When we were little savages roaming the streets and yards of our Jersey City neighborhood, one of our number suggested we become "blood brothers." Where he got this concept, I have no clue. Probably TV. Anyway, we all thought this was a great idea. The brave among us proceeded to prick their fingers on thorns and whatnot. I was allowed to use an existing cut on my shin. Nobody cared that most of the "brothers" were actually girls and no one suggested that we change the title to include blood sisters. If for no other reason, there was no catchy alliteration going on with the phrase "blood sisters." For a time, I'd guess approximately four days, we all formed a club and it was good.
Fast forward thirty-eight years and I find myself a reluctant member of another alliteratively pleasing, yet far less satisfying club. I am a member of the Sweat Sisters. Nothing drove this point home to me more than an encounter I had the other night at a party. I was talking with two women who I like, but do not know well. They are both friends of a friend. I never see either of them, except at the home of our mutual friend every once in awhile. Somehow, possibly because we were all drinking wine and feeling flush and uncomfortable, we got on the subject of peri-menopausal temperature changes. Up until then, my conversations with either of these women were limited to polite inquiries about their children and small talk. But suddenly, this unexpected three-way exchange blasted off like a rocket to the moon! Stories of the kind of sweat never before experienced in our lives washed over us and we became animated. We ventured beyond simple perspiration, into weight gain and then on to mood swings. We were rolling. I never realized either one of them could be so funny, so candid and so right on target. Inevitably, this run-away train of validation tore right on into the bedroom. Our nightly battles with sheets and blankets were laid bare. Our need for having skin exposed no matter how cold the room revealed. An abiding love of ceiling fans in the dead of winter was acknowledged. And, of course, the complete cluelessness of our partners when it comes to understanding the inconvenience of their mere presence in bed was lamented. It was heady and fabulous to be understood. The experience could only have been surpassed if it had culminated in a group hot flash--a personal summer gone viral.
Alas, the conversation eventually died off. We moved on to mingle with other people. But even if we never discuss it again, I'll never forget that meeting of minds, bodies and souls. I friended them on Facebook, but we're still basically strangers to each other. The only difference now is that we are Sweat Sisters. If only it lasted for a mere four days.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Just Sayin'
The minute I allow a bit of current lingo to enter my vocabulary, written or spoken, the boy hastens to inform me that no one says that anymore. This is nearly always false information designed to prevent me from embarrassing him. Example. The other day, after a random LOL on Facebook he raised the issue. So I quick texted our daughter--10 years older than the boy, but still young and in the know about these things. Surprised and miffed that he'd attack an expression she still uses, she dismissed him as "crazy," and gave me the green light on LOL. Perhaps what the boy fears is that I'll become a loltard, which urbandictionary.com defines as "a lamer who over uses LOL and its derivatives after almost every comment, which are almost exclusively non-humorous." This is not the case. I tend to be stinting with my LOLs, never use the derivatives and often opt for the more traditional hahaha.
The girl calling the boy crazy provides the perfect segue to the now popular expression insane or would if insane still retained its original meaning. Instead, insane has morphed into something along the lines of what was once groovy and has since been awesome, excellent, rad, righteous, cool, sick, badass, fresh and fly. One of my favorite recent compliments came indirectly from the boy's drum teacher (a young and undeniably cool individual). He described my iPod collection as insane. The boy came home and said, "Mom, John said your iPod is insane." Though he said it with a sort of grudging admiration, I was immediately insecure. "Is that good or bad?" I asked. The eye roll. "It's good, Mom, it's good." Whew.
Cool, which I have used to describe John, appears to be one slangy word that spans generations. You hear it uttered all the time, comfortably and correctly by nearly everyone in any age group. Anyone can use it and it sounds ok. And it always means the same thing, as wikipedia puts it, possessing a certain favorable aesthetic. Of course, you will have your lamers who can't leave well enough alone and insist upon expanding cool to cool beans, rendering themselves instantly uncool or totally lame. Saying cool beans is what's known these days as a fail. The Mayor and I, however, are not permitted to utter the word fail in this context.We've been read the riot act. The boy won't even say it himself. Apparently its use is reserved for the lamest of the lame. Who knew?
