model

This afternoon was fantastic. I work a half day on Tuesdays and Thursdays on account of classes on those days. That means I work until 1pm, even though class only starts at 4pm. This is to allow for me to work on assignments, meet with my professors, return hopelessly overdue books to the million libraries scattered across campus, etc. Today, however, I got sucked into the studio.

We were supposed to have a shoot, but it kept getting postponed by the very important CEO whose portrait was going to be taken. But the lights were set up, the photographer was on standby, we had one of our makeup artists wandering around. Her boyfriend was there, a sprinkling of other photographers were milling around. Its becoming warmer, spring is in the air and my iPod was plugged into the studio sound system. Who can blame me for not catching up on the readings for this afternoon in favour of playing with my artists?

Niqui just sat me down and started painting my face. I couldn't complain. Meanwhile we had one photographer taking pictures of another photographer and we were all rocking out to Blondie. Niqui went wild on my face and even my photographer in residence was happy with the pictures he was snapping. And he's hard to please. So I started thinking how nice it would be to be a model. Sit around with fun creative people, have your face and hair done up by professionals, take some pictures, get paid money for it.

Look, don't let me kid you, with the studio on the premises, I've met my share of models and seen my share of shoots. You don't need brains to do this job. In fact, I'm tempted to say you really shouldn't pursue modelling as a career if you have brains (unless you are so drop dead beautiful that you are earning a fortune from the word go). The reason for this is that intelligent and creative people would not be able to sit still and hold uncomfortable poses without putting their two cents in every five minutes. That irritates every one else on the job. Having said that models do need to have endurance and need to be able to listen - mainly to commands. It can be quite challenging in its own way.

That's when Niqui's boyfriend pipes in that he can't believe models get paid to just look pretty. Well some of them aren't - thats where makeup artists and lighting comes into play. For me, I have come to the conclusion that I am happy models get paid a lot of money to do what they do. That is incentive enough to keep them out of other spaces, like our offices, where normal girls like me are terrified every time the slimmest, prettiest girl walks into my space. In addition, it keeps them out of the goods and services industries - which is also good, because with the IQs necessary to be a model, you don't really want them helping you get through your day.

As for me, you can be sure I am rushing early to work tomorrow to have a look at my pics, but today, I rushed my little self off to school, cause I'm too smart to be a model - or in any case, I can't sit still.

So, I got these as I was walking out the door to go home this afternoon. Thought I would share... For anyone interested, this is the parking lot of my office. And, well it has to be said, a big round of applause for my photographer in residence - Alexis...

confused or not?

The other night I got a little drunk, okay, maybe a little bit more than that, which could most likely account for the confusion that followed. I remember being a lot drunk the first time I saw Reservoir Dogs and in probably one of the worst conditions when I saw U-Turn for the first times. So the first time I saw Reservoir Dogs, I didn’t understand it. Contributing to that was probably the fact that I watched it with Erich who was raving about the brilliance of the movie and Tarantino and there was probably too much pressure mixed with my alcohol. U-Turn was screwed up the second time I saw it and I believe in retrospect, that it was the movie that made me feel more drunk than I actually was.

What happened the other night though is slightly more troubling, because I wasn’t watching anything with a twisted plot line or special effects and I wasn’t watching it for the first time either. What I was watching was the British version of The Office, the second part of the Christmas specials. An odd choice for something to watch when you’ve been drinking, but it was Oscar’s choice actually. He just picked it out and I put it on. But really, I watch that series and that specific episode more than necessary. What can I say, I like repeats.

But what happened while I was watching is really the weird thing. I got crazy homesick. Not a little homesick. Not a medium weight homesick. But a bona fide intense to the point of silly homesick. Maybe this doesn’t sound weird, but I got homesick watching a British comedy that I have never seen outside of South Africa. Nothing about the show reminds me of home, save for maybe a character or so. Getting homesick doesn’t scare me, it happens too much to even have an impact. I am always running on at least a minimal level of homesickness. What scares me is actually the merging of accents and related cultural accessories that is happening in my brain. You see, I am one of those Americans who can distinguish between the various English language accents. I can narrow down to country level at least and in the case of England, I can sometimes even get more specific.

