tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64499639741530234192024-03-14T10:43:53.457-07:00Pencil EnvyYou can't draw a stick figure? I can't find my keys.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-53915645390872056042015-02-23T14:21:00.000-08:002015-02-23T15:28:33.126-08:00An invitation to Black History<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I draw a </span><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">pencil portrait</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, there’s often a connection
with my client.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear precious stories about
the portrait subject – love, pain, regret, joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those stories are what this blog and my job are all about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday, the history of a portrait became more
meaningful, on more levels than I ever could have expected. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Steven Small called to ask if I would draw the pastor
of his church in time to surprise him for Christmas, I groaned inwardly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was already overbooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted a BIG portrait – the largest I’d
drawn of a single subject – and they wanted it <em><strong>fast</strong></em>, neither of which was
welcome at that particular stressful time for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was something about Steven’s warm,
friendly voice and the way he described the </span><a href="http://www.acog-chicago.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apostolic Church of God</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and their
beloved pastor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We’ll be presenting Dr.
Brazier with the portrait in two services of about 3,000 people each,” Steven
told me, encouragingly, hopefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Charmers like Steven are what get me in trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wavered – partly because of the business
sense of that kind of exposure (when have 6,000 people seen one of my portraits at once?) –
and partly because it just <em>felt</em> right.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I gave in, and I was rewarded in so many ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPwcfGLDtLk_As1Mmx6CimzRVbD9vqsTZt0CX8wjePOewHVLxDRnsbNojt5Dbbm-7UNozJMRaYk5ZOB8Zc1OzEwfrSsFVCbI71G2fB2uM2LFwrcVBxF6AYuPsPbEbFi34rIze-GSmxAA/s1600/brazier+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPwcfGLDtLk_As1Mmx6CimzRVbD9vqsTZt0CX8wjePOewHVLxDRnsbNojt5Dbbm-7UNozJMRaYk5ZOB8Zc1OzEwfrSsFVCbI71G2fB2uM2LFwrcVBxF6AYuPsPbEbFi34rIze-GSmxAA/s1600/brazier+portrait.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dr. Byron Brazier</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I often receive poor quality source photos, but Dr. Byron Brazier’s
photograph was perfection… crystal clear and full of wonderful expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved drawing him and finished it promptly.
Steven came to my home to pick it up and I hugged him when he left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was that kind of guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His team was thrilled with the portrait and later
he sent a photo of the beautiful framing they chose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Knowing what I know now, how I wish I could have been there
to see the Christmas presentation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A couple of weeks later, Steven told me that Dr. Brazier liked
my work so much, he wanted me to draw the previous three pastors, including his
adored predecessor who had led the church for fifty years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That one would be a particularly important
portrait, Steven explained to me, because not only was the previous pastor beloved
to the church, he is also Dr. Brazier’s father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1FldPOg2OwqOKoG-WfcgIysalDu4xFql-82VQpT69QQESteXydFOyjpMumfKoKFYJ5izcnrw5WIS55FrzEBK1vleKkCMHfJHdGTBjWX41MjtxKIr0Y9599gpHdB9ylsJ0vmrzrbZrTw/s1600/clemons+portrait+5x7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1FldPOg2OwqOKoG-WfcgIysalDu4xFql-82VQpT69QQESteXydFOyjpMumfKoKFYJ5izcnrw5WIS55FrzEBK1vleKkCMHfJHdGTBjWX41MjtxKIr0Y9599gpHdB9ylsJ0vmrzrbZrTw/s1600/clemons+portrait+5x7.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">District Elder Walter M. Clemons</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began working on the portraits of ACOG’s first two pastors,
emailing my progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Choosing the photograph
of Bishop Arthur M. Brazier took a little longer as he was so very important to
his congregation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d passed away in 2010 at the age of 89,
leading his church even through illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The quality of the photograph was a little dicey, and we needed to tweak
the portrait to get it just right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Steven was apologetic in asking for adjustments, explaining its
importance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He was like a grandfather
to me,” Steven told me, “and I wasn’t the only one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has to be just right.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were very happy with all the drawings in
the end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These were large portraits of
men whose dignity and integrity showed on their faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did my very best to capture each man’s
strength and wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Steven picked
up the portraits, I wondered again if that would be the end.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKuLpj48hmjMHUOMr230KIyrrnQlNvz58dN5UXk6KLrq0e3eLDF0bnNWtbpA3VHi24xwNGYRJ0roI-w6vlWUf9c3AbPxsjQpFxz_DMIboHUL4487aoswLPMYPqk9j3dcNaqenncE3AyQ/s1600/medders+portrait+5x7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKuLpj48hmjMHUOMr230KIyrrnQlNvz58dN5UXk6KLrq0e3eLDF0bnNWtbpA3VHi24xwNGYRJ0roI-w6vlWUf9c3AbPxsjQpFxz_DMIboHUL4487aoswLPMYPqk9j3dcNaqenncE3AyQ/s1600/medders+portrait+5x7.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elder Ahart F. Medders</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead, it’s been the beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was welcomed into their history.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My family was invited to attend the presentation of the
portraits. Again, there would be around 3,000 people at each of two
services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’ll be my guests,” Steven
said with his usual warmth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately my husband and sons had sports and travel
commitments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked my mom to come with
me instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a feeling that I
needed a witness to what was about to happen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first service was at 9 am on the south side of
Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother and I are NOT morning
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the joys of being my own
boss is sleeping until I wake up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we
managed to pull ourselves together and drive an hour or so to the beautiful
brick church on Dorchester.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steven had
assured us there would be plenty of parking, but it was PACKED.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An ocean of cars in every direction, parked
in several lots, on side streets… and we were a half hour <em>early</em>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wedged ourselves into a hidden, skinny
space and walked through the doors.</span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MS8fHA2n4RJV28v5yWwLYVVdWvqmYhWB6Jt788CjSe-7fvrX5r1JYj0VEsYggag3-mWHYcC514HqpnXOY9BJeI6kRI2EwCK8N-X1y5Z7Dr5tIhXYee41-kSYiTSmptPmqPwSVqgEMIk/s1600/Dorchester.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MS8fHA2n4RJV28v5yWwLYVVdWvqmYhWB6Jt788CjSe-7fvrX5r1JYj0VEsYggag3-mWHYcC514HqpnXOY9BJeI6kRI2EwCK8N-X1y5Z7Dr5tIhXYee41-kSYiTSmptPmqPwSVqgEMIk/s1600/Dorchester.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This lot was full. And the one across the street. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the one across the other street.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have deep respect for faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents taught Sunday school when I was
young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Lutheran pastor infused his
sermons with personal stories and laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He came to our house for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When he left our church, his replacement was more stern, less
engaging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father was working so hard
at growing his small business, that Sunday became another full work day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/holding-my-ham-hostage.html" target="_blank">I lost touch</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My questioning, critical, skeptical mind never found a spiritual place
to call home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than anything, I
believe in love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how I think of
God.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>“Praise the Lord!”</strong> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Each and every member of the church enthusiastically greeted us with the
church’s official hello, “Praise the Lord!” reaching out to clasp our hands in
welcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It almost felt like a wedding, a
celebration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone was resplendent in
three piece suits, sparkling jewelry, high heels, beautiful dresses, fedoras,
furs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steven hadn’t arrived yet, so we waited
for him and watched the joyful parade of fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was an EVENT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We watched as people embraced and kissed and laughed
together like an enormous family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were the only white faces in a sea of color. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All day, the face of each person who saw my mother and me
brightened in welcome. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were obviously
different, but they were so happy to see us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was humbling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t quite
sure how to respond to each “Praise the Lord!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I said hello and good morning and squeezed the friendly hands extended
to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked into each set of eyes and
prayed my own prayer of hope that they’d know my heart was full of love, even
if I didn’t know quite how to respond the same way.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Steven took us to meet Dr. Brazier and to see the framed portraits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I draw someone, I spend hours and hours
examining every line and nuance of a face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I saw Dr. Brazier, I felt like I knew him and he treated me like an
old friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom and I were seated on
the feather soft couch in Dr. Brazier’s spacious office while the portraits
were unwrapped… they’d been delivered from the framer just that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The photo had not done them justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beautiful silver carved frames with grey
and red mats took the 19x24” portraits to an even grander size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d never seen my work in such elegant
framing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was speechless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just kidding, you know I never shut up, but
it was dazzling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Brazier sat down and
chatted with my mom and me for a bit, then we were ushered to our seats like
VIPs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later, Steven wondered at how easily Dr. Brazier acted as if
he had all the time in the world to visit with us, when he was actually incredibly
busy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Apostolic Church of God has
20,000 members.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a lot going on
all the time and Sunday is big.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we walked in the church, I gasped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like a theater, with grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soaring wood ceilings, impossibly high brick
walls, enormous beautiful birds carved above words of praise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was worship on a level I’d never
seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A huge main floor was overlooked
by a balcony full of happily chatting people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The congregants sparkled and hugged and the energy bounced around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom and I kept looking at each other with our
eyebrows raised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wow</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We had reserved seats right in front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The praise began in song and on a professional
level I’ve only bought tickets for in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Singers, musicians, choirs, soloists… 3000 people swayed in worship and
joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Brazier spoke with passion,
reminding each and every soul present that they were never alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worries and pain and loneliness may make them
feel differently, but even if they were alone, returning to an empty room,
Jesus was already there waiting to lift them up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke to all as if speaking to one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A young, lovely soloist sang as if she were borrowed from heaven,
closing her eyes and letting her voice soar to a place of grace I’ve never
witnessed in person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cried again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were welcomed into this beautiful world of
history and culture and hope and redemption, when we’d normally just be at home
watching TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An elderly woman wearing an
ivory brocade suit, pearls and a pretty hat repeatedly got up to dance for most
of both services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her joyful, rhythmic steps
reminded me of dancing with my grandmother in her kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to restrain myself from jumping up to hug
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During a piano and organ duet, one
of the choir members leaned back in her seat, arching her back as she moved her
arms high in the air, gracefully interpreting the music with gentle hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was lovely, as if it was flowing through her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Catholic and Lutheran services, we’ve said to our
neighbors, “Peace be with you”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At ACOG,
the people turn to each other and say, “You’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">important</i> to me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My portraits were brought out on large easels, each draped dramatically
in red cloth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowd hummed with
interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Brazier asked me to stand
to be recognized, and my heart pounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
told all of God’s people in the room, “This is black history month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But black history does not have to be only about
slavery or struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can be about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> history right here; the history of
our church.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VDX29QHLirVdpZx4NOLtu3DtOqnjtDi9euwGqqknnofFtwzcUYaj6Hs_KQNiekVc_IizluKvvE6xsDEBDKaoMoatdQhU7argQdyPO-Y0cK4LgbFtCWrUCHhYWxz-NmoDFN4a0DOoWEo/s1600/bishop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VDX29QHLirVdpZx4NOLtu3DtOqnjtDi9euwGqqknnofFtwzcUYaj6Hs_KQNiekVc_IizluKvvE6xsDEBDKaoMoatdQhU7argQdyPO-Y0cK4LgbFtCWrUCHhYWxz-NmoDFN4a0DOoWEo/s1600/bishop.jpg" height="400" width="285" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bishop Arthur M. Brazier</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He went on to captivate everyone with the story of how the church
began, when the first two pastors, Elder Clemons and Elder Medders, lived in
the same six flat building in Washington Park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Later, Dr. Brazier’s parents rented a room from Elder Medders, and Dr.
