I totally need a new head shot. I am 40 pounds lighter than I was when this was taken (in my living room, by Coco) and my hair is longer and darker. My big dilemma: Darcy made this shot all softy-glowy-pretty when she did my blog and I really like that. That’s the technical term: softy-glowy-pretty.

Can you see my wrinkle? Nope! My question for you: Is this a typical thought or am I a shallow pathetic loser?

Why do I care? This photo accompanies pretty much everything I do online and I don’t think it really looks like me anymore. If I passed a fellow blogger on the street, they wouldn’t recognize me. Though that might be a plus. I get freaked out when I meet people and they tell me they read my blog. I instantly start wondering if they’re checking to see if I roll my eyes at my husband or wondering if I’ve made my bed that morning.

Of course, I don’t actually expect that anyone remembers anything like that when they meet me. As if I’m that memorable. It’s more like a vague… oh, you have a blog, don’t you? But there’s a little nagging voice that says, Why Angela? Why must you be so honest about your slobbiness? Like when my husband told me that he told one of his co-workers to have his wife read my blog. What. The. Heck.

Anyway. The photo. What to do? Replace it with a less-professional-looking-harsh-grainy-one that looks like me? Or leave it as is?

PS: Darcy has a 31 Days to a Better Photo series going on now and it is awesome. Even I, with my little point and shoot and non-techy brain, am learning much. Check it out!

Seems I’m not the only one who has trouble asking for help, and even worse, I’m not the only one with IBugEveryone-itis. It might be closely related to NobodyLikesMe-itis, but that’s a story for another day.

Makes me sad. But also relieved. Humans are horrible that way, aren’t we? I hate to think of anyone else feeling the way I do, but at the same time I’m glad I’m not the only freak out there. Maybe if you’re all agreeing, I shouldn’t be calling myself a freak, though. Because that might be insulting to you.

Not that I’m saying you’re freaks, too. Really, I’m not.

I wish I had great advice for you, but I think my friend Joanna on my personal Facebook page said it best:

“Someone explained to me that when we ask for help it gives people the opportunity to feel needed, productive, important, and be blessed.”

Well that certainly rings a bell. When someone asks me for help, I love to jump in and I especially love to feel needed. Thanks, Joanna, for that excellent nugget of wisdom. And thanks, too for the last sentence in your comment…

“Even remembering that it is still hard for me to ask for help.”

Freaks of the world unite!

And I can’t end this post without the stellar advice from my mommy:

“Remember–Jesus–JESUS–could have gone it alone. But He elected not to.”

Can’t argue with that, can I?

Can you guess what they are for me?

It’s not I love you.

Not I am sorry.

Or Please forgive me.

It’s not even No dessert, please. Though that runs a close second.

These three little words I’m having trouble uttering have been bothering me for most of my life. I’ve nailed down why, at least. At first glance, it appears to be a pride issue, but that’s not the case.

In fact it’s an I don’t want to bother anyone issue. That issue that runs pretty deep with me and is probably on the verge of some kind of disorder. It didn’t come from any life situations, it’s just who I am at my core. I hate to bug people and I pretty much always feel like I do, just by being me. That sounds a little psycho, doesn’t it? Please tell me I’m not alone.

Anyone? Anyone?

Ahem. Back to the little phrase I have trouble with. Can anyone guess what it is?

Do you suffer, too?

A few years ago, some out of town relatives were visiting California and stopped in for a little party at my grandma’s house. I found out later that the real reason for the party was because Grandma wanted to set me up with a distant cousin and make an honest woman outta me. But that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.

I did not get a husband at that particular family reunion, but I left that day with a dream.

About this:

The said relatives had been to the Madonna Inn and raved about the Monte Cristo sandwich. The entire sandwich was deep fried! My skinny little nineteen year old heart just died thinking about that sandwich. A couple years later, when Eric asked where we should go on our honeymoon, I was quick to suggest the Madonna Inn. We went to Jamaica instead. It was fun, but no sandwich.

Over the years, every holiday that came up, I tried to talk Eric into driving me six hours to get that sandwich. Finally, a few months ago, I had a breakthrough. He wanted to take me to Solvang for our anniversary, and to go visit the Hearst Castle while we were there.

As soon as he said Hearst, my eyes lit up. The cousins had also been talking about Hearst Castle that day and for some reason the two were forever linked in my brain. “Can we go to the Madonna Inn?”

We looked it up and it was right on the way.

My mouth started to water. And kept watering for three months.

We talked about our upcoming trip for weeks and I told anyone that would listen about my sandwich. The week before we left, my sis-in-law told me that Disneyland had them too. All this time, I’d been an hour away and didn’t even know it.

When I finally got there, and the sandwich arrived, I spent five minutes photographing it first. The waitress thought I was crazy. Then I texted a photo to my daughters, sis-in-law, and mom saying “I have nothing left to accomplish in life now.”

Mmmmn. Yes, that is powdered sugar. Sounds so wrong, but tastes oh-so-right. Even weirder is the fact that they serve it with jam. Believe it or not, it’s delicious.

We took half of mine back to the hotel to eat for dinner, but four hours later, I was still full.

It’s rare that a woman reaches her dreams at the age of 32, isn’t it? I mean what do I have left to shoot for?

Another sandwich maybe.

I realize I was acting like a thirteen year old yesterday. What with the eye rolling.

The sleeping in.

The oh my gosh, did you, like, see how short her skirt was?

However, I did not expect you to follow suit. When I awoke this morning to find a pimple on my forehead, I felt very angry with you. Betrayed, even.

We’ve been through a lot together. The tweezing. The waxing. The squeezing. The chemical-laden, animal-tested, pore clogging makeup. You’ve forgiven it all.

You forgave me for slathering myself with oil and baking in the sun every summer for ten years.

You didn’t punish me when I went all four years of high school without washing my makeup off before bed.

Not that it’s been a one way street. I forgave you for the chin flare-ups in junior high that always occurred at The. Most. Inopportune. Time. (Come to think of it, that may have been a rather wise maneuver on your part, causing me to keep over-eager, pubescent boys at arm’s distance during the Valentine’s Day Dance of eighth grade. Well played, epidermis. Well played.)

I forgot your betrayal when you resisted my tummy’s attempt to make room for my babies and left unsightly marks to forever remind me of your disapproval– in spite of all the cocoa butter I applied. Whatever. I’m over that.

A pimple, though? Really?

I was coming to terms with the vertical line on my forehead. I’m a grown woman, and proud of it. I’ve accepted wrinkles are part of what is to come and plan to age gracefully. Really. Last week, when I sat amongst some fiftyish year olds, warning me of the dry, dusty skin to come, I vowed to douse you with even more moisturizer. And I’ve kept up my end of the bargain.

And now this.

Make up your mind. Am I an anguished teen or a wise old mom? I refuse to be both. Do you hear me? Refuse.

Don’t worry, I’m willing to work this out. I’ll forgive you for this little incident, and you won’t punish me for the tanning bed scandal of 2000.

Deal?

Respectfully Yours,
Angela