Please Don't Interrupt

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

2010-11-02T09:41:00.010-04:00

Part 12,879: "And This is My Wife..."

There is a part of being a comic book artist's wife that no one tells you about until you get to the very moment where you say to yourself, " Oh Hell! This is NOT happening!!" If you are a good wife, you do it with a smile... I am ashamed to admit I have not always done it with a smile.

As you have read in earlier posts, comic book conventions ("cons" for short) are not necessarily my favorite weekend getaway, but with three kids, and three dogs, and two cats, I am not picky when the opportunity to high-tail it alone with the artist comes along. For the first few conventions, we were young and not many of our comic book friends (mostly male) were married. I just tagged along and taught Tony manners along the way (as in, "I'm standing right here, could you introduce me?" Who knew I had the invisibility superpower?).

As the years went by I spent most of the time during conventions not at the convention at all. I would do a little research and filter about the town going to museums, going to yarn shops, or just walking if I was in a place like New York... did I mention going to yarn shops?

Then one day it happened! Just as I was grabbing my purse off of one of those horribly uncomfortable convention folding chairs, Tony says, "Stace! This is Joe Shmoe and his wife Jane. I was telling them how you hate being in the convention hall during the day and since Jane doesn't know anyone, I was thinking you could take her along with you today..."

THIS is the part where you find out what kind of wife you are.

You have a couple of choices:

1) Lie and say you were just heading to the ladies room but if you go anywhere you'll be sure to let them know (fat chance).

2) Smile graciously and go on and on how you've got 12 yarn stores you've planned to visit. If the wife perks up, there's a good shot that the two of you will get along.

3) Bring her along and hope for the best that one of the two days you have to spend alone will be filled with making a new friend.

Now, don't for a second think that I don't know how horribly insensitive and just plain mean this all sounds, but I was once burned very badly after inviting another wife along for a day of shopping. She insisted on driving (although she didn't know the city) and picking the places we were going to go visit (although she didn't know the city or ME for that matter). She decided where we would eat lunch (and turned her nose up at what I ordered). On the way back to the hotel, we ended up in a traffic jam for an hour because she insisted on taking the highway. During this time, she had undoubtedly decided that she didn't like me and very much wanted me to know that she didn't like me. I couldn't leave because she was driving and, God help me, there were moments where I thought she was actually going to start blessing me out. It was a complete nightmare, one that I have never been able to shake. I later found out from a mutual friend that that was "how she is." I don't know, maybe I said something... Or maybe she was just CRAZY!!! She actually sought me out at a future convention to see if I wanted to go shopping? Wha..????

So now you might see my trepidation in inviting a complete stranger along on one of my excursions away from Comic Book Land. I tell ya, one bad apple...

Okay so back to our three options. More often than not I would choose #3. More often than not, it was a very good day.

I have a sentimental reason for choosing Option #3 or "the high road" when presented with this uncomfortable situation. I was once the rookie wife, the Jane Shmoe if you will, at this three-ring comic book circus also known as a convention; and if you don't read comics, haven't a clue how to pronounce Superman's real name, and (never actually having smelled one) think Klingons smell, then the convention experience is generally a torturous 8-9 hours.

One of my first conventions was San Diego Comic Con (not a good choice for first-timers) and Tony had just begun Starman. Archie Goodwin was Tony's editor then. Archie was an editor, nay, a man like no other. He spoke so quietly yet commanded incredible respect. I was only fortunate enough to meet him once, but we talked many times on the phone. Tony could be hopping mad about his job...or the position of the sun... but the moment he got on the phone with Archie it was like someone had shot him with a tranquilizer gun. God! I wish I could have bottled that voice!

Archie was married to an equally wonderful woman named Anne who, for at least one day, was my guardian angel.

There I was, lost in a sea of capes and tights, superbly pissed over the loss of my way too expensive cappuccinos, preparing to have a ritual beheading of the Klingon kind, and regretting terribly my decision to come along to San Diego Comic Con (You can read about my cappuccinos and stupid Klingons here.). I was not happy, so much so, that at least two complete strangers said, "Cheer up!" as they passed our table.

Enter stage right: My wonderful guardian angel!

Sweet Anne, probably choosing option #3, asked me to go with her on a harbor tour, ya know, to get out of the chaos of the convention. Happily, I grabbed my bag and escaped with this nice woman whom I had never met before in my life. It was a fabulous afternoon. Anne taught me so much in that short time. She taught me how to handle conventions "in doses," and that she herself didn't spend a lot of time at the hall. She loved to travel with Archie but spent her days out in the cities she visited sightseeing and whatnot. As a stupid newbie, it never occurred to me that I could LEAVE the convention and come back when the chaos was over (this from a girl who at 19 sold her car and hopped a flight to France). I wasn't bound to that table covered in white plastic and clad with a blue satin skirt. There were no shackles jailing me to endless hours of comic book chatter. Even though I was going to a convention, I didn't have to stay at the convention.

Funny, now that I have made so many friends in the comic book world, I actually like being at the con. I sit and knit and blab with whomever has made the poor choice of sitting next to me at the booth (So I can talk! Sue me!). I still do like to escape the chaos and savor some time to myself, but now I leave to buy yarn, not to preserve my sanity.

And although I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that there is a 99% chance that everything will be fine, I invite that poor wife with the "I'd rather be in hell than here" look on her face along for a day of shopping. I even limit my yarn shopping to one store (No, really!). I do this as a sort of pay-it-forward for Anne, for teaching me to help myself, for showing me one more way to survive in this kooky comic book world.

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

2010-10-22T08:16:00.012-04:00

* I do not pretend to have excellent grammer or superb spelling. If errors in these areas upset you then you will most assuredly despise my writing and I suggest that 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 do love a good run on sentence!

Part 198,321: The ALMIGHTY DOLLAR!

God, it makes paying your mortgage so much easier, doesn't it? Or should I say that it's so much harder to pay your mortgage WITHOUT it? Well, welcome to the feast or famine life of a comic book artist (or at least of one comic book artist). First, let me say that I am so grateful for the life that comics provides for my family. The industry has been very good to us and when I say industry, 90% of what I am talking about is the fan base (if it appears that I am kissing the proverbial "ass" well, call it like you see it, 'cause I AM!). Seriously, if you all don't read what my husband draws and/or writes, we starve... until I convince some engineering company that I can do more than fix those little tabs on disposable diapers and go back to work myself. I suppose I did get those degrees for something....

Like any freelance job out there, if you don't work, you don't get paid. No vacation time, no "personal time," no sick time. There are no bonuses, health or dental benefits, or 401(k)'s. There's not even a big fat holiday office party! If you're down for the count, you'd better make sure you've got financial backup or great relationships with your creditors. It's all a great big juggling mess until you sell a movie, or at least get an option on one, and then you can breathe... for awhile.

So you'd better make sure you like drawing and you can do it to support a family, or an addiction, (or your wife's addiction because she needs "a little something" to cut the edge of being married to a comic book artist), depending on your situation. You'd better love it in your bones, in your soul, in the corneas of your eyes, in the mitochondria of your cells; because it's so easy to look at that drawing table and tell yourself, "I make my own hours. I'll work tonight." And then "tonight" comes and that blank paper is still staring you in the face menacingly, but your family or friends are going out to a movie and you really want to go. How overwhelming it must be to create when you haven't the inclination to do so. How scary that seems to me, really.

On the other side of that coin, when Tony's "got his game on," it's very difficult to pull him away from the drawing table. Thank God that's more often than not, bless 'em! (Yes, another southern colloquialism.) He's recently gotten back into painting after years and years of my pleading with him to do so. When Tony finally picked up that paintbrush, it was like a child opening a box of Crayons for the first time. And when I say Crayons, I mean the box of 96 colors with the built-in sharpener! I wish I could have bottled that excitement... You know, for a rainy day... to put a few drops in his coffee in a Catherine de Medici sort of way when those dark, down times come around. Oh no... that's right.. The "Catherine de Medici" bottle is for when he doesn't take the trash out.

Look at her! I knew nuns that had that same composure while inflicting punishment.

But most of the time, really, if we're not getting a paycheck, it's a publisher red tape mix up. It's been more than a month since we've received a paycheck that was actually right as in, not missing half of what was owed to us. Paying bills on "half" doesn't quite cut it but what are you gonna do? Bite the hand that feeds you? Not if you have "a lick a' sense," as they say here in the south. You live off of savings, you know, your "back up plan." "Back up plan" meaning that huge change jar in the corner of your closet. Don't laugh! That change jar saved our butts the first years of our marriage while I was just finding my sea legs on this ship-of-fools.

I just love Hieronymus Bosch! I can so relate to his art...sigh!

Then, at some point the rocking of the boat became second nature, the sea swells less daunting, but it doesn't make the comic book artist's (or artist's wife's) life less difficult, or less worrisome. It just means you bear the financial storms with a little less wear and tear on your marriage, on your psyche, and on the wrinkles on your face.

Yeah, I'm Here...

2010-09-12T09:41:00.003-04:00

I haven't been here in a while but I think that I still know my way around. I've missed blogging but the internet has had to take a back seat for many moons now. You know... life and whatnot.

I haven't been able to follow my favorite blogs (which I miss terribly) and I haven't been able to write, not even for my fiction blog, Streak O Lean. I haven't written anything, not even a thank you note. Why do I go through these times? Why is it that sometimes it's so hard to get words down on paper? Now my mind hasn't been a great big blank all of these months, but having the words in my head and stopping to write them can be such an ordeal. The truth of the matter is that my life moves far too fast. I just can't seem to catch up.

What I wonder, however, is what would happen if I did "catch up"? What does "caught up" look like? Has anyone ever actually done it (Martha Stewart, you can lower your hand... sigh!)? I really tend to beat myself up for not having reached the "caught up" status, but paradoxically, I know that it doesn't exist really. So why do I insist on keeping it on the horizon? I think it's because it's a convenient excuse. It's the reason I give to others, and most importantly, to myself for not being the best that I can be. It's an excuse with which just about any wife, mother, sister, friend can identify. "I am just too busy!" "I'll do that when I have time." "I wish there were more hours in the day." "Not now! Mommy's really busy."

Just reading those phrases makes me feel tired and worn out.

So "catching up" must be a state of mind. I suppose if I just let go of the notion that there is no end to the things that need to be done in life, I might relax. If I would just accept that life is one cycle after another, maybe those phantom finish lines in my head would vanish. Perhaps I wouldn't go straight from mundane task to mundane task trying to keep everyone happy. Maybe.. just maybe.. in the mayhem, I could carve out time to write, read, quilt, and play with my kids; to be at the helm of my own ship instead of playing first mate.

Well there you have it, my blogging friends, another destination! Another course on which to set sail. I just hope that I remember that the world is round.

New Post Over at Streak-O-Lean!

2010-06-27T21:35:00.002-04:00

Come read it...please...Do it for the children!

Streak-O-Lean has Moved

2010-05-14T09:15:00.002-04:00

Hi All!

Just a note to let you know that I moved my short story, Streak O Lean, to its own blog. So if you are reading it (...both of you) you can find it here. All of the posts are there from the beginning, and I posted a new one yesterday that will not be posted here. You can always access it through this site. The link is in the upper right-hand corner. Thanks to all who read it! I just wanna hug yo' neck!

Stacie

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

2010-05-12T12:17:00.010-04:00

Play Nice!

Quite often my mothering skills have to bleed over into the comic book world. Perhaps some would call this micro managing. I call it necessary. My husband is one-of-a-kind and you know that these posts are usually written to poke fun at him and comic books in general. But know, if you are a fan reading this post, that I appreciate you. You make my family's life possible. You pay the bills, you take us to the movies on family day, you make our world go 'round so to speak. So, thank you.

***Warning: This post will have some foul language so please be warned and if this offends you, then please don't read this. ***

Here is a list of some of the things that Mama Bird has had to say to both my husband and the comic book world this week:

1. Tony, you are funny, big-mouthed, a great artist, and generally an all around good guy. HOWEVER, words like (deep breath) "fucker", "cocksucker", "shithook", and the like are probably to be used minimally on twitter, Sweetie. Those that know you or follow your twitter know that you have your rants will probably not be offended. More than likely, they will think you are hilarious. But there's always that one reader who will be offended. Yes, I know they can stop reading, but play nice, okay?

2. You're giving your editor anxiety attacks, ulcers, and other stress-related illnesses. Finish the book or you'll go to bed without supper!

3. (This to all those who are on Twitter, Facebook, Message Boards, etc.) Teenagers have commited suicide over internet bullying. Adults should know better.

4. Just because it's a pee diaper doesn't make it less toxic than a poo diaper, and putting it on a comic book you don't like does not equal putting it in the trash. Yes, I do agree that comic book is trash, but still!

5. Perhaps it's the Italian-American in me or just plain being a mom, but if you eff with my family, you eff with me. Those who know me know that is a bad thing.

6. Klingons suck!

7. Tony, calm down! If I told you that I like long hair on men, would that make you feel better?

8. Tony? Where are you? I can't see you... Maybe it's time to shave, Blackbeard, or I'm gonna tie some canon fuses to that tangled mess myself!

9. Did I mention Klingons suck?

10. Egos run high with celebrity. Is Tony Harris a celebrity? Not in my house! But he is very popular.

Just to Blog or Blah Blah Blah

2010-05-05T09:18:00.001-04:00

This is a total sort of stream of thought blog (or consciousness for all of you literary types). Now I am no James Joyce by any stretch, and I actually always found it difficult to read his literature, even the annotated versions; but I want to blog without giving what I have to say the usual extra attention of being organized, etc., and yet give the stuff on my mind an opportunity to "get out".