Brazier and his sister were born there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He unveiled each portrait as he spoke about the church’s history and the
passion and integrity of each of its leaders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When he removed the drape from the face of his dear father, 3000 people leapt
to their feet and applauded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He modestly revealed his own portrait that
had been presented at Christmas time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gesturing
to each of the men’s wonderful faces, he said, “So… all four leaders of our church
once lived in the same building, at the same time.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a palpable surge of delight – don’t
you love a family story you haven’t heard before?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the unveiled portraits stood in a proud row in their regal
frames, beaming toward all those eager faces, projected on the large video
screen above our heads, in that beautiful place… I knew I’d never have another
moment quite like it in my career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOxxP8Ozu2sbSHoAX0EDH-Vi2R8gT0wUASBgnJKdv5cAsQUagEjCBXS7xZ42C67fkK3mQXzvJ9uPobcEeX7tlXgyXjTUKBLiATcuMhTv__uwrlkpQAyr0Ro1KteqD0mog2SubSiVYEoU/s1600/IMG_3236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOxxP8Ozu2sbSHoAX0EDH-Vi2R8gT0wUASBgnJKdv5cAsQUagEjCBXS7xZ42C67fkK3mQXzvJ9uPobcEeX7tlXgyXjTUKBLiATcuMhTv__uwrlkpQAyr0Ro1KteqD0mog2SubSiVYEoU/s1600/IMG_3236.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And that was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first</i>
service.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHUJJIRFOlMTLhZYT4FesKxkLz9tDAY2jsUj35-MfD8OFGwyCu0cQC12CPILrX-nOYLt2UbHaznGT9iZLr5SgJSizNfSo_xrEb039Pmb_bLYFZH0RwPztEnuoI70F9-sZkIr0fxELXEQ/s1600/20150222_111400(0).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHUJJIRFOlMTLhZYT4FesKxkLz9tDAY2jsUj35-MfD8OFGwyCu0cQC12CPILrX-nOYLt2UbHaznGT9iZLr5SgJSizNfSo_xrEb039Pmb_bLYFZH0RwPztEnuoI70F9-sZkIr0fxELXEQ/s1600/20150222_111400(0).jpg" height="200" width="140" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have great taste.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Afterwards, many of the church members greeted my mother and
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One told me my hands were anointed.
Another told my mother she was a holy vessel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each wondered at the talent God had given me, thanked me for the
portraits as if I’d offered them as a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(I was paid well for them.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were embraced and our cheeks were kissed over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One woman was wearing the exact same dress as
me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After giggling over it, we posed for
photos together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her she made me
feel like I fit in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me if she
was wearing the same thing as me, she must be doing pretty good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oh my</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never in my life, have I had a day of love like this, a day
of welcome, a day of acceptance and invitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The closest thing would be a big family gathering, but never with this
kind of power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The energy was unlike
anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t ebb, but grew.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Between services, we were guided into a private formal meeting
room with delicious fruit, pastries, coffee and juice served on a gleaming,
polished table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A beautiful room meant
for important visitors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And today, it was for
mom and me.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You know,” Steven confided over our pastries with a smile, “You
might be sitting in the same seat where President or Michelle Obama once sat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did I mention that Steve found me online when he saw a
portrait I’d drawn of Barack Obama?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Politics can be as personal and passionate a subject as religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People have different views for private
reasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally, I love our
president and believe in his hopeful heart with all of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like him or not, you have to admit that there
was just a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">flow</i> to all of this.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second service was more passionate, more energetic than
the first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How???</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When it was over, after we accepted nonstop invitations to
come back and worship with them again, Steven took us to lunch at a favorite nearby
Italian restaurant. I tried to grab the check – I mean, he’s my CLIENT, for
Pete’s sake – but Steven said that the pastor would be mad if he hadn’t taken
good care of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s Black History Month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was invited to be a small part of what it means to one beautiful church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And as I write this, I’m crying again.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgEwpCPLJJFXX83kBRLeMkEyE7PlIJFfFKrg5HWX5C5V6F9ru2LsE30EEiqOQ8yeNq9_U6qlqobAzATAR0kTi0o1Eg90hNVTUcKHqaV50EvdshDZ86apZQs6Xj1vUn6A6Am_G5NpUtMs/s1600/ACOG-Kimbark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBgEwpCPLJJFXX83kBRLeMkEyE7PlIJFfFKrg5HWX5C5V6F9ru2LsE30EEiqOQ8yeNq9_U6qlqobAzATAR0kTi0o1Eg90hNVTUcKHqaV50EvdshDZ86apZQs6Xj1vUn6A6Am_G5NpUtMs/s1600/ACOG-Kimbark.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apostolic Church of God, 1931</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With love,</span></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;">Wendy </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards.com">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards.com</a></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></o:p> </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-23360957783551136352015-02-13T08:47:00.000-08:002015-02-13T10:05:16.926-08:00A Valentine Love Story<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been such a long time since I wrote a portrait story, or blogged about losing my keys while sulking about something silly. But now the timing is just right - I’ve been saving this story since September, and most of it is written on a napkin from a Wildberry girlfriend lunch. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Valentine’s Day is about love for more reasons than one.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9gXx6OE9FAzL4qssLYaATx8LD3Jb-jO-JHhtEzU5bSeu9zl09vdRSwk4qFMzmDDVCZJdexGxHSrrRGUmyjJZ8GLmF2p5Epz_jbTVdEd74wNGw3mWDIpU5ps-1SAmDN8saXJheq6S2TI/s1600/joey175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9gXx6OE9FAzL4qssLYaATx8LD3Jb-jO-JHhtEzU5bSeu9zl09vdRSwk4qFMzmDDVCZJdexGxHSrrRGUmyjJZ8GLmF2p5Epz_jbTVdEd74wNGw3mWDIpU5ps-1SAmDN8saXJheq6S2TI/s1600/joey175.jpg" height="298" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe's <em>hair</em>. Come on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Flashback, late 1997. I had big hair, a tall husband, a giant dog and a baby with a surprisingly round Charlie Brown head. For five years, I’d worked for my father’s business and it was time to move on. My <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">husband Joe</a> worked for Hewitt Associates and kept suggesting that I apply. I’d earn more money, get more benefits for us, we could commute together. But I was going to break my dad’s heart in the process. My son Joey came to my father’s office with me each morning. The gentle beginning to our days was going to become <em>brutal</em>. It was such an agonizing decision that I used a long spreadsheet to weigh the piles of pros and cons. In the end, we knew it was time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I started at Hewitt, staggered and delighted by the shocking change of working for a big company. I <strong>LOVED</strong> IT. I made new friends, including a tiny spitfire of a girl named Tracey. We clicked immediately, laugh-talking as fast as possible, chirping each other with our Nextel walkie talkie phones, mostly to gossip about coworker drama, sometimes to get work done. I only worked at <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/confessions-of-corporate-flirt.html" target="_blank">Hewitt for a year</a>, just long enough to make bonds that lasted through the next six years working downtown, getting fired, and the last ten years of <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">drawing full time</a>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Tracey and I meet for lunch when we can, especially around our birthdays (the same day, two years apart) so we can catch up about kids (two boys for us both), our siblings (we each have only one brother who each have one son and one daughter) and our parents (who have been married a very long time). It doesn’t matter how much time goes by between visits, Tracey and I love each other, get each other, root for one another.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m always excited to draw for friends, especially dear ones, so I was happy when Tracey asked me to draw a portrait for her parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. We thought about doing a “then and now” with images of her parents when they first married, and now. Instead, we settled on a family tree, including both sets of Tracey’s grandparents. As the portrait unfolded, the future of Tracey’s family hung in the balance. She looked through photos of beloved, dearly missed grandparents while facing the possible loss of both her own parents. The portrait was more than just a celebration of 50 years of family love and marriage. We were hoping against hope that it would be a celebration of life.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBC6QvuJGsYA-H8tx_8aINwztcFO4A6UMIaj_MpkFmeP_C30SSztUJmC1mVKZoLHC0wFHqY0d5jg-ehuttjwsWcWSw_0V4VIQCVd0tmARavh-qJJ_7LiTJqcBQzlQdm2g9JTZKBlNgI5w/s1600/untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBC6QvuJGsYA-H8tx_8aINwztcFO4A6UMIaj_MpkFmeP_C30SSztUJmC1mVKZoLHC0wFHqY0d5jg-ehuttjwsWcWSw_0V4VIQCVd0tmARavh-qJJ_7LiTJqcBQzlQdm2g9JTZKBlNgI5w/s1600/untitled.png" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Tracey’s parents met at a bowling alley on a blind date set up by friends, both barely into their 20’s. Her dad became a toy designer for cereal boxes; her mother - a loving homemaker. We talk together about our parents, how they sometimes drive us nuts and always make us feel loved, how lucky we are to have had them so long, that they’ve stayed together, that they have their health – or what’s left of it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />“My dad is <em>completely</em> devoted to my mom,” Tracey tells me. “He’s the most important thing to her, and her to him. He’s taken such good care of her through two bouts of cancer. He sat through every chemo.” Tracey’s mom had a cancerous kidney removed. For ten years, the remaining kidney has hung on, working overtime. Its time was up. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />“My mom didn’t want to live on dialysis,” Tracey explained. They went to the Mayo Clinic and began the long, difficult process of trying for a transplant. “She needed a kidney badly. We all got tested, but we weren’t a match. There was a very limited pool of candidates due to her blood type. We needed more people.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They learned about something called “paired donation” that can speed up the process. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Paired donation is kind of like giving an organ directly to your loved one. Except you give it to someone else instead. And someone else’s loved one gives one to someone else and so on until the chain is completed. The ultimate pay it forward.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjNNV6nD7LQaFKpOIkGvTSVp4rDtEeC2zjs7V01ynNBPMhF-bjhFW4tPMti_4PttANkmy_3l3gsI3yHlSn-Cy4By6EWV4j6xlmfNARQGAm_IfO-NcAY2lAxtz_QS-7GnkPlJbLWkwNYk/s1600/horshack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjNNV6nD7LQaFKpOIkGvTSVp4rDtEeC2zjs7V01ynNBPMhF-bjhFW4tPMti_4PttANkmy_3l3gsI3yHlSn-Cy4By6EWV4j6xlmfNARQGAm_IfO-NcAY2lAxtz_QS-7GnkPlJbLWkwNYk/s1600/horshack.jpg" height="200" width="143" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Tracey and her brother both jumped up waving their hands to donate a kidney for their mother. But Tracey’s dad wouldn’t hear of it. His children were still young, with children of their own to care for. He was 71 and as always, he was ready to step up to the plate for his darling wife, whatever it took. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Meanwhile, Tracey had been researching online how to find a kidney, trying to speed up the process. Like her parents, Tracey is a very private person. But she went public, creating a Facebook page to search for a kidney, imploring friends to share the page with friends of friends. This is where it comes in handy to be fabulous. Most of Tracey’s friends responded right away, and those who didn’t got a personal plea from Tracey during her daily campaigning. In the end, 99% shared, forwarded, cared. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After waiting many months, a match was found by Mayo. Everyone rejoiced! The <em><strong>relief</strong></em>. But then the whole thing fell through. The match wasn’t made in heaven after all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tracey closed her eyes, remembering for a moment. “Everyone was devastated. Waiting for the kidney was torture; we were on pins and needles.” Tracey’s mom was very sick. Time was running out.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a result of one of Tracey's repeated messages, a friend of a high school alum made a suggestion to contact the Living Kidney Donor Network, </span><a href="http://www.lkdn.org/"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.lkdn.org/</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Tracey spoke to the founder, Harvey Mysel, who offered to meet with her parents. A kidney recipient himself, Harvey told them not to put all their eggs in the Mayo basket, urging them to widen the pool and explore other places, like Loyola. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Within a month of getting established at Loyola, another kidney was found through the paired donor pool. Tracey’s mom and dad were scheduled for surgery on the same day, within two weeks of their 50th anniversary. There was a 20 person chain making up the final list of paired donors. The logistics of scheduling all those surgeries in different parts of the country was an enormous challenge. The surgery for Tracey’s dad’s kidney recipient was pushed back a couple days. I asked Tracey if her dad could have changed his mind once his wife’s new kidney was snuggled in place. “The donor can change his or her mind, even on the table up to the moment before anesthesia,” Tracey explained. “But my dad said he would never back out. He’d never put another family through the devastation we all felt when the first kidney fell through.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Both surgeries were ultimately a success, though her mother spent some scary time in the ICU while her family held their breath. Tracey’s parents ended up recovering on the same hospital floor. They were each other’s incentive to get out of bed. Dad painfully walked each day to see his bride and her healthy new kidney. The nurses thought they were adorable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Back when Tracey and I were piecing together her portrait, we didn’t yet know how the story would end during such a scary time for her family. Choosing images of all those beloved faces was bittersweet and more emotional than for most of my portrait clients. Tracey fretted over every picture being just right, especially those of her grandparents. Only her father’s mother is still alive - in assisted living. Tracey’s grandpa was her primary caretaker since she’d had a stroke in her 80’s. Like father like son. Tracey’s dad took his father’s 2009 death very hard. He passed with his loving family all around him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Tracey’s maternal grandfather, Papa, took Tracey’s brother Michael to his first Cubs game, and Michael took 12 year old Tracey to her first game in his memory – they are life-long, suffering fans. Papa died when Tracey was four, taken by cancer in his 50’s. The loss devastated Tracey’s mom, who always called him a “gentle man”. His wife, “Nana”, lived to be 86. “Putting Papa and Nana together again for my mom will be the crown jewel of the portrait,” Tracey stressed to me. After all Mom had been through, it would be a beautiful, emotional surprise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />And then, a happy ending – mom’s kidney came from Pennsylvania, dad’s kidney went to Utah. On their August 30, 2014 anniversary, Tracey and her brother presented the portrait to her parents: precious children, beautiful grandchildren, beloved parents. One kidney found, one kidney given, one grateful family. And now, six months later, everyone is doing beautifully. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wadded up in my purse for months. <br />
