lipstick cherry all over the lens as she's falling

One of the reasons I've eschewed the celebrity lifestyle that's so prevalent here in the suburbs is I'm not a huge fan of the paparazzi wanting to take my photo all the time. I regularly run errands minus undergarments and have been known to have veiled substance abuse issues (if I go more than an hour or two without a Diet Mountain Dew, trust me, the sweating and shakes does not a great picture make, yet that's when those scoundrels always seem to catch me). Because of these issues, and because I do so wish to be just like the normal every day folk in my neighborhood, it's best I not tempt the hordes of snap happy photogs who hang out around the grocery store and elementary school parking lot, screaming my name and waiting for me to emerge in a braless, muttering mess.

Cut and dry, I hate having my picture taken. I'm sure I'm the only one who feels like this (that bold 'only' is the only way to pull off sarcasm here, babies), and clearly explains the crumbling disinterest people have in flickr.

However, we live in a digital world (thus concludes our history lesson on the 21st century!). As such, I do, on occasion, find myself face to lens with a camera. Well, mostly face to lens. My feet have gotten more face time here than my face ever has. They're always butting in. Speaking of butts, the answer is no. No, there are no pictures of it floating out there to find. You could ask and I'd get all giggly and stuff, and maybe consider it for you and all, but no. No butt shots.

Ok. Maybe one. But I deleted it. I did!

Despite my apparent aversion to self portraits, I often have a camera with me when I'm out. Mostly to capture archival opportunities when my children do something cute or embarrassing. Not so much when I do something along the same lines (but wow, now that I think about it, that butt shot was hella cute, what with the blue and yellow striped boycuts...). I cringe thinking of the photos documenting a series of poor choices in hairstyling over the years that are in my mom's possession. My hope is my children have my image burned into their brains now (and that I'm smiling and all happy and "Nice Mom" and not "Bitch shoulda went to bed a lot earlier Evil Mom") when they remember me upon my departure from this earthly soil. If not, they can browse the buffet o' hairstyles photos and question whether it was a good choice for me to rock the pigtails as an 8 year old and again in my 30s (the answer, btw, is oh hell yes!).

Of course, I blame the fact (aka - credit) that I'm the one whipping the camera out for whatever looks worthy of preservation for why you're not going to see me in very many photographs. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "By not stepping in front of the camera, your ideology clearly goes against your whole point of capturing that which is interesting and cute for all posterity."

You're so right. So, so right. And so very sweet. Thank you.

So why do I not jump all crazy in front of the camera? Simple. I don't know what to do once there. Act nonchalant? Bust a demure smile with a hint of my raging mane draped wistfully over my right eye (a shot that looks kick ass, I should say, in the event there is one like that out there. Just sayin')? Look directly at whoever is taking a photo and bore into them with the raging power of my flirty eyes? Stick my tongue out? It's a conundrum every time someone yanks out the Kodak and tells me to smile! If we're together and I see you with a camera, I pretend not to notice. I'm deaf if you tell me to look at you and your obvious camera eye. I'm not hiding anything. I just think there are more interesting things to take a picture of. Like my bleeding hand or whatnot.

Oh, ok. And sometimes my boobs. Sometimes my boobs do make for interesting photos. A couple of times there've been photos of my breasts taken. By accident. When I may have slipped and accidentally on purpose ended up with the lens RIGHT THERE, telling them to smile and work it for me. And like when I maybe plopped them out so a little cell phone photo session could take place in my kitchen during the middle of the night, thus alerting my husband it was I who was calling him and not one of the other ladies who may have shown their boobs to him. Let me just say, my boobs always hit their mark and never ever come out of some bar after hours, looking wasted and slurring their words, thus ensuring an Us Weekly cover. Besides, they have me as their publicist and my clients are very discerning.

My butt, however, is an entirely different story.

"Deleted it." Ha! My ass...

note: it's the uncensored version, 'cause that's how I roll in my "John Taylor wants to do me" fantasy world.