(Side note: I just put quotes inside of a period. Now I know that is a no-no in dialogue but what about in the situation I just encountered where I am using a phrase say, in slang. Hmmm. Guess I will be looking that up.)

No, generally, stream of consciousness is not my bag. I am just a straight shooter. Must come from my engineering background. Having a profound need for things to be logical has made a lot of wonderful literature a struggle for me. Don't get me wrong. I do like metaphors and allusions (did I use that word correctly?) but I also like to know what the hell is going on. I have a rule of thumb and that is, if I have no clue what is going on by page 40 and any reliable source from the internet doesn't help my understanding of plot or characters, the book goes away. Sometimes I keep it and give it another go, but most often not. With that said, I haven't had to "put down" (How's that for a pun?) many books. Probably because I know the genres I like and just stick to those. So much for branching out though, huh? I do sometimes and find that I am quite happy about following a different genre for awhile, but I always return to my fantasy, sci-fi stuff, or the classics.

Case in point: Poetry. Hated, hated, HATED poetry in high school and the smidgen of English Lit I was required to take by the Engineering curriculum. Bearable were Shakespeare's sonnets, The Canterbury Tales, (boy I love those Brits, huh?), and Shel Silverstein. This was all true until I had to teach poetry to my son during homeschool. I chose Robert Frost, please don't ask me why. Probably because his name comes up when anyone discusses great American poets (and watching The Dead Poet's Society helped a little). So we started, and by God, I just loved it! I've read my little paperback compilation of Robert Frost's poems so much that the back has fallen off. I found an illustrated copy for children of Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. The poem's short but I just love it. I can feel the chill of the winter, but I also feel the need to stop and look at the beauty of the quiet snow. And I can't read Birches enough. Somewhere on the internet there is a place where you can hear Robert Frost read his own works. There is magic there. There is magic when any author reads their own work (provided it's good work).

No magic in this blog today, just blah blah blah. I'd love to stay and chat longer....

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Streak-O-Lean

2010-04-13T03:14:00.012-04:00

* 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!

Part 8: Country Ham and Decaf Coffee TO GO!

May showed up to work the next day hair coiffed perfectly, accented delicately with a small rhinestone barrette. As she approached the automatic doors she envisioned them slamming shut over and over again on Curtis' head. Oh she wanted to blame Twila as well but she knew in her heart of hearts that women will woo and married men should say "I woo not!" That being said, Twila's head was not excused from May's violent visions. So, with brief case in one hand and a purse large enough to carry a country ham in the other, May lifted her tiny chin and proceeded through the sliding doors. She stopped at the gumball machines, popped a quarter into a slot, turned the knob, and scooped up a large bright orange gumball. Orange. Her favorite color. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.

She rounded the wood paneled, glass topped, cubical she called an office and stopped at the small swinging door. Someone had replaced Paper Snowman, gingerly taping the paper frozen vegetables back on to his mittened hand. May stood there for a moment briefly replaying in slow motion the events of last Friday in her head. With all that had happened in that explosive episode, she remembered having at the time the involuntary urge to stop and stick Paper Snowman back onto her swinging door. He was after all an innocent bystander. And now seeing Paper Snowman returned to his proper place, she hoped someone had been as good to Paper Santa as well.

The store was quiet that Monday morning, but Mondays were generally pretty quiet. The Pig's circulars were usually in Thursday's paper, so most people shopped Thursday through Saturday, except of course on Wednesday's when the Senior Citizens would arrive for their discounts. The lack of activity was usually welcomed as it allowed May to concentrate and get down to the numbers she had to crunch, and the forms she had to fill out, and the payroll she would have to finish. But the low buzz of Muzak and the clacking from someone pushing that cart made work very difficult. She grabbed the carafe from her coffee maker to fill it with water when she realized that unless it was decaf, she wasn't having any coffee. Shit! Shit! Shit! Stupid Pregnancy! She thought to herself. She stopped, put the carafe down, and pushed through the swinging door to the floor of the store, precisely where she had hoped not to have to go that day. Let's see, coffee is aisle 8, she remembered. May picked out the best decaf coffee the store sold and went to the check out lane where Dotti was working.

"Hey Dotti. How you doin'?" May managed a smile.

"I'm fine, Sweetie. You okay? You need anything? A margarita? What about a shot gun?" Dottie was one of May's most favorite people in Carrington. Dotti could be the one hanging from the cross, but she'd make sure everyone had a hammer and nails.

"I'm okay. I'm glad you didn't have to see it. You were off, weren't you?" May wrinkled her nose in embarrassment.

"Glad I didn't have to see it? That put me at least 15 minutes behind on the gossip in this store and you know I hate that!" she said with a wink. "Honey! I wish I had been here, if anything to give you some backup. Curtis may be my boss but he's still that little snot that lived across the street from me for 15 years. He ain't gonna fire me for tellin' him to put his peter back in his pants and fly right! I can still call his momma!"

"Oh! Don't do that, Dottie. I knew, sooner or later..." Tears began to glaze May's thick mascara and Dotti quickly grabbed a brown paper towel so that May could avoid both Raccoon eyes and embarrassment.

"You blame yourself and I'll come 'round this counter and snatch you bald headed!" Dotti scorned. "When you go for lunch? Let's go down to the Red Chic and get us some grease!"

"That sounds really great! Let's go about 11:30? Beat the crowds?" May replied, perking up a bit.

"Meet cha' in the parking lot then, Sweetie. And don't let that bastard see you being upset or nothin'. He don't deserve it or you for that matter!" Dotti dropped the coffee into the bag and handed it to May. "You want me to go and get water for the pot so you don't have to go wanderin' 'round this store? I ain't got no one in line right now."

"That would be a huge relief Dot!" May was thankful for good friends.

Death From a New Perspective

2010-03-21T23:14:00.007-04:00

"End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path.

One that we all must take."

--Gandalf, The Lord of the Rings

I was once very afraid of death. In fact, until recently, I would find even the mention of it reason for tremendous anxiety. Needless to say, funerals were out of the question. The brevity of a human life was very frightening to me. Generations before us have lived and they have died. Yet, no matter how large a monument is erected in their honor or what great contribution they may have made to society, the essence of who they were as people is lost as time progresses. The parts of them that made them human- the people they loved, those that loved them back, the true moments of joy in their soul- vanishes within one, perhaps two, generations. Our bodies decay and our life experiences decay with them. Depressing? Not for me anymore, not really.

I have a love story to tell you...

Twenty-two years ago I met a gentleman who was a professor at the college I attended. I overheard that he was inviting his chemistry class to his home for a slide show of his and his wife's recent trip to Paris. That summer, I too had traveled to Paris and fell completely head-over-heels in love with France. Rudely, I introduced myself and asked if I might too come along for the slide show. He enthusiastically agreed and asked that I bring my photos as well. That weekend, I met his wife and many students (some are still good friends of mine). Even though it would be many years before I actually took one of his courses, I was always invited to student gatherings and friendly get-togethers at their home. Within the year, I met their daughter who would become my most dearest friend in the world.

From the beginning I knew that I could learn much from this couple. They had traveled the world and absorbed all that life threw their way. I knew if I shut my mouth and listened that I would learn great things from these wonderful people. One of the most important lessons I learned was how to be married. Beyond being completely in love, these two people had an unspoken protocol on how to conduct themselves in a relationship (something I am sure took work and practice). The respect that they had for each other lingered in the air. The love they had for each other was displayed with the gentlest touch or a tender smile as one brushed by the other.

As the years passed, I became very close to the family. I would house sit for them on vacation, and have them to dinner. As I became closer to their daughter, my relationship with her parents strengthened too. Their generosity to me and my family was unparalleled. Quite often they would refer to me as "their other daughter." While I was overwhelmed and honored by this statement, I always felt them more my friends.

As they grew older, it was my pleasure to go to lunch once a week with the professor's wife. The professor would always thank me for "getting her out of the house" as she wasn't able to drive due to a bad back. I am not sure if he believed me when I told him that our lunches were as important to me as they were to her. She and I were from the same mold, but were cracked in all of the right places! Most would find our wicked sense of humor revolting. When I found out they were moving two hours away to a retirement community closer to my bestfriend, I was devastated. I remember relaying my disappointed to another friend who said, "I know you were close to them, but they really need friends their own age." I think that my ability to hold my tongue reached a new level that day.

I helped my dear friend pack her parents' possessions, possessions I had looked at for 22 years. I had heard many wonderful stories about the objects in their home, how they were acquired, why they were sought, the significance and history behind them. I packed the never-ending china cabinet. As I packed this small cabinet, I found that there was always more to pack, as if the cabinet kept refilling itself as I put items into boxes. It took almost two days to finish packing that damn cabinet. Perhaps, it was because I kept tearing up. You know, all of that dust!

About a week after they moved Professor's wife was diagnosed with lung cancer. The prognosis was not good: 3-6 months. Professor was devastated and anxious (of course!) I would go up every weekend to help my friend take care of her parents. At this point neither of them could drive so I would take Professor out shopping to get what he needed for their apartment. I have never seen two people suffer with such dignity. I was blessed to be a part of this time in their lives.

I lost a very dear friend of mine on February 28, 2010. Two weeks later to the day, I lost another very dear friend of mine- his wife. They are and will be forever missed by me, but how lucky was I to have known them?

Found a Use for Those Comps!

2010-02-13T13:34:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-11T11:25:00.011-05:00

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.

What's Sa Matta For YOU?

2009-12-05T08:15:00.004-05:00

When I was growing up, my Italian grandma would sing this song if she saw that I was hanging a face. Stop me if you've heard it.

What's sa matta for you?
Why you looka so sad?
It's ah not so bad.
It's a nice-ah place.
Ah! Shut up-ah you face!!

Before I knew it, I was laughing and all was better. I wish problems with friends were that easy!

I am lucky. I have many friends.

I claim to be very careful of whom to get close to. I really have to feel that "click" before I dive into a friendship. Then logic says that my friends should be primarily of the same temperament, right? They should be relatively easy going, ready to laugh, and know that my first language is sarcasm. They all are and can usually match my sarcasm word for word.

Very rarely do I have conflict with any of my friends. What is most amazing to me however is how differently we all deal with it. Let's start with me. If I feel the tiniest bit of unease, I lay my cards on the table and immediately want to to settle the matter. I don't like misunderstanding or the thought of hurt feelings. I find out what's wrong, and if I can, fix it. Thank God I have a few friends who are like this. It makes life so much easier.

Then there are my friends that are so reserved I generally don't know anything is wrong until I haven't heard from them for a few weeks. When enough time goes by that I can assume there is a problem as opposed to their just being busy, I will pick of the phone. And as frustrating as all of this guessing is, when I ask them if there's a problem, they spill their guts and we're fine. UUUGGHHH!! So easy! I am always amazed at the time lost when all they had to do was SAY something.

Then there are my friends who act as if nothing is wrong when I see them day to day and yet the tension between us is vibrating with niceties! It's like that scene in Sense and Sensibility where Mrs. Dashwood says "If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say you will please restrict your remarks to the weather." There's only so much rain and sunshine you can talk about before you go nuts. Bottom line? I usually have to put my big girl panties on and say, "Have I done something?"

What I don't understand is why people waste energy being angry with each other. I take this sort of personally because my heart says, "Their feelings are obviously worth more than our friendship." If they won't come and talk to me then how much do I really mean to them as a friend? What my head says is, "I know most people would rather eat nails than have face-to-face conflict."

I guess we all have our roles in life. Some of my friends are superb comforters, some are the funniest people I know, some are the best commiserators. I guess I am like... the best Judge Judy. Hear the case, solve the problem. Who's next?

AHHH! Shut-up ah you FACE!

Happy Thanksgiving to All of You!

2009-11-23T10:29:00.003-05:00

Hello Everyone!

For the first time in years, I will be traveling for the Thanksgiving holiday!! We're packing up the trolls and heading north. God help me! I was seriously considering renting a limo where Tony and I could shut that swank window between the front and the back seats. Since that turned out not to financially feasible, we will brave it in the minivan and threaten to make any troublemakers ride on the roof (don't worry, they will be secured to luggage rack with rope). I will be thinking of you all and hoping that you have a safe and wonderful holiday. For those of you who might stumble over my pathetic online soapbox who do not live here in the U.S., I hope you have a great week (preferably warmer than I will have).

See ya!

Stacie

My House

2009-11-19T07:49:00.010-05:00

The Dream

http://www.italianfoodnet.com/images/normale_3wpgv5qhstruffoli.jpg

I had a dream last night. I dreamt I went back to the house where I grew up. The house where my Italian family lived complete with grandparents. The house where so many warm and sweet memories were formed. I know there were some bad memories in the mix but somehow I can't remember very many and most were the spawn of teenage angst.

The house is here in the town where I still live. I have the opportunity to drive by it often and do. I will go out of my way a block or so to visit it and see what the new owners have done since the last time I drove by. Even though it's been 10 years since my parents have lived there, the people who bought it from my mom and dad will always be called "the new owners".

