A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife: Part...We'll whatever part I am on!

* Disclaimer: I do not pretend to have excellent grammer, superb spelling, or wonderful editing skills. If errors in these areas upset you then you will most assuredly despise my writing and I suggest you stop now unless you couldn't read this to begin with because it is far too small and I am too proud to make it any larger. I love a good run on sentence!


We Decided to Separate!

I kicked Tony out! After 8 years I finally kicked his butt to the curb! Well, I kicked his butt two doors down to a cute apartment. NO! I did not "kick him out" as in D-I-V-O-R-C-E, but I threw out that little bit of hell called "the studio." Ahhh the studio...So much to say really and I am sure that this blog has limit of at least a million words.

"They" say that if an artist's studio is clean and organized, then he or she is not working. If that is the case then Tony is the busiest artist on Earth.

Let's start with the heaps of crumpled paper, discarded card board boxes from thousands of comp-ed comic books (we'll get to those later), and various trash (mostly inert thank God!). His favorite place to store his trash is under his desk and in places where he hasn't put some other type of object he calls "reference material." When the trash reaches a point where his desk chair won't roll anymore or he can't reach is computer keyboard, then it's time to "clean the studio."

Well, maybe the picture is bit of an exaggeration... No...Wait. That IS Tony's studio! I remember now. That's the day it flowed out of the windows and into the street. Ah, good times!

My favorite studio clutter are the boxes of "comps." The concept of "comps" in the comic book industry is an enigma to me. I am not quite certain why some artists get "comp"-plimentary copies of EVERY BOOK a publisher puts out each month and others do not. I think they send comps to the artists they want to punish the most. Oh, the artist loves to get them each month, but then they have to deal with the idea of disposing (God forbid!) or storing them. The 50 odd comic books are packaged in a neat box, oh, about 6" by 9" by 12". If you cannot yet tell, I have a particular dislike for these bundles of joy.

The doorbell rings and before I reach the door the UPS guy is back in his truck pulling away in a desperate rush. There on my porch is the bane of my existence... a little brown box. I am convinced that these boxes are sentient and can move at will (Perhaps the airholes and the "Quarantine" stamp should have given me a clue.).

When the studio was in our home, Tony would reassure me that "the comps are stacked neatly in the studio and out of the hallway." But then, as I would head through the hall to the front door, I would inevitably trip on one of these little cardboard monsters.... How did that box get from the studio to the hall? Spooooooky! I am seriously considering putting a call in to Ghost Hunters about this. If I tell them that the boxes are attacking my children while they sleep do you think Tango and Cash (or whatever their names are) would get here sooner?

Now, let's open that little box from hell....sloooowwwly now.... wait for it... inside is.... ANOTHER BOX!!!!! This one is slightly smaller and at a glance, seems slightly less menacing. But do not be fooled! You have reached the heart of the beast. It is filled with, ughh, dozens of comic books. Everything from Looney Tunes to badly drawn Superman comics (did I type that out loud?).

Of course I don't open the box. My fourteen year old boy (who will probably follow in his father's artistic footsteps) opens the box. Taken from that pit of hell, the comics are then scattered about the couch, the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the dining room table... MY DESK! Nowadays, when Tony gets home from work there is a tongue lashing for 14 year-old for opening Pandora's Box before he can peruse the contents. And then the "BUT DAD!", "DON'T GIVE ME 'BUT DAD!'" argument ensues. I'm telling you, these little boxes are bad voo doo.

So, happily, both crumpled paper and complimentary comics are two doors down. My house is generally free of menacing small boxes and comic books. Tony is happy not to have to hear the constant struggle of homeschooling said 14 year-old, and life moves at a smoother pace. I shoulda' kicked my wonderful husband to curb years ago!

P.S. As for all of that "reference material," well, that will have to wait for another blog post.