Hot, which, as the traditional opposite of cool should logically be a bad thing is actually, in many ways, better than cool. It is perfectly possible to be so cool that you are also hot. I have no personal experience with this phenomenon, but can readily see how it might happen. Unfortunately, I never wore enough black to be cool until I became middle-aged and overweight, factors which, in and of themselves, seem to have eliminated my potential as either cool or hot. Hey, at least I'm not a loltard.
Yesterday's man, as in "hey man, what's up?" has been usurped by dude, bro and now brah. Dude is more nuanced than man ever was and is often used as a form of address, an expression of shock or even disapproval. Instinctively, I know that I'm not a person who should be saying dude, so I don't say it. Similarly, but more because I just hate it, I don't use the expression stoked --an alternative to my generation's excited, psyched, or pumped. People who use the word stoked, always seem to pronounce it with that 80s valley girl accent. Thus, to my ear, those who say it tend to sound like idiots.
On the other hand, one has to respect both the brevity and versatility of today's seriously. All by itself, it replaces a number of multi-word expressions like you've got to be kidding, are you for real, no way, and oh, come on. The trick with seriously is to first say it interrogatively and then follow up by saying it declaratively. Exaggerated facial expressions are important in the delivery of seriously--you need a look that gets across one of the aforementioned multi-word expressions or if you prefer a simple WTF. Sometimes I use seriously myself. That, or it's closely related and identically delivered really. What does the boy think of this? IDK. And what's more, IDC.
The girl calling the boy crazy provides the perfect segue to the now popular expression insane or would if insane still retained its original meaning. Instead, insane has morphed into something along the lines of what was once groovy and has since been awesome, excellent, rad, righteous, cool, sick, badass, fresh and fly. One of my favorite recent compliments came indirectly from the boy's drum teacher (a young and undeniably cool individual). He described my iPod collection as insane. The boy came home and said, "Mom, John said your iPod is insane." Though he said it with a sort of grudging admiration, I was immediately insecure. "Is that good or bad?" I asked. The eye roll. "It's good, Mom, it's good." Whew.
Cool, which I have used to describe John, appears to be one slangy word that spans generations. You hear it uttered all the time, comfortably and correctly by nearly everyone in any age group. Anyone can use it and it sounds ok. And it always means the same thing, as wikipedia puts it, possessing a certain favorable aesthetic. Of course, you will have your lamers who can't leave well enough alone and insist upon expanding cool to cool beans, rendering themselves instantly uncool or totally lame. Saying cool beans is what's known these days as a fail. The Mayor and I, however, are not permitted to utter the word fail in this context.We've been read the riot act. The boy won't even say it himself. Apparently its use is reserved for the lamest of the lame. Who knew?
Hot, which, as the traditional opposite of cool should logically be a bad thing is actually, in many ways, better than cool. It is perfectly possible to be so cool that you are also hot. I have no personal experience with this phenomenon, but can readily see how it might happen. Unfortunately, I never wore enough black to be cool until I became middle-aged and overweight, factors which, in and of themselves, seem to have eliminated my potential as either cool or hot. Hey, at least I'm not a loltard.
Yesterday's man, as in "hey man, what's up?" has been usurped by dude, bro and now brah. Dude is more nuanced than man ever was and is often used as a form of address, an expression of shock or even disapproval. Instinctively, I know that I'm not a person who should be saying dude, so I don't say it. Similarly, but more because I just hate it, I don't use the expression stoked --an alternative to my generation's excited, psyched, or pumped. People who use the word stoked, always seem to pronounce it with that 80s valley girl accent. Thus, to my ear, those who say it tend to sound like idiots.