The holidays in this house were like those you'd see in a movie. My mom was an avid holiday decorator. We had nice decorations but much of it was what we had when I was very little in the 70's. Such excitement would ensue when Mom finally decided that today would be the day that the old, brown decoration boxes would come down from the attic. (Excitement for everyone except Dad because that meant he had to go and get them. Dad was not an avid decorator.) Every year, those boxes would get a little more tattered as they were passed down the attic stairs where the large metal springs on the attic door would catch and tear at the corrugated card board and every year more tape was added to extend their purpose.

The tree ornaments were old, glass, and usually from Germany. Some were newer Shiny Brites with flocked shooting stars and moons on them. As a teenager I pleaded with my mom not to put the ornaments on the tree we kids had made in school over the years, citing tackiness as a valid reason. Every year I lost that battle and up would go the paper chains and hand prints. The tree was always gorgeous and traditional. No theme trees because there are no memories in themes. Old glass beads hung from the dining room chandelier, and the kitchen had Christmas towels and pot holders and whatever wouldn't go somewhere else.

The food. Oh good Lord, the food! Fezzywig would have had a time keeping up with my mother's ability to throw a feast! We were Roman Catholic Italians so that meant fish on Christmas Eve. "Fish" meant scampi, calamari in marinara sauce (tentacles and all. I loved it.), or fettucini alfredo. There was always tons of wonderful salad "fixed" with mom's Italian dressing and served after the meal.

Sometimes, when we were older, we would pile in the car and go to Midnight Mass. If not, we went Christmas morning. My parents were never overkill on the "reason for the season" but Mass was very important.

Christmas Day started with Bloody Marys or Mimosas, coffee and presents. Then we ate and celebrated our way through the day. Antipasto salad piled high with Italian cold cuts, cheeses, marinated olives, and artichoke hearts. For dinner there was lasagna, standing rib roast, mashed potatoes, etc. Wine, wine, and more wine! Desserts were everywhere! Christmas cookies, struffoli (little balls of cookie dough that are deep fried and then drenched in honey and sprinkles), Italian pizzelle cookies, cakes, etc. Frozen grasshoppers were last (even we kids were allowed to drink them).

What I remember most though is, even as a teenager, not wanting to "get away" from the family. I wanted to be there and enjoy my family and whatever family was there from out of town. (One year, we had 18 relatives from out of town staying with us.) Italians are very emotional people and that usually means that someone has disowned someone else in the family. But during the holidays, it was all hugs and kisses. Grandma would pinch our cheeks and say,"Quanto sei bella!" I could go on and on. I was so lucky to have this as a

child...

...but, back to my dream... I am driving by my old house and decide to stop. My 10 year old daughter is with me. Before I get to the front door, I notice that they are in the process of walling up a few windows. How odd, I think. I knock and a woman in her late fifties answers the door. She seems discontent, grouchy. When she finds out who I am she immediately gives me a tour of the house, to show me what she's done since they moved in. As I walked through the house, I recognize nothing... nothing. I see cracks in the walls and although there are furniture and curtains, the house feels vacant. I feel sad and lost. As she leads me back to the front door, she says that her kids are grown and gone and now it's just she and her mother (she rolls her eyes). She says that she's putting the house on the market and I should buy it back. Just before I leave the lady grabs my arm gently, just above the elbow, and says, "I almost forgot!" We turn to the left and she opens a pair of double doors. Memories flood as I realize that this was my grandparents' room. It was exactly the same as I remember it, even the smell. Yes, that old-people smell, but for me at that moment in a house that wasn't mine anymore, it was the sweetest smell.

Have You Noticed?

2009-11-17T00:13:00.003-05:00

So I am in the evil Wally World (I think most know this means Walmart) today, and I am standing in the curtain aisle checking out this and that and out of the blue one of those people you see there that wears one of those blue vests comes over and says, "Is there something in particular your looking for?" BAM!... You know what that was? No, it wasn't Emeril... It was me falling over from shock! I actually went into a Walmart and was not only approached by an employee, but was also offered help unsolicited!! After gaining composure I put myself bodily between this person (who clearly had lost his mind) and my two-year-old and backed away slowly.

Later, I went to McDonalds to get said two-year-old some chicken nuggets for lunch. I ordered myself an unsweet tea which they now put into large styrofoam cups. While Two-year-old handles her drink with diligence and care, Mommy goes to pick up her tea and the styrofoam cup slips right out of her not-paying-attention-to-what-she's-doing hands. Tea went everywhere and I couldn't even blame the toddler who was still sucking away on her drink (but stopped sucking long enough to announce to the restaurant that, "Mommy made a mess!").

So I slink over to the counter sheepishly and ask for a mop (it was my mess after all, according to Two-year-old). The young girl behind the counter did what? Looked at me crossways, you say? Nay! Huffed and got the mop? No way! She handed me paper towels so that I could dry my pants and said, "Those new styrofoam cups are so slick! Don't you worry about nothing, Ma'am! I'll get it!" BAM! Hello Floor, I've missed you!

So, now I had just enough time to get to the grocery store and then pick up 10-year-old from school. Well, I had had enough time before my illness for thrift stores deterred me from my plan. After leaving my favorite second-hand-store, I realized that I would not have enough time to go across town to my beloved Publix supermarket. So, I sucked it up and drove to the Kroger which is five minutes from 10-year-old's school. I hate this Kroger. I hate most Krogers because the employees act like they are doing court ordered community service rather than making a paycheck. So I gather Two-year-old and my purse and go in to grab a few necessities (like Oreos). The sliding doors open and there, in a red vest this time, is an older gentleman who says, "Welcome to Kroger! You've got your arms full... Let me get a cart for you." BAM! BAM! BAM!!!!! Does someone have smelling salts?

Events such as these... these, unexplained occurrences of humanity are becoming more and more frequent. Husband and I have been discussing this for several weeks now. Invariably, one of us comes home with an incredulous story of customer service...

Now, I know that you've probably forgotten what those words mean so I took the liberty of going to Wikipedia for a definition:

Customer service
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Customer service is the provision of service to customers before, during and after a purchase.

We have decided that due to the poor economy, these huge corporations are pushing customer service in order to compete with other stores. Even Walmart is feeling the burn. People are tired, depressed and broke. They only have so much money to spend and they don't want to spend it where they are treated badly. They even might be able to scrape a few more dollars together for something extra if the shopping experience is pleasant.

We do have a second explanation: Aliens have taken over the bodies of retail employees nationwide.

But really, what fun is it if some employee in some big store offers to help you? You lose that oh so cheap feeling of having to interrupt their pressing text message to that chick in the produce department. Better to leave the money on the ~~dresser~~ check-out counter and leave.

I Am SOOOO Happy!

2009-11-15T01:53:00.002-05:00

I went to The Blog Doctor and I figured out how to get just about everything back!! I am so very happy to see everything as it was. I didn't realize how attached I was to coming to this blog everyday and "sittin' a spell" as they say here in the South. It's like that sofa in the den that feels as if it cuddles you right back. I was really just sick when I had lost so much. It definitely wasn't worth a flashy new blog template, lemme tell ya! So I will stick with what's here and what I know for now, and hopefully let my writing be my creative outlet. Thanks for the group therapy!

I Did Something Any Blogger Knows NOT TO DO!

2009-11-15T01:21:00.002-05:00

I changed my template without saving my current one. Now, I am trying to revert and somethings are screwed up. Needless to say, I am an idiot and cannot seem to get somethings to work like they used to. I wish I knew how to fix it myself. My blog roll title is missing, I can't seem to get the date to go back to the way it was, and my title is so small. Who knows what other "treasures" are to be found lurking as I try to post new things. I am somewhat depressed about this.

So lesson learned?

THEY MEAN IT WHEN THEY TELL YOU TO SAVE YOUR CURRENT TEMPLATE!

Uggggghhhh!

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

2009-11-10T22:25:00.021-05:00

Part 3: Conventions, Part 2

(Didn't know it would be this complicated, huh?)

http://projects.accessatlanta.com/gallery/view/entertainment/comicon-2009-sandiego/12.html

Fans waiting to get into the San Diego Comicon

Okay, we discussed Klingons in our last lesson. That was VERY important for both your safety and your sanity! Now we are going to discuss "fanboys". Let's define "fanboy", shall we?

Mirriam-Webster Dictionary Online defines "fanboy" as follows:

Main Entry: fan·boy

Pronunciation: \ˈfan-ˌbȯi\

Function: noun

Date: 1919

: a boy who is an enthusiastic devotee (as of comics or movies)

So a Klingon is a particular type of fanboy... a particularly frustrating type of fanboy...

That being said, I think fanboys are some of the most wonderful (and intriguing) people on Earth. I once whispered the word "fanboy" to my husband during a convention and was told that even fanboys call themselves "fanboys" and that there was no reason to whisper the term. And here I thought it was derogatory! Who knew someone would want to be called "fanboy"? (I can't even tell you what some would call my enthusiasm for yarn or fabric...)

So, at conventions (let's call them "cons" for brevity's sake) there are lots of fanboys. I mean LOTS of fanboys! Before a con opens, it is not unusual for the line of fanboys waiting to get in to snake through the lobby of the convention center, out of the front doors, and around the block (This is where having a "guest" badge is most useful. There is a bit of satisfaction when one walks past such a line and waltzes right through the entrance. And, God I hate to admit this, it makes one feel sort of... important... Kinda like a body guard for Captain America. Kinda like Macy's, on the day after Thanksgiving, waiting to open the doors until YOU get there. Sorry fanboy friends, I can't help it!).

They wear costumes, t-shirts and shorts, those goth jeans with all the chains, baseball caps, earrings and nose rings, and suits. They carry back packs, boxes (sometimes stacked several high), art portfolios, messenger bags, and small children. Sometimes they look like this:

photo from http://www.heroesonline.com/heroescon/

And sometimes they look like this:

OH! No! Sorry! I'm HIS fanboy....girl...whatever!

I have even seen a dad fanboy who displaced his baby to fill a stroller with comic book ephemera. His wife did not look pleased to lug said infant through the rest of the convention. Later when I saw fanboy dad's exhausted wife still holding the now dead-weight sleeping infant, I knew that this would be her last con and that fanboy dad would certainly regret his earlier decision.

At cons there are booths and booths of vendors. Vendors of comic books, toys, gaming paraphernalia, t-shirts, and all things manga. As I walk around the convention floor, I stop occasionally at these vendors just to see what's new, what's cool, and to buy the kids a little something. Inevitably my toes get stomped on. Sometimes I get gently shoved, head first, into the Transformers G1 Reissue Powermaster Optimus Prime. These boys, I mean fanboys, are serious shoppers! They know what they want and will go to each and every vendor to comparison shop. Nothing stands in their way (including the throng of Klingons who take up the entire aisle. Yes, I still have issues). They can manage the convention floor like Angelina Jolie manages her leading men. They are going for the throat and propriety be damned! This is something I can completely understand as I am just as much a bully in thrift, yarn, and fabric stores (in that order exactly).

But something miraculous takes place when a fanboy approaches the table of the comic book professional. They are no longer a shark in the sequential art sea. It's almost as if they've swigged a Red Bull and popped a Xanax at the same time. On the surface they are calm, polite, and sweet. But just below the surface, you can see the churning intense excitement of meeting one of the creators of the stories that make them happy. They are nervous when they speak and they say things like, "Excuse me, Mr. Harris. Would you sign a few of my comic books?" (I always chuckle when someone at least as old as my husband calls him "Mr.Harris". My husband is really not a "Mr. Harris". Plus, it's hard to understand the fanaticism when you wash "Mr. Harris'" underwear. Yes, I went there.)

My husband is one of the lucky people that makes a lot of fanboys happy. He's the second guy from the left.

http://blogs.dallasobserver.com/unfairpark/WarHeroesMeettheFanboys013.jpg

It is very important to Tony to make his fan base happy. He spends most of the time signing books sketching, and talking to fans at cons. After all, these are the people who make our lives possible... they pay our bills and feed our kids. Sometimes I wonder, however, just how far Tony will go to keep even the smallest of fans content!

Photo Source: Side Eyes photostream http://www.flickr.com/photos/10749272@N06/2770425245

So that, my dear Pupils, is the second part of your schooling in the comic book convention survival guide. I am sure you all will put it to good use. Remember: when in doubt, go back to the hotel and ask for the sommelier!

Thoughts on the Eve of Veterans Day

2009-11-07T13:11:00.002-05:00

Just a post to say that no matter what our political position is on the war overseas, let's remember what it must be like for our soldiers.

This song was written by Alice in Chains in 1992. The title comes from guitarist/songwriter Jerry Cantrell's father. "Rooster" was his nickname in Vietnam, where he fought in the war. The song is about some of his feelings and experiences, told from his perspective(www.songfacts.com). If you've never heard it, be warned that it is of the Grunge genre so the music is a bit harsh but you can hear it here. There is a very pretty acoustical version also but I couldn't find a good link.