Nice.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />In September, I scribbled the whole story down on a restaurant napkin at lunch, a month after the transplants. I’d asked Tracey ahead of time if I could write about her story and then I forgot a damn notebook. And a pen. And then I forgot to write it. Some things never change.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />“While my mom was recuperating in the ICU,” Tracey told me over our lunch salads, “I kept thinking, what if she doesn’t get to see her parents together in the portrait? What if something happens? I thought the portrait was going to be big. But it was so much bigger than I thought.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Today, Valentine’s Day, is also National Donor Day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s a good day for a love story. </span><br />
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<a href="http://www.kidneyregistry.org/"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.kidneyregistry.org</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.matchingdonors.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.matchingdonors.com</span></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjYKQ0bX2GJ-maQPYybZWPBAJVWqHtEHf2CJIwfEcoqNpjYj-vH7-G1jemDv-UrwfZPi5vwQTcO58OTMkhmdx7LbGVqTQiPSBW5iSFfyNcg4RXsEG0zroyPbSSK6nX7-hq6XYl7-jFAA/s1600/portrait+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjYKQ0bX2GJ-maQPYybZWPBAJVWqHtEHf2CJIwfEcoqNpjYj-vH7-G1jemDv-UrwfZPi5vwQTcO58OTMkhmdx7LbGVqTQiPSBW5iSFfyNcg4RXsEG0zroyPbSSK6nX7-hq6XYl7-jFAA/s1600/portrait+blog.jpg" height="502" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Wendy Zumpano</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a></span><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">https://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</span></a><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-83624645092496292292014-03-01T13:44:00.001-08:002014-03-04T07:36:58.168-08:00Laundry for Giants and other Domestic Fails<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I consider myself a pretty great mom, but I stink to high heaven at most mom jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite the fact that I am a full time </span><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">pencil portrait artist</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and you would think I'd have some sort of pride in the appearance of my home (or myself... apologies for anyone who has seen me at Jewel), I just don't. I've never been into decorating my house unless it’s Christmas. H<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">ang onto your Santa hat, then. Otherwise, not so much. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minimalist/Lazy</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A neighbor helpfully pointed out that my walls were all boring white several years after we moved in and I sort of wanted to pinch her, but she had a point. I don’t have a knack for knick-knack whatnot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I notice my friends’ lovely homes and I notice when mine is messy, but I just don’t care that much unless we’re having company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I run around panicking over all the weird piles of stuff everywhere and wishing that things matched or had less stains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also hate grocery shopping and making dinner because I’m the opposite of a multi-tasker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a one thing at a time-er until I get distracted by something else, then I’m all about that thing, whether or not dinner is or should be in the oven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I postpone shopping until we are out of everything and I have to listen to the nonstop sad sighs of everyone standing in front of open cupboards and fridge searching for <em>anything</em> worth eating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I can’t take the audible hunger pangs anymore, I stomp around in search of my coupon holder, wasting at least an hour going through three months worth of newspaper coupons so I can save us about $4.50.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My </span><a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">husband</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and sons enjoy my victim mentality and show their support by rolling their eyes at each other (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I see them). </i>Sometimes I make a big show of going through all the sales flyers so that I can price match at Wal-Mart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I brag about how I scored a disinterested cashier who allowed me to name any outlandishly low competitor price I want, it hurts my feelings when Joe informs me this is really a form of stealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wal-mart is an evil empire!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> guy, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Joe</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Living with a Libra is hard for a morally ambiguous Gemini.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p>When I get around to making dinner, the following usually occur:</span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I break something, spill something or burn myself </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">a.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I scream bloody murder </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">b.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Joe asks if I’m okay in a genuinely concerned manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">c.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I respond by refusing to answer while banging pans around and power-sulking.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I forget to start cooking something or stop cooking something</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">a.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I holler-announce my mistake in an overly dramatic way with lots of swears, such as “<em><strong>SHIT</strong>!</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forgot to turn the OVEN ON” or “<em><strong>GREAT</strong></em>, the po<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>rk chops are cremated again.”</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">b.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Joe sweetly reminds me that he enjoys burnt food (he actually does), all is not lost and nobody else cares about the exact timing of dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">c.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Nobody recognizes how close I come to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> swearing and hollering for once, and how DISAPPOINTING that is.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><!--[endif]--></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9INBf_vvZlJf7qRS62KrCQswWVsamjCvG3zQ7HIw6z2yLE-UbdDxYy2WBBH94-H6QTDYlWHfe__xEftoscAsQpIJVjmWwlGR4f-A4blI-LLZJ9feM4qMK_buN165Od0BMyvZq3HXYnSc/s1600/mad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9INBf_vvZlJf7qRS62KrCQswWVsamjCvG3zQ7HIw6z2yLE-UbdDxYy2WBBH94-H6QTDYlWHfe__xEftoscAsQpIJVjmWwlGR4f-A4blI-LLZJ9feM4qMK_buN165Od0BMyvZq3HXYnSc/s1600/mad.jpg" height="320" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love cooking!</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I feed everyone else something different than what I eat</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">a.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->By the time I’ve got the manly meal on the table, everyone else starts eating while I’m still microwaving my sad girl meal</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">b.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Everyone is done before I am </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">c.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I eat Max’s leftovers </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">d.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I am disgusted with myself<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--></span></div>
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I feed myself the same thing as the rest of the family</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">a.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I attempt to serve myself a somewhat more girly portion than my three over 6' tall men, which is probably still a generous man portion in most households.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">b.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Joey and I begin an unofficial wolfing contest and finish in a tie, or I am a close second</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everyone around here wants dinner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every</i> damn day and I can't remember to take something out of the freezer at a reasonable time and/or BUY food that counts as dinner. Plus all the burning and forgetting and injuries...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> it's stressful. </span>When Joe makes dinner, he has a real recipe and premeasures all of his ingredients in adorable little ceramic containers, keeping his work area neat and tidy. When he's finished, it hardly ever looks like someone dropped an even messier kitchen on top of ours from a great height.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is calm and happy as he accomplishes his successful cooking goals instructed by his beloved cooking shows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Joe's </span>a project manager and I am a neurotic flibbertigibbet <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards" target="_blank">artist</a>, so it all sort of makes sense, and yet it feels like the girl version of emasculation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It may not be very 2014, but I can’t help but feel this household stuff is supposed to be traditionally more in my lane, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could only remember to do stuff and swear less and stop demanding pronouncements of gratitude from everyone who lives here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I shine in one glorious household chore; I can wash the <em>bejeesus </em>out of clothes for giants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have at least 7 distinct hot/cold/light/dark categories, each containing at least one overflowing load on laundry day, because I procrastinate at least two weeks between laundry marathons. Consequently, we all own an extraordinary amount of underpants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After I've dumped hampers on the floor to sort, the pile is the size of a kitchen stove. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Unlike my usual, cheap, half-ass efforts, I buy actual name brand detergent and use <em>both </em>fabric softener <em>and</em> multiple dryer sheets. When the dryer stops, I lay every item in a basket carefully so that everything is nice and smooth when it comes time for my </span><a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial;">mom</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"> to do all my folding for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God bless my mommy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband is 6’8, Joey is 6’5 and Max is 6’1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe and Joey have disproportionately long torsos and a passion for t-shirts and sweatshirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to find tall sizes when I can, but I cannot dry any of their shirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>Ever</em>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Otherwise they will go right ahead and wear the resulting short shirts around the house with an inch or two of belly hanging out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is disturbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I must take every shirt made out of any sort of jersey or stretchy cotton (t-shirt, sweatshirt, long sleeve, etc.) out of the washer and complete the following:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Place arms into shirt and stretch wide-ways and then flap </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to shake out rumples.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Fold the shirt in half long ways and r</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><!--[endif]-->oll the collar a few times so I don't stretch the head hole into a girly boat-neck effect.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Step on the bottom of the damp shirt (preferably with bare or sock feet instead of dirty running shoes... lesson learned) and <em><strong>p</strong></em></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><strong>ull </strong></em>in an upward row fashion as far as shirt will allow to hopefully cover the entirety of Joe giganticness.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Flap shirt to shake out up and down stretch rumples</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Hang shirt on hanger to dry on rod above washer and dryer. We don't have a laundry room and steps 1-4 are performed on a step stool.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Repeat for each of the 50 shirts that the Joes have fouled in a two week period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Honestly, it is a lengthy labor of love keeping my big boys clothed, fed and reasonably safe from tripping over my shoes in every room of our home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I insisted that Joey start doing his own laundry this year, and when I saw him taking his clothes out of the dryer, one by one, laying them carefully into a basket, I could have cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s all such a challenge for me, as I keep reminding everyone, but it’s worth it. Especially when my three adorable, funny, sweet boys refuse to complain about the crunchy rice, the mushy green beans, the burnt chops. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "It's not my <em>favorite," </em>is the most brutal criticism Joe musters. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite my shitty household skills, I’m not afraid to take the cover off the furnace and start poking around to see why it isn’t turning on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When there was a MASSIVE beehive outside Joey’s second floor window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe said, “Damn, look at that thing! We’ll need to call someone.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I marched upstairs with a towel around my arm and hit it with Max's hockey stick a bunch of times, and then shot it with bee killer juice after it fell on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe would prefer to write a check rather than risk bee stings or electrocution. I hate paying for anything. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I may stink at the girl stuff, but I can be just a little bit of a bad ass when I'm not sobbing somewhere because someone hurt my feelings. Hell, I'm pretty brave when it comes to fixing things, or killing things or other traditional male household jobs like being rude to salespeople.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Except for lawn mowing and garbage toting… someone with a penis is <em>definitely </em>doing all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-63869763757944120972014-01-12T10:09:00.001-08:002014-01-12T10:50:09.257-08:00High School Hero...<div align="left">
