I've seen a lot of babies this week. Happy babies, grumpy babies, babies who find me charming, babies who want me dead and mangled immediately...baby pictures are a staple of the portrait business, so we see legions of infants, marched by mommy or grandma past the backdrop and into the prop bathtub.
Being a trainee, I'm not allowed to photograph actual babies yet, so I've done a lot of setup and observation of the bebeh photo sessions. My trainer is a whiz with the camera, a genius at getting the tit-feeding army crawlers to smile and laugh and forget their angry tears just long enough for the flash to pop and the most unbelievably adorable expressions to be captured.
My fellow trainee and I have been learning to use the camera, mostly by taking turns modeling for each other, which has mostly taught me that I will never, ever be a model, unless someone decides on a need for the new face of Haggard Skank Adult Diapers. Posing an adult, though, is not a thing like posing an infant, so our trainer went home on Friday and brought back the Training Baby (TB). The TB is incredibly realistic, from coloring to veins to real hair to the weight of the thing. It's been a big help in giving us ideas for prop setup, subject placement, camera and lighting angles, backdrops, all that crap that the pros make look effortless.
Truthfully, though, we've had far too much fun with the TB outside of the photo room. The studio is in a busy grocery store, so shoppers walk past us constantly while we're working. When we're sitting out in front, trying to drum up business, you'd think we were invisible, or at least untouchable. People do everything in their power to avoid eye contact, lest we draw them in, rendering them helpless to resist our Bonus Package Voodoo. But take that TB out front to fix its hair while we do paperwork, and no one can walk past without staring.
Once we noticed this phenomenon, we all got downright evil.
We carry the TB in the most careless fashion possible, leave it sitting precariously on the counter, set it upside down by itself in a chair...we may or may not have tossed it to each other at one time. How can I describe people's reactions? Well, if looks could kill, we'd all have our skin flayed clean off of our bones. My fellow trainee was sitting with the TB in her lap today, and she set her notebook on top of it during a meeting, and a couple stopped dead in their tracks, staring and whispering to each other for several minutes, looking slightly aghast. Oh, they figure it out eventually, every one of them, and then they look sheepish and usually giggle and shake their heads. If someone looks like they're too confused, we call out after them, "Don't worry - it's not real, it's a doll!" So far, no one has called the authorities on us.
Don't worry, I promise to treat the real babies with care. But I make no such promise about the teenagers.
Those conspiring against me obviously took a day off
The bad news: I have to dig out my never-worn white bras to wear under the white blouse I just had to buy, because all my dress shirts are some variation of black, to go with the color of my cold, shriveled heart.
The good news: The reason for the sudden need for virgin-colored clothing is that I got a job!
I shit you not. The call came yesterday afternoon, and I start my training on Wednesday. This time around, I'm moving out of the realm of the computer geek and into the kingdom of the camera nerd. While I would prefer to be photographing nekkid vixens finding inventive uses for in-season vegetables, I'm afraid that won't be part of my job description. But I will be working behind the camera (not in front, people, so stop gripping your keyboards in front of your face with the sheer horror of it all), and will probably pick up lots of tricks that will be helpful in the advancement of my true calling (snapping candid shots of my Homies and action figures).
Is it a high-paying gig? No, not by a long shot. But does it sound like fun? Hell, yeah!
Advice that should have stopped while it was ahead
When Squirl brought me some dinner the other night, it came complete with napkins emblazoned with sage counsel:
It's not a bad piece of advice, this admonition to WIPE! I think wiping is a wonderful invention, and I don't even think I'm going too far to call it the cornerstone of a civilized society.
But...but...but...did they really feel the need to follow a good rule of, ah, thumb with a slogan like "Tasting is Believing"? Is this some sort of a nod to analingus? Tasting is Believing that the ass you're licking was thoroughly wiped before the tongue hit the pucker?
Note to Jimmy John's: please stop making me think about ass while I'm eating your sandwiches. It's distracting, and you didn't even have the courtesy to include a side of anus with the meal.
The fact that I'm a sad, sorry individual with nothing resembling a real life is probably not news to anyone. Right now, my existence revolves around my cats and my TV shows, and the neighbors all know at this point that I'm slightly deranged, as I spend most of my time talking to the cats and the TV.
Every week, when that day between Thursday and Saturday rolls around, I spend every waking moment chasing Friday around the house, proclaiming "It's your day, Friday!" As if they named the day after my cat (it's not outside the realm of possibility in my little world). Friday's reaction generally hovers somewhere between humoring me and running under the chaise to avoid looking the crazy bitch in the eyes.
Once a month, when the date between the 12th and the 14th occurs, it's poor little Puffington's turn, and he gets an entire 24 hellish hours of "It's your day, Thirteen!" Which, all things considered, probably isn't half bad compared to the way Squirl and I have turned the General Hospital theme song into Thirteen's personal anthem (if you don't want to bleed out of your eyes, don't ask for details on this).
Then there are time like today, where it just so happens to be Friday's and Thirteen's day. Frankly, I'm exhausted from all the chasing and exclaiming. Although I should point out that its being Thirteen's day in no way precludes his being soaked down with the water bottle when he refuses to stop treating my love seat as a scratching post.
Anyway, it's their day, whether they like it or not, and as is my tradition, I'm offering up new pictures of their poor, abused faces for your consideration.
Okay, alright, I'll put up a new post on top of the bloody vagina talk.
The upcoming Hulk movie is not a sequel to the 2003 Hulk movie. Is his story really that compelling that we need a re-imagining of the angry green guy so soon? I'll make the producers a deal: you promise to show me some giant green dick, and I'll buy a ticket.
I want to be famous just so Kathy Griffin will make fun of me in her act. Seriously, hearing my name roll off her lips, even in the snarkiest of contexts, would be the highlight of a sad, sad lifetime. Who else here is just counting down the minutes until My Life On The D-List begins its season 3 run next week?
Wii Fit? Oh, I don't fucking think so! If I wanted to do something healthy and active, I sure as hell wouldn't be playing video games. Y'all can go work out with the Wii...I'm gonna eat some bagels and let my ass slowly take over the entire couch while I play some Grand Theft Auto.
I am officially past the age where I think it sounds like fun to have sex on any surface that isn't a bed, a sofa, or a car seat. Yeah, still haven't outgrown the back seat, so there's still hope for me. Beanbag chairs are comfortable, but I just can't take the noise; the sound just screams "CRUNCHY VAGINA!" That might make a fine breakfast cereal, but it just doesn't trip my trigger.