The Rooster
Alice in Chains

Ain't found a way to kill me yet
Eyes burn with stinging sweat
Seems every path leads me to nowhere
Wife and kids household pet
Army green was no safe bet
The bullets scream to me from somewhere

Here they come to snuff the rooster, aww yeah, hey yeah
Yeah here come the rooster, yeah
You know he ain't gonna die
No, no, no, ya know he ain't gonna die

Walkin' tall machine gun man
They spit on me in my home land
Gloria sent me pictures of my boy
Got my pills 'gainst mosquito death
My Buddy's breathin' his dyin' breath
Oh God please won't you help me make it through
Here they come to snuff the rooster, aww yeah
Yeah here come the rooster, yeah
You know he ain't gonna die No, no, no ya know he ain't gonna die

Streak-O-Lean

2009-11-05T21:11:00.007-05:00

Steak-O-Lean Part 7: A Pint of Fighting Cock

Small town grocery stores could provide both psychiatrists and anthropologists a life time of clients and case studies. The Piggly Wiggly in Carrington, Georgia was no different. Curtis couldn't keep his business in his pants even though he loved his wife with almost all of his heart. Dotti, after years of being an indulging parent, had realized that she should of have whipped her son's ass far more than she had when he was a child. Brandi's bright mind and sulky attitude made her the recipient of the worst of Curtis' pick-up lines. Twila? Well, Twila was just trailer trash. And May, poor pregnant May continued to pile her hair atop that tiny head and march into work each day to face the man she still loved... or hated... or loved... Well, it depended on the hour.

These folks had their faults, as all humans do. But they were good people too. Take, for instance, Curtis. Few people knew that everyday Curtis would go to the deli and buy a meal from the hot bar to take to the homeless veteran who hung out by the blue dumpster at the side of the store. He would also buy the guy a pint if the horrible evidence of alcohol withdrawal stared back at him in the form of fearful eyes and shaking limbs. Something in Curtis made it impossible for him to deny the things that this man needed. Perhaps it was the fact that Curtis' father had disappeared mysteriously on a seemingly routine TDY. Whatever the reason, Curtis felt responsible for this man's well being. He tried to give him a job as a bagger once but after two days on the job Curtis found the man back at the dumpster, bottle in hand, whimpering softly. That was the end of trying to change the situation and the beginning of enabling it.

The Romantic Mid Century

2009-11-01T12:28:00.014-05:00

I have always said I should have lived in a time different from my own. I have always said that I should have lived in the 1940's or 50's. To me, life seemed simpler and far more swank.

Take for instance vintage tablecloths. If I could, I wish I could have been woven into their screen printed threads to hear the decades of stories; to hear the conversations over coffee between two neighbors, to feel jelly smooshed into my fibers by tiny fingers enjoying a peanut butter sandwich, to feel the loneliness of a housewife waiting up for her husband to get home from work. How it must have felt to hang free and clean from a clothes line flapping in the wind, all the while listening to the conversations of children hiding between me and my bedspread counterpart.

Photo from http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/womanshour/timeline/galleries/421/19/

I also have several vintage hats. With no real purpose except to accentuate the perfectly powdered nose and painted bright red lips, these hats are true works of art. Sculptures made from felt, velvet, satin, and fur; set precisely on beautifully coifed heads and pierced with ornate hat pins. And all of this to go to the grocery store. Hats were a matter of pride, pride in one's appearance and stature. Pride in being a woman. Perhaps they were also a shield for what lay beneath the surface, an intricately stitched facade with matching coat and gloves.

So was life really easier? I found the following info at http://www.legacy98.org/timeline.html. It's a glance at the major policy changes for a women during the mid century era. Let's not forget that only 18 years earlier we were finally allowed to vote with the ratification of the 19th Amendment. I think women had a few things to think about:

1938 The Fair Labor Standards Act establishes minimum wage without regard to sex.

1947 The U.S. Supreme Court says women are equally qualified with men to serve on juries but are granted an exemption and may serve or not as women choose.

1961 The U.S. Supreme Court upholds rules adopted by the state of Florida that made it far less likely for women than men to be called for jury service on the grounds that a “woman is still regarded as the center of home and family life.”

1963 The Equal Pay Act is passed by Congress, promising equitable wages for the same work, regardless of the race, color, religion, national origin or sex of the worker.

1964 Title VII of the Civil Rights Act passes including a prohibition against employment discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion, national origin, or sex.

Basically, if you wanted to work and and wanted to be treated fairly, you were screwed. So you are a stay at home mom and there's a 21.53 % chance that there is no vehicle in your household. There is a 56.94% chance (http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/ctpp/jtw/jtw1.htm) that there is only one car in your household and more than likely your husband has it at work. Lonely? Perhaps...

I know my car is my escape.

It's my escape from the never ending laundry, the bills, the vacuuming, the "to do's" that never seem to get done. Would I be a better housekeeper if I had no car? I don't know. And let's not forget the technology that wouldn't be available: no computers, no cell phones, no cable/satellite tv (possibly no tv at all). You had to have a few bucks to afford the new electric vacuums, clothes dryers, dishwashers, and washing machines. If not, well, get out your brooms Ladies 'cause your man's gonna be home soon and he wants a clean house!

But, they were women, and women are ingenuitive. One of my favorite movie lines is from Dangerous Liasons. The Marquise (played by Glenn Close) is commenting on the social situation of women in 18th Century France.

Marquise de Merteuil: Well I had no choice, did I? I'm a woman. Women are obliged to be far more skillful than men. You can ruin our reputation and our life with a few well-chosen words. So of course I had to invent not only myself but ways of escape no one has every thought of before. And I've succeeded because I've always known I was born to dominate your sex and avenge my own.

Well, I'm not so sure that mid century women had it much better (wigs were optional so that counts for something). So many women were in the same boat of cultural predjudice that women's clubs abounded. Opportunities to get together and feel better about the situation in which they found themselves. Coffee over that vintage table cloth was therapy, the chance to release some of that loneliness and frustration.

Or perhaps, they were just too damn tired to be frustrated or lonely. You've probably seen this article. If not read it. I think you can click on it to make it bigger.

So with hats, gloves, laundry, sexism, and bright red lipstick, what's not to love about the American Mid Century? Can't say I want to go back and relive it. But I wouldn't say "no" to a visit or two!

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

2009-10-27T09:03:00.009-04:00

Comic Book Conventions: Part 2 (or should I say "Issue 2")

I know that you all have paid good money for these lectures, so let's get down to brass tacks! There are a few items that you should be aware of at all times. Print them out, write them down, commit them to memory or you will be truly sorry. Today we will be discussing No. 1 as follows:

1. Never EVER speak to one of those people dressed up like Klingons (klingons being characters from Star Trek).

This is Warf. He's what a Klingon is supposed to look like.

Here is what they usually look like at San Diego Comicon. (Credit for this photo goes to www.popsci.com.)

or this..I love this picture mostly because of the guy on the left, but I have no idea where it came from. A friend sent it to me via email... that's all I know. If YOU know who took it (HAHAHAHHAAAAHAAAAHAAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAA!!!!!) **snort** let me know.

Okay, back to the lecture... as I was saying...

1. Never EVER speak to one of those people dressed up like Klingons (klingons being characters from Star Trek).

I mean don't say "Hello!", "How are you?", "Kiss my butt!" or anything else that will attract their attention! Allow me to illustrate with a short anecdote.

There I was... stupid, naive, newly wed, comic book artist's wife. I had just entered the enormous hall at the San Diego COMICON (say that with a booming Monster Truck Rally announcer's voice). I cannot express to you how huge this convention is. Let's just say that if you have to pee once you are inside the convention hall and you immediately start walking toward a bathroom, you'd better be able to hold it for at least 20 more minutes... Here are some pictures to put it in perspective:

Okay, so there I was with two freshly brewed cappuccinos in hand (the only dose of reality I had had for 24 hours) and I was returning to the booth where dear Tony was set up ready to greet fans. Just then, out of the blue, the convention doors are opened to the general public and swarms of people come gushing into the hall.

Let me put this picture in your mind.... The Hoover Dam cracking in two. Got it? Yes.

So I am holding my coffee just standing there like a deer in headlights staring at the crowd that will soon overtake me. Oh, and I was overtaken, lemme tell ya! Two gargantuan Klingons in full garb literally run over me, knocking my $6 cappuccinos to the ground. If it weren't for the nasty, grimy, gummy trash can they knocked me into, I am sure that I would have been flattened like Wiley Coyote. I was able to hold on for dear life until the immediate rush was over. I was mad, of course. But they were polite enough to apologize... in KLINGON! "QUA SHO NAK... BLAH BLAH BLAH!!!!" (As I have no idea what they were actually saying, I am sticking with the whole apology translation.) The more I tried to speak to them in ENGLISH, the more they spoke to me in that SCI FI, DUMBASS, LOOKS-LIKE-YOU-HAVE-A-HORSESHOE-CRAB-ON-YOUR-FOREHEAD language. As you can imagine, I was reeaaaaally mad then. I flung what was left of my cappuccinos into that nasty trash can while cursing the very soul of Gene Roddenberry, Spock, and the Priceline Negotiator all at the same time.

Here is where I immediately returned to. The Hyatt. And that, my dear friends, is where I stayed.

So, in conclusion, just stay away from the Klingon crowds. Try not to make eye contact. Just act like you are on a New York subway train and look in the other direction toward say... the Superman crowd. At least for aliens, the do speak some form of earthling.

HEY! LOOK AT ME!!! (I have not shame...)

2009-10-26T09:59:00.002-04:00

Hi Guys! You can find me and my piece "The Fair" running buck wild on the porch over at The Women's Colony today!!!!

XOXOXOXO

Stacie

The Kind of People You WANT to Meet on the Internet

2009-10-23T10:08:00.008-04:00

Hello All! Today is a short post but an important one as well. Let me tell you about some new friends of mine on the internet...

One day I decided to add yet another adventure my already overflowing life- an Etsy shop. As most of you know, I LOVE vintage anything and am especially in love with mid century items. So, in addition to the antique booth that I already have here in town, I thought an Etsy shop would allow me to move the large quantities of stuff I have ~~bought because I have a sick attraction for this stuff and can't help myself~~ acquired.

ENTER: The fabulous Carmen and Ginger!

You can find her blog here and her Etsy shop here.

Within 24 hours of posting new items for sale, Carmen and Ginger had done a search for a specific Christmas tablecloth that I was carrying. She already has one but posted mine on her blog so that those of her readers that liked hers could find one for sale if they wanted one for themselves. She let me know through a conversation on Etsy that she had mentioned me in her blog. SUPER nice right? Well, it doesn't end there. I went to her Etsy shop and then to her blog (did I mention you could find her blog here?). Here is also where I had to wipe drool off of my laptop keys after looking at all of her vintage linens on her blog.

So I replied to her post thanking her for mentioning me and geeking out over her tablecloths and whatnot. Well, Carmen and Ginger then visited my blog and it was a really nice visit. She also gave me the good idea to put a Followers widget on my blog (didn't even know that I had those. Thanks for being my follower Coffee Yogurt!).

So all is good in Blog and Etsy Land. Yesterday, I receive another conversation on Etsy from Carmen and Ginger who read my new blog post and noticed that I only had the URL for my Etsy shop on my blog. She then told me how to put my shop on my blog with pictures of items for sale! (This html stuff makes me want to take a web page building class.) I am really happy I met her! She has helped me so much in the few short days that we have been in contact. So I thought I'd return the love. These are just the sort of people you DO want to meet on the internet!

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

2009-10-20T08:37:00.008-04:00

Comic Book Conventions: Part One

I know that you all anticipate tidbits about my life with much ~~dread~~ enthusiasm so I thought I'd fill you in on some of the things that make being married to a comic book artist ~~fun~~ interesting.

One such item is the COMIC BOOK CONVENTION!!

We spend a few whirlwind weekends a year attending comic book conventions and yes, Folks, they are everything you think they are and probably ~~worse~~ more interesting. I have grown accustomed to them so just about nothing shocks me anymore. Having been to so many now (16 years worth), I have the knowledge to protect my sensibilities by carefully choosing which shows I attend. But let's just say that the first few years of conventions were a bit much for my Catholic School upbringing.

Just so you know, there are levels of convention decency. I have attended many conventions with an entire section of boobs, I mean "booths" just for porn stars. Yes, you heard me, porn stars. Yeah, yeah, most of the readers are male (for now), and convention promoters make money on both booth and ticket sales, and nothing draws a single guy to a con like porn. I am being judgmental you say? NAY! I have seen the lines of guys (and some gals) waiting to take pictures with some chick in a scant halter and hot pants with a name like Boobalicious. A very insightful explanation can be found here at comicworldnews.com. I have seen parents who take their kids to these conventions and, taken completely by surprise at the level of XXX-edness, have to bodily redirect their children away from the porn star booths. These conventions give comics a bad name and perpetuate the negative stereotype that already surrounds the sequential art medium. I have no problem with porn stars signing suggestive photos of their fake boobs at conventions... at PORN conventions! At minimum, pornography should be sequestered at comic book conventions to carefully marked and monitored areas so young readers can come and enjoy the activities. A petition is circulating just for this.

Now for all you folks screaming 1st Amendment rights, I want to say that I don't have a problem with the porn industry. I understand it's a legit business and blah blah blah. I just can't understand why it doesn't infiltrate say, the coffee industry, or the feminine protection industry (giggle)...Ooo! Ooo! No! The family planning industry!

Unfortunately, one of the biggest multi-convention conglomerates, Wizard World, doesn't seem to care about separating the two industries, therefore limiting parents' choices about which conventions to attend without burning the eyes out of their young children's skulls. These comic/porn cons are the conventions I won't let my kids attend. These are conventions I won't let your kids attend. If Tony goes, he goes alone... and it's rare that he goes to these.

