Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls

Copyright LC Cooper 2002 – 2010

Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Words: 5,330. Language: English.
Published: December 12, 2010. Categories: » » (5.00)
Aren't holiday family portraits wonderful? Come read the story of how one of ours became known as "Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls." Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls




by

LC Cooper




Copyright LC Cooper 2010

Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords



Smashwords Edition, License Notes


Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.


Please visit my to learn more about me.

To contact me, please send an email to: l.c_cooper@hotmail.com


* * * *




Should I thank you, you unsung heroes of Christmas? You provide generations of families with the ability to cover up shame and guilt with one smarmy over-sized snapshot of time. I acknowledge the contributions these purveyors of film have made on faux haute couture. This is the closest I'll ever come to complimenting the racket of professional portrait photography.


I can acknowledge the value in taking photographs. What I don't appreciate is being made to feel guilty if I don't want an annual family picture taken by some supposedly professional photographer. Oh sure, I used to go through the motions and eagerly put on my game face, but that was before last year's photo.

I'm holding it in my lap right this very moment. Not the framed picture. Nope, not this photo – not in my lifetime. Somehow, it keeps reappearing out of the dustiest of our photo albums. You know the ones, those that come out only once a year when the relatives swarm into town for a holiday visit. My mother passes the albums around and our guests pretend to enjoy reminiscing about the events that brought everyone together that particular year. Then, there's the last event – the one we call "Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls."

This photo stops smiles in mid grin. It's rumored that even Kelley Rippa's nauseating face turned ashen when she saw it. We all still believe Regis showed it to her just to get under her skin.

Anyway, I procrastinated away most of last Christmas' shopping season. Three days before Christmas, I was in a feverish rush to complete my family's shopping for them. Notice I said, "for them." I wasn't buying gifts to give them. No, I screwed up a few school-year events, and in my frantic attempt to appease my beastie boys, I irrationally promised to do their holiday shopping for them. So, here I was racing around the mall trying to buy my son, Perry, a watch to give his girlfriend, "My Tastes are Too Expensive for You" Tiffany Rae Allen.

While rounding the corner between yet another pair of Cinnabon and Starbucks shops, I was clothes-lined by a chipper little pixie in an outfit too small for a Barbie doll.

"For Pete's sake, get some clothes on, would ya?" I irritatedly asked Tinkerboobs. Massaging my injured throat, I croaked, "And why'd you knock me down?"

"If I didn't, our pricing and packages would have!" gleefully yelped the diminutive mouthpiece for "Uncle David's Treasured Treasures."



I started to tell her how stupid her employer's name was, but who was I kidding? It probably took Itty Bitty Big and Bouncy six weeks to pronounce her employer's name. Who was I to crush her groove? After dragging my thunderous frame over to her comfy couch, she turned on the spotlight and began her sales pitch.

"Excuse me," I interrupted, "where did the cute little ray of sunshine go that I was just talking to?" I'm not certain how it happened, but sometime between being dropped to the floor, and climbing breathlessly onto the Papasan couch, Cutie Patootie became Helga The Closer. Head spinning from the myriad of package choices tossed at me like a batch of knives in a circus sideshow, I spun the Wheel of Fun and landed on the wedge labeled "Bend Over And Grab Your Ankles."

Actually, the package was labeled "Polar Dream." The swimsuit model returned, gently placing the most amazing chocolate-chip cookie in my trembling hand. In the other, she nestled a warm mug of piping hot cocoa. It was topped with miniature marshmallows and Christmas sprinkles.

Oh, the sensations I had from the first bite of warm gooey cookie, washed down with the semi-sweet smooth cocoa – I tingled all over. I was so lost in the moment that I didn't realize I mentioned I couldn't afford the "Polar Dream" package, saying the package LZ9 was more to my tastes and budget.

It was like a scene from one of those kid movies where the heroine said the wrong thing. The bustling soundtrack immediately cut off and the entire room fell silent. That amazingly awesome cookie was viciously yanked out of my hand. Although I tried to capture the bit of crumbs on my lips and chin, they were brusquely wiped away, leaving only the sterile taste of the alcohol wipe on my tongue. Similarly, the mug of Heaven disappeared, having been replaced with a Dixie cup of tepid water. Though I did my best to wrestle the mug back from Sweet Cheeks, I was no match for her evil twin personality, Helga The Closer.

