Will be Burning the Outtakes

I survived. And, will have a host of photos to prove it.

We are in the midst of redesigning and restructuring our website at work and it will include a full update of the section that features all of our friendly faces, in a section cleverly called "The Lunatics"—in what I think is a reference to Clockwork Orange about how the lunatics run the asylum. Or something like that.

The bulk of the current employees are not on there now, and some of the faces that ARE on there date back to the 90s. That doesn't sound like that long ago, but frankly, I was still in high school, so I think these people have long since moved on.

So, this means videos have been recorded with some key people talking about business branding issues, and I had to suffer through that unbearably strange situation back in the fall. They are live now, so if you're really curious what I have to say, feel free to wander over there. Trust me, the work isn't worth it. Except for you, Mom. You'll probably like them. I'll decode the marketing jargon later.

My one main thought during that shoot was that I had no idea how hot it was to sit under those lights. This isn't surprising seeing as my experience to date at photo shoots has been the "client manager" role. This roughly translates to "keep the client as far from the ditsy and artistic photographer as possible while he captures the image" and "schmooze the client as much as you have to to keep them happy and forgetting the exorbitant day rate everyone around you is making."

Today, however, was the still photo shoot, and it was equally as uncomfortable. My mom tells me I'm photogenic, and by and large I feel pretty comfortable in photos taken on the weekends, but this type of setup is hard. Two huge lights, a big white screen, loud funky music to try to relax you, and four people, including the photographer, telling you that "you're doing great." Hand me a vodka tonic, and then I'll be doing great. Trust me.

Beads of sweat on the forehead aside, it didn't help that the rain came this morning, making the ladies' straightened hair a total mess. Even the stylist we hired didn't quite know what to do, and we don't have the time/budget to really fix the major issues.

Wrinkly Shirt? Check. Frizzy Hair? Check. Pale Winter Skin? Check.

Ignoring all of this, we shoot.

I smiled, tilted, angled, leaned, crossed my arms, hands on my hips, laughed my fake laugh, tossed a prop tennis ball back and forth off-screen, rolled my eyes, peered over my shoulder and leaned on my knees while one foot propped up on a stepstool ladder. The whole thing felt just shy of Glamour Shots from the mall, and trust me, I didn't go for those even when they WERE semi-cool.

Coworkers kept sliding the door open to peek, and trust me, THAT didn't help either. Dancing around—trying desperately to be casual—only resulted in eyes closed, lips pursed "dancing face" shots, and those don't exactly convey "business branding professional."

In one of the frames, towards the end, I fiddled with my hair, closed my eyes, hands in hair, inadvertently pouted my lips, and POOF! Porn shot. Bad 1983 porn, but still.

I have no immediate plans to give Kate Moss a run for her money. Modeling isn't really my thing. I like cheeseburgers and beer too much, and I am not a big fan of narcotics.

Bad dance videos or cheesy hair commercials, however? I'm in.

No. It's not me.