We now have my favorite type of conventions. These are the family oriented cons where the show promoters are very careful about who they lease booths to. There is nary a nipple nor G-String in sight (if you don't count the goth chicks who wear black low riders and insist on bending over at every turn). My favorite of these conventions is Heroes Con in Charlotte, North Carolina. It is almost always held on Father's Day weekend. It is always a great place for a family to spend some great time together. It is always a pleasure to attend and an exciting place to take your kid if he/she tells you that he/she loves comics. Not to worry. You will be pleasantly surprised. There is a wonderful family who has been going to this convention since their boys were in diapers. As the boys got older their dad started sketch books for them. Every year Tony does a sketch of some great new Cartoon Network or comic book character for them. Tony and I are always surprised when we flip through those sketch books each year (when politely handed across the table with wanton eyes for a new sketch), to see just how much time has passed since those first sketches. Tony meets hundreds and hundreds of fans each year but none are more memorable than those at Charlotte. There is a consistency at this convention that is lacking in most of the others that I have attended. It is a consistency that provides a safe atmosphere for kids and grown ups alike. I don't read comics... but Heroes Con makes me wish that I did.

Feeling Better Friday

2009-10-16T16:24:00.017-04:00

Today is the first day in a long time that I have felt like "myself." I am thrilled to see my Halloween decorations twinkling from the mantle, well actually, ALL of the mantles. I like Halloween, just a little. Every bush in my yard is covered in lights and I have a 6' silhouette of a witch (a craft from Martha Stewart Living, God help me!) which stands menacingly in front of a yellow spot light and fog machine. I was thrilled this year to find lime green lights for the yard and another bag o' bones for the "graveyard" ( I chose not to use the real bones this year as we have a new neighbor who works for homicide. Don't need THAT headache!). I don't know why I love Halloween so. I think it might have to do with my mom.

You see, I spent those younger magical years in West Palm Beach, Florida where there is no change of seasons. I had to envision fall leaves, crisp air, the smell of fires burning. My mother, who was born up north, would hang paper fall leaves from the chandelier, carve pumpkins, and put orange on anything that would stand still. I can still remember the smell of the decoration box- a mix of moth balls, candles from the year before, and laundry detergent (it was stored in the linen closet). She made our costumes often out of crepe paper, (HA! Martha Stewart didn't figure this out for years!) and we would trick-or-treat for blocks and blocks and blocks.

Everyone gave out candy except that one house. This house was the only two-story wooden house in the entire neighborhood and decidedly older than any of it's cinder block siblings. I remember that asian people lived there and would either not answer the door (if one was brave enough to ring the doorbell) or open the door and shoo us away in a foreign language. All of my friends were frightened of the house. It was THAT house, like the one in all of the scary movies. I wasn't afraid of the house or the people inside of it. It was difficult to understand why anyone would ignore such a fabulous holiday. I felt sorry for them. They were missing out.

After filling our plastic jack-o-lanterns to the top (I remember stuffing candy into my pockets due to overflow), we would trot home for the candy inspection and homemade pizza. They were glorious nights. We would open the front door and smell homemade pizza sauce and bubbling cheese (Thank God I was born Italian!). If we had been lucky, the humidity would have allowed mom to make sticky candy apples. After a few south Florida Octobers though, I think she gave up on the candy making.

Slopping down a couple of slices of pizza, we kids would plunk down on the floor in front of the TV and trade candy better than Wall Street could trade stock. It was often just as brutal. My favorite candy was put out by Brach's. It was tiny cellophane packages of orange and black red hots. Does anyone remember these? I found this vintage Brach's advertisement for Halloween candy. Those little suckers are right down there in the middle of the ad just next to the candy pumpkins. Can you see them? I LOVED them. I gladly traded chocolate for them... I miss them...

And people were so generous back then. None of this "Just take one piece!" As a matter of fact, I don't remember being allowed to take candy. Most would people would drop three or four pieces of candy into our pumpkins. The best was when a house would make up those little gift bags of candy.

And no one put a basket outside their door and expected kids to help themselves in a honest fashion. Those lonely bowls of candy make me sad for my kids. They are an indication of how adults lose the magic of childhood.

I dreaded the passing of Halloween almost as much as I anticipated it's coming. I remember thinking, while watching what was left of a scary movie on TV, make up melted from running around in the floridian heat, that soon Halloween would be over... Feeling the weight of having to wait another 365 days for it to come again... Hoping that next year wasn't a leap year.

The Fair

2009-10-10T08:19:00.005-04:00

Yesterday afternoon the kids and I went to the fair. This was the last picture I took as we crossed the field to our car, and it somehow was very indicative of my mood.

I love the fair. I love the food. I love the colors. I love the creepy carnival. I would have fit in fine with carnies. It's a life that seems so consistent, as if carnival life itself is in some sort of wonderful sinister limbo. Year after year, the mustached man at the ferris wheel always returns urging the crowd for a ticket to ride. I am sure it's probably not the same mustached man, but it is in my romantic mind's eye.

As much as I swoon at the sight of striped tents and caramel apples, I have come to see the other side of the fair. The side that shows the inconsistency of this magical world. You see, I am the parent now. I see that $5 dollars buys three darts to pop those dastardly balloons and that little stuffed animal you will win (because "everyone's a winner!") will probably come apart in the car. Through a child's eye though, none of that matters. Those little balloons are there to be popped and those vintage milk jugs are meant to fall. I so wish that, for a brief moment, I could see the fair through a child's eye again. No. I wish I could see it through my children's eyes. To feel the excitement of the hustle, the anticipation of the rides, the enticement of the food... all without knowing about the mustached man behind the curtain.

Perhaps I did see it through their eyes. I let them ride those bumper cars twice and while it did cost enough to make me gasp, it was worth the photos I took of them. Will they remember how much fun they had? Will they remember how much they laughed together? Probably not, but I will and I have photographs to remind me of their pure FUN.

We were all a little off because Dad wasn't there. He's a dad that still sees the fair like a child does. I am there to watch them have fun and remind my husband that our bank account has a bottom. So this time, I had to remind the kids directly which is harder than I imagined it would be. I, in so many ways, appreciate what my parents had to go through the very few times we went to the fair when I was a child... having to say "it's too expensive" in a place that pulls a child in every fantastical direction; forcing them to think logically in a place where logic is suspended (if you don't count the "trade up" policy on winning prizes).

So, for a short time (and while I could afford it), I let magic take over.

I had my camera so that I could capture their fantasy. The fantasy of sitting on a carousel horse for the first time, of winning a stuffed animal, of chomping into a caramel apple, of allowing regular life to take a back seat in that shiny red bumper car. And while I could still feel regular life sitting on my shoulder, I escaped into my own wonderful fantasy... of watching my children.

Streak-O-Lean

2009-09-29T09:44:00.007-04:00

Part 6: Scattered and Smothered

Curtis had women trouble. He didn't expect to cheat on May but he did. And now he'd really screwed up. May wasn't some girlfriend that he could shrug off. This time he cheated on his wife. He wasn't going to be able to walk away from this one unscathed. He was going to have to either patch it up with May or get a divorce and all that entails. Unable to approach May due to cowardice, he found himself in a new relationship with Twila. Twila just assumed that since they shared a half a pound of spit in his office that one afternoon that they were now boyfriend and girlfriend. Curtis' MO for life had always been to take the path of least resistance and that meant letting Twila think they were in a relationship (with all the perks that involved), and avoiding May at all costs (with all the perks that involved as well). But for some reason, he couldn't get May out of his head. There was only one thing he could do. He headed to the storeroom to hit on Brandi.

Curtis pushed through the swinging doors that led to the back of the store where pallets of Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms sat waiting to be the catalyst for the next mother-toddler standoff. Sooner or later, mother would convince herself that 4 dollars for a box of cereal would be a small price for finishing her shopping without incident. Toddler: 1, Mother: zip!

"Brandi?" Curtis said in a slightly raised voice. "Brandi? Where are you Sweetie?"
"I'm here Curtis and don't call me Sweetie!" Brandi replied in a most disgruntled fashion.
"Where?" Curtis said impatiently.
"I'm here near the splendid new shipment of Idaho potatoes. It would seem that 13 bags of these beauties have better things to do than show up here at the Piggly Wiggly in Carrington. Shall we send out the lynch mob for the rascals or wait and see if they come home on their own?"
"Ahh Damn! Did they shy us some bags again?" Curtis asked while silently hoping that Brandi wore those low rider jeans with the sequenced hearts on the back pockets. The hearts were a bonus. Like little bull's eyes, those hearts were beacons that lassoed his eyes and brought them to lay quite obviously on Brandi's behind.
"I would answer your question if I knew what 'shy us' meant. If you are referring to the fact that we are short again on the shipment then yes, they 'shy-ed us' Curtis." Brandi retorted in her most I-am-far-more-educated-at-the-10th-grade-level-than-you-will-be-in-your-whole-life voice.
"Well, I'll be damned." Curtis said scratching his head and ignoring her insult. "Guess I should make a call." He walked gingerly toward the teenager sitting on a pallet opposite the potatoes. He sat next to her, opened his legs into a comfortable position and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you think I oughta do about this, Miss Smartie Pants?"

My Heart Says No... Not Yet.

2009-09-27T00:31:00.008-04:00

She's two now.

She's not content to play by herself.

She wants to know everything and none of it is on PBS.

She can construct full sentences.

She needs two cookies instead of one.

She can release the belt on her car seat and open the van door.

She knows it's blue and not green.

She knows on Thursday morning that we will "go to Hennin's house."

She watches Coraline everyday.

She can do it herself.

She tells me to sshh!

She needs to play with other kids and grow.

I need time to put myself back together and heal.

But I just can't do it.

I can't drop her off.

I can't start that part of her life yet.

I can't let her run and color and play with strangers.

I'm not ready to make cupcakes for her class parties.

I can't kiss that little face and say good-bye not even for two days a week.

I want to stop time and watch her sleep.

I want all of her kisses and "hucks".

I guess I'm not the grown up after all.

She's only two.

Life is a Journey, not a Destination. Are we there yet?

2009-09-20T06:14:00.004-04:00

I am 39 years old. When does the whole grown up thing kick in?

I am at a loss for pinpointing exactly what it is I want to write here. I guess I could say that my post has a certain je ne sais quoi, but my writing doesn't hold the chic mystique that that phrase implies. What is certain is that there is something inside of me that needs to escape and I haven't found the right venue for it yet. Will it be in writing, or art? Or perhaps housework? Maybe I just need to sit down with a friend and blab until whatever it is comes tumbling out.

It's 6:30 am and the house is quiet. But I still feel the crushing force of everyday life all around me.

I grew up with strong adults who kept chaos, both material and emotional, at bay. At least that was my perception as a child. In retrospect, I know that life was far from always being a bed of roses for my parents. But they did a great job of dealing with what was handed to them, good or bad. I am not very good at keeping chaos at bay. In fact, I am quite certain that a good portion of this chaos is my own creation.

It's probably not a good sign that I still think in terms of when I grow up... At 39, I am still wondering what I'm going to do with my life. My wiser, older friends would say, Honey you've got time. My younger friends would say, Aren't you supposed to have it together already? I guess I've just hit that middle-aged stride (somewhere between a childish, happy jaunt and a worn out hobble). I don't want to play on the swings anymore but I don't want to talk diapers with the moms on the park benches either. I thought that not fitting in was a pubescent phenomenon. I guess not because I still have the acne to show for it.

The day is coming. What will I do with it? Maybe I'll take a nap.

I think avoidance might be an issue. I might also be overbooked. It's like I've been bumped, but there isn't a later flight. Hmmm... What to do....

AHH the Good Life!

2009-03-11T21:56:00.003-04:00

(Love to give props for the photo but don't know who to give it to. The image ref was confusing.)

I love my porch. It has peeling paint, dirty furniture, and all the charm to keep the neighbors around for hours. It has been beautiful lately. Spring is coming (and in Macon, GA one could probably say it's already here). Tony and I have been playing Scrabble every evening for the last couple of nights and we end up laughing our proverbial asses off as we usually end up making up words that are entirely inappropriate, profane, or just plain ol' silly. Combine this with our dear friend who lives across the street and you've got more fun than a buncha' dumb rednecks on a coon shoot wearing Davey Crocket hats.

So let's talk about my dearest friend, (we were separated-at-birth) SHUG. Shug (as in "Sugar", and no, that's not her real name) is the zaniest person I think I've ever met aside from my husband. She is from small town Georgia and (with all of the love in the world intended) is a shit-kicker from hell! Now for all you out there who are not from the Deep South, that might seem somewhat offensive; but I can tell you that if and when she reads this, she will be most proud to have such a fabulous title. She's about 5 and a half feet and has a million stories to tell about her life. Everything from growing up in rural Georgia, to UGA in the 70's, and being married to a roadie for the Allman Brothers Band; there are stories to hear that will crack your ass up (if you need more crack than you already have). Needless to say, SHUG and I are usually laughing when we are together and GOOOD LAWD! Please don't invite my husband 'cause then one of us usually ends up saying "NO! WAIT! I'm gonna pee in my pants!" And then, as we're running out of the room to pee, we add, "Don't say another damn thing until I get back or I'll KICK YOUR ASS!"

It's a friend like this that makes the phrase, "You're not a guest! You're family! Get it yourself!" so very appropriate. I love it that she's my friend and I really love it that she's right across the street (no designated driver required).

So, I am ready for spring.

