I would imagine that for most University students, going home for Winter Break is not something that causes a great deal of anxiety. On the contrary, many probably see it as something of a respite after a semester of late nights spent "studying" at the "library." (Right, or "drinking" at "Jaberwoke.") When you think of going home, there are probably visions of cozy glows in the fireplace and hams (or whatever it is that Virginians eat over the holidays) on the table dancing in your head. For me, however, going home this Christmas was a dark and frightening event because of two horrible words: family pictures.
Now, before you accuse me of completely overreacting, let me explain. Though family pictures are undeniably somewhat heinous for all because of the presence of the squirrely, goateed photographer saying things like "We're going to need your head 36 degrees to the right, pumpkin face" and putting his hands uncomfortably close to your person, the resulting picture is not generally seen by many. It hangs over your mantle, sure. And yes, one may even be sent to your weird Aunt Millie who always reeks of Mellow Yellow and vodka (who has been noticeably absent at family functions since the Picnic Incident of 1994, which is still subject to pending legal action), but that's where the embarrassment of the family picture ends for most.
Not so for my family picture. Because my dad decided to forego retirement (actually, my mom decided that he should forego retirement after she found his constant presence around the house somewhat grating) and get into politics, our family picture is spread across the panhandle of Florida, our grinning faces enticing (or, more likely, horrifying) potential voters. The picture will be slapped across palm cards, newspaper ads, and, my father always threatens, billboards. The prospect of seeing my family picture on a billboard is more frightening a prospect than even the most terrifying of specters, like Friday class or the cancellation of Spring Break (Bahamas ... holler). If you think I'm being ridiculous, I will be happy to show you the photographic horrors that are my Webshots and prove to you how bad a picture I can take.
There are a number of catastrophic occurrences that can doom a family picture, but the one that I most often perpetrate is the dreaded "Quasimodo face." The Quasimodo face, or simply the "Quasi" as it is called by those who know it best, has several components. The first is the illusion that the subject has a pronounced humpback -- always very sexy. This can be achieved in a number of ways, including a bad camera angle (like when someone in the row below you takes a picture at a football game), shoulders that are rolled too far forward, and the sinking of the chin to the chest. This ensures a maximum creepiness factor.
The illusion of the humpback is fairly common in the realm of family pictures and does not in itself qualify one as having a full-on Quasi. The real glamour of the Quasi comes from the humpback joining forces with a whacked-out facial expression that can only be described as appallingly grotesque. A true Quasimodo facial expression is hard to find, but if you've ever had the dubious privilege of seeing one, you know that it involves having the mouth agape and drooping, teeth bared like fangs and a psychotic, squinty-eyed glare. My mom had a mean Quasi going in the picture for my dad's very first campaign, and it has succeeded in making Mom dash for cover every time someone so much as mentions a family picture. I am fairly certain her appearance in the most recent family picture came as a result of heavy, forced sedation at the hands of my father.
Because the Florida Gulf Coast is a very conservative area, our picture is supposed to showcase our family's wholesome nature. This, according to my father, has meant that I can't dress in "those Madonna skirts." I always get slightly ashamed when Dad says this, not because of the (completely unfounded) accusation that my clothes are not suitable for display in the Bible Belt, but that he could not find a more contemporary reference than Madonna for skimpy clothes. Then again, this is a man who thinks Lil' Jon was one of the munchkins in "The Wizard of Oz," so Madonna is probably the best I can hope for. As far as my style of dress goes, I believe I will get off easy if that is the only way in which I am a political liability.
My law-school-attending golden boy of an older brother also managed to put his two cents in while we were posing for the picture.
"Dad," he hissed through a teeth-clenching smile, "Erin has her collar up again. Tell her to put it down." Apparently, popped collars are not wholesome.
At some point during the picture, in an attempt to break up the tension (or maybe she was still on the sedatives Dad slipped into her oatmeal), my mother started belting out songs ranging anywhere from Bob Dylan classics to some strange permutation of a Sunday school song. This did not have a positive effect on the picture, as we all began grimacing around the third verse of "There's a Little Wheel A-Turnin' in my Heart." Hardly a Grammy-worthy rendition, I must say.
I've seen the picture my father plans on using for the campaign, and I have to admit, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. Sure, Mom looks like she has a Polo logo coming out of her head thanks to Dad's placement behind her, my brother's smile indicates that he may or may not have gingivitis, and one of my eyes is going slightly rogue, but overall, we look pretty damn wholesome. A family you can trust. A family you can depend on. A family with a straight moral compass. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to try my hand with Aunt Millie's Mellow Yellow and vodka mixture. Enjoy the beginning of the semester, pumpkin faces.
Erin's column runs bi-weekly on Mondays. She can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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