When I was 12, I loved Donny Nelson. I wasn't the only one. He was funny, charismatic and ridiculously handsome in that sudden, surprising way that some boys were in junior high… manly and confident while the rest of us were flopping around in a confused pile of hormones. Donny strode through school hallways with his shoulders thrown back, booming voiced, never doubting that things would go his way. I didn’t know then what Don had gone through as a child with his alcoholic mother. Later I heard through the grapevine what he endured as an adult. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang in there, baby. <br />
Curly hair products are<br />
coming in 10 years.</td></tr>
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With my bad glasses, hair that refused to feather like Farrah’s and my loud, hopeful laugh, I was star struck when this larger than life boy chose me for a friend. Donny was an equal opportunity lightning bolt, striking up friendships with an interesting assortment of kids.</div>
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We drifted apart in high school when Donny became Warren Township High School’s star quarterback, surrounded by athletes and prom queens. We were still friendly and I cried on his shoulder when his father died our freshman year. Our bond had been forged as kids, singing dopey old songs for hours – me on piano, Donny on guitar. We sang “My Blue Heaven” at the top of our lungs while walking from my house to his grandparents. We threw a rock through a neighborhood window and hid in the woods from the angry victim. At 13, I got into some serious trouble with Donny involving alcohol, a beach and the hospital. He always deflected any blame, regardless of it being all his idea. He wasn’t interested in a quiet life; he wanted action.<br />
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Don’s college football career ended abruptly when a neck injury left his right arm numb. When he recovered, he joined the Marines. During boot camp, an accidental blow to the head left him with the same numbness and he was discharged. Determined, he joined the police force. </div>
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He married Sheryl Corder, one of the loveliest girls in school whose shiny hair was a feathered masterpiece. She planned our ten year high school reunion - a perfect three day extravaganza that cost us relatively little because of Sheryl’s tireless fund raising. In the book of alumni bios that she compiled, hers was the longest… a small town Hollywood fairytale about marrying the football star turned police officer, a new baby boy, and happily ever afters. I was a little jealous that she’d been chosen by the boy who had been a comet in my life, that she was so amazingly perfect. </div>
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Just months after the reunion, when Sheryl and Don’s son, little Donny, was six months old, Sheryl was diagnosed with breast cancer. Shortly after, she underwent a double mastectomy, then ovarian surgery. Just days after her surgery, Don pulled his squad car over to assist a fellow officer with a routine stop. A passing driver dozing at the wheel veered, striking Don as he stood next to the stopped vehicle. The impact broke both Don’s legs and six ribs, bruised his lung, separated his shoulder and sent him flying 55 feet into the middle of the road. He was flown to a hospital in Milwaukee on a Flight for Life helicopter. Don’s frightened sister, Kim, picked up his recovering wife and took her to the hospital to wait through his seven hour surgery.</div>
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After he was out of danger, Don’s doctor told him the difficult news that he wouldn’t walk for six months. Within a year, he might be able to overcome a limp. </div>
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Don told them he was leaving, that day, with crutches. And did.</div>
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Neither of the recovering new parents could care for little Donny, so Sheryl’s mother took the baby home with her each night and brought him back in the morning, caring for all three of them. Don worked relentlessly on his rehabilitation and walked without crutches within two months. </div>
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As they were fighting their individual fights, Don and Sheryl traveled to California to visit friends. Before the trip, Sheryl had shaved her remaining hair and was wearing a wig. “In the land of fruits and nuts,” Don joked, “Sheryl could go ahead and walk around bald.” Pausing, he added, with pride, “She had such a beautiful head. She could pull it off. She looked great.”</div>
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Don ignored the advice of his doctors, pushing limits, and returned to work as a dispatcher. Unhappy on the sidelines at a desk, he insisted he was ready, and returned to active duty only four months and 12 days after he was told he wouldn’t even walk for six. His legs were never right, but boredom was worse than pain.</div>
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Four years later, things were looking up. Sheryl had been healthy and little Donny was growing like a weed, the spitting image of his mother. Don had a mole removed from his chest that indicated melanoma. The next day, Sheryl’s cancer was back.</div>
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“You always have to one-up me,” Don accused her. “I get hit by a car, you get cancer. I get cancer, you get it twice. Knock it off.” </div>
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Don’s brush with cancer was over quickly after a minor operation. Sheryl’s road was steeper and they prepared again for battle. </div>
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On the 4th of July, Don was golfing with a group of detectives. He drove his golf cart down an incline approaching a tunnel and started to slide. Trying to regain control, Don braked hard and when the golf cart hit dry ground, it flipped. Don tried to bail out and the canopy of the cart struck him in the back of the neck. </div>
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“That was <em>The Crippler</em>.” Don told me, using his favorite term to distinguish between his accidents. “The moment it happened, I told the guys I knew my neck was broken. It hurt and I couldn’t move anything. So that was my second Flight for Life helicopter ride. I have Flight for Life frequent flier miles.” </div>
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Between rounds of chemotherapy, Sheryl visited Don during his four months of hospitalization. </div>
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He was paralyzed from the shoulders down. </div>
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“After my legs were broken,” Don told me, grinning, “Donny would jump on me and Sheryl would freak out. But I’d tell her, hey, it’s not like he can break them again. There are steel pins in there. After I broke my neck, there was a bracket in there. Let him jump. It won’t break again.”</div>
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Don gave motivational speeches for patients treated by the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. “It doesn't matter how you got here. It may not feel fair, but pissing and moaning isn’t going to make anything better. You can sit around feeling sorry for yourself, or you can start thinking about what you’re going to do next,” he told his fellow patients. Don was selected to give a private showing to Christopher Reeves of their new robotic therapy developed for spinal cord patients. Don and his sister were able to meet Christopher and spend some time with him just days before he died. Don’s tough love approach inspired spinal cord patients and his sessions were full of laughter. He was paid multiple times to speak to therapists in training.</div>
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Don and Sheryl fought their battles valiantly side by side. Two years after Don’s crippling accident, Sheryl died, at 34 years old, leaving her quadriplegic husband to take care of seven year old Donny. </div>
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Don felt that his son had been as well prepared as possible for the loss of his beautiful mother after so many years of hospitals. Every word Don spoke about his son was with pride in his toughness. And yet it is hard for any father, let alone a severely injured one, to replace a mother’s tender touch. “Sometimes he wants his mom,” Don told me in a rare vulnerable moment. “And all he has is me. We do the best we can do and most of the time it is enough.”<br />
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When little Donny began playing his father’s beloved football, Don considered coaching but figured he couldn’t until he saw a documentary of Knute Rockne coaching from a wheelchair. “So I figured, what the hell?” Don laughed. He volunteered to coach his son’s football team. For ten years, Don was the heart and soul of our home town youth football organization, serving as president and resident hard ass. He asked me to draw a portrait of his son and himself in their Warren uniforms.</div>
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“I do feel that everything that happens is a necessary step to the next thing,” Don stressed, “but I don’t know why Sheryl’s death had to be a part of the mix. As far as the shit I’ve gone through, now I’m a stay at home dad. I don’t have to work anymore. I’ve been to Vegas a bunch with good friends, traveled more than I ever did before I was injured. I figure I owe it to Sheryl, to Donny and myself to live every day to the fullest. I’ve always seen my brothers and sister saving, waiting to enjoy life in retirement. You just don’t know how much time you have. You shouldn’t be reckless, but you need to live for now.” </div>
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As our 20 year high school reunion approached, I had heard bits and pieces of Don’s story, but I’d lost touch with him. I had thought about trying to reach out. But what would I say to my lost friend in his wheelchair? What would I say about Sheryl after all these years? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful Sheryl</td></tr>
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In her honor, Don planned the reunion and we reconnected as if no time at all had passed. He invited my family to his big parties, full of all the friends he’d kept from our childhood. I was floored at how little he’d changed, despite everything he’d been through. He held court as always, telling stories in his commanding voice peppered with loud guffaws. Don suggested that I draw memorial portraits of Sheryl's yearbook photo and a few other classmates who we’d lost for the reunion book. I had just <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">lost my job</a> and he wanted to give my brand new <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">portrait business</a> some exposure. Over the following years, he was always promoting me, ordering portraits, recommending me. He supported his friends fiercely.<br />
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Yet Don is an acquired taste. <br />
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When <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">my husband</a> first met him, he found Don to be a bit of a know-it-all. Don states his opinions as fact, loudly debating any disagreement. It can be abrasive, but there is always an edge of affection and humor there. I was touched that such a large group of high school guys would stay so close, like family, for more than 25 years - vacationing together, hanging out weekly. The more time I spent with them, the tighter their bond seemed. Don doesn’t let you in deep, but he shows you in many ways that he cares. He’s heroic with a little devil thrown in… on the football field, in his commitment to his family, in his arguably courageous attitude to not let anything get him down. I can’t imagine going through the shit storm that Don has and still wake up each day, eager to make it a great one. He’s a smart ass, he’s arrogant, he’s bossy. He’s also unwaveringly loyal and passionate about making the most out of life. <br />
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Don believed, with all his heart, that he would walk again. He believed that everything happens for a reason. When the reason continually evaded him, when his body repeatedly betrayed him, his positive attitude began to flicker, to fade. After such a long, long battle, wouldn’t you feel angry? Wouldn’t you just get tired? <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92QIxFffjIS7hr41zSBLMWVw2NLkp9r2qlWmXu83osDvDKF-21MCq_osrmh76TfsjxGQTo39hDhA1nZX6DhesdW5kJFABwuZmRrs_vYr8tVRXwIS2fvbNbzUM_bMeZfhKgzFb2Oe5mWI/s1600/don+elvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92QIxFffjIS7hr41zSBLMWVw2NLkp9r2qlWmXu83osDvDKF-21MCq_osrmh76TfsjxGQTo39hDhA1nZX6DhesdW5kJFABwuZmRrs_vYr8tVRXwIS2fvbNbzUM_bMeZfhKgzFb2Oe5mWI/s1600/don+elvis.jpg" height="320" width="310" /></a>He began to push family and friends away, lashing out in anger, then trying to joke it off. He moved to Vegas with his son in late 2013, living the last days of his life in the place he loved with the boy who had become a young man, and who, like his father, has faced far, far too much adversity.<br />