I Need My Own Personal Stonehenge

2009-02-28T10:27:00.008-05:00

Perhaps it's the weather, the change in seasons, or the phase of the moon, but everyone in my life seems to be a bit, well, depressed. We're all somewhat overwhelmed yet surprisingly nonplussed about it. I thought maybe it was just me, or perhaps the planets were aligned in a bizarre pattern (something I don't ever think about until I can't find a reason for a puzzling situation). I guess I need a couple of Druids and some really big rocks (and let's go ahead and throw in the Salisbury Plain 'cause I sure as hell would rather be there than here right now). Perhaps then, I will be able to find the cause of this rift in emotions.

Think about this for a second... Imagine being there right next to one of those enormous rocks (yes, I know it is no longer allowed. That's why I said "imagine.") Put your hand on the chilly, bumpy surface of the stone next to you. The sun is about to come up and you are going to witness it rise above the Heel Stone in the distance and remarkably align itself with the center of the structure where you are now standing.

Can't be depressed watching that, can you? It's a spiritual moment... a personal moment. Yet, you are sharing it with others. A bit like our modern day going to church except, at least for me, church is not as spiritual, nor as breathtaking, nor as communal. I think spiritually, modern day man (for the most part) has forgotten how to be "moved." Oh, sure, we're moved occasionally... but on a daily, weekly, even monthly basis? We are over stimulated by the digital world, underfed emotionally in our relationships, and all without a Stonehenge to gather and get back to the basics of life. How do we get there without giving up all that we as humans have acquired through the ages? Or, is it a trade off?

Hot Water Heater 1: Checkbook -850

2009-02-18T14:10:00.005-05:00

Hot Water Heater

Hot Water Heater age 13 passed away peacefully at home on Wednesday, February 18, 2009. Heater was known throughout the Harris home as a fun loving tower of warmth and hard work. He supplied hot water to all faucets in the home and was generous in serving Dishwasher and Washing Machine as well. Many guests to the Harris home found that Heater was far too hot and often referred to him as an overachiever. This fueled Heater's work ethic even more, providing hot water even after Troll One Harris would take one of his infamous hour long showers. Heater is survived by his owners Tony Harris and Stacie Harris; and his trolls,Troll One, Troll Two and Troll 3. Funeral services will be arranged by Waste Management and visitation will be held at the White Goods Pile at the City Dump. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the Harris House from Hell Fund.

One of those MEAN Mommy Days

2009-02-05T10:45:00.009-05:00

There are some days when I absolutely, 100 %, totally, and completely HATE being a wife and mother. For all of you out there that are gasping in shock and disgust I say "Get over it!" and "I am just sayin' what every mom feels but most don't say." I am hoping that someone out there feels like I do...or maybe I AM some kind of monster.

I have good kids...really good kids. I am lucky and blessed that they are healthy and happy. I feel unbelievably guilty because there are so many people that can't have kids or have sick children. When days like this arrive, I know that this is not who I am but a passing feeling; that a lot of this is my illness speaking (depression) and that I have good reason to be overwhelmed and ready to escape. That is logical Stacie speaking. The not-so-logical Stacie will continue to snap at her family all day, tear herself apart for doing so, be ~~somewhat~~ VERY cranky with her hovering worried husband who wants to "fix it", and think of fantastic ways of escaping alone to some exotic destination preferably Mediterranean (but I'll take my dear friend's kitchen table across the street).

I am sick of doing housework, laundry, keeping up with toddler, grocery shopping, keeping up with pets that seem to have every effing illness in the world, paying the bills, running every freakin' errand imaginable, picking up Troll Two from school and all that that involves (signing agendas, reviewing Wednesday folders, fussing because she didn't have her violin for class for the 3rd time), homeschooling Troll One, maintaining the car, worrying about the house that is falling down around my ears, keeping my artist husband on track (sometimes he needs a little push to get him to the drawing table), PICKING UP EVERYBODY ELSE'S CRAP CONSTANTLY... wait, I need to repeat that one, PICKING UP EVERYBODY ELSE'S CRAP CONSTANTLY... and the list goes on and on and on and on. And the most frustrating thing is that I'm not doing one thing on said list well.

I, YOURS TRULY, NUMERO UNO am EXHAUSTED, DONE, THROUGH...at least right now. I can't remember the last time I was totally alone in my house...I can't remember the last time I was totally alone ANYWHERE. And they, as in the group of aliens I live with, want to know "What's wrong?" and "Why are you so bitchy and assey, MOMMY...Oh and MOM ?I don't have a uniform for tomorrow?" No, they aren't allowed to cuss but that's the jist. In my mind's eye I am throwing things... like vases, dishes, the cat. In my mind's eye I am grabbing my keys, my purse, and walking my tired ass outta this house and driving... somewhere... anywhere that doesn't involve anything.

Okay, so I've said all of the things I shouldn't. And I know that tomorrow or the next day hopefully, I will be in love with my life once again... well, at least "in like" with it again.

Well, better go. Here comes hovering husband again... Where's that coat hanger???

Some Things "I'll think about tomorrow."

2009-02-02T20:55:00.003-05:00

I, for the most part, do not find myself able to relate to Scarlet O'Hara in any way except when she says,"I'll think about that tomorrow." Sometimes, though, tomorrow comes with a slap in the face. Oblivion is the tightly built nest secure in a tree amongst three limbs and Reality is the unexpected spring storm that blows it clear across the street to the neighbor's yard. Reality came home to roost today by way of telephone.

Mom says that Dad's stress test showed that he has had at some point a heart attack.

Doctor says that, while the heart did receive damage, it is receiving blood and working fine.

Stacie says What do you mean my parents won't live forever?

I'll think about that tomorrow...

"Hel-LO God! It's Me, the Mother of a Toddler"

2009-01-28T22:41:00.013-05:00

Hey All! Just taking a break from the storytellin'. I am quite open to criticism so please do alert me if you think it's crap, needs improvement, etc. I welcome the input.

On to more pressing matters. The mothers' curse has officially been fulfilled so all of you out there yet to bear children are off the hook. The curse has come down on me 100 fold with little Troll #3. She is 17 months old and while I know it's not uncommon for a toddler's vocabulary to consist of one word ("NO!"), I have NEVER had a child that has a "look." I am 38 years old and have EARNED my "look." "The look" is notorious for all who know me....BUT this little package o' love has developed her own little "look" in less than a year and a half. Those pretty little brown eyes squint ever so slightly and the brow furrows ever so gently and yet nothing is said. Well there is no reason to say anything, is there? That "look" says it all! It says, "I have not yet begun to make your life miserable." It says, "You are nothing but a plaything, Mother." It says, "Yes, well, let's see how you sleep later tonight, shall we?"

... sigh... Don't get me wrong. She is beautiful. She is funny. She is smart and happy. But the child has a set her own standard of living and by God she will have it! Take for instance her latest word- "Lo." Now for clarification, a "Lo" is a phone as in "Hel-LO." God forbid you or I or Jesus Himself should speak on a LO in her presence and not allow her to say "LO" as well, after which she says "Bye bye!" and hangs up the phone. ( In all fairness, it does keep my anytime minutes in check.) In order to quell her need for my cell phone, I bought her a play cell phone of her own. Evidently, she is looking for something with a touchscreen because Fisher-Price isn't cutting it.

So, you can see my circumstance. I thought I was fearful with my first troll. I thought I was cautious with my second. With this one, I am neither. I am going for damage control and I'm starting by never letting her see my credit cards...

Thanks for letting me rant...and thanks for reading my story too.

Streak-O-Lean

2009-01-25T20:51:00.010-05:00

Part 5

Lipstick and mascara smeared May's little face. She had kicked off her heels and plopped down on the damp grass. Segments of over-sprayed hair flopped in the breeze as she brushed away stray leaves on her mama's grave. Tears thick with makeup fell on her pink skirt.

"I know you said he'd do this Mama. You said he was up to no good. You said he'd screw anything with a pair of tits and you were right. I'd never have said it while you were alive but I'd say anything now to have you here (sob). Oh Mama, what in the hell am I gonna do now?"

May wiped her tears and snot with the palm of her hand and then on her skirt. She ran her fingers through the thick sod surrounding her mother's grave. The lines from the recently laid rolls were still visible around the stone. Absently, she picked a blade of grass and spilt it down the middle. With her tiny stature and bare feet she looked more like a small child than a married woman. Then as if she remembered something she read in Cosmo she said,

"Guess what Mama? You're gonna be a Mee Maw! I took one a' those pee-on-a-stick tests a few days ago. I was waitin' to tell Curtis until the weekend. We were gonna go to that restaurant down by the lake, you know, the one where you can get fish food outta the gum ball machines and feed the catfish? Now, well, I have no idea what to do."

She ran her hand along the stone above her mother's grave.

"I'm glad I paid extra for this stone. It looks so nice. You deserved it. Daddy wanted to go with the smaller one but since I was payin' for it he let me do what I wanted." May put her hand in her lap and continued, "He misses you so much, Mama. Oh, he goes on about his day. He still meets his buds down at the Krystal every morning and makes sure the yard looks nice an' all... but he misses you so bad."

The breeze picked up and May shoved her loose locks behind her ears. The trees, waving the few leaves left on their branches, vibrated against the dark sky of the oncoming storm. The beauty momentarily diverted May's attention.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited before now. It's just that I didn't feel like you were here, you know, in the ground. But I didn't know where else to look for you and I needed to talk to you. I haven't felt you with me. At the funeral, all those stupid people told me that you weren't really gone... that you'd be with me where ever I went. Well, I can tell you that ain't true... But this baby's with me, Mama. He's with me all the time." She put her left hand over her stomach and added, "No, I don't know what it is yet, but I feel like it's a boy. Poor thing! What a great role model he has for a daddy, huh?"

She felt the first drop of the autumn storm on her arm and turned to look at the clouds again. "Looks like I'd better get. The rain's comin'." She grabbed her shoes by the straps and stood wiping her butt of loose grass and leaves. For a moment, she stood there in front of the stone lost in the carved words and dates. And then, heaving a big sigh she said, "Well, Mama, I'm glad I came here. I guess I know where to find you now...." and blinking back tears as the rain began to fall she added, "I miss you a lot."

Streak-O-Lean

2008-11-24T17:56:00.019-05:00

Part 4

If you are just joining me on this story, you can read Part One, Two and Three to catch up. They are fairly short.

Brandi (that's Brandi with an "i") stood at the loading dock behind the Piggly Wiggly grinding a disregarded lettuce leaf into the ground with her cross trainer vividly imagining her father's face under her toe. I hate him! She brooded. No, hate is too good for him... Death is too good for him because if I kill him he'd probably go to Hell and Hell is too good for him. Brandi's father was self made, nouveau riche. He had money. Lot's of money. Enough money to earn a membership at the country club (well, he wasn't black, Jewish, or a woman; and while he was a Yankee, he did marry on the right side of the county's tracks). Enough money to be invited to every haughty charitable function and to-do. The old money would greet him with a warm handshake and a gentle slug on the arm... until of course they turned their back and then they'd roll their eyes and look at each other as if to say "poor sucker." After all, he was still a Yankee. And if it wasn't for some damn turn coat during the War Between the States selling southern secrets like tomato aspic and fat back to Ulysses S. Grant, they'd all still have their slaves and tobacco wouldn't cause lung cancer.

Brandi's father believed in hard work and self discipline and inflicted upon his daughter these values as well. Hence the forlorn teenager's position behind the Piggly Wiggly. In order for Brandi to keep her car, her phone, and her pocket money, she had to maintain a part time job... of his choosing. There would be no silly tromping through frilly underwear all day at Victoria's Secret or pretending to straighten clothes racks at Banana Republic. He wanted her to really earn a dollar. So he found a job for her stocking shelves and whatnot at the Pig. It was the "whatnot" that really pissed her off. "Whatnot" included aisle clean-ups, smooshed poopy diapers in the parking lot, sweeping the loading dock, and tasks in the restrooms that would require therapy in her not-to-distant future.

Streak-O-Lean

2008-11-19T08:43:00.013-05:00

Part Three

Dotti sat on the french provincial couch in the living room. The living room where no one ever went unless it was Christmas morning or if someone died. The living room that was filled with furniture that belonged to her mother. Until this morning, Dotti never allowed food or drink of any kind in this room (see exceptions above) never mind the Virginia Slims Menthol she held gingerly between two yellowed fingers and the cup of black coffee sitting on the end table. She sat nestled into the corner of the sofa in her housecoat, legs tucked under her butt, staring into space.

Where did I go wrong? she thought. Did I give in too much? Is this because he didn't know his daddy? Hell! I didn't know his daddy! She looked at the mirrored wall clock above the chair across the room...6:30 am. No Teddy yet and soon she'd have to go to work. She couldn't call in again.

Curtis would have a cow! That asshole deserves to have a cow the way he's carrying on at work. Five more minutes and then I...Dotti heard the front door lock click. Teddy stumbled across the threshold nearly falling into the curio cabinet filled with Dotti's Precious Moments collection.

"Hey Mama!" He waved and gave her a stupid grin. In that grin Dotti could see her 8 year old little boy bursting into house after school. Her heart once again warmed to her son but she knew that now was not the time for nostalgia. She had blamed herself far too long. Teddy is 29 now and it's high time he shared the responsiblity for the screw up he is. Then she thought sadly, It's a sad day when you realize that you've raised jackass! Looks like I took better care of this furniture than my own son..she thought with self pity.

"Teddy," she said quite calmly.

"I know, Mama! I know!" he interrupted sloppily waving both hands in front of him.