"How'd you do that?" I crabbily asked. "One moment, I'm on top of the world, and the next, Hulk is ripping my arm off and beating me on the head with the thing."

"Well, you did decide on package LZ9. So, you get what you pay for!" Helga condescendingly chided.

"Yeah, but I could buy package LZ9 and still have enough money left over to purchase Canada and a whole truckload of girl scouts and elves to make me cookies and hot chocolate," I dryly shot back.

"I will not argue with you, Missus Pooper. You have made your selection...now you must live with your decision," the witch sneered before clacking her claws together as a signal for assistance.

"The name's 'Cooper,' you twit," I snidely remarked – after she stomped off out of view. Captain NoNeck walked up and roughly clamped his meathook around my frail arm. He dragged me through a maze of cubicles, and stopped outside of #666.

"The sack of garbage is here to see you, Sir," announced NoNeck.

I was tossed into a rickety wooden chair that dropped a couple of inches as I settled into it. The heat from the three studio lights caused sweat to bubble up from my pores. A pasty olive-skinned snarl sat behind the marble-topped mahogany desk across from me.

"Missus Pooper, are you ready to engage in playful banter as we grow a meaningful dialog?" the upturned lip attached to the slug asked.

Hence began my family's relationship with Todd Everest Portman, the photographer assigned to our case. Oops, did I say "case?" I meant "package." It only became a case later when I sued Uncle David's Treasured Treasures for every dime they and their grandchildren would ever earn.

"So, you picked Package LZ9, did you?" Todd Everest scoffed, in between shots of his Mocha Latte Foofoo Snuggle Bunny flavored whiff of coffee. "What do you have against me? Did I do anything to you to warrant your selecting such a meager representation of my artistry?" he pouted.

The only thing that calmed Todd Everest down was when Captain NoNeck came back with a large gold chain in his paw. "Another token of gratitude from a satisfied customer, Sir. Shall I place it with the others?" he dutifully asked.

"Oh, very well, Ivan – if you must," Todd Everest disdainfully said with a dismissing wave of his manicured hand. NoNeck gently lowered the twelve-pound gold serpentine rope over Todd Everest's curly perm and set it lightly atop the 47 other gold necklaces that were entangled in his implanted greasy chest hairs.

Thankfully, a distracting voice boomed through an overhead speaker: "The Beckwiths have purchased the 'Polar Dream' package and now move into Uncle David's Treasured Treasure Trove of Friends! Please join me in welcoming this wonderful couple into our family's circle as they move to the breakfast buffet." A smattering of applause followed the Beckwiths as they pushed through the throng of those of us who refused to be duped – or fed.

"Man, the breakfast smells fantastic," I muttered.

"It could be yours, you know. It's still not too late to change your package from LZ-9 to "Polar Dream" and be a part of our Treasured Treasure Trove of Friends."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?" I said with a giggle.

Ignoring me, Todd Everest went on auto-pilot as he prattled on about very attractive financing terms for the "Polar Dream" package that he was offering only to little old me and no one else.

The combination of heady aromas, uplifting muzak, and fantastic deals turned my insides to jelly. Todd Everest hungrily leaned forward in his pleather chair and snatched my credit card as I lifted it clear of my wallet. Again, I heard the sound of something like a record screeching to a halt.

"This credit card has expired," Todd Everest huffed as he frisbeed it back to me. Snapping his fingers twice, he snarled, "Produce another within the next 30 seconds, and I still might consider letting you get the child's plate at the buffet."

Protests about my lousy credit report and spending habits fell on deaf ears. I may as well have been pleading to an Easter Island statue.

"Fifteen seconds and ticking, Missus Pooper," Todd Everest said.

I begrudgingly handed him my debit card, which he immediately swiped through the card scanner imbedded in his arm.

On any other day, I would have kicked the clown square in his masculinities, but that was pointless because he didn't have any. I pretended to listen intently to Todd Everest gush on about himself and the "Polar Dream" package until he made the comment about filming location and allotted time slots.

"Hold on," I said, in my bravest hamster-like squeak, "I have kids that are asleep at 1:30 in the morning. You do not want them grumpy."

"No," he mocked, "YOU'RE the one that doesn't want them grumpy! I will sit quietly and read a book until everyone is in their per-determined places. I will not set up a backdrop or props...or even adjust the lighting until my muffin and latte are fully digested. So, my requirement is that you arrive thirty minutes before your appointment and use the remaining time to entertain my every whimsy."

