Dirty Laundry

I am looking at the photos on my digital camera, and I wish I could show them to you. I can’t, for several reasons. The most obvious is that my blog is not the place for pictures of my daughters, except for those pictures I create with words, as I will have to attempt to do right now. They have also not given their consent for me to share them, and given the nature of these photos, they really shouldn’t. The biggest reason, however, is that I am sure if I were to upload these pictures and post them, store them in my computer memory, or in any way, shape, or form, retain the proof of the existence of these photographs, I am pretty sure the authorities would be busting down my door with that guy from Dateline NBC right behind them, wanting knowing what kind of a monster am I. But oh, if I could share them with you. I have never laughed like I have looking at them. No words that I know how to use can thoroughly describe the humor found in these images. Now to back up and explain.

My daughters are fans of “America’s Next Top Model” in an innocent way. They don’t watch it like I do, to see that narcissistic train wreck, Tyra Banks, get a bunch of stick figures to worship her and do her stupid bidding. They love it like I used to love paper dolls. They like to look at the makeup and the clothes and the final photos and the judging. They try to understand that the two main men on the show are men even though they look and act like women. And when it’s over, they like to play model. Luckily, neither of them wants to be Tyra Banks, and they both love ice cream too much to make me worry about any lasting influences. Playing model to them means one of them snaps pictures while the other one poses all over the house making serious faces at the camera and twisting their arms in odd ways. S seems to be a natural at it, with her eye contact, like she is making love to the camera. E looks more like a victim in a crime scene, all unnatural angles and dead eyes.

They have used my camera before, taking pictures of each other on a Sunday morning, still wearing their little nightgowns. Pictures of them draped over the couch and standing precariously on the stairs seemed innocent enough, if not more than a little amusing, so when they asked me this past Sunday morning, while I was trying to calculate how many vanilla vodka and ginger ales I had had the night before, I handed over my camera, pleased that they found something quiet to do. Later, after everyone was dressed and lunch had been consumed, I sat down next to my husband, who said, “Have you seen the modeling pictures?” “Nope, not yet,” I answered. “You really should,” he said noncommittally.

I turned on the camera and stared at an image of my 7 year old draped over her blue horsey ride-on like she had been shot in the head. The next one was her sitting upright, her head thrown back, the horse’s rounded blue nose poking between her legs. “Oh my,” I said to him. “Keep looking,” he said, while still reading the newspaper, never giving away what else was on the camera. S lying suggestively on the rug in the bonus room. S on the couch, the blanket covering her just so, making you wonder what was under it. Then it was E’s turn, her face serious, as if she had been captured by the camera doing something so wrong, even the lighting looked guilty. Her head lying on the blue horsey’s back. Her twisting unnaturally on the love seat as if she fell there from a great height.

And then, they moved to the laundry room. Now, I have no idea what made them think that posing suggestively in the laundry room was modeling, but holy shit. S looking over her shoulder directly at the camera, holding a blanket over the washing machine. I call that one Dirty Laundry. I was crying, I laughed so hard. Her chin pointed down, arm tucked inside the laundry basket. Lying belly down and butt cheeks up on the top of the folding counter, her back arched. It was E’s turn again. She had one leg hiked up on the washing machine like she was going to shave her legs with the water in it. Her head back so far it was in the laundry basket. Another on leaning across both the washer and dryer. I sure hoped they weren’t agitating while my children posed against them.

From there, they moved to the bathroom. I don’t know wish of them suggested it, but removal of clothing occurred, like in an after school special. (It all starts innocently enough, with the offer of seeing a new puppy or a giant dish of ice cream.) The next thing you know, little S is wrapped in a towel, the toilet still open behind her. And leaning against the shower wall. And sitting on the counter, her face solemn, as if she needs another hit of acid. On the monkey rug in the center of the bathroom floor. I would have been horrified if I couldn’t stop laughing, but I couldn’t. Each one was more inappropriate and therefore more hilarious than the next. I couldn’t get enough. E poking her head out from behind the shower curtain coquettishly. Draping herself in her pink kitty towel. Her head wrapped like a genie.

I could see how it all went down. “Hey,” one said to the next, “let’s go to Mommy’s room.” And it started again. S lying in the center of my bed, cocked up on one elbow, beckoning the viewer to join her. Her hair draped over her shoulders. Lying on her side. And then E’s turn, which actually involved a full frontal panty shot. I put the camera down and wiped my eyes, making wheezing sounds. “I didn’t find them that funny,” my husband said.

That afternoon, my friend MJ came over. She had orchestrated my birthday party the night before, I and wracked my brain trying to think of the perfect thank you gift. My husband had stepped out to run an errand, and the girls were (this time) playing innocently upstairs. “I want to show you something,” I told MJ while she picked at leftover party food. “Consider this your thank you present. You may look at each of these, but you may not laugh out loud or scream or do anything which would indicate that you are amused for any reason whatsoever, because of those two upstairs know we are looking at this, they will kill me.” MJ agreed to my conditions, and I handed over the camera, after setting up the modeling scenario for her. We looked at them together, pausing for the crying and inevitable wetting of panties. When it was over, MJ handed me back the camera and said, “You’re right. That was the best thank you gift ever.”

I'm sure it could have been worse. But thankfully, we don’t have a tripod. All I know is, if I see pictures like this in five years, I won’t be laughing at all.