"Teddy...I have to be at work in 30 minutes. Today I work until 4. When I get home, I want you and all of your shit outta my house. If you are not outta the house when I get home, I will call the Sheriff and he will be here while I remove you and your shit from this house. I love you but I cannot live in a constant state of fear any more." She snuffed her cigarette into the Betty Boop ashtray next to the couch, picked up her coffee and retreated to her bedroom. She closed her bedroom door and leaned up against it breathing deeply as if she had just run a marathon.

I did it...Oh my God! I just did it! I wasn't even planning on doin' it...Where'll he go? Where'll he live? NO! NO! You did the right thang! Stop it, Dotti, dammit! He needs this...and if he doesn't then he can just be bum on his own time.

Dotti started to cry. She cried for the loss of the hopes she had for that baby boy she held in the emergency room the night she gave birth and didn't even know she was pregnant. She cried for the overwhelming feeling of love and protection she felt for the tiny little person who quite literally dropped into her life. She cried, because until that little soul came into her life, she was as much a screw up as Teddy is now...maybe worse.

Streak-O-Lean

2008-11-17T10:47:00.014-05:00

Part Two

Many things happen in a Piggly Wiggly and in the deep south, stories play out like The Young and the Restless on the crack rock. So this story goes on beginning in the local mall...hope ya'll enjoy!

Twila held the blue sequenced dress up to her chest, holding the hanger under her chin. She looked up expectantly at her boyfriend for approval. Instead of the look of rapture she expected, she found Curtis inspecting his teeth in the crome of the clothing rack.

"CURTIS!" she screeched. "I am TRYIN' to pick out a dress for the Christmas party and you ain't payin' a lick of attention!"

"Yes I am, Honey! I think that one's really nice."

"Nice? NICE?...Nice is not what I am going for CURTIS! Nice is what you wear to a birthday party when you're six! And you are NOT payin' any attention. What color was the last dress I showed you?"

"It was blue! See I am payin' you attention!"

"I meant the dress before this one! AND for your information, this is not blue. It's CO-BALT!"

Curtis stammered and shuffled his feet. He put his elbow on the rack next to him and leaned with a defeated sigh.

"I don't understand why this is so hard for you." Twila pouted. "I have to look my best and nice isn't going to cut it. SHE'S going to be there and I WILL NOT let that sow show me up!"

"Twila Honey, I'm with you now. May cain't show you up! Even if she does come to the party, I wouldn't even know it because my eyes will be on you the whole time!" Curtis smiled cleverly, proud of the debonaire way he handled the situation.

"THIS AIN'T ABOUT YOU CURTIS!" Twila hollered and slammed the blue dress back on the rack.

Life at the Piggly Wiggly was in upheaval at the moment. As the staff hung silver and gold shiny garlands (complete with card board cut outs of turkeys, hams, and unidentified casseroles), gossip was strung from Customer Service to the loading dock. The staff vibrated with excitement over the possibility that a cat fight might ensue at any moment; but secretly, they all hoped it would explode at the Christmas Party that weekend. Curtis, the store manager, had been married to May the bookkeeper for two years. About six weeks ago, he hired Twila to run Customer Service. Normally, the cashiers rotated shifts in Customer Service but it was discovered that one of the cashiers was stealing packs of cigarettes out of the cartons and then resealing the carton. Unable to decide who exactly it was, he decided to hire someone who could run Customer Service full time. He could pick up the shifts that Twila couldn't cover since that was where his office was anyhow. Twila and Curtis became very friendly. So friendly, that May would often stand and look through the glass partition above her desk to see the if the comradery had reached an unacceptable level. Unfortunately for her, May had very high hair. Thanks to Aqua Net and a good bit of teasing, Twila and Curtis could put 5 feet between them before May's eyes could surface above the brown paneling.

About a week ago, on a particularly bad hair day, May popped up for her periodic infidelity check. Instead of seeing Twila in her normal useless position, obsessively lining up the rolls of lottery tickets behind the counter, she saw no one. No one! The worst scenario imaginable! Determined to put her suspicions to rest, May pushed her chair back and kicked the small swinging door to her office wide open. The paper snowman holding fake frozen vegetables which decorated the door slid to the floor with the force of the kick. Eyes popped up over cash registers, grocery bags, and stock boxes and followed May and her limp hair. With another swift kick, May made mincemeat of the door to Customer Service (where paper Santa joined his friend Mr. Snowman on the floor). She walked past the rolls of lottery tickets and gave them a violent, mean-spirited spin as she passed on her way to the manager's office. The silence in the front of the store was deafening as the actors played their parts off stage behind green and red crepe paper streamers. Then as loud as if announced over the intercom May yelled,

"Goddamn Trailer Trash Whore! Cain't you find your own dick in that trailer park you live in? Hell! I heard your Daddy was back in town!"

With that said May stomped back through Customer Service, this time yanking the whole plexiglass lottery ticket cabinet off the counter, and left the store without a word to anyone.

Curtis emerged quickly from his office and stumbled over the cabinet on the floor. He was zipping up his fly as he ran out of the automatic doors yelling May's name. Tires squealed over pavement outside and seconds later the "lying, cheatin' sonofabitch" (more poetry from the jilted May) reappeared through the glass doors. Everyone in the store, frozen with shock, stared at the disheveled store manager. He then staightened his tie and said with as much decorum as was possible under the circumstances,

"Uh...uh..I'll be closing your drawers out this afternoon, Ladies."

Streak-O-Lean

2008-11-16T16:00:00.011-05:00

Part One

"Can I have a clean up on Aisle 9?"

I stepped lightly through the supermarket store, feeling somewhat guilty for choosing toilet paper without the trolls (that's my pet name for the little demons). The woman's southern accent over the intercom rang loudly once again just as I passed under a speaker in the produce section.

"Brandi! I saaaid 'clean up on Aisle 9'!" then quieter but audible" I told you we shouldn't have hired that girl...she's probably out smokin' dope in the back..."

"Dotti..." the faint male voice in the background said, "...you know, the mic's still on..."

"Oh damn, Curtis! I always forget which button to mash!"...Click..

Two old women in tweed suits to match their age sniggered over the cantaloupes. The one with hair dyed with bottled ink put her whithered old hand on her friend's shoulder and said, "Dotti shouldn't be pesterin' that girl so much when she herself is a few marshmallows shy of a jello salad! You know..." she leaned in to her friend "Evelyn said that Ruby was out in her garden after Sunday school last weekend and overheard Roy tellin' Charlene that Dotti came outta her house in her housecoat justa hollerin' and fussin' at that boy of hers as he screeched outta the driveway!"

"NO!" replied the other old biddy.

"Yes! Well, Dear, they ARE mill people and I don't care how long that mill's been closed, mill people will always be mill people."

The plump old woman in violent red lipstick finished her sentence with a wave of a hand (freshly polished in the same color as her lips) to signify that there was nothing more to say about the subject. The two then returned to the pile of cantaloupes before them, pushing their thumbs into the bottoms of the fruit as a test for ripeness. I felt sorry for the poor melons to be prodded so by those garish nails. They noticed me across the pile and I smiled politely to let them know that I meant them no harm. But these were vintage southern women, prone to gossip, bourbon, and spite. I had to be careful! Then Inky spoke in that tone that is reserved for kings and rouge tinted old women.

"I haven't seen you in this supermarket before, Dear. Don't I know you from somewhere?" Hell no! She didn't know me but this was her way of being nosy without being rude.

"I don't think you do. I don't normally shop on Wednesdays." I wanted to add, Because this is Senior Citizens Wednesday and I'd rather have a mammogram using a meat slicer from the deli than be here while the town's octogenarians rummage through coupons and repeatedly remind the check-out girl that it's Senior Citizen's Wednesday and they get a 5% discount. After the typical round of questions including "Where do you attend church?" and my absolute favorite, "Who is your father?" I was able to escape with the melon that I didn't want that she had hand selected for me. I think I had passed the "Are you Mill People?" Test. In fact, if she had dug a little deeper she would have found that I was far worse...I was an Italian from New Jersey.

BE BACK SOON!!

2008-09-03T11:01:00.001-04:00

I've been sewing like a mad woman!!! I'll be posting sometime soon but obsessed with my machine right now.

BOOK PLUG: The Last Apprentice

2008-09-03T10:57:00.004-04:00

Just finished The Last Apprentice by Joseph Delaney. Absolutely LOVED it and am on my way to the store to buy the whole series!! Witches, boggarts, ghosts, and ghasts...makes for great fall/Halloween reading. It's a teenage book/ children's book but pretty scary. Gonna read it to my kids in October. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!!!

MAD MADGE is seriously in TROUBLE!

2008-08-27T09:12:00.012-04:00

I have no idea how this award thingy works. I don't know if or how you send it so I am sure you all will let me know. This award is for Madge. It's for making blogging seem so fun (well, it is!) but never telling me that everything else in my life will become obsolete...Okay! Okay! I'm getting the baby her bottle already! It is also for those bloggers whose posts keep us from getting to the things we all need to be doing. Well, maybe need is a too strong a word.

Dearest Madge
Your madness reigns.
I've created this award
in your blessed name.

You painted pictures
of a world divine
where people like me
could speak their mind.

A place where tears
can be we wept unabashed,
and laughter rings
through this internet cache.

An Eden so tempting,
a red apple with appeal.
But Pandora's Box
was cleverly concealed.

So today is your day
to be honored, Fair Queen!
Or perchance might your name
really be EVE?

I Smite Thee O Jackass Who Parketh in the School Car Line!

2008-08-25T19:51:00.006-04:00

As I waited in the car line this afternoon for Son to get out of school, the lady in the car in front of me decided that it would be quicker if she GOT OUT OF HER CAR (yes, while the car is still in the single file car line which has now begun to move forward) and WALK to the front of the school to pick up her child. So we, and about 20 cars behind us are blocked from either moving ahead or back. When said jackass returned with jackass son, I got out of my car and asked if she was having car problems. She said "No." So I told the super sized jackass that her parking her car in the car line caused many problems for all in the car line. Jackass replied snidely, "Thank you for the information." I replied, "Well, maybe you'll learn something from the information because IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU!" I didn't hear anything after that because jackass's son was simultaneously yelling obscenities at me. He was probably all of 11 years old but not too young to learn jackass ways from jackass mother! Then I told the principal on her.

I miss him...

2008-08-24T15:01:00.006-04:00

Tony's been gone a week...He comes back today... I must miss him terribly because now I have resorted to cleaning my dining room crystal chandelier to occupy my mind as he gets on a plane for the 11th time this week...

ENTITLEMENT is NOT a VIRTUE!!!

2008-08-21T08:56:00.009-04:00

NOTE: I read Tootsie Farklepants post at Vintage Thirty and became inspired to write this post. I had the math homework conversation last night with Son (see below). I hope she doesn't mind my comiserating with her but I had to vent and after reading her post, I felt so much less alone in the world of tween parenting.

I am SICK SICK SICK to death of the sense of entitlement that these shitbird (sorry, there goes that word again) kids have nowadays. (Oh God! I sound like my grandparents). Let me make it more clear with a few examples:

1. "It' not my fault."

Example: We're sitting at the table and son pulls out math homework and announces he has taken home the wrong math sheet. So I ask him about the unfinished mathsheet in his hand. Son says that was last night's homework. So, I blow a gasket and tell Son that he is not being responsible. So he gets upset and says, mind you, seriously, " How is it my fault that I picked up the wrong math sheet?"

2. "What d'ya mean I...?!?"

Example: Son does not have cell phone. Occasionally, Son uses one of my cell phones when at the park, or going to functions outside of the home like sleepovers, etc. Son looses the cell phone we allowed him to use. We tell him that he will have to pay for the lost cell phone. "What d'ya mean I have to pay for it...I didn't mean to lose it!! That's unfair!"

3. "They (as in school teachers, administrators, etc.) can't do that to a kid!"

Example: My husband is an artist and I am sure that this does not help situation at all! Son goes to school and gets caught drawing in class. The teachers at his school are very accomadating to Son's skill in art and try to incorporate his abilities into school work. Hell! It's an arts magnet school! He get's two hours of art everyday! The rule however, is no drawing in class. Teacher takes son's art (after third time of warning) and pitches it into the trash. Son says to me when he gets in the car, "You need to go up to the principal's office and get her fired! They can't do that to a kid! It's my ART!!!"

SICK! SICK! SICK! does not even begin to cover the crap this child...yes, CHILD! is throwing my way. It's time for a COME TO JESUS MEETING!!

I disagree...Sometimes you do need a proctologist for a cerebral hemorrhage...I am the one hemorrhaging and he's the one who needs my foot up his butt!!

Christmas in August!

2008-08-07T07:28:00.003-04:00

Hello Everyone! So it turns out that my three children are all born in August. Evidently, Thanksgiving is more fun than I remember. Tryptophan must be the new date rape drug...anyhow, the birthdays are August 3, 13, and 23. Please don't ask how I managed that. The first two were both inductions so maybe I could've fudged those but the third one (last year) came on her own to my huge delight. (Those of you who have had an induction where the epidural did not work will understand). So August is like a mini Christmas for us financially but strategically it lasts for pretty much the whole month. To add a little something special, school starts in the middle of it all. Why haven't I thrown myself off of a cliff you ask? Because crazy people don't know they're crazy...AND a good dose of any psychopharmaceutical will keep you on the straight and narrow.

The point of this post is that I have a first and thirteenth birthday left to plan (Geez.. must have done something really wrong somewhere). I am going to take a bit of a break to muddle through August. Come September first, I will probaby be either dead or really hungover. See you then!