"I've had enough, you pompous jackass!" I politely remarked. "I'm out of here."

"I don't care for your tone and lack of reverence, Missus Pooper," Todd Everest sniffed. A jerk of his head was the signal for Captain NoNeck to rush in and work me over with his set of brass knuckles. I signed package Polar Dream's contract nanoseconds before King Kong turned my teeth into Chicklettes.

Dripping sweat and trembling from the shakedown, I was met by Kewpie Doll, who happened to be blocking the escape path. She demanded that I complete a survey about my most pleasant experience.

My backhand, combined with the heft of my bloated purse, clobbered Pam Anderson Junior so hard that her fake ta-tas shot out her silk nightie and landed in the steaming cauldron of hot chocolate. I was so pissed on my way out of the mall that I grabbed a Gucci watch off a kiosk's shelf and tossed the clerk a $50 bill without calling my son, Perry, to get his approval.

That evening, my husband slammed the phone down so hard the handset shattered. "I can't believe this!" he roared. "They refuse to give us a refund, stating that you willingly signed the contract. We have the choice of showing up for the damned photo shoot at 1:00 a.m. or forfeit all the money. By the way, what did he mean when he said, 'including the down payment for the Polar Dream package?"

"You weren't particularly fond of the boys, were you?" I sheepishly asked.

"Oh no, you didn't agree to donate my testicles again, did you?" he shrieked, covering his crotch with both hands.

"Not those 'boys,' you idiot," I exasperatedly replied. "I'm talking about our sons. There's some kind of clause in the contract that states if we don't appear on time for the photo shoot, our sons become indentured servants to Todd Everest Portman, the pinhead photographer, for one summer."

"Hmm...it would get them out of the house and away from the TV and computers for a while. Will they get paid?" my dropout of a husband asked.

"Indentured servants are effectively slaves, Dan," I explained, "until our debt is paid off."

"Again, would they get paid?" he persisted.

"No, Sweetheart, they wouldn't. And, by the way, if we don't show up, then they garnish our wages for the entire cost of the Polar Dream package."

"Garnish? That means they'll give us fresh lettuce and lemon wedges? I just don't get it," he said. "I thought this was a photo shoot."

"You'd make a fine studio photographer," I dryly responded. His sincere and modest "thank you" confirmed my husband is an idiot. "By the way, if we don't show up for this fool sitting, you might want to be looking for a second job to pay them off."

"Why should I?" he huffed, "After all, you were the one who willingly signed their contract. You should be the one to get another job."

"Three's enough already, Dan," I angrily retorted. "I'm still paying for your Blu-ray collection of Vanilla Ice's best concert performances. Why is the disk blank anyway? Did one of the boys accidentally erase it?"

"Um, sure, Hon, that's what happened." He suspiciously changed the subject with, "You know how much my parents and sisters love the holidays, don't you?"

Distracted by the gallon of milk gushing out our fridge when I opened the door, I shot back, "Right, Dan, whatever!" Well, Forest Gump interpreted that as an approval to invite every one of his inbred relatives over for a big Christmas feast prepared by me!

Dan walked over and gave me a warm and loving hug. Actually, I think he did it to pin my arms down so I didn't beat the holy living snot out of him.

The song "Do you Really Want to Hurt Me?" by Culture Club began blaring on the radio.

"Listen, Babe, they're playing our wedding song!" Dan said in a weak attempt to soften the news.

So, even louder, I sang, "Yes, I Really Want to Kill You!" From the kitchen window, I watched Dan sprint to his accidental convertible and peel out of our driveway.

I was prepared for the knock at the door the next morning. Expecting to see Dan fumbling with his keys – not knowing I had changed the locks – I grabbed my cast-iron skillet, threw open the door and yelled, "Your key doesn't work anymore, Dan!" I stopped the arc of my skillet a mere three inches in front of Dan's mother's face.

"Sounds like my boy's in need of boner pills," Dan's father, Bernie, deadpanned. "I can share some of mine with him if you think it'll help you two get through the weekend."

"The only thing that will help me with this mess is a bottle of Tequila," I muttered under my breath.

"What's that, Dear?" asked Dan's mother, Fran. "If you need someone to clean up the cat's mess, I'd imagine one of my strapping grandsons would help. Now, you just waddle over in front of them and put your foot down."