On the other hand, one has to respect both the brevity and versatility of today's seriously. All by itself, it replaces a number of multi-word expressions like you've got to be kidding, are you for real, no way, and oh, come on. The trick with seriously is to first say it interrogatively and then follow up by saying it declaratively. Exaggerated facial expressions are important in the delivery of seriously--you need a look that gets across one of the aforementioned multi-word expressions or if you prefer a simple WTF. Sometimes I use seriously myself. That, or it's closely related and identically delivered really. What does the boy think of this? IDK. And what's more, IDC.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
It's Here!!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Just Brilliant
Two TV interviews over the weekend have brought mind a theme that I have mulled, off and on, for years now. First was Friday night's ABC interview with self-described "brilliant" actor Charlie Sheen. Second was last night's 60 Minutes interview with "brilliant" author Christopher Hitchins. As the quotation marks indicate, I take issue with the wanton throwing about of the term brilliant. Charlie Sheen's freak show and ravings have dwarfed any contributions he ever made to the field of acting (using the term loosely when you are being paid a fortune to play a milder version of yourself on a sitcom). Christopher Hitchins, who is clearly a lot better educated and probably IQ smarter than most of us, is apparently not smart enough to avoid falling into the trap of overestimating the value of his intelligence. He is not smart enough to avoid being arrogant. Plus, he supported the Iraq war.
People describe others as brilliant all the time--even people that are clearly bad actors (not in the performing sense). When I taught elementary school, I had a student whose parents insisted he was rude, disruptive and under-achieving mainly because he was so much more intelligent than all the other kids. He was just so bored that all he could do was act out. And, he was bright. IQ-wise, he was equally as bright as another kid in the same class who did all his work, got on well with others and for whom I devised advanced work that he could do just for fun. Now, THAT was pretty smart. As young as he was, I could tell he was going places. The other one was headed for failure and juvenile detention. In the same vein, I've known more than a few women who praise of the intelligence of men who treat them badly. For the life of me, I cannot see anti-social as smart or a by-product of smart. To me, behaving like an ass is reflective of stupidity and using intelligence as an excuse for that is providing them a cop out. I recognize that what is happening here is divergent definitions of intelligence: raw IQ smarts verses social intelligence. Many people separate the two. I do not.
I contend that you cannot validly be described as brilliant if you cannot navigate your way our of a paper bag when it comes to functioning reasonably, responsibly, fairly and ethically with other people. Of course, valuing social intelligence over intellectual intelligence has been proved to have its downsides, too--reference the appeal to many (never me) of George W. Bush. But to be called truly brilliant in my books you need both. Behaving in ways that defeat your own goals, no matter the reasons, is simply not smart. And if you can't see your way clear to self-correction, you are not that smart. You might be exceptionally good at some things, but I won't give you the gold star.
Functioning intelligently in the world requires seeing the big picture, getting out of your own way, getting over yourself, recognizing the value of others, improving yourself, continually learning and living life with purpose. I think this is why I have trouble with the cults of acclaimed actors, artists, thinkers and writers--those perceived as elite. People think the statement, "oh, but he's brilliant," can override a multitude of flaws. I do not. Doesn't mean I don't appreciate their contributions, their moments of innovate thinking, acting, writing--brilliance, even. But truly bright people are thoughtful, measured, self-aware and ready for improvement every day, not just in flashes. They are the people around you who have it together--either having avoided pitfalls in life altogether or having learned from mistakes. They are the ones you like to be with because they know how to be in company. In short, I think how well you conduct your life, how much real value you bring to the table, the kind of company you keep and the kind of company you are, are the strongest indicators of your intelligence.
People describe others as brilliant all the time--even people that are clearly bad actors (not in the performing sense). When I taught elementary school, I had a student whose parents insisted he was rude, disruptive and under-achieving mainly because he was so much more intelligent than all the other kids. He was just so bored that all he could do was act out. And, he was bright. IQ-wise, he was equally as bright as another kid in the same class who did all his work, got on well with others and for whom I devised advanced work that he could do just for fun. Now, THAT was pretty smart. As young as he was, I could tell he was going places. The other one was headed for failure and juvenile detention. In the same vein, I've known more than a few women who praise of the intelligence of men who treat them badly. For the life of me, I cannot see anti-social as smart or a by-product of smart. To me, behaving like an ass is reflective of stupidity and using intelligence as an excuse for that is providing them a cop out. I recognize that what is happening here is divergent definitions of intelligence: raw IQ smarts verses social intelligence. Many people separate the two. I do not.
