Tuesday, September 04, 2007

I was a 20-something jeans model

Yesterday, I allowed as to how I had once done a modelling gig for the local newsrag (The Daily News Record, out of the metropolis of Harrisonburg, Virginia, formerly known (though it no longer is) as "the Poultry Capitol of the World").

One might ask "
Tiff, you were a total band geek and a Sci Fi nerd, what on God's green plantation were you doing modelling for anyone, no matter how small?"

Well friends, I can forgive you for your "Horton Hears a Who" line of questioning, really I can, because, truth be known, it wasn't supposed to be ME modelling anything atall. You see, I was living across the hall at the time from a pair of women with whom I'd shared a house the year before - Fran and Diane. We (along with 7 OTHER ladies) had lived in a place right at the corner of 33 and 11 in H-burg, where the trucks downshifted before getting to the stoplight, and while that was picturesque and the attic and basement were really cool and creepy, we'd decided that living there another year was NOT a sustainable life pattern, so we set out for someplace better.

Actually, THEY did, and I somehow tagged along. They found out that the top 2 apartments on this place called "The Gingerbread House," right across the street from our old place (but away from the stoplight), were for rent. They contracted with Barry Kelly, the H-burg slumlord, to rent out one apartment. I rented the other one.

That's my place on the top floor to the left there, tucked up under the red roof.

The apartment was almost too small for me. I don't know HOW those two ladies lived there for a year together. Amazing...

Ennyhow, Diane, the gorgeous brunette across the hall from me had agreed to do a modelling thing for a guy from the local paper. Y'all, when I say gorgeous, I mean it. Shiny brown hair, perfect skin, wide blue eyes, 6 feet tall, big white teeth, thin and elegant and the whole daggone package.

As gorgeous as she was though, she couldn't make the gig, and asked me if I wanted to do it.


Moi? The Biology grad student who shot up mice with cocaine in her spare time? The druggie with the musician boyfriend and the crappy deli job? The loser who took a hit of PCP the previous year and spent an entire night statue-still in the backyard, unable to move for the ferocious majesty of the universe and temporary blindness?

Yes, me.

Turns out, it was because 1) she knew me and 2) I was the right size.

Soooo, I showed up on the appointed day at the appointed hour, not knowing what the HELL I was doing. The photographer was nice, took a lot of pictures, I changed clothes a lot, turned this way and that, and eventually started to loosen up.

All in all, for being a terrible experience, it was kind of OK.

Thinking back on it, I should have taken some of the proofs, because the ones that I really liked, the photog said couldn't be put in the paper because they were "too sexy." Heh. Apparently when I loosen up, y'all, I looooosen up.

So, to satisfy the rest of the story, here's the one pic that did make it...in all its grainy badly-reproduced glory. And why yes, that IS a mullet. Back in the day, we called it a "bi-level," and we LIKED IT!

Oh yeah, I also had the "Like a Virgin" dye job goin' on. How terribly hip of me.....

Postscript: I never modelled again. Shoulda grabbed those other proofs before they got lost in the DNR filing system someplace. I was always partial to that one where I was on my back with my legs up in the ai...

Oh wait. This is a family blog. Never mind.

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