Creative Memories makes home life memorable |

Creative Memories makes home life memorable

My underwear is photogenic. Which, I’m sad to say, is proof of the strange and twisted state of affairs to which my life has finally come.

If I were in a car accident and a doctor needed to cut off my pants to save my life, I can honestly say my mom – the one who always said never go out with ripped and dirty underwear because you might end up in the hospital – would be proud.

The reason I’m dressed fashionably smart down to my skivvies has absolutely nothing to do with any kind of sartorial gift on my part. It stems from my wife’s induction into a special Creative Memories cult.

Back when it started, it seemed so innocent. A family friend – I’ll call her the High Priestess to protect her in case she’s breaking any laws by sucking out the brains of Summit and Park county women and turning them into scrapbook zombies – started selling scapbooking stuff made by a company called Creative Memories.

These photo albums, paper, pens, special cutting tools and stickers were created so the family chronicler could create amazing, in-depth family photo albums.

And since my wife has always had a soft spot for photographs and chronicling family history, it didn’t take long for the High Priestess to lure my poor, unsuspecting wife into what was then just a loose knit group of croppers.

(A “crop,” by the way, is the term the cult uses for a gathering of members.)

Everything was going along fine until about two years ago, when I noticed a slight change in my wife’s behavior.

The change was small at first. There were the late-night phone call from the High Priestess my wife tried to cover up and the fact the word “want” was replaced by the word “need” when it came to purchasing Creative Memories products.

Then there was my space at the kitchen table, which was gradually covered up by photographs and photo albums until the time came when I wanted a bowl of Froot Loops and the only place I could set the milk down was smack dab on my grandma’s kisser.

When I complained about my lack of space, I noticed that my daughter was sitting in her highchair awaiting dinner, and she was sporting a new bib.

The bib read, “I’m a Creative Memories baby,” and to make matters worse, my wife, who was chanting, “Say cheese,” was taking pictures of our little darling for a new photo album.

And now it’s worse.

I can endure the glazed-over look in my wife’s eyes as she disappears on a Friday or Saturday night to meet with the other cult members, and I can even handle my poor crying baby as she is once again posed for another oh-so-cute baby picture, but it’s driving me insane that we can no longer go on spontaneous family outing or celebrate a birthday without days of planning and color coordination.

My wife now plans every detail of our lives with a photo album page in mind. It doesn’t matter if the baby, posed until her features are frozen into a fake happiness, cries. All that matters is the picture. And how happy we look on the page.

And forget about choosing your own clothes. That outfit I had on last week just won’t work with the pages my wife is creating this week because the color won’t match the border color she’s picked out.

So listen all you free guys out there. Beware. If your wife starts taking hundreds of pictures, and you discover a Creative Memories bag slung over her shoulder, seek help.

She’s gone over to their side. She’s been brainwashed by the High Priestess, and you might end up like me.

Way overexposed.

Columnist Andrew Gmerek uses this space every Friday to set forth his own creative memories.

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