I contend that you cannot validly be described as brilliant if you cannot navigate your way our of a paper bag when it comes to functioning reasonably, responsibly, fairly and ethically with other people. Of course, valuing social intelligence over intellectual intelligence has been proved to have its downsides, too--reference the appeal to many (never me) of George W. Bush. But to be called truly brilliant in my books you need both. Behaving in ways that defeat your own goals, no matter the reasons, is simply not smart. And if you can't see your way clear to self-correction, you are not that smart. You might be exceptionally good at some things, but I won't give you the gold star.
Functioning intelligently in the world requires seeing the big picture, getting out of your own way, getting over yourself, recognizing the value of others, improving yourself, continually learning and living life with purpose. I think this is why I have trouble with the cults of acclaimed actors, artists, thinkers and writers--those perceived as elite. People think the statement, "oh, but he's brilliant," can override a multitude of flaws. I do not. Doesn't mean I don't appreciate their contributions, their moments of innovate thinking, acting, writing--brilliance, even. But truly bright people are thoughtful, measured, self-aware and ready for improvement every day, not just in flashes. They are the people around you who have it together--either having avoided pitfalls in life altogether or having learned from mistakes. They are the ones you like to be with because they know how to be in company. In short, I think how well you conduct your life, how much real value you bring to the table, the kind of company you keep and the kind of company you are, are the strongest indicators of your intelligence.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Dogs Gone Wild
In an effort to protect what's left of her virtue, I put Major in the crate. He was, after all, the driving force I thought. It's Karma's crate where she resides when I go out. I closed Major in fully expecting whining objections from him. Instead, Karma began pawing wildly at the latch in an attempt to free him! They are two dogs of but one mind.
The coupling elicits screams of horror from the boy. I am getting used to it, but I will admit that it engendered a bit of horror in me at first, too. I see these dogs, especially Major, as so removed from their natural tendencies that when instinct takes over it's a bit of a shock. Who knew he had it in him? He's had the odd love affair over the years with stuffed toys and pillows, but nothing sustained like this. The song, "Who Let the Dogs Out," takes on vivid new meaning for me.
The only plus I see in all this is that by day's end they will be worn to a frazzle. They must be exhausting themselves because it exhausts me just thinking about it, hearing it, yelling at them for it and when it absolutely can't be helped--seeing it. How long does this heat last? Maybe I could move the vet appointment up to, say, tomorrow!
Monday, February 28, 2011
Simply Flabulous!
The one major advantage to lung disease was that I was able to keep my girlish figure. For most of my life, I have eaten whatever I want and whenever I want. I could out eat teenage boys. I paid no attention to exercise. My metabolism was always in high gear and I breathed off most of what I ate. My sisters hated me for it, though I would try to point out that there WERE downsides to chronic respiratory distress. I retained some weight after bearing the boy, but nothing too crazy. At the point of what I call the downturn in 2005 when my poor overwrought lungs decided to seriously malfunction and began to give out, I was about 118 pounds and probably at my perfect middle-age weight. The aftermath got ugly and I was too thin--scary looking, but before that, girth-wise at least, all was well.
When I walked out of Presbyterian Hospital after my lung transplant in 2007, I weighed 98 pounds. It was a beautiful start to a new life. An ability to breathe and a NEED to gain weight--does it get any better than that? But every party has a pooper and that's why we invited prednisone.
The doctors do warn you that prednisone makes you hungry. And I had some experience of prednisone tapers through the years, so I foolishly thought I knew what to expect. I had no idea. Hungry isn't the word for it. I was consumed by the need to throw food down my throat. A half-hour after a big meal, I'd be peckish again. You can stave off peckish and sometimes (rarely) I would, but it bloomed into starving lightning fast and my life lessons all told me to go ahead and feed it. Had I possessed ANY foresight whatsoever, I might have recognized a bad pattern and looked for better foods, but that wasn't my mindset. Entenmanns, Dunkin' Donuts, Dairy Queen, in short, sugar--became my addiction. An addiction, admittedly I probably always had, but one that had never been pharmaceutically encouraged before.