"I want to put my foot somewhere, but Dan's not here right now," I said. "So, why don't you two come back later after he gets home," I said during my attempt to shove the door closed.

It was too late. Fran slithered through the narrowed door opening, and then the door bounced off of Bernie's beer gut and flung wide open. Dan's three older sisters, Chloe, Barbara, and Annie, arrived a few hours later. And Dan still hadn't returned home. I would have filed a Missing Person's report with the police, but I didn't really give a crap. In fact, once Dan came home, I had already planned to call the cops to report that I had killed an intruder.

"I see that almost everyone made it to our house," Dan said through the phone. "Too many witnesses, Babe. Guess I'll mosey on home now."

"I have a better idea," I saucily purred. "Where are you? I'm feeling frisky. How about if I slip out of here and join you for a quickie?"

"Nope, odds are you'd come over here to the Plaid Piper and slit my throat."

"So, when did you get a brain, Scarecrow?" I fumed. "By the way, the Plaid Piper is a gay bar. Is there something you want to tell me, Pussycat?" I nearly peed myself, I was laughing so hard.

The pregnant pause told me the dumb-butt did not have a clue. He cleared his throat and whispered, "I was wondering why all these terrific guys kept buying me drinks last night. I came back here this morning to see if I could scrounge up a free breakfast and thought I should call you. That was pretty considerate of me, wasn't it?" Coldly, I refused to answer, so Dan continued his confession with, "Look, I wasn't going to tell you this, but I fell asleep in my hotel room last night and woke up this morning in bed with a naked transvestite."

"Serves you right, dirtbag. How'd it feel being on the receiving end, li'l guy?" I sneered, referring to the meaningless size of his tool.

"I'm sore, okay! I hope you're happy now. This is all you're fault." Dan said, in his attempt to move the spotlight off of him.

The Tequila was kicking in, so I played along. "How so?" I asked.

"If you hadn't signed the photo-studio's contract, I wouldn't have blown my cool and fled for the bar."

I deflected it back by saying, "Your parents and sisters are here, Shmuck. You arranged that long before I ever landed in the photo-studio nightmare."

Dan rubbed salt in the wound by asking, "Have Perry's and Matt's girlfriends arrived yet? I told them to let you know if their families were going to join us for Christmas dinner, too."

It was my turn to slam down the phone. What was I going to do? With everyone Dan had invited, we would have 27 people stuffed into every nook and cranny of our 3-bedroom house for Christmas Eve dinner.

Did I forget to mention our portrait sitting with Todd Everest Portman was scheduled for 1:30 a.m. Christmas morning? Yep, I was scared and stupid enough to settle for that date and time.

Perhaps it was the booze talking, but the Tequila and I hatched the most delicious plan.

I cheerfully let Dan back in the house with nothing more than a gentle pat on his butt. "Just a reminder of your good times this morning, Easy Rider. Come on in! You're folks and sisters are all in the den. We're watching Deliverance," I chuckled.

As expected, Perry and Mat's girlfriends, Tiffany Rae Allen and Sandra Conner, respectively, told me their families were excited about joining us for Christmas Eve dinner. Turns out, Dan had mentioned to the girls that we would be serving beluga caviar and foie gras with our stuffed pheasant. "I really need to keep Dan out of gay bars," I mused.

Christmas Eve dinner came and went without incident, thanks to the presence of Captain NoNeck, who I had hired as my enforcer for the evening. Everyone pretended to enjoy my feast of turkey loaf, thick-as-snot gravy, green-bean casserole, lumpy mashed potatoes, and cranberry-flavored soda. I was still drinking Tequila and Dan's sisters were draining our liquor cabinet.

As my cowering guests grabbed their coats to leave, Captain NoNeck grinned and said, "I believe your host, Missus Cooper, has something to say. Everyone slipped into their seats and shot nervous glances back and forth at NoNeck and me.

I daintily clinked my glass with a fork, in the pretentious girly manner used to get the room's attention. "It was so kind of all of you to share my family's Christmas Eve dinner on such little notice," I said while glacially staring at Dan. "I'm sure I can speak for everyone when I say, 'how delicious was the meal!' Let's give the staff at Arby's a big round of applause for catering this amazing meal" With a nod, I had Captain NoNeck demonstrate his talent at bending a steel bar into the shape of a pretzel. My guests gave the Arby's employees a standing O. Satisfied that I had their full attention for the rest of the evening, I stood in our livi-dining room and announced, "With Captain NoNeck's support, here's how the rest of Christmas is going to play out."

