausting and crazy, but fun, isn't it?