Of course, I realized the error of my ways far too late. Now I weigh more than I did when I was carrying the boy and look and feel pretty bad. I actually wondered and embarrassingly asked to doctors to check if I had a large tumor or something that could account for my belly. My whole identity as a thin (albeit never particularly fit) person is trashed. I am physically uncomfortable. I buy the wrong clothes and look bad in them. Things I used to love--clothes shopping, eating out, chocolate, even taking a nice bath--are now disturbing events that I avoid. I have to accept the fact that the only way I am ever going to turn heads again is if I wear horizontal stripes or forget my spanx.
Before you get down on me, like everybody does when I express any of this, let me state that I DO have a perspective. I am immeasurably thankful to be alive. The prednisone dose is low now, so I have achieved a stable if yet unacceptable level of heft. I am attempting exercise, though it forces me to enter the arena of labored breathing which, as you might imagine, is somewhat fraught for me. And as they cheerfully inform me at the lung transplant center, my BMI indicates that I am not yet considered obese. How fab.
Now I've entered the world many people have always inhabited. I bargain with myself over everything I eat. I've joined a gym and actually go sometimes. I've declared war on my old friend sugar and am making peace with my new chins. I'm attempting to embrace vegetables. I think I'm on the right track now, but there isn't a lot of hope for results. That is not being negative, but realistic. The doctor at Presbyterian who administers the yearly pulmonary stress test told me last year that if you wanted to sabotage another country's Olympic team, the best way is to give them the drugs I take every day. In other words, I'd have to become obsessed with exercise to overcome the chemicals I put into my body just to stay alive. The mayor thought it was wrong of him to tell me that, but I was grateful. It made the fact that I don't get very far with body modification less of a personal failure and more of an inevitability. And I think I have a good read on where inevitability becomes an excuse and personal failure takes over. That's where the hope comes in!
When I walked out of Presbyterian Hospital after my lung transplant in 2007, I weighed 98 pounds. It was a beautiful start to a new life. An ability to breathe and a NEED to gain weight--does it get any better than that? But every party has a pooper and that's why we invited prednisone.
The doctors do warn you that prednisone makes you hungry. And I had some experience of prednisone tapers through the years, so I foolishly thought I knew what to expect. I had no idea. Hungry isn't the word for it. I was consumed by the need to throw food down my throat. A half-hour after a big meal, I'd be peckish again. You can stave off peckish and sometimes (rarely) I would, but it bloomed into starving lightning fast and my life lessons all told me to go ahead and feed it. Had I possessed ANY foresight whatsoever, I might have recognized a bad pattern and looked for better foods, but that wasn't my mindset. Entenmanns, Dunkin' Donuts, Dairy Queen, in short, sugar--became my addiction. An addiction, admittedly I probably always had, but one that had never been pharmaceutically encouraged before.
Of course, I realized the error of my ways far too late. Now I weigh more than I did when I was carrying the boy and look and feel pretty bad. I actually wondered and embarrassingly asked to doctors to check if I had a large tumor or something that could account for my belly. My whole identity as a thin (albeit never particularly fit) person is trashed. I am physically uncomfortable. I buy the wrong clothes and look bad in them. Things I used to love--clothes shopping, eating out, chocolate, even taking a nice bath--are now disturbing events that I avoid. I have to accept the fact that the only way I am ever going to turn heads again is if I wear horizontal stripes or forget my spanx.
Before you get down on me, like everybody does when I express any of this, let me state that I DO have a perspective. I am immeasurably thankful to be alive. The prednisone dose is low now, so I have achieved a stable if yet unacceptable level of heft. I am attempting exercise, though it forces me to enter the arena of labored breathing which, as you might imagine, is somewhat fraught for me. And as they cheerfully inform me at the lung transplant center, my BMI indicates that I am not yet considered obese. How fab.
