A humorous look at the little things in life

Does Glamour Shots do passport photos? January 11, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 8:09 pm

Recommended wine for today’s entry: It is still WAY too cold out, so last night I opened a bottle of Gascon Malbec from Argentina. It warmed me up immediately, with “soft, round tannins, layered with flavors of blackberry, blueberry, dark cherry and a hint of mocha.” I enjoyed it enough last night to follow up with another glass of it tonight as I watch NCAA basketball!

And I thought it couldn’t be done.

I honestly thought I could NOT possibly have a worse passport photo than the recently expired one.

But I remember thinking that same thing six years ago. They just progressively get worse — actually, more comical. I know what you’re thinking, and duh, I know that I’m not getting any younger and duh, I know I’m not getting any prettier. Duh, duh, DUH.

I am still delusional enough, though, that everytime I get a photo taken, I think that somehow, miraculously, this picture is gonna make me look like Heather Locklear. It’s the eternal optimist in me.

I’m sure part of the problem is the nature of the beast. Beasts. The people who take passport photos take less time with you than the bitter and frenzied government workers at the DMV when you get your driver’s license photos taken. At least in my county, those poor, frazzled women throw a joke at you to evoke a smile. Granted, you’ve heard them make the same tired joke to all 22 people ahead of you in line — but the effort is appreciated. And they let me smile.

Mr. CVS pharmacy guy, apparently a bit upset that I took him away from creating the most artful display of hearing aid batteries ever imagined, pulled down a screen, gave me a shove back toward it (literally, a gentle push to the chest), held the camera so close to my face that I could see the unruly hair on his knuckles, and snapped.

Then he said, in a very kind way, “You are gonna want to put those teeth away.”

Apparently startled and/or too stupid to understand him, I must have gawked.

“Shut your mouth.”

Ah, thank you for speaking succinctly.

So I did.

In the picture, I have the same disapproving smirk that The Church Lady gave sinners on Saturday Night Live. The only Heather Locklear picture that it remotely resembles is her mug shot on the cover of the Enquirer. And that might only be the blonde hair.

Oh, and because I was focusing for some odd reason on Mr. Happy’s hairy knuckles, I’m slightly to significantly cross-eyed.

Any customs agent will love me for the humor I’ll bring to his tedious job.

It wouldn’t be so upsetting if this wasn’t the third strike. I call my first two passport photos The Clown and The Squeezy Man.

The Clown: I was 22, post-acne, pre-wrinkles. Best it was gonna get. It was the ’80s, so in true Dirty Dancing fashion, I swabbed on a thick layer of blush. In an attempt to get Farrah Fawcett hair, I spent a good bit of time with the curling iron, resulting in a somewhat triangular exhibition of flat-on-top, curly at the bottom.

Then, the piece de resistance: I donned a lovely colorblock outfit — turquoise top with a wide band of pink and a yellow yoke. So when they cropped the picture — totally Bozo.

Needless to say, I was thrilled when it was time to re-up.

Except then I got The Squeezy Man. I remember the lady at the Walgreens saying, “OK, hon, ready, set, … BULGE YOUR EYES OUT.” I honestly look like one of those funny keychains that you squeeze and their eyes bulge and their tongues come out. This one actually evoked a hearty giggle from the suave monsieur who welcomed me to Paris.

And now we have the Church Lady. In my defense, I never smile without showing my teeth. He wouldn’t even show me the first (teeth included) picture. He just laughed when I asked to see it. He told me that there are new dictates that call for pictures without teeth showing. I didn’t see him erase it either … I assume that I’ll be the laughingstock of the next CVS staff meeting. 

See if I buy my hearing aid batteries there when the time comes. I don’t care how great Mr. Happy with the hairy knuckles’ display turned out.


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