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

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

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

* 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

"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!

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

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


We Decided to Separate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's Sa Matta For YOU?

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!