P.S. I REALLY miss being pregnant. I will hate it when, on the 13th, I will not be able to say "Last year at this time I was pregnant." DH just doesn't understand this at all. Maybe no one does but me.

Why Do I Do These Things?!?

2008-07-26T23:25:00.002-04:00

I do a lot of stupid things, some of which I attribute to being overworked, exhausted, stressed to breaking point, lack of personal time and space, etc. But then there are really just plain ol' stupid, lights on-no one home, things. I thought I'd share some of them with you...

1. Why do I think that I can go into a Target and get only that which I need, i.e., toilet paper, vacuum bags, batteries, etc.?

2. Why do I rationalize going into Target for said items by saying to myself that Target is so much cheaper than the supermarket when I have never even bothered to see what I pay for these items?

3. Why do I have a serious compulsion to buy things at Target when they have those little orange markdown stickers even if I don't need them or have a place for them?

4. Why can I not leave Target without spending $100 on ...well, I don't know what I bought...where's that receipt?

5. What is so attractive about a red bullseye?

(okay, no more Target)

6. Why do I go into restaurants where they have TVs and sit there, mouth open, staring at a stupid screen that I cannot hear showing some sports event I couldn't care less about? I barely watch my TV at home....what gives?

7. Why do I still judge a book by it's cover knowing full well that photoshop and a crafty publisher can make the worst written crap look good?

8. Why do I bring that glass of Diet Coke to bed with me each night only to wake up to a full glass of flat Diet Coke on my nightstand the next morning?

9. Why do I still think, after being late to just about everything in my life, that I can get out bed and get ready 15 minutes before I have to leave the house?

10. Why do I buy self-help books when clearly they are not working?

Just being a little introspective this evening...Gotta go now. It's bedtime and I haven't poured my Diet Coke yet.

Love to all!

Tony at Work

2008-07-24T23:00:00.007-04:00

I wanted to answer Phd in Yogurtry's question in the comments but I couldn't post the pictures there. I found these on the internet (I don't keep a lot of Tony's art on my computer because the way he scans in his art makes the images huge for printing..yada yada yada). These images are small and I tried to make them bigger sorry..Here's Tony actually doing work.

Here's an example of his work. This is a nice cover because the guy who poses for the man character in Ex Machina is married to the character in the background in real life. Just the prettiest people you'd ever like to meet and so nice too.

I wish that I could match up some photos with the art but that would require my going into his studio and I make it a point to NEVER go into his studio.

Living with THE ARTIST

2008-07-24T16:07:00.013-04:00

Hi All! I am married to an artist...for those of you who are not married to an artist you might think that this is fun and interesting...and yes, it is. BUT (of course there's a BUT!)being married to a comic book artist can drive you right to the door of the looney bin! Not a problem, I am quite familiar with how to get there.

I guess I am lucky because I "get" to stay at home with my kids but that also means I "get" to stay home with my husband too. My husband's work is VERY photorealistic and that means he takes lots of photos of lots of people doing lots of crazy expressions and poses (don't worry, nothing kinky). He knows that I H*A*T*E his taking pictures of me and that if he does I will NOT make stupid expressions...For example...

Here he is very threatening...

and here he has made himself a homeless dude...yes, his hat says "Smart Ass White Boy." Heeyyyy! That's my vintage quilt he's dragged outside!

and this is one of my favorite pics!

and now for the action shot!

This makes for very interesting conversation at neighborhood get togethers...except ALL of my neighbors are in his comic books. One actually has a fan base. I'll bet if I brought her to conventions fanboys would line up to see who poses for Amy Angotti in Ex Machina (yeah, that's one of his books...no, I don't read it either).

Good Lawd! I was just looking back at one of those pics and my floor is NAST-EE! OCD aside, he has been known to bargain with me for photographs. NOT THOSE KIND OF FAVORS! GEEZ! Well, not all the time anyhow...

So, fair warning, should our paths ever meet, you might have a camera stuck in your face by a bearded crazy man shouting "A NEW FACE! Gimme mad, no I mean REALLY mad...okay, now act like your climbing stairs, do you know how to hold a gun? Don't worry, it's not real."

This post is like my ultimate payback for all the pics he's conned me into or just taken without asking. On the downside, he knows I'm posting them and he doesn't care. Well, I had fun anyhow.

Look What I Can Do!!

2008-07-23T19:13:00.002-04:00

Do any of you watch Mad TV? I LOVE those skits that have Stewie and his mom...he's a grown man, usually in tighty whities running around like he's six years old saying "Look what I can do!!" For those of you who know the skit you will more than likely laugh...for those of you who do not, well I just hope you come back to my blog sometime. I have some bizarre tastes in comedy...

Anyhow, LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!! Finished this scarf last night...

BOOK PLUG!!! Within the Shadows by Brandon Massey

2008-07-23T18:54:00.004-04:00

I just finished this book. Very scary! It takes place here in my own backyard (Middle Georgia) and there were times when I turned on more lights in my bedroom, if ya know what I mean. It is graphic in both violence and sex but I really enjoyed the story line and the way this guy writes. It's the story of a young mystery/crime writer who is looking for Ms. Right and definitely finds Ms. Wrong...mix in a few ghosts, a strained relationship with his dad, and some good friends and Voila! Instant entertainment. Loved it! This is my first read by this author and I would pick up something of his again. (Is it me, or am I into the horror/thriller genre lately?)

Back on the WA WA...

2008-07-23T17:33:00.002-04:00

Today I started back on Weight Watchers...I don't know why I think it will work this (the billionth) time. Actually, it always works...I just quit after a few months. I do have to say that I never gain more than half back, so I figure by the time I am 92 years old I will be the exact weight that I imagine I should be. Damn! I'll look good then!

What bothers me most about being overweight is the impact I may have on my daughters. I try never to say anything disparaging about myself around my children and I try not to make it everyone's business that I am counting points or limiting the Oreos (ahhh Oreos...). But what message am I sending to them that I am not even aware of? I don't exercise and the fact that I am overweight must send some message...You know, if everyone just realized that I am a goddess, things would be a lot easier!

And then there's the BATHING SUIT ISSUE!!! I had to go and buy one this year. Last year I was pregnant and didn't give a rat's you-know-what what I looked like...and never felt more beautiful...what kind of sense does THAT make? So I picked the least of the five evils that I tried on at Macy's and went to the pool. It's a really cute suit and considering that I am overweight, I am happy with it. I am hoping my positive attitude takes care of some of the less obvious physical flaws.

Besides, my 8 year old little girl thinks I am beautiful in it and that's what matters to me.

BOOK PLUG! THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

2008-07-19T11:03:00.002-04:00

Hey Guys. Just wanted to add a book plug here for The House Next Door, by Anne Rivers Siddons. I found it to be somewhat horrifying and a good read all in all. It's about a house that has a life of it's own with decidedly dark intentions. I recommend it. It's not a lifechanging book or one that you'll find on a University's Great Books list but it's very fun if you like the "It was a dark and stormy night..." kind of thing. You can find the book cover on the left of the page. If you click it, it will take you to Amazon for a better description.

Shitbird and Other Term s of Endearment

2008-07-17T12:46:00.005-04:00

Let me go ahead and apologize for the language up front...First and foremost, I think cursing is beautiful form of self expression (thank Jesus my kids don't know about this blog or I would be so eating crow). In our home, Tony and I have a term of endearment for all beings under our roof...Shitbird....say it, it's fun to say...Shitbird...We also say things like "Are you on the Crack Rock?" when the kids do stupid things (yes, don't cringe, we also use the word stupid). We use words that are appropriate for the situation. There's no candy-coating in this domicile!

After surfing the blog world, I decided that I will not be hesitant to talk like I do all the time...that includes some language that some may find offensive. So here's the disclaimer:

THIS BLOG MAY CONTAIN SITUATIONS

OR LANGUAGE INAPPROPRIATE

FOR SMALL CHILDREN.

PARENTAL SUPERVISION IS ADVISED.

Okay, now for my rant...

So I'm doing laundry the other day (notice I did not say that I "did" the laundry the other day because it doesn't ever end! There's a 4' X 4' area of my kitchen floor that hasn't seen the light of day in years due to the pile in front of my washer and dryer. I just mop around it...when I mop), and I notice that there's a shirt of my 13 year old son's on top of the pile that I JUST put in his room to be put away, i.e., it was clean! Okay, he's 13 and was careless...So I put it in the washer to wash it AGAIN and I go to grab the next item and it's CLEAN!!! As is the next and the next...Now I am PISSED for two reasons:

Number one, the f**king clothes are CLEAN and I so LOVE doing the damn laundry. I have a freaking Bachelor of Science in Engineering and Masters Degree in Public Administration but LAUNDRY is my preferred occupation! When I was given the chance to be a stay-at-home-mom and leave the workforce, LAUNDRY was all I could think about. I didn't have to wait anymore until AFTER work to do the LAUNDRY...I could do it all day long! For those of you who work, try not to be jealous. Oh! It couldn't have been my 8 year old girl's LAUNDRY. It had to be my son's laundry which is saturated with little boy STINK....mmmm...mmm..Sarcasm aside, I wanted to wring his newly-adorned-with-an-adam's-apple neck.

Number two, if you're gonna put clean clothes back in the laundry instead of putting them in your drawer, at least wait a few days to walk the 100 or so steps back to the kitchen (instead of the three to your drawer) to put them back in the pile...I might second guess myself and consider the fact that perhaps you wore them and I didn't notice...AND, UNFOLDING THEM WOULD BE SMART!!!! SHITBIRD! SHITBIRD! SHITBIRD! Not only did I give birth to a 10 lb 3 oz sloth, but a dumb ass one at that.

13 year old son does his own LAUNDRY now... Thanks for letting me rant...

Things I Do While Ignoring Housework and BIlls

2008-07-16T13:59:00.007-04:00

Hi All! Just wanted to post some pics of the beginning of the pirate quilt I am piecing/quilting and the blanket I am knitting... I am appliqueing the pirate flags and those damn skulls have tiny little teeth...Remind me to slap the %$@*!& outta Blackbeard! The fella in the pic is Jack Rackham and as you can see his teeth are in need of sewing and braces wouldn't hurt either...He'll be lucky if he ever sees his top teeth...

What a Warm Welcome!! Thank You Everyone!

2008-07-16T09:53:00.002-04:00

You Guys are so nice to welcome me! I had been toying with the idea for sometime but telling someone you are blogging and actually having people LOOK at what you are writing always made me feel...well, it's kinda like one of those dreams where you are naked in some bizarre public place....I guess that would be a nightmare for everyone involved. HA! Anyhow, thank you and look forward to reading about everyone..

Living Downtown

2008-07-15T10:52:00.001-04:00

Note: I posted this on an old website that I was having problems with. It speaks a lot about who I am so I decided to repost it here.

I have to say that living downtown in a southern city does have it's perks. My husband and I call it "porch time." Our home has a big white (It's actually kind of gray with wood tones due to lack of paint.) wrap-around porch with one of those vintage metal porch couches. The cushions are old and are full of pollen and what ever else is airborn at the time. Comfy enough to sit on but old enough not to care if a kid spills Kool-Aid.

Every afternoon, more or less, Tony and I have cocktails on the porch and play some board or card game. Ah 5 o'clock! The magic hour when everything seems right in the world. The birds are chirping, the bees are buzzing, the mosquitoes are biting, children are fighting over whose turn it is to do whatnot, and everyone in the neighborhood is out of the house after a busy day to see who's out and about. Usually, we all end up on someone's porch to either celebrate or commiserate about the events of the day. Once the time changes and the days are longer, bedtimes in my house seem to go right out the window because we usually are "visiting" until at least 8 o'clock. Who cares! School will be out soon and at least the little trolls aren't sitting on the couch zoning into Cartoon Network land.

We're very lucky. We have everyday in our neighborhood that which most only have on weekends. If you're in the suburbs, that might be never.

Speaking of Pirates...

2008-07-12T11:47:00.004-04:00

Okay, I am typing on this stupid (please, no offense to mac users) mac laptop and I keep hitting all of the wrong buttons so my blog today may look a little inebriated. This, unfortunately, does not reflect on the blogger... I am,however, completely responsible for all misspellings. I would use spell check but I become too horrified at how efficiently I mutilate the English language... When I get back to my pc, all will be right with the world.

Alright, back to pirates...My husband's illustration studio is call Jolly Roger Studio. Needless to say, we're big pirate fans.
Everything is skull and crossbones in our lives, from home decor to personal accessories (even to the dismay of some who think I am too old to wear headbands with pink skull and crossbones on them). I am, as we speak...I mean, blog.., making a pirate quilt for my dearly beloved for his 40th birthday. The book mentioned in the last book plug is firing the inspiration. I am really excited and will post pictures as soon as I figure all this bloggedy blog blog crap out.

BOOK PLUG! Pirates Make Me Feel all Warm and Fuzzy!!

2008-07-12T11:31:00.005-04:00

I am presently reading "Silver, My Own Tale as Written by Me with a Goodly Amount of Murder" by Edward Chupack. My family is BIG into pirates and this book is a blast! It's basically the life of Long John Silver as written by himself after he is captured. It has about 100 gallons more blood than Treasure Island and gives a really good look at the sea dog eat sea dog world of pirates. So me hearties, drop yer landlubbin' ways and set sail!