Now I've entered the world many people have always inhabited. I bargain with myself over everything I eat. I've joined a gym and actually go sometimes. I've declared war on my old friend sugar and am making peace with my new chins. I'm attempting to embrace vegetables. I think I'm on the right track now, but there isn't a lot of hope for results. That is not being negative, but realistic. The doctor at Presbyterian who administers the yearly pulmonary stress test told me last year that if you wanted to sabotage another country's Olympic team, the best way is to give them the drugs I take every day. In other words, I'd have to become obsessed with exercise to overcome the chemicals I put into my body just to stay alive. The mayor thought it was wrong of him to tell me that, but I was grateful. It made the fact that I don't get very far with body modification less of a personal failure and more of an inevitability. And I think I have a good read on where inevitability becomes an excuse and personal failure takes over. That's where the hope comes in!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Prize of Shame
I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of things I've actually won over the years. I've never had a winning lottery ticket. I've spent a fair share of Lincolns on triple arms lengths of 50/50 tickets that never yield a profit, football and basketball pools that pay off nicely--for someone else and various tricky tray (nee Chinese) auctions that, I hope, benefit a good cause because they surely did not benefit me. Publishers' Clearinghouse has steadfastly ignored my existence--even when I used to slavishly send in my entries. And my forays into casinos invariably end with the phrase, "well, at least we had a good time." Sure, I've made off with a few centerpieces and the occasional door prize over the years, but never the "grand" prize, so to speak. So imagine my surprise when I hear my name announced as the lucky winner of a family portrait at a fundraising event for a local non-profit organization. Not exactly a new car, but definitely a cut above the centerpiece!
Excited, I promptly register with the photography company for my portrait--faxing them my contact information. Almost immediately, Lindy from Bourgeois Photography (an assumed name) calls me and ask me what kind of fundraiser I entered to win their donated prize. She seems put out that I won in a tricky tray rather than a silent auction. Is it me, or am I sensing disapproval? I can't decide, so I forge on. Lindy says, with an air of indulging me despite the fact that their donation was clearly undersold, that she is sending me my gift certificate and we arrange a date for our sitting.
Included with the certificate are glossy brochures of their portraits. These portraits, the literature points out, are not your run of the mill portraits. They are printed on canvas and "artist enhanced." Depicting mostly formally dressed families in staid settings with dark backgrounds and gilt frames, I am a little disappointed in the overall mood of the finished products, but what the heck--it's free, right? I open the fancy little box containing my gift and note with foreboding that it is in the amount of $2000.00. In my world, this would purchase family portraits enough to cover every wall of my house. I feel I'm being led a merry dance, but I decide to see it through.
Sitting day comes. The Mayor is off mayoring, so the boy and I go to have our mother/son portrait. I get my hair done, we dress in the recommended dark colors and we pose for a variety of shots. The photographer is charming and the boy and I have a good time with it. There's no sign of Lindy, but Emily--the lady at the front desk arranges a time for me to come back, review and select our portrait. Meanwhile, I get a closer look at their work. Portraits are arranged throughout the studio. They strive for an heirloom quality portrait that is more painting than photo. But to me they look kind of ghostly and surreal. Whatever, I think, see how it goes.
Finally the day of reckoning. I get the sense that I'm being set up for the hard sell. A few days before my appointment, Jessica calls to "strongly encourage" me to bring the Mayor along because "all decisionmakers" should be present. I assure them, in politer terms of course, that the Mayor couldn't care less what image I choose and that I am decisionmaker enough for this event. I know and of course they know we are not talking about the image anymore, we are talking about the price, but in the wonderfully euphemistic world of things that cost a ridiculous amount of money, we're all happy to pretend.
When I arrive, Jessica escorts me to a viewing room where I sit on a lovely sofa. She offers me tea. I decline because I know my goal is not to "spend" more than my $2000.00 gift certificate and I don't want to take advantage. The photos of me and the boy are fantastic. One better than the other, so of course, I want them all. We pick the best images in each position. Then Jessica puts it on the table. Portraits range from $8000.00 on down to $2000.00. Net net, the $2000.00 I have gets me an unframed 11 X 14, which she explains, will not have much "artist" work on it because it is "so small." I'm secretly good with that since I feel it is the artist additions that have rendered the portraits all around me somewhat scary, but I look downcast as a poor person out of her league should look. I decide to recognize the possibility that perhaps they should make money on the "gift" they "donated" to charity and ask, what it would cost to have my measly portrait framed. There is no framing possibility less than $300. Not doing it. She offers mounted versions of the other shots that can be set on little mini-easels, not "enhanced" of course and I'd have to find my own mini-easels. I think ok, maybe I'll get one or two of these. Wrong. An 8 X 10 is $300. It's $250 for a 5 X7. Now I know I can't do business here.