But since then, there have been lots of little, barely blips on the radar type signs that are compelling me to watch The Office again. Like the actress who plays Dawn being on the cover of a magazine, which was the only magazine, out of hundreds on the wall that caught my eye. And then a colleague asked if I ever watch that show. And so on. Little things. And it contributes to my confusion – because homesickness should not follow directly from The Office, but it does. But maybe it is normal. Or maybe I am getting homesick because of the confusion.

Or maybe I am just freaking homesick. Who would doubt it? No one, just like no one doubts my confusion…

four

There were four of us. I have to say I think we were strongest junior year of high school, but the concept of the four of us has never left my mind - even if it has for you Kelly, Joanna and Holly. Even when we didn't speak (um, sorry, that was me) for a couple of years, I remembered the four of us. Before I walked down the steps to the bar a year ago (and I'm not sure which of us had a bigger shock), I can't even remember when the four of us were last in the same room together. I'm tempted to say it was as long ago as the summer I got back from Australia. Can anyone remember anything in between?

What strikes me as funny sometimes is how much we have all become our mothers. Ok, not in all respects, which is good, because three of us didn't want to be our mothers, we wanted to be Holly's mother. I mean who wouldn't? Who else would pack extra celery sticks and ranch dressing for the extra period (actually, I think it was a mod?) after chemistry for her daughter's friends? And who else would suggest making rice crispies treats when her daughter's friends just rock up after school? And who else would buy her daughter sexy underwear because she was concerned that she wasn't having sex? So basically, if we couldn't have Wave as our mother, we all wanted to be Wave when we had kids.

That was before I had kids. Not that I want to be anyone else or their mother. Cause if you are a mother, thats how people see you - as a mother. So if anyone (besides your children) thinks you are clever or pretty, for even half a second on a business call, its a good thing. Because, so often it is easy to get so wrapped up in the kids and whats going on in their lives that you forget about you. Meanwhile, Holly, who of all of us has become so much like her mother, shames me at her unbelieveably motherliness. Almost every day boasts a new story about Bela's activities or how much Holly loves the little one to pieces and misses her when she is gone (although part of me is tempted to say that the difference between having boys and having girls). Meanwhile, my blogs are about driving and photography (a subject I know little about) and occasionally eating. And most of the pictures on my blog are of me, not of my little monsters.

Don't worry Holly, your motherly perfection doesn't scare me, cause I know you are still Holly and I am still me. But I have to say that for a few months, I was a little miffed I wasn't included on your links section of your blog. Oh, I tried not to take it personally, but I did check back a lot to see if I was ever gonna be added. Eventually I gave it up. You know, sometimes I do manage to get over my bad self. Until today. Today you mentioned the reading of blogs and I remembered I haven't checked up on my future daughter-in-law in a few days. (I mean, if I can't be Wave, or have her for my mother, then damn straight I'm gonna make sure my son gets her as his wife - thats right other mommies - I've got dibs!) So I had a look and since I had more than 3 minutes, I decided to check out some of your links.

Hmmm, I thought to myself. Where to start? Hot Mama? Yeah, that looks interesting. Holy shit - thats me! I actually squealed with a mixture of delight and embarrasment. I was actually so embarrased at my petty little hurts of not being added. So I thought to myself, that I was never gonna tell anyone how bloody blind, dumb and silly I was. And then it struck me for the first time, I kinda like being called mama - as long as the word hot is in front of it. So then I realised I have to tell everyone. And even if we are growing up and having babies, really, some things haven't changed much since high school. You are still you and I am still me and half of the time we still talk about the same damn things - and maybe someday soon, the four of us will all go to a salon to have our hair dyed together (by professionals).

And as an added bonus - some pictures of the red in me.