As expected, all 27 of us arrived at 1:00 a.m. sharp on Christmas morning at the studio of "Uncle David's Treasured Treasures." Our photographer, Todd Everest Portman grumpily unlocked the studio door and let Dan, my sons, and me in. He began locking the door behind us when I said, "But wait, there's more!"

"Huh?" Todd Everest grunted through his mouthful of prune Danish.

I shoved the door open and loudly whistled. On command, the six cars' doors opened and out popped Fran, Bernie, Chloe, Barbara, Annie, all the Allen clan, and the Conner family.

"Wait...wait a wool-picking minute!" Todd Everest stammered. "I did not agree to this number of people. Clearly, you Poopers are violating the terms of your contract with "Uncle David's Treasured Treasures," he whined as he waved a handful of papers over his head. "As such, I am calling my attorney right this very minute to begin our legal collection efforts for the Polar Dream package."

I reached out and forcibly closed his phone. "Section 12, sub-paragraph XVII states, and I quote, 'During the contracted sitting, clients are permitted to include all of their family and friends that they see fit. Exclusion will not be supported, in the spirit of the giving holiday season.' So, Todd Everest, what have you got to say now?" I said.

Todd Everest threw his hands up, rolled his eyes, and plopped on his seat behind the per-positioned camera and sulked. "Get everyone into their places. I don't care who or how. I want to get this over with by 1:31 a.m. so...cram in."

I cracked a thin smile. "Now for Stage 2," I whispered to Dan. All the ankle-biters were hopped up on Red Bull, which I had slipped into their sippy cups about an hour before. They raced around the studio like a pack of monkeys. Perry's girlfriend, Tiffany Rae, whined in her grating, thin, and shrill voice so loudly above the din of our monkey-kids that Dan's sister, Chloe, got a nosebleed. It ran all down her winter-white dress. Todd Everest was unable to position the men in the back from shortest to tallest. Unknown to him, I had the men alternate between standing up on their toes and crouching down.

"Why isn't everyone in the picture?" Todd Everest wailed. He actually started jumping up and down like a spoiled child when it became obvious the 27 of us would never be able to fit in the photo. It was 1:35 a.m. and the poor little dickens was nearly bawling. He was facing a breech of contract that would cost good old "Uncle David's Treasured Treasures" all its Christmas presents that year.

I said, "Look, Tool..."

"Todd Everest, to you," he interrupted.

"As I was saying, Tool, I'm going to make a deal with you. Either you come out to my house at 11:00 a.m. today, Christmas Day, and take the stupid family portrait of us standing in our front yard, or..."

He sniffed, "I refuse to make deals. I am the magnificent artist T..."

"Tommy Franklin Smith from Rochester, NY. According to your police record, you have spent a number of years in prison for impersonating pilots, doctors, lawyers, and celebrities." I said, completing his sentence.

Shocked, Todd Everest frothed at the fact that he had been exposed. Then, when he realized I had him by his short-and-curlies, he dropped his prideful shoulders and sadly looked me in the eyes, and said, "You caught me, Missus Cooper. I am ashamed of my behavior and I have shamed my family. Please let me complete the contract per your very fair and reasonable demands. I will have my gear set up at your house so we can shoot a most magnificent family portrait. All I ask in return is you don't report me to my boss or my latest wife."

"Done!" I jubilantly exclaimed. "Hey, everyone! We're gathering back up at my house at 11:00 to be included in what will undoubtedly be the most awesome family photo in the history of film."

At daybreak, I sprang out of bed, threw on my winter garb, and headed out the front door. "Perfect, absolutely perfect!" I yelled. It had been a hard-fought battle, but I finally won one. Corporate America would rue the day they messed with Lacey Candice Cooper! I got out a rake and smoothed all the new-fallen snow into a downy blanket. A foot of snow covered the steep hill in front of the house. Our Tudor-style home at the top of this hill was to be the backdrop for our picture.

