I don't know what "it" refers to, I just know that whatever it is, I didn't do it. Neither did my children. It wasn't them. It never is. It could not be them, and it is silly of me to even think that the person who sneaks the miniature Butterfingers and hides the wrappers in my eight year old's sock drawer is my eight year old.
It was not him.
Sure as shootin'.
You betcha.
This is unrelated, but I thought it should be addressed.
1. The woman on the cover of the Lookbook is my sister. She's married, and she has four children. (Which means, gentleman callers, she is unavailable.) Yes, we look like sisters. No, we are not twins. The wheels in your mind can stop spinning now.
2. I am on printed page 1 of the Lookbook. In the upper right. See, me? Blonde hair, skeins of yarn?
Sister? Brown hair. Cuter. She's on the cover, not me.
I don't think I would put myself on the cover of my own Lookbook. That seems a little...self important? Arrogant? High falutin'?
Would you put yourself on the cover of your own Lookbook? I don't mean as a "Here's our family portrait" kind of picture, I mean in a, "I am a MODEL. A model who sits on a vintage SUITCASE next to my leather JACKET in my swanky SWEATER with my pink STILETTOS" kind of way. Would you do that? Really?
Would I do that? No.
3. You can see the places where the Lookbook photos were taken on the very very last page of the Lookbook. Click past the How to Order page. It's there. All of the models are also there. Note that I did not include myself as a model. Note also that I did not include the names of the children in the book, because they are adorable, and they should have their privacy respected.
I did, however, give myself a photography credit. (I am so generous with myself! How can I ever thank myself enough?!) Me = not a model. Me = other side of the camera. So, what you see is this stunning woman on the front cover. But what you don't see is schlumpy me with two cameras and two bags of camera gear around my shoulders in my dirty jeans and my tennis shoes leaning backwards, all precarious-like, bracing myself against the small concrete wall separating me from the deep, cold ship pier. There were times when I was lying on the ground in a puddle to take some of these pictures.
And let me tell you: two tall women who are obviously related, one looking homeless except for the expensive camera gear and one looking svelte and radiant, traipsing to various locales to get the pictures we needed? No, that didn't draw any attention whatsoever. Nobody even noticed. At all. Because the upper Midwest is just like Hollywood, with all the flash bulbs and the paparazzi and the spray tans and the lip injections. It's just second nature to us here, we're used to it.
4. Here is what I am willing to do for my Lookbook:
a. Get dirty (a given)
b. Look semi-homeless (also a given)
c. Spend one million hours taking and editing photos
d. Spend two million hours lamenting my own lack of photographic skill
e. Lie in a puddle.
f. Take a picture of our Winter Muteds Collection, because I like it. (L-R: Dorian Gray, Heathered Lilac, Carey, Sea Glass, Brighton, Brown Eyed Girl, Bellini, Winter Birch.)
5. Here is what I am not willing to do for my Lookbook: (simultaneously. I may be willing to do letter A, for example, but not A-F all at the same time.)
a. Do my hair and makeup so I look dishy.
b. Put on the sweater that Trisha Paetsch knit, along with my pencil skirt and stilettos.
c. Perch atop a vintage suitcase I scouted at a flea market with the original luggage tag attached.
d. Set up a camera near the pier, perched precarious-like next to the water.
e. Take pictures of myself in public while I stare out into the water and the freezing breeze gently blows the hair I dyed dark brown just for this photoshoot.
f. Put myself on the cover of my own Lookbook under the above conditions.
Going back to the original theme of this post, which has apparently veered far, far afield: whatever is going wrong with the universe today, I forbid it to have anything to do with me.
You betcha.