Excited, I promptly register with the photography company for my portrait--faxing them my contact information. Almost immediately, Lindy from Bourgeois Photography (an assumed name) calls me and ask me what kind of fundraiser I entered to win their donated prize. She seems put out that I won in a tricky tray rather than a silent auction. Is it me, or am I sensing disapproval? I can't decide, so I forge on. Lindy says, with an air of indulging me despite the fact that their donation was clearly undersold, that she is sending me my gift certificate and we arrange a date for our sitting.
Included with the certificate are glossy brochures of their portraits. These portraits, the literature points out, are not your run of the mill portraits. They are printed on canvas and "artist enhanced." Depicting mostly formally dressed families in staid settings with dark backgrounds and gilt frames, I am a little disappointed in the overall mood of the finished products, but what the heck--it's free, right? I open the fancy little box containing my gift and note with foreboding that it is in the amount of $2000.00. In my world, this would purchase family portraits enough to cover every wall of my house. I feel I'm being led a merry dance, but I decide to see it through.
Sitting day comes. The Mayor is off mayoring, so the boy and I go to have our mother/son portrait. I get my hair done, we dress in the recommended dark colors and we pose for a variety of shots. The photographer is charming and the boy and I have a good time with it. There's no sign of Lindy, but Emily--the lady at the front desk arranges a time for me to come back, review and select our portrait. Meanwhile, I get a closer look at their work. Portraits are arranged throughout the studio. They strive for an heirloom quality portrait that is more painting than photo. But to me they look kind of ghostly and surreal. Whatever, I think, see how it goes.
Finally the day of reckoning. I get the sense that I'm being set up for the hard sell. A few days before my appointment, Jessica calls to "strongly encourage" me to bring the Mayor along because "all decisionmakers" should be present. I assure them, in politer terms of course, that the Mayor couldn't care less what image I choose and that I am decisionmaker enough for this event. I know and of course they know we are not talking about the image anymore, we are talking about the price, but in the wonderfully euphemistic world of things that cost a ridiculous amount of money, we're all happy to pretend.
When I arrive, Jessica escorts me to a viewing room where I sit on a lovely sofa. She offers me tea. I decline because I know my goal is not to "spend" more than my $2000.00 gift certificate and I don't want to take advantage. The photos of me and the boy are fantastic. One better than the other, so of course, I want them all. We pick the best images in each position. Then Jessica puts it on the table. Portraits range from $8000.00 on down to $2000.00. Net net, the $2000.00 I have gets me an unframed 11 X 14, which she explains, will not have much "artist" work on it because it is "so small." I'm secretly good with that since I feel it is the artist additions that have rendered the portraits all around me somewhat scary, but I look downcast as a poor person out of her league should look. I decide to recognize the possibility that perhaps they should make money on the "gift" they "donated" to charity and ask, what it would cost to have my measly portrait framed. There is no framing possibility less than $300. Not doing it. She offers mounted versions of the other shots that can be set on little mini-easels, not "enhanced" of course and I'd have to find my own mini-easels. I think ok, maybe I'll get one or two of these. Wrong. An 8 X 10 is $300. It's $250 for a 5 X7. Now I know I can't do business here.
With the mysterious unknown cost of the "artist's touch" removed, I can estimate how much these mounted photos would cost them. Hell, I can probably go on Snapfish and get one for next to nothing. I would have paid a reasonable sum, in order to keep it polite. I recognize the value of professional photography and that people need to earn a living. I was prepared to spend up to about $100 for my "prize." But they offered me no options. The disapproval and anger I felt off off Jessica when she realized I was not taking the bait was palpable. She couldn't get rid of me fast enough and, in fact, couldn't even look at me again. I guess I was supposed to feel shame. That was my big prize. Too late, I realized that I'd have been happier if she'd just handed me an 8X10 print of each of the poses and charged me for them. That would have been a real win. My portrait has not arrived yet. I have no idea how it will look. But every time I look at it, I'll remember how lucky I am to be unlucky most of the time.
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