in the eyes of the parental beholder

I think you should all know two secrets about me. These are things that, up till now, only my parents knew. In fact, I didn’t even know them. But now I do. Here they are:

1. I am model-gorgeous.

2. I am a great comic writer.

For those of you who know me, both of these secrets probably come as a big surprise. For those who just know me through this journal, perhaps only the second one will surprise you. After all, you’ve never seen me. For all of you, I will explain how I came to be made aware of these “facts.”

A few days ago, my mail included a letter from my mom. Inside the envelope I found a full-page black-and-white head shot of a model, obviously torn from a magazine. On a separate sheet of paper, Mom wrote, “When did you pose for this picture in the New Yorker?”

Hmmm. I have to say that, standing there looking at the photograph, I did not get the distinct impression I was looking in a mirror. Later, George picked it up, read the note, and said, “She doesn’t look at all like you.” Then, realizing how that probably sounded, he added, “I mean, yeah sure, she has the full pouty lips . . . and a cute button nose, but her eyes . . . they aren’t nearly as beautiful as yours.” Oh man. What a guy! Excuse me while I go add 300 points to his score right now.

So anyway. I guess the model was supposed to be advertising jewelry. There wasn’t any text. Just this woman with a come-hither expression, holding her necklace between her teeth. One of her hands, which caressed the necklace as it exited her mouth, sported a ring with some kind of huge jewel on it. Printed at the bottom of the picture was the name “David Yurman.” Most likely not the model’s name. Must be some designer. I don’t live in that world, so I wouldn’t know.

Well. Now that everyone understands secret number one, let’s hasten on to the second.

I felt I owed some sort of response to my doting parents, so I wrote them an e-mail. (By way of explanation, it will help if you know about my mom’s obsession with the importance of smiling in photographs. It’s a never-ending battle at family gatherings, and she’s constantly saying, “You’re ruining the picture by not smiling! This will never make the album.” Thus the reference below.)

The e-mail consisted of the following two paragraphs:

Subject: about that picture in the New Yorker . . .

Text: The funniest thing happened. There I was, minding my own business, standing in the check-out line at the Piggly Wiggly, absent-mindedly chewing on my necklace as I waited to purchase a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and a 12-pack of toilet paper. All of a sudden, this guy with a camera comes up and says, “Congratulations, Ma’am. You’re the one hundredth customer today, and to show our appreciation, we want to give you a five dollar coupon on your groceries and display your picture in the store window.” Well, before I could even drop my necklace and smile, he had snapped the picture, handed me five bucks, and was walking away. “Hey, Mister,” I called after him. “I wasn’t even smiling. That picture will never make the album, er, uh, store window.” But he just said it was fine and left.

I kept going back to see that picture, but it never appeared in the window. I just figured it was because I was chewing on my necklace and not smiling . . . not the image they want for their Piggly Wiggly store. Then one day, I’m flipping through the New Yorker, and, “What the . . .? Hey! That guy put my picture here, and I don’t see anything about Piggly Wiggly. Something’s fishy about this.” Now I’m pretty sure I was scammed. I don’t really know why the New Yorker would want to print it without any explanation about my being the hundredth customer or anything, but at least I got five bucks out of the deal.

End of e-mail. I am now a great comic writer. If any of you aspire to be a great comic writer, I can give you a tip: say something about Piggly Wiggly. We don’t even have a Piggly Wiggly in our town, but I ask you, is that the best name ever for a store or what?

Okay. I’m pretty sure I haven’t convinced anyone that these secrets are true. And I’m pretty sure all the gorgeous models out there and Dave Barry, et al. are secure in their jobs. But all the same, it’s nice to have my own little spotlight in which to shine. Even if it’s just in the hearts of my sweet parents.

Oh yeah . . . and my husband. In fact, he gets another 50 points.