Marceline: “Okay, help me understand why I’m posing like this?”
Photographer: “I have no idea. They just give me the assignment and I try to make it happen. Don’t judge.”
Marceline: “But what’s my motivation in this scene?”
Photographer: “This is not a scene, Sweetie. It’s just a publicity shot that may or may not have anything to do with a movie that might not ever be made. It’s Hollywood. It’s all about appearances and not actual intentions.”
Marceline: “You sound bitter. Is alcoholism involved? That’s a Hollywood thing as well.”
Photographer: “In my case, bills are involved. I need to pay them off or I’ll be forced to move back to Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, and no one ever goes there willingly. Even the founding fathers of the town asked to be buried in another county. There’s a lot of shame.”
Marceline: “Shame like me posing as a lesbian in some Victorian tabloid?”
Photographer: “How did you get there? And are you ashamed of the lesbian perception?”
Marceline: “Not at all. If it sells tickets, I’m all about the clambake. But still, this outfit is covering up my cleavage.”
Photographer: “I don’t think the outfit is doing that. You can’t cover something if it’s not there.”
Marceline: “Fair enough. Lack of cleavage is just one of the downsides of Hollywood producers hiring unrealistic, wafer-thin skeletons who don’t represent an honest depiction of most women.”
Photographer: “Now you sound a bit bitter.”
Marceline: “Why shouldn’t I? Women are expected to conform to an idiotic ideal while men are allowed to run around all sweaty and beastly and out of shape. Still, I suppose we have to get this done. Any suggestions on how we could possibly add a wee bit of sophistication to this tawdry effort?”
Photographer: “Perhaps you could adjust your upper hand so it doesn’t look so much like an aggressive proctology exam is about to take place.”
Marceline: “Sorry. My hand just naturally goes into that position after years of hanging on to my career in Hollywood.”
Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. No changes made for this post. For those of you in the States, I hope you enjoyed your Labor Day holiday, at least those of you who work for a company that actually recognizes the day. As for us, we managed to engaged in a bit of labor, which mostly consisted of Partner traipsing about on the roof, hacking away at tree limbs that had rudely grown too close, with me below, fetching the cast-off branches and racing to stack them at the curb for collection by the city.
He managed to hit me in the face, multiple times, with errant shrubbery, hurling things willy-nilly as he was. I bit my tongue, as he was the one wallowing around on the baking shingles of the roof (it was 100 degrees or so today, and even hotter up there) and I was safely on the ground. Doing a lot of running, mind you, and the temperature difference was not THAT extreme, but I did not vocalize any opinions on the matter.
But my thoughts on what I wished would happen to him every time a layer of skin was ripped off my visage by freshly-cut wooden spears? Oh, those thoughts were very dark, indeed.
Categories: Past Imperfect