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At Don’s memorial, he wore our high school’s Blue Devils jersey. I should have expected it, but I didn’t, and it tore every one of us up. It took us all back to those swaggering days when he was so very alive. I was overcome with guilt for letting him push me away. I loved him and I always had. Why didn’t I understand that he was angry and lonely? Why didn’t I reach out to him more?<br />
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I remember nagging Don about his biography for the 20th reunion book. Stubborn as ever, he refused to write anything. <br />
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“You’re planning the whole thing!” I argued with him. “You need to put something. Besides, who has more interesting stuff to say than you?”<br />
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“Okay,” he smiled, “just write, ’You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’”<br />
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So we did. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-72402982708234993932013-09-16T17:21:00.000-07:002013-09-17T07:50:41.428-07:00Wicked Tales from the Wonderful World of Daycare (Ode to Raquel)<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was a very lucky new mommy back in my corporate days. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. I had an easy, good baby who was a great sleeper</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. My boss/dad let me bring my newborn to work </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. My next door neighbor was a licensed daycare provider.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Seriously, as my beloved sister-friend <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/10/meep-moop-means-i-love-you.html" target="_blank">Vicki</a> likes to say, sometimes it seems like I was born with a horseshoe up my ass. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I come, better entertain me!</td></tr>
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But good luck tends to run out eventually. My next door neighbor had the nerve to retire and baby Joey was getting very demanding while I was working, expecting me to actually interact with his gigantic headed self instead of allowing me to shuffle him from activity to activity like baby circuit training… Gymini to bouncy seat to jumper with a bumper. As much as I’m sure my dad’s other employees enjoyed the distraction of Joey wandering around the office in his walker, pulling papers off desks, it was time to find a new solution.<br />
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<br />Enter Raquel, patron saint of daycare and margaritas.<br />
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<br />Raquel was an in-house nanny for a work buddy of <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">my husband Joe</a>. After her second daughter was born, Raquel decided to start a daycare in her own home. Joey was her very first customer and he loved her dearly, almost as much as Joe and I did.<br />
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<br />Raquel told us when Joey was ready for potty training and trained him in a day or two. She gladly kept Joey overnight when we wanted to have a mental health getaway. She gently guided us in the right direction with each new milestone. She was stern with the children in her care when they were stinkers and laughed at them when they threw fits. She never turned away a kid with a fever or cough or runny nose, each kid was like her own. She had dance parties and races and went for walks with her slew of happy little kids whose variety looked like the old Benetton ads. She gave thoughtful gifts to every child each birthday and Christmas and attended our family parties as an adopted Zumpano. When Max came into the picture, Raquel’s husband Jeff looked in his baby face and said with pride, “I can tell he's really smart.” They were like family and we thanked our lucky stars for them. When I started my <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portrait</a> side business in earnest, Raquel ordered a family portrait and we laughed at how bald pale Jeff turned out looking like a ghost haunting the rest of the family. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There it goes. Missed it AGAIN.</td></tr>
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<br />In our massive school district, kindergarten was half day, which caused a problem. Raquel had been a convenient distance from our first little house, but when we moved to our current home, it was a long round trip. We enrolled Joey in Kindercare, which bussed him to and from his school. Max stayed at Raquel’s and Joe and I split the pick up and drop offs. Joe was calm and organized while I panicked, rushing from Raquel's to catch the Chicago train taking me to my new job which would eventually fire me... the cartoon catapult that launched me into fulltime artistry. <br />
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Eventually Max joined Joey at KinderCare and I cried, knowing I would miss seeing Raquel’s smiling face every day until summer.<br />
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<br />We adjusted to KinderCare and our boys found new friends and favorite teachers. Their best KinderCare friends were Jimmy and Tommy. Jimmy’s birthday was one day before Joey’s and Tommy was a little older than Max. The four of them were a perfect blend, adoring each other in the sweetest little boy way possible. They were a wrestling pile of giggles and secrets and games. I became friends with Jimmy and Tommy’s mother, Lisa, the way you do with the parents of your kids’ friends. Convenience led to real closeness with Lisa. We told each other everything - our pasts with tough fathers, our dreams of writing, our fears. We admitted our parental shortcomings and we forgave each other’s kids their faults. We sat at McDonald’s play land for hours and hours, allowing the kids to buy desserts so we could talk longer when they tired of germy plastic climbing. When Lisa told me she didn’t know how they would afford full time KinderCare costs over the summer, I told her about our magic Raquel, who didn’t charge us a fraction of what she should have. As Lisa lived in Round Lake, the trip would be even longer for her. So we allowed them to drop J & T at our house each morning and pick them up from our house in the evening. Every other Friday, we would keep all four kids overnight or Lisa would pick all four up so each couple could have a date night. It was heaven.<br />
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<br />Except that Lisa hated Raquel.<br />
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I was shocked as J & T started to say rude things about Raquel. Lisa would criticize Raquel for disciplining her boys and blew silly things, like Raquel playfully whacking her daughter on the butt with a flip flop, out of proportion. When Tommy wore the same unwashed white t-shirt for several days, Lisa was pissed when Raquel washed it. Lisa was permissive to an extreme and her boys misbehaved at her house. At mine, they listened to rules and followed our lead. Lisa was starting to officially weird me out. When she called me at 5 am on a Saturday morning to accompany her to the emergency room to have a catheter re-inserted, I was disturbed. She wasn’t working at the time, I was only able to sleep in on weekends and I <em>love</em> sleep. Clearly she felt close to me after four years of friendship, but as I squeezed her hand during the uncomfortable procedure (for both of us), the ER trip was more of Lisa than I expected or wanted to see. <br />
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<br />On the last day of summer, it was my turn to pick up the boys. J & T bragged to my boys that they NEVER had to see Raquel again and that their mommy didn’t like her. I stopped the car, turned around and barked at them that Raquel was our family and I DID NOT want to hear one more bad word. <br />
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<br />The next day while my boys were at school, DCFS showed up at Raquel’s. <br />
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We were so furious, so betrayed, so shocked that a family that we trusted to appreciate Raquel’s generosity would turn on her and on us. The DCFS agent told Raquel that the call had come from Round Lake… Raquel only knew one family from there. I called Lisa in shock and anger, demanding an explanation. Lisa stammered denials and finally blurted out that she didn’t need a friend like me, hanging up like a coward.<br />
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<br />She never allowed the boys to see each other again. <br />
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<br />Joey and Jimmy were best friends from ages 4 – 8. They were inseparable. Joey wrote letter after letter to Jimmy, confused and hurt by the lack of response, asking who Jimmy’s best friend was now. Hurting for him, I sent Lisa pleading emails and tried to appeal to J & T’s father, suggesting that just the dads and boys get together. He seemed open to that, but called back to say that Lisa felt we should go our separate ways, obvious embarrassment in his voice. <br />
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<br />I’ve never been so angry or disappointed in a friend. I couldn’t sleep and I still think about it more than I should. I opened my heart, my home, my family to Lisa. Raquel was a huge help to them financially; they would have been in trouble without her. Lisa thanked her with a slap in the face out of pure spite and maliciousness.<br />
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<br />Fortunately, everything worked out fine for Raquel - she didn’t give a shit about stupid old Lisa. Ten years later, Raquel is still the daily salvation of grateful families with small children. She rescued me when I foolishly attempted to step into her shoes and care for my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-truth-about-stephen-and-henry.html" target="_blank">brand new nephew</a>, becoming dear to Joe's sister and her family as well. <br />
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We attended Michele’s Quinceañera as a family this year, and it was wild to see Raquel’s adorable nieces all grown up… gorgeous young women who remembered Joey and Max who had been too little to return the favor. Joey and Max tower over Raquel and they happily hugged her without teenage restraint. The room was filled with Raquel’s family from Mexico and with a few adopted families like ours who she has embraced with so much love and laughter. As our gift, I drew a portrait of Michele in her fancy dress. <br />
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If you’ve ever received a portrait gift from me, you know I really, really love you. (Not that I don't love you if you haven't... calm down. ) It’s a personal gift that I only feel comfortable sharing with those who know it comes from my heart. And my heart is full whenever I think of Raquel and her dear family.<br />
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Margaritas soon, Raquel??<br />
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Wendy Zumpano<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-49625443609136500442013-09-08T12:29:00.002-07:002013-09-10T07:26:49.453-07:00Why I have been a crappy blogger.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPyBohYYUbJFpzGsVdMK2u8y16oopTueqU4AF7nlt3GrcLQYmsLXk6CbtkHoyaxKanmcz0WQO8RqpXH41FuuKC434JvnnEw5g8fmYcWMea4dcbfzdhHtFioG_4d7mVTBTHVmq0Azyxy0/s1600/crying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPyBohYYUbJFpzGsVdMK2u8y16oopTueqU4AF7nlt3GrcLQYmsLXk6CbtkHoyaxKanmcz0WQO8RqpXH41FuuKC434JvnnEw5g8fmYcWMea4dcbfzdhHtFioG_4d7mVTBTHVmq0Azyxy0/s200/crying.jpg" width="181" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't have a 401K!!!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is a certain time of year when I am more freaked out than usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every since I got </span><a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">fired from my corporate job</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> for calling my boss a liar (accurately), I’ve been trying to build my
</span><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">pencil portrait</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn't always a cake walk convincing people to remember me, find some photos,
part with their cash, etc. etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Especially in late winter/early spring when the holidays are over and no
Mother’s Day flowers are blooming yet, I have been a complete basket case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As my pencil portrait projects dwindle, </span>I throw myself into dramatic poses and cry, “I
need a real job!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I don’t <em>want </em>a real job. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not built for stress of any kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> If you know me personally, you know </span>I don’t have any coping skills. Crying at
work is embarrassing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus I love to
sleep in and stay up late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition, I
enjoy wine and cheez-its to a degree that interferes with my ability to concentrate
on spreadsheets or wear real pants with zippers. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> has been the lucky soul who gets to hear me whining regularly about
a real job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom hangs out with me
while I draw, so where would this new job situation leave her and our movie
watching requirements?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a
concern.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mom wasn't the only one I assaulted with my nonstop complaining. At my father's retirement party, a good friend from my real job
days tried to shut me up by asking if I wanted to test his company's software from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I jumped at the chance to fill in my slow
times with something else to do other than weeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t
sure what testing software meant, and it turned out to be exponentially more
complicated than I expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I’m
so visual and picky, I enjoy criticizing the hard work of others more than I
should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just ask my poor kids about my “helpful”
suggestions about their handwriting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Software testing was also more time consuming than I
anticipated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consequently, I have now built
up quite a backlog of portrait orders… similar to the kind of work pile I accumulate
at Christmas!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have lots of work to do
for the side job, lots of work to do for my clients.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t even tell you what a blessed relief
it is not to lay in my bed at night and worry about bringing in enough cash to
keep my gigantic sons fed and college bound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sandwiches and college cost money.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YX0HMYPaZiijRyiqVtGidKW1SbVOp3D5oyJq9yUaw5HU9oUeX1VwsAaOIIH1fMPxdBRxyNwzko6HFXNZWXxNU8vWkWXrq4ymJncn3XB54sTL08_enuzfhCTDK2vR5qwoZ1fO5lU0cEI/s1600/money.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YX0HMYPaZiijRyiqVtGidKW1SbVOp3D5oyJq9yUaw5HU9oUeX1VwsAaOIIH1fMPxdBRxyNwzko6HFXNZWXxNU8vWkWXrq4ymJncn3XB54sTL08_enuzfhCTDK2vR5qwoZ1fO5lU0cEI/s400/money.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have to get two grocery carts at Mariano's.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things have actually improved enough financially that my
