My sister, Crash, texted me yesterday that she had some great material for my blog. Apparently, my niece had requested a trip to a tanning salon – which my sister refers to as “the toaster”. Being a good mom who does not want to subject her daughter to harmful death rays, my sister suggested instead that she use the “lotion they used in Baywatch”. I am not sure if it is the actual lotion, or has just been sitting in her closet since the 1990’s. My sensible niece replied, “Great. That stuff’s thirty years old.”
So, my sister decided to test it on her own hands before her daughter slathered it all over her skin. And it turned her hands orange.
This was all texted to me with the suggestion that it would make a good post.
“Where’s the pic?” I texted back, all business.
She sent me the pic. And her hands did not look orange. Maybe a little. But not the pumpkin orange that I was hoping for.
She offered to doctor it up for me. She then sent me a picture where her face was completely red. Photoshopped.
“I can’t do that,” I texted back. My readers rely on me to be genuine. I don’t want to be the next James Frey. Although a scandal could be good advertising…
She sent me two more hopeful pics of her hand at various stages of close-uppedness. I still didn’t see the orange.
In the meantime, she sent me a few pics of my niece, who absolutely abhors having her picture taken. Even though she isn’t the slightest bit orange.
I sometimes question how Crash and I can be related. She has absolutely no problem making fun of herself and is not even an ounce self-conscious.
My niece, my daughter, and I, (on the other hand that is also not orange), cringe at the thought of anyone analyzing us too closely. The only reason I submit to photographs now is because I don’t want my daughter to develop an aversion to having her picture taken.
That truth is I’m not orange either; I’m green. With envy. I wish I could be more like Crash. But that would ruin the mystique of Mrs. Cap’n Firepants, mother of Dimples, Wonderbutt, and Mrs. P.I.B. Right?