I threw some garland, bows, and lights on every tree except the big elm. Over the years, neighborhood kids lodged dozens of balls and Frisbees in the thing. The latest round of toilet paper hung like icicles from it. Full of moxie and character, the elm would be a wonderfully natural frame for the right side of our photograph, I believed.

Todd Everest Portman arrived at 10:30 to set up his equipment. When I opened the door, he said, "Wow, that was a huge latte I drank. You should know I'm not much of a morning person." Scratching his oily permed hair, he asked, "Would you mind if I stepped inside to use..."

"Mom!" Perry yelled, "Where's my gift for Tiffany Rae? She's been asking for it!"

"I have it. I thought it would be a great idea to capture the expression on her face when she opens your gift the moment Todd Everest takes the family photo."

"You're awesome, Mom!" Perry yelled back.

This was my crowning moment. It was 11:00 and Todd Everest was ready for us. Everyone was all in that giddy, festive Christmas spirit. It didn't take but five minutes for all 27 of us to form a semi-circle around the snowwoman I built for the picture.

Smiling and waiving, Todd Everest yelled, "On the count of 3 – one...two...three!"

Tiffany Rae tore open the gift from Perry on the "one" count. On "two," she frowned and growled, "It's not Cartier, you ass!" On "three," Tiffany Rae kneed my boy, Perry, right in the nads. Her force was so strong and aim so perfect that Perry threw up all over his Grandma Fran. My snowwoman had either fallen, or was pushed over—landing against my husband, Dan's, back.

"Got it!" Todd Everest exclaimed. "All of you were amazing. This will be a magnificent work of art, I assure you! Now, all of you go back inside and get warm. I'm going to pack up and let you kind folks get on with your Christmas merriment."

"Oh, Todd Everest," I called out, "didn't you start to say you wanted to come in? You're more than welcome to share the holiday with us!" I was so giddy, I skipped around in circles.

"Nope, I'm good. Gotta get back to my family and our Christmas fun," Todd Everest sardonically replied.

A week later, our cherished family photo arrived from "Uncle David's Treasured Treasures." Fran, Bernie, and Chloe were still in my house. So was Dan, that leech. I gathered them and my sons up in the living room. I imagined a frosty vignette of this huge family all cheerily smiling and waving to the camera. I opened the manila envelope as I grinned from ear to ear.

We were all there, alright. My father-in-law, Bernie, was caught goosing Sandra Conner, my son, Matt's, former girlfriend. The surprised look on her face told the whole sad story. Missus Conner, Sandra's mother, was taking a swig from an upturned bottle of Jack Daniels. Mister Conner and Missus Allen were French kissing. All the little kids were giving each other "bunny ears." Perry's former girlfriend, Tiffany Rae Allen had the meanest look I've ever seen on a girl's face. Her knee was firmly planted in Perry's crotch, mashing his Christmas balls into dust. In turn, his subsequent retching on Grandma Fran was visible in its full glory. Then, the camera caught the surprised look on Dan's face at the moment when my snowwoman flopped over onto his back. This was the only bright spot of the picture – a memory that I never let Dan forget – I call it my rendition of the night he spent with a transvestite.

When all was said and done, Todd Everest Portman was truly a genius. Here he was, faced with a demeaning situation that frustrated him to no end. My family's photograph was completely out of his control, or so I thought.

There, occupying the lower half of our family portrait, were the words, "Bite Me," scrawled with urine sprayed across my downy blanket of snow.




###







Author's Note:




"Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls" represents facets of several run-ins I've had with the phony portrait-studio industry. It's astounding how little their supposed photographers actually know about photography, lighting, and the like. One idiot couldn't get my kids to smile, so she taped a feather duster to the end of a broom handle and stuck it in their faces! Of course, that made the kids scream and cry.

Do you realize that everything is pre-set in portrait studios? Take a look at all the tape on the floor. There will be four "Xs": one for the camera, one for the subject, and two for the lights. No brain matter is required to be a studio photographer.

Similarly, in this story, you might recognize high-pressure tactics used by time-share salespeople. I'm amazed that there are so many suckers who fall for the nonsense, when, in normal circumstances, such fraudsters would be chased out of town.

I hope you enjoyed reading "Of Yellow Snow and Christmas Balls." Thank you for your interest and your time.




Please visit my to learn more about me.

To contact me, please send an email to: l.c_cooper@hotmail.com

LC Cooper Author All Rights Reserved.Copyright LC Cooper 2013=2014