Tag Archives: paparazzi

Mornin’ sunshine

Sometimes the paparazzi has a crappy week at work, and you are not wearing pants or makeup, but you say “Hey honey, I’ll hold still, and I promise not to make faces.” This means something else in other relationships. In my particular situation, it means I remain patient for twenty minutes with a flash going off in my face, or not, or maybe we change lenses. Damn people with hobbies and interests, using them as an outlet to relieve stress. That’s not how it’s done! The proper response to stress is to pull a blanket up over one’s head, or lie on the floor, kicking one’s feet in the air like a dying bug.

There are other photos where you can sort of see down my shirt, but I am saving those for when I start internet dating.

I am just kidding, I do not date the internet. I’ve also decided not to drown Mr. H after all. I guess I could have saved myself the cost of plane tickets, as I was planning to drown him in Spain since I’ve never met an elaborate scheme I didn’t like. If it involves passports, all the better. Lambchop asked me for advice the other day, and I came up with a complicated lie that may have necessitated phony blood samples and defrauding the federal government. And me impersonating a doctor. Sensible girl that she is, she opted for the truth. The truth is a coy mistress, or something. I don’t have time for the truth, or makeup, because I am on-the-go, or not getting out of bed before noon on a weekend, or most days, for that matter.

No, I am not such a creature of leisure. I really am on the go. I’m going to Baltimore again for an emergency trash-picking summit, and then I’m not drowning Mr. H in Spain. Does anyone want to watch the cat for me? I need some damn me time, with chilled golden spoons over my eyes.

Full of grace

This photo is a rare still from my audition for The Shining II: Back to the Beach. Actually, there is a perfectly logical and innocent reason I am hunkered on the floor in gross disarray, but I will leave that to your imagination. One side effect of Mr. H’s new camera purchase is that one must be prepared to be photographed at any time. Taking out the trash? Expect the paparazzi, using a high ISO setting and telling you about it, then asking you to take out the trash again under different lighting conditions. Now I know how Jennifer Anniston feels, and I am slowly learning the ropes of Extrem-Fame. I had best get knocked up so I don’t get divorced.

Once I was making my way home down Charles Street, when I passed two blond women of a certain age gawking at the window of one of the stores that sells those inexplicable quilted paisley purses. “I just never saw myself as a divorcée,” whimpered one. The other one looked incredulous: “But Boston is a GREAT town for it!”

Boston is indeed a great town, rife with Starbucks and divorce, but I am tearing myself away for a working vacation in…wait for it… East (Bal)Timor. I will be handing out bottled water and charity Christmas CDs to the natives, who will use this manna to cleanse their collective stench and build primitive huts. I am completing a round of vaccinations today, and I expect a call from my financial manager with directions on changing US dollars to Baltimorean currency. Happily, I am also skilled in barter and crude hand gestures.