husband Joe and I purchased a cargo van to hold all my art crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most art shows begin with the sweaty, annoying job of
cramming bins and tents and bags and whatnot into our Durango until there is
absolutely no rear window visibility and I am the only human that can fit into it unless we
strap some crap to the roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Joe
helps me with this chore, he usually smacks his freakishly tall head into the
garage door or pinches his fingers and makes me feel all guilty with his cries
of pain and swearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Sympathetically, </span>I usually decide
to get huffy and irritated and behave like I am a put-upon victim of hard
labor. Joe kept insisting that we purchase a trailer so we wouldn’t have to
load and unload everything each time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was afraid of driving with a trailer, as I envisioned playing crack the
whip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember that game when you’d run around in
zig-zags holding hands and the kid at the end of the line/whip would get flung
into a wall or hurled into a bush?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Backing
up with a trailer is unpredictable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
thank you on the trailer.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A van was not only the solution to the art
storage/schlep issue, it also solved the three drivers / two
vehicles problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My older son, King Joey, usually
gets what he wants because he is adorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since he got his license, I have no car ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d walk
out the door to go to a doctor’s appointment or to take Max somewhere and there
would be no car in the driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d
think I’d remember that I have no car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’d think I’d remember lots of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I HIGHLY recommend that you visit John the Van Man </span><a href="http://www.hptruckauto.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.hptruckauto.com/</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> if you have
any van needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were blown away by the
way we were treated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here’s my rockin' new art love van!<br />
<br />
</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZgaEKUL2V-E_nY9zATrkIQBiYyOFtMosTImdWLiGShFhJ5b8numnWgUMA8YqNrC27vjLVzXsVoYO4evolfY62roN425Jrr6TGbU-vN5QEeGtm8xAz8tFSjT30OYXrVzpw56EQ9vHKOec/s320/van.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TA-DAAAAA!!!!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZgaEKUL2V-E_nY9zATrkIQBiYyOFtMosTImdWLiGShFhJ5b8numnWgUMA8YqNrC27vjLVzXsVoYO4evolfY62roN425Jrr6TGbU-vN5QEeGtm8xAz8tFSjT30OYXrVzpw56EQ9vHKOec/s1600/van.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friend Pat O’Malley suggested that I decorate
it and apparently spent quite a bit of time Photoshopping my photo onto it like it was a ReMax van. Very funny. Almost as funny as how much time I just spent going back through Facebook trying to find it. I have no idea where he found that photo of me, it doesn't even look familiar. That's almost my actual phone number, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAEZNiviX6LU79Y3Ga-t82A1PWs1LXcN-wdrSGzLaBcG8JC1hgN0qhRE7Y23mM-oLOKQGAIPiGaj7ghnw7WsRIwXwJ7bMDU4d5rcRBIA7BIttdMsh_9_m5AiQb-ko1cCQc1oMAg2JE2A/s1600/remax+van.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAEZNiviX6LU79Y3Ga-t82A1PWs1LXcN-wdrSGzLaBcG8JC1hgN0qhRE7Y23mM-oLOKQGAIPiGaj7ghnw7WsRIwXwJ7bMDU4d5rcRBIA7BIttdMsh_9_m5AiQb-ko1cCQc1oMAg2JE2A/s320/remax+van.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then he must have thought more about it and had even more Photoshop time on his
hands, because he came up with this:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5WTXUHsxoqk-C13dIc-8bQayabp6iCT-o6hLF_PxkTDdMcT7Hnp3ZK2-z-KPvaM4YV8i6nQcjpMwzJGPz5rC2FLP6ntUqke7_KB6rEoQk7sl1onzZ9EdyOs-O3c3Wg4pMx_1rCKzLtHE/s400/van2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even more fabulous TA-DAAAAA!!! And much less predator-like.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5WTXUHsxoqk-C13dIc-8bQayabp6iCT-o6hLF_PxkTDdMcT7Hnp3ZK2-z-KPvaM4YV8i6nQcjpMwzJGPz5rC2FLP6ntUqke7_KB6rEoQk7sl1onzZ9EdyOs-O3c3Wg4pMx_1rCKzLtHE/s1600/van2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">COME ON. That is amazing! I have several reactions to this suggestion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First of all, why in the hell didn’t I think
of that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a degree in advertising
for cripes sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Secondly, that is
quite a bit of Photoshop work on Pat’s part. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to go sniffing around my portraits on
my website and cut and paste them onto my van photo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He even has my SIGNATURE on my van door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am very excited about this idea and will
probably talk about it and think about it for quite some time before I do
anything about it because I’m more about talk than I am about action,
unfortunately.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, now you are up to date on why I haven’t been writing
this blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have NO BUSINESS writing in
it right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I miss writing it and
I hope someone has missed reading it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have a great portrait story I have been dying to tell you, but I felt like I
had to explain my blog famine first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m really going to get some work done now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe look at Facebook for an hour or
three.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-27710904538893494252013-04-29T10:58:00.001-07:002013-05-04T14:52:11.468-07:00The Dangers of Yell-telling<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has taken a very long time, but I am officially facing
the fact that I have an embarrassing chronic condition that affects my life and
the people around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</span>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAmdJzrGS2Fi6Vx5DB3Is2N8yK4E1_5KDlzPXk_OxYH1GA2UvB5o7dpw8pNJNgruMYAVPvwQvPHUr8lvcDgtP5NCJOfQdNy8vSRfEaWcenBx7Wel1fJJKJ8rlwj22_LR7mxv2JAnfKHo/s1600/2wendy09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAmdJzrGS2Fi6Vx5DB3Is2N8yK4E1_5KDlzPXk_OxYH1GA2UvB5o7dpw8pNJNgruMYAVPvwQvPHUr8lvcDgtP5NCJOfQdNy8vSRfEaWcenBx7Wel1fJJKJ8rlwj22_LR7mxv2JAnfKHo/s200/2wendy09.jpg" width="144" /></span></a></td></tr>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span> <div trtempbr="temp_br">
</div>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a million stories!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And they are all equally LOUD.</span></td></tr>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span></tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am too damn loud when I tell a story.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was a kid, I used to sit at the dinner table and tell
what I believed were hilarious/fascinating stories from my day at school that
required much gesturing and flailing around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/01/dinner-with-skip.html" target="_blank">My father</a> would wince and calmly say, in a deliberately low voice, “We’re
right here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you tone it down?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone in my Bunko group has witnessed this
phenomenon repeatedly, usually when I have accidentally hit someone or spilled
wine, although there are a couple other yellers, which doesn’t make me any
quieter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Any kind of a negative reaction to my tail-wagging loud
story-telling triggers my other wretched affliction about which I have regularly
blogged or shared directly to your face or on the phone or in the street to a
stranger. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hopelessly</i>
<a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/boo-hoo-water-balloons.html" target="_blank">oversensitive</a>.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The combination of the way I like to yell a story and my big
fat easily <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/boo-hoo-water-balloons.html" target="_blank">hurt feelings</a> has yielded many unfortunate circumstances.</span></div>
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<ol><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZHQXIXEZ8QhiGCIdXjvdmrhwDQKOzy1VBlZoERJMMTmgTPE2oUQAiF9NzhuwAwBL060G3N94ltZRGZDiQw779qy70w8VoPHlTlvXdiUnly-Y1OaPnMuw8Rreht5HQ1dDkHYI1jDlDz8/s1600/shhh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZHQXIXEZ8QhiGCIdXjvdmrhwDQKOzy1VBlZoERJMMTmgTPE2oUQAiF9NzhuwAwBL060G3N94ltZRGZDiQw779qy70w8VoPHlTlvXdiUnly-Y1OaPnMuw8Rreht5HQ1dDkHYI1jDlDz8/s1600/shhh.jpg" /></a>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span id="goog_796746901"></span><strong>Shame</strong>. Receiving an “N” for “needs improvement” on all grade
school report cards in any category relating to self control, behavior or
generally keeping my yap shut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></span></li>
<li><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">G</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">etting shushed</span></strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>.</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have a dear friend who regularly shushes <span id="goog_796746902"></span>me at parties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In small groups, if she is sitting near me,
she touches my hand or my leg under the table which is code for, “You are
interrupting again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why are you so loud?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the love of God, shut up and let someone
else talk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we were drinking wine on
my friend Lauri’s deck and I was telling an admittedly inappropriate
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was enjoying the crap out of telling
the story and hollering the funnier parts.<br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />"</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">SHHHHHH!!!!” my friend hissed at me from across the table, “The whole
neighborhood does NOT need to hear about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The funny thing was, I’d mentioned to Lauri
about 15 minutes before the shushing that our friend <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">always</b> shushes me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I glared
at Lauri and mentally texted her, “<em><strong>SEE</strong></em>??!!” Lauri made a sympathetic face that
did not disguise the fact that she enjoyed the entire exchange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sulked like a big baby for the rest of the evening
and eventually had to go into the kitchen to cry because I probably had too
much wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another friend followed me
into the kitchen to witness my humiliation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The memory of this whole episode gives me a stomachache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wine clearly exacerbates both of my conditions.<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Panic</strong>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve seen certain family members’ faces begin to change when trapped by my stories at a party, eyes darting around for an escape.<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Official complaints</strong>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">Joe</a> and I recently went out with two other couples for a birthday dinner at a fabulous restaurant called Ad-lib Geocafe. Guess what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was yelling a story again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my defense, I have no sense of anyone around me when I am yell-telling a story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all having a grand old time and unfortunately, the shusher was not there to assist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Excuse me,” interrupted a grumpy fellow patron, “but my husband and I are trying to have a romantic evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could you keep it down?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We giggled our apologies and she returned to her seat, TWO tables away, BEHIND me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My voice wasn’t even aimed in her direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all agreed that they should have stayed home if silence was key to their romance, but we all knew I’d gotten an N for self control again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How ladylike.<br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Dismissal</strong>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A manager of Giordano’s in Rosemont asked my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/irish-carnival-ride-at-apartment-21.html" target="_blank">college roommates</a> and me to leave because they were “closing” even though other patrons hadn’t received their food yet. <br /></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Dirty looks.</strong> Just the other day, <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/10/meep-moop-means-i-love-you.html" target="_blank">Vicki</a> and I were in Kenosha celebrating our friend Kim’s birthday at the Tilted Kilt. I thought the Tilted Kilt would be entertaining, but I found it disturbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that waitress cleavage and bare belly walking and/or jiggling around was sort of creepy and out of place with our club sandwiches and mom selves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vicki and Kim and I have been friends for more than 30 years and needless to say, I’m never on my best behavior with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Proceed with the yell-telling!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am often made aware of my volume when someone at another table makes direct eye contact with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The person looks pointedly at me while experiencing some combination of amusement and/or disgust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is embarrassing and alerts me to my loudness.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ugh!” I said to Vicki and Kim in a much lower voice, “I’m getting the stink eye!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Switch seats with me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We switched so there were only backs facing me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I revved back into my story and within a few seconds, someone TURNED COMPLETELY AROUND to see what in the hell was causing such a ruckus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DAMN IT!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I switched seats <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again</i> so that I was facing the back, empty corner of the restaurant.<br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I whined about being a constant freak in public while telling stories and my best friends covered me with their warm friendship acceptance blankets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They told me that they loved my stories and didn’t care what anyone else thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although Vicki did remind me that I got shushed at her gigantic spin class, even though the fans, bikes and instructor should have been loud enough to drown me out. Reassured by my wonderful friends, I proceeded to imitate the way that I meow at my dog and the crazy way he reacts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kim sighed and said, “Well, maybe I can see why people are giving you looks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re making some REALLY weird faces.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly I could see myself from the outside in and imagined my reaction if I saw some grown woman contorting her face and loudly meowing at a restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all threw our heads back and laughed, LOUD.</span></span></li>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></ol>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh well. Go ahead and stare, glare or shush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hurt feelings be damned, you know I’m yelling
