passport imperfect

It was a good news/bad news kind of thing.

The good news is that less than a month after filling out the forms, Turk and I had our renewed passports in our hot little hands. We were now free to take off and follow our dreams to exotic ports and distant lands at a moment's notice, limited only by our wildest imaginings and the contents of our Washington Mutual bank account, which as it turns out is fairly limiting indeed. But that is not the bad news.

The bad news is the passport photo. Specifically, my passport photo, or as I have come to think of it, Exhibit One; irrefutable proof that I am, well frankly, just not that young anymore.

Yes, I know, I know. No one is, least of all me. And I had it coming, after all ~ I have not exactly been a paragon of virtue; long nights and dry martinis do not a youthful complexion maintain. Still, 10 years is a long time between photos, but not that long. It's no Ice Age. So how is it, then, that my face seems suddenly to be sliding, glacier-like, off of my skull and in the general direction of my shoulders? Or breastbone, as the case may be, which should work out just fine as soon there will be nothing there to break its fall. My knees are still in the same place as far as I can tell, although somewhat more dimpled than I remember. Gravity and gravy are having their way with me.

Perhaps that's why the broad-beamed smile of the earlier shot has given way to a rather more cynical smirk in the later. It could be that wisdom and experience simply do not sit well upon this mildewed brow. Or maybe my mother was right all along, and I kept making that face until it finally froze that way.

Whatever the cause, none of this seems to have remotely affected my husband; Turk's pictures look for all the world like they may have been taken on the very same day. I'm pretty sure it's the same golf shirt. His very expression is identical from decade to decade, although his eyesight may be becoming questionable. When I showed him the offending photograph he, oblivious to my horror, smiled and exclaimed, "That's my pretty baby!" It's a blatant lie, of course. I'm old enough to know better. But I'm also old enough to know it'll have to do. In fact, it'll do quite nicely.

And wipe that smirk off your face before it freezes like that. You've been warned.

sunday bloody sunday

I was playing in Photoshop and wanted to see if I could upload a .tga file in here in order to create an irregularly shaped image. The answer is no, I cannot. I did, however, waste an awful lot of time in my graphics files, which always annoys me because I should have been doing...well something anyway. And then my computer suddenly and for no reason at all except that it is what it is quit interfacing with my graphics pen tablet and well...I am just irritated, is all.

But I'd been rummaging around in my dresser drawers earlier and came across these old sketchbooks with a couple of watercolor portraits. I love doing portraits although I'm not impressively adept. But I practice, baby, practice. Which is precisely what I was trying to do when my pen quit on me (she whines unpleasantly, silly spoiled spawn of the 21st century.) Oh, woe is me ~ what would Degas have done? Or Van Gogh? Cut off another appendage and drawn in blood, no doubt. It's nothing a little absinthe wouldn't cure. So what the hell is wrong with me?

I'm sure I've got a pencil somewhere. A pencil with an eraser. Now if I could only locate a sharpener and some absinthe....

vengence is mine

My pal Trish is mad at me. A lovely and talented musician, Trish recently played a little game on her blog, the prize for which was that she would record and post a video rendition of the lucky winner's favorite song. It seems I may have made a few possibly unwelcome suggestions ~ Debbie Boone's You Light Up My Life is someone's favorite song, surely ~ and she has taken her revenge by tagging me for one these.

So here are the rules:

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

here are my 7 random and/or weird things:

1. I have a serious online gaming addiction. Stop me before my avatar kills again.

2. As a teenager, it took me 5 tries to pass my driver's license test. In all fairness to me, each try was in a different car, one of which was my boyfriend's '74 Mustang Mach I complete with side pipes and racing stripes. When I peeled away from the curb, tires spinning and engine roaring the inspector conducting the test actually made a grab for the dashboard, which is hardly ever a good sign. I finally passed in my mother's Toyota. Which she promptly gave to my brother.

3. My nickname in high school was 'Pathfinder' because I was always getting lost.

4. I gave myself that nickname.

5. I outsource all my blogging. The work is currently being performed by a clever but opinionated Shirley Temple doll in Bangladesh, who for some reason goes by the name of 'Tammy'.

6. I am very concerned about Trish's pathological fear of balloons.

7. I do not know 7 people who read this blog and am therefore unable to tag. Also, I am not mad at anybody, although this could change at any given moment. It all depends on Tammy.


*blogger surrogate/technician Tammy at home in Bangladesh