the next story anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wendy Zumpano</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">www.pencilportraitcards.com</span></a></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div trtempbr="temp_br">
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</span></a></div>
</span><br />
<div trtempbr="temp_br">
<br /></div>
</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-3367878454350626292013-04-19T14:28:00.002-07:002013-09-17T07:51:22.778-07:00The Truth about Stephen and Henry<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I haven’t written a blog post in forever because I’ve been crazy
busy and there hasn’t been anything juicy to complain about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I’ve turned a corner?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I’m inspired to write about some
very special boys named Henry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When my sister in law, Karen, was pregnant with her first
baby, I was over the moon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I freaking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love </i>babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a baby shower at my house, and in an
effort to one-up myself, I also offered to take care of the new baby when Karen
returned to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">fired from my corporate job</a>, I was home <a href="vhttp://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">drawing</a> full time and my mother was with me almost
every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be great at it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the Cesar Millan of soothing crabby
babies at parties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I happily ignored the
alarm on my mother’s face when I announced that we were now a pencil portrait/daycare
biz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not a morning person, but I was excited to hold baby
Henry in my arms at 6:30 am when my brother in law, Alan, dropped him off for the
first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the end of the day, I made
dinner while snuggling my nephew at the same time like an old pro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I handed him back, I put dinner on the
table and excused myself to go upstairs so I could dramatically throw myself on
my bed and sob uncontrollably for five solid minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the following weeks I heard the same
thing from all my friends… “What in the hell were you thinking?”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOldSR5B4QsMcvNFL1JP5RlbMzfaBLaCCpm6WrRYrd-6ZPj6nGW9WAi9QiBEGkc0AK-yktiGH5y69q7SP_wY8_5fiUA947FyGimzlyn53cVVOQqe-KExKfFznGhINlHspQGW2kBZOK63g/s1600/IMG_0787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOldSR5B4QsMcvNFL1JP5RlbMzfaBLaCCpm6WrRYrd-6ZPj6nGW9WAi9QiBEGkc0AK-yktiGH5y69q7SP_wY8_5fiUA947FyGimzlyn53cVVOQqe-KExKfFznGhINlHspQGW2kBZOK63g/s200/IMG_0787.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sainted mother holding Henry<br />
while I am weeping somewhere.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had completely forgotten how hard new babies are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God bless you if you’ve got one, it’s a
nonstop job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards" target="_blank">business</a> to run, a
messy house to sort of clean, my own kids who needed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had bitten off way more than I could
chew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">My mother</a> was a godsend, helping
with Henry like he was her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made
it a month before Karen looked at me with concern and asked, “How <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are </i>you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I burst into tears when I admitted I couldn’t
handle it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Karen cried with me as we
agreed that babies were harder than either of us expected. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had wanted to show Karen and Alan how much I
loved them, to forge a close family bond that I crave so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead I disrupted things and stressed them
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were hesitant at first about
my recommendation of <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/09/wicked-tales-from-wonderful-world-of.html" target="_blank">our amazing sitter, Raquel</a>, who cared for my boys when I
worked out of the home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I breathed a
huge sigh of relief when they fell in love with her, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Babies are hard work, but toddlers can be even more
demanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when Henry didn’t reach
expected milestones, his attentive, intelligent parents worried and researched
and faced the diagnosis they had feared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Henry is autistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
immediate and constant call to arms for every possible resource and piece of
information to help their son has been nothing short of stellar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how often I tell them how impressed
I am, how lucky Henry is, there’s always doubt in their voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it enough?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Will he go to public school?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will
he be okay?</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJH_2zcSkZwdL5w2i8G4qm9fcABp9jA3T7Yu0iZ42Wj01-ZmmOGu1FQA5oXDVYlt7rL-vrjuP93R8ZQKBBejYkPpRF9A1n_UR2ay__LXiltQeTBCf8ACrOiJxCHP9Gj37BoAF_AQxhws/s1600/27913_4581297085209_1531923866_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJH_2zcSkZwdL5w2i8G4qm9fcABp9jA3T7Yu0iZ42Wj01-ZmmOGu1FQA5oXDVYlt7rL-vrjuP93R8ZQKBBejYkPpRF9A1n_UR2ay__LXiltQeTBCf8ACrOiJxCHP9Gj37BoAF_AQxhws/s200/27913_4581297085209_1531923866_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is no more room in here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As
if there wasn’t enough on their plates, my highly educated,
overworked in-laws unexpectedly added another baby boy to the family almost exactly a year
later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surprise!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here you go again. Now at 5 and 4 years old,
Henry and Mitchell are adorable together and I bet it has helped Henry immensely
to have a ready friend, even if Mitchell is usually running the show.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was recently asked by a wonderful repeat client to
draw a portrait for her son’s high school graduation, she attached a story to the email she sent with
his photo, called “The Truth about Stephen Henry.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I settled in to read about my new subject,
I discovered that Stephen had more in common with my nephew than a name.</span></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stephen’s mother Maureen chalked up some of his unusual baby
behavior to quirkiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But other worries she
shared with their pediatrician, hoping for guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“Stephen doesn’t want me to rock him to sleep.</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He’d rather lie </span>on<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> the floor and rock himself</span>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He cries uncontrollably when he hears sounds, or when he has
to wear certain clothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the babble
talk he had before age 2 has disappeared.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The </span>doctor <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">listen</span>ed<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> to Stephen's
chest and check</span>ed<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">
his ears and pronounce</span>d<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"> him healthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>He
told Maureen, <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“So,
he’s independent, so what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing wrong
with that</span>. He doesn’t like to wear clothes? <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like to wear a tie</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Stop comparing him to other children, he’ll catch up</span>.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Maureen knew something was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a preschool parent-teacher conference, she
sat in a preschool chair with her husband, rocked by a wave of denial and
relief when they heard the word “autism”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relief that someone had taken Stephen’s
struggles seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Denial that it <em>had</em>
to be something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evaluation after
evaluation, they heard the same curse, the same condemnation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So they went to work.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">made
three decisions early on; to learn as much as </span>they <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">could</span>,
to never remain silent, and to lean on other parents of autistic children in
support groups<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>They <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">read every boo</span>k, searched every
internet site, <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">attended
every conference</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They told
everyone, <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“Stephen
Henry has autism</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>W<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">e’re not
sure what that means exactly, but we know it is serious and we are telling you
now because we know we will need your understanding and support.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a single person ever turned </span>them <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">down, or
turned away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not family, friends, bosses,
or co-workers who helped pick up the slack so </span>they <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">could
take Stephen to his twice weekly therapy sessions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TpR97peV_jOqQ_-pEyHwoonSzVN9W0TupCqpzjg4vaEXG6TCgAoBkfZjXC6k2H1Eth5W9vyFIhOAiS9KfYWvlq7PgkOcsNaAZhWyEyLtSHp8-CFJor9-EdwVqkSNXbiwz3H7khHMBD0/s1600/autism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TpR97peV_jOqQ_-pEyHwoonSzVN9W0TupCqpzjg4vaEXG6TCgAoBkfZjXC6k2H1Eth5W9vyFIhOAiS9KfYWvlq7PgkOcsNaAZhWyEyLtSHp8-CFJor9-EdwVqkSNXbiwz3H7khHMBD0/s200/autism.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">learned
that autism is </span>a <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">developmental
disability which inhibits social behavior</span> and <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">affects a child’s language </span>and <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">ability
to learn</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">There is no known cause and there is no
cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>The rise of autism in
California <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">by
200% in the last five years</span> has been described <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">as “alarming”, “explosive” and
“epidemic”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>It seems everyone is touched
by autism, by children we love and who are loved by people we know.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTWpbdStAiCzaE7lk7qsCuZ7u9mzEC3SpavZ0GyGrlNvSFQJ_KvT5iqy6cKBukYW2vcO-N8AeNrMi1HCHwowjZ4S2RxQm82S0XAZiwc5Oh2uHIhKyh4ejocQI5-MHdgCR69u9HDCCblo/s1600/stephen+henry+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTWpbdStAiCzaE7lk7qsCuZ7u9mzEC3SpavZ0GyGrlNvSFQJ_KvT5iqy6cKBukYW2vcO-N8AeNrMi1HCHwowjZ4S2RxQm82S0XAZiwc5Oh2uHIhKyh4ejocQI5-MHdgCR69u9HDCCblo/s400/stephen+henry+card.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maureen and her family stayed positive and refused to be
discouraged. Wonderful teachers fought for Stephen every step of the way, while
others shook their heads in doubt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I
read Maureen’s story, I felt triumphant that Stephen is graduating from public
high school next month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drew his graduation portrait
with pride, honored to help celebrate his success.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I shared Stephen Henry’s story with Karen and Alan, thinking
it was so inspirational that they’d be wowed by my awesomeness (which is my
admittedly ridiculous hope about every move I make).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Recently, I asked Alan at lunch if I could write about his Henry in my
blog about Stephen Henry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said it was
fine and that people without an autistic child find stories like theirs
inspirational.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“For me,” Alan said
quietly, “it’s a glimpse of the very hard road that we have ahead of us.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want to believe it will get easier and easier for Karen
and Alan and Henry; he’s made such terrific progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mitchell is more of a handful
these days than his easy-going, sweet, big brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They work so hard to do all the right things
and to give their boys everything they need to thrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the not knowing what’s coming next that
is the hardest. Life with young kids is an alternating climb through grueling
and wonderful terrain in the easiest circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They post smiling pictures of their happy
boys and links to stories about autism that are both hopeful and
heart-wrenching, listing feelings of parents with special needs children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fear, loneliness, inadequacy.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am tempted to try and pretend that Max was enough of a
stinker as a little kid that I have some idea of what it might be like to face
a real parenting challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who
saw a three year old Max in action might even agree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s almost embarrassing to have had it
so easy when others have such a different, frightening road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It's not fair.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVa5MvCCukpc636SsAe9zar8ot7xBIMgv3n7bcvo9mKwQyEt-U4FoSlGSRyjzxepRJgWLAJilfRT1TlEqZaKM_987R0FhV4xtYf_4DZ_1hdt-3-bWDx8VWI-LXqJEdagRI_v5Hvt7ACE/s1600/559882_10200205988327152_1349189537_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVa5MvCCukpc636SsAe9zar8ot7xBIMgv3n7bcvo9mKwQyEt-U4FoSlGSRyjzxepRJgWLAJilfRT1TlEqZaKM_987R0FhV4xtYf_4DZ_1hdt-3-bWDx8VWI-LXqJEdagRI_v5Hvt7ACE/s320/559882_10200205988327152_1349189537_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<v:shape alt="559882_10200205988327152_1349189537_n.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_0" o:spid="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 138.45pt; margin-left: 265.1pt; margin-top: 58.4pt; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 184.95pt; z-index: 1;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
hope Karen and Alan and Henry and Mitchell know that we are always here for
them, even if I don’t reach out as often as I should. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while the hard road Stephen Henry travelled
may be daunting, I know our Henry will achieve amazing things, too, because he
has wonderful parents and professionals fighting for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He’s off to kindergarten this year, if Mitchell can bear to let
him go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-19465105838920045982013-01-21T09:52:00.000-08:002013-05-09T17:24:17.339-07:00Dinner with SkipOn Saturday night, Joe and I joined my parents and my dad's best buddy Skip for dinner. We got stuck at a table under a speaker in the bar section of the restaurant and the entire evening went like this:<br />
<br />
Waitress: Would you like a side dish with your ribs?<br />
My Dad: <em>What?</em><br />
Me: SHE WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU WANT A SIDE.<br />
My Dad: A what?<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">My Mom</a>: (blocks my dad's menu as she reaches across him to rearrange their water glasses, maybe to avoid spillage, maybe to stake out more personal water territory.)<br />
My Dad: (trying to see around my mom's arm) Scalloped potatoes.<br />
Waitress: What?<br />
<br />
My dad has come a long way. He was a very intense person for most of his life and rather terrifying to a frizzy-haired chubby girl with purple glasses and a full-time <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-dangers-of-yell-telling.html" target="_blank">outside voice</a> at the dinner table. I worked for him and with him for many years and after so many years of being in tense situations with him, it's a joy to see him throw back his head and laugh, hard, with his good friend. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRt19fmw4i12AUpz3IIK05IhOiHL5insWJlPfTFIxp2tnkjQzniJG6tEBUTIx6yOkkUTkiV3xDb_dVnGxONUod7xgdAt-m5drrB0GbUsdvROIcHDexL70Uf7n0rXlCYhtw9FBJq1I3XV8/s1600/2012-10-13+12.37.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRt19fmw4i12AUpz3IIK05IhOiHL5insWJlPfTFIxp2tnkjQzniJG6tEBUTIx6yOkkUTkiV3xDb_dVnGxONUod7xgdAt-m5drrB0GbUsdvROIcHDexL70Uf7n0rXlCYhtw9FBJq1I3XV8/s200/2012-10-13+12.37.49.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, let's hang out here <br />
for six hours! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I may have already bragged to you, my dad designed the moving walkway, like the one at O'Hare. My son Max chose to do his science fair project on the moving walkway as a tribute to his Papa. I enthusiastically supported this choice until I realized an experiment involving a walkway would require an actual walkway. Three round trips to the Milwaukee airport later, I was thinking maybe he could have watered plants with 7-Up and coffee for the science fair like his brilliant father, <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">Big Joe</a>. Or my choice of testing the flame resistance of pajamas by lighting them on fire. But I digress...<br />
<br />
My dad has invented all sorts of stuff and he knows how everything works. His friend Skip has known him for about 30 years, and as the owner of an auto service business, he's no slouch in the smarts dept either. <br />
<br />
Skip is a great big man with a bigger laugh and personality to match. I started working for my father when I was 14 and it seemed like Skip was around from the beginning. He was close friends with my dad’s former boss, who owned the machine shop where my dad first started his business.<br />
<br />
“Your dad came striding into the coffee room one day with a briefcase in one hand and a cigar in the other,” Skip once told me conspiratorially. “Your dad told me he needed some help with that old Toyota Corolla he had. He started telling me about the alignment being off and went into a long technical diatribe about his assessment of what was going on based on the angles of oversteering or understeering.”<br />
<br />
My father is a technical person and when it comes to fixing things, he’s the king. He kept my mother’s clothes dryer running for over 30 years, replacing every single part, which eventually required some serious appliance store detective work. “If you don’t want to know how a clock works,” I overheard someone once say, ”don’t ask him what time it is.” I knew exactly what Skip was talking about. <br />
<br />
“Your dad may have understood the physics behind it all, but he had no goddamn business telling me how to fix cars.” Skip barked with assurance. “I told him, ‘Dan, just give me the keys to that shitbox and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it.’ Now at the time, I didn’t know him that well. <br />
<br />
“Your dad… was…<i><b>pissed</b></i>.”<br />
<br />
No. Really? <em>My </em>dad?<br />
<br />
Skip laughed. “Your dad stood real still and stared at me. He hollered that his car may be a shitbox but he needed it fixed, and he slammed out of there. I couldn’t believe he’d yelled at me like that and I just sat there for a minute, stunned. I stewed about it for a bit and got more and more ticked off. I took off running for his office and I slammed his door behind me just as hard as he’d slammed the other one. Your dad was on the phone and glared at me while he ended his call. <br />
<br />
“I said to him, ‘Hey, look, asshole, I don’t care if you drive a Toyota or a Mercedes or a Rolls Royce, they’re all shitboxes to me! They all have engines, they all have brakes, I don’t care if they have tits, I still have to figure out what’s wrong. Just give me the goddamn keys to that shitbox and I’ll fix it!” <br />
<br />
My dad looked at Skip in surprise, leaned back and roared with laughter. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” he told Skip, wiping his eyes and handing him the keys. When my dad's brilliant mind hadn't realized the problem was a flat tire, a beautiful, twisted, Scotch-infused friendship was born.<br />
<br />
We had a fleet of limping cars, thanks to putting two kids through college while my dad was struggling to keep his computer consulting business afloat in the choppy waters of nonstop changing technology. My dad developed software to help run Skip's business and their friendship grew. During all the years I worked for my dad, Skip treated me like family. He always called me “sweetie” and told me jokes that were consistently foul and occasionally hilarious. I felt a special connection to him.<br />
<br />
When Skip heard that I had been <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">fired from my corporate job</a>, he wanted to help because he’s a fixer, like my dad. He called me out of the blue, asking me exactly what had happened so that he could use some connections to fight for the job I was supposed to get. I was touched. By that time, I was committed to trying to build my pencil portrait <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">art career</a> and I’d probably dodged a bullet by not starting a demanding, technical career. I was coming to terms with how severely my ADD compromises my ability to make it out of the house with keys and clothes on.<br />
<br />
So Skip ordered a portrait instead. <br />
<br />
He told me all about his long distance relationship with the love of his life. He'd had a rough road, unlucky in love, with nonstop challenges around every turn. When he and Teresa reconnected through email, after knowing each other for years, life felt complete. With demanding careers, they traveled together and Skip visited Teresa in Arkansas whenever he could, eventually buying a beautiful house together. <br />
<br />
During one trip, Skip was driving back to Teresa after visiting his son. On a dark, overcast night, he came upon a dump truck, parked in the middle of a little country road. "The guy’s story was that he’d stopped to talk to someone," Skip explained, "but I believe he’d gotten out to take a pee. The truck's tail lights were so dirty that you could only see a faint glow. When I came over the rise, I couldn’t see a thing until I was right on top of it. I swerved to the left to try and get around it and didn’t make it.”<br />
<br />
Skip hit the back of the dump truck going about 50 mph driving Teresa’s little Honda Accord. Being a big guy at 6’4, Skip’s knee was only about an inch from the dashboard and the impact forced his femur out the back of his pelvis, smashing his sciatic nerve. <br />
<br />
“I had to stay in Arkansas,” Skip told me, “I was going to be bedridden for months. I couldn’t walk at all. Teresa saw me through it all, the hospitalization, the surgery, taking me to physical therapy three times a week for the better part of a year. She cared for me constantly, bathing me, making sure I took medication. One time I developed blood clots and she rushed me to the hospital. She was my nurse and my salvation.” <br />
<br />
Skip suffers from permanent nerve damage, causing numbness and cramping. “I can’t feel my foot touch the gas pedal,” he says. “You know that tingling feeling you get when your foot falls asleep? It feels like that all the time, like pins and needles. It gets to the point where I can’t stand it. I can’t walk more than half a mile.” <br />
<br />
Still, Skip is stunned by his good fortune, that he’s alive, that he has this amazing woman by his side. Since he couldn't help me with my corporate job, he ordered a portrait celebrating their first ten years together, a collage of their favorite places they've visited. He wanted a special gift to show Teresa how much she meant to him.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIaPuGkkdeQ07uK4Oa79t4ohrb_G_ZNHS4ZlbwyaqikSq2Lh0Ffx14MMfsFXo_pjgaEJFzZBxFs55x5agYMHyxV_VoifnV2kDDGdERv7PTmn6JOJOOCcuA9t-1UIY_iQlOM3sC2VOPq-0/s1600/deedon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIaPuGkkdeQ07uK4Oa79t4ohrb_G_ZNHS4ZlbwyaqikSq2Lh0Ffx14MMfsFXo_pjgaEJFzZBxFs55x5agYMHyxV_VoifnV2kDDGdERv7PTmn6JOJOOCcuA9t-1UIY_iQlOM3sC2VOPq-0/s640/deedon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
It was the largest, most detailed portrait I'd drawn back then, and I was so grateful for the work - especially for somebody I loved. When I delivered the finished portrait to him, Skip gave me such a warm, wonderful, fatherly hug. He told me that I was talented, that he was proud of me. He'd wanted to help me, but I was so glad I made him happy too. They hung it in their office, over their computers... a sweet reminder of how they fell in love through emails. <br />
<br />
It looks like I forgot to sign it, though. <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF3RPZWt-5lVE6Y4mN2TX74J59mW2BuAFha02JJhzC0WXYVnStZ-ZmPw1tZh00LY6SQQBKJyD0RbQhcZ9bbjgEgBdCYbQCsWxGZaO52gniWF4f71DthVCULb4aI56fxowZgzwfSJEFg1A/s1600/P1000018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF3RPZWt-5lVE6Y4mN2TX74J59mW2BuAFha02JJhzC0WXYVnStZ-ZmPw1tZh00LY6SQQBKJyD0RbQhcZ9bbjgEgBdCYbQCsWxGZaO52gniWF4f71DthVCULb4aI56fxowZgzwfSJEFg1A/s320/P1000018.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solving the world's problems one beverage at a time.</td></tr>
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<div>
Over dinner, my dad showed Skip his photo retirement book I'd put together with messages from colleagues, clients, family and a few friends. Workaholics don't have a lot of time for friends. Skip has a two page spread in the book with great photo of them in Arkansas and a long funny story about my dad fixing a problem. He and Skip happily share war stories about their businesses, the state of the country and the times they've injured themselves. At one point, my dad was joking about the time he ripped his entire rotator cuff off his shoulder while stubbornly trying to start a power washer. He said it was tricky getting used to using his left hand for bathroom hygiene, if you know what I mean. </div>
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<div>
Skip, not missing a beat, said "I'm surprised you didn't invent a machine for that. Like maybe a corncob and a drill?" It took us all a solid minute or so to stop laughing, wiping our eyes and sighing with appreciation. Joe had never met Skip before and he got a huge kick out of seeing them swap puns and stories and hugs and laughter. Everyone deserves to really be known by a good friend and I'm so deeply grateful that my dad has Skip in his life.</div>
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Wendy Zumpano<br />
www.pencilportraitcards.com<br />
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-18937140834097608942013-01-11T09:00:00.000-08:002013-01-11T09:13:42.747-08:00I'd rather be procrasti-snuggling<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAAawdoMi3hAqZ2U7g9w13wZTi_fwsrKBcHydRzqiTpGNNKYoY99bWLqdoQhW-C0h8dqg4mV4hpfD0S2sS3eO8FH7DZuUeQ1EPT1LHXQYZO2j80SM16tAnP8J3wGNYGyH0ZmublXEZcw/s1600/cheezit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAAawdoMi3hAqZ2U7g9w13wZTi_fwsrKBcHydRzqiTpGNNKYoY99bWLqdoQhW-C0h8dqg4mV4hpfD0S2sS3eO8FH7DZuUeQ1EPT1LHXQYZO2j80SM16tAnP8J3wGNYGyH0ZmublXEZcw/s200/cheezit.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look away! I'm so ashamed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I considered making a list of resolutions as my first blog topic of 2013, but I've procrastinated too long. Plus I would forget about them and make myself feel bad when I blow them all off later. One resolution would unfortunately be, once again, to control my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/08/six-reasons-i-hate-facebook.html" target="_blank">Facebook game playing</a>. I stayed away for quite awhile with impressive and uncharacteristic restraint. But over break I allowed myself some wine, Cheez-its and Bejeweled. And by some I mean a lot. Honestly, that combination is my own patented brand of crack. If <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">my husband Joe</a> didn't announce it was time for bed, I would burn through an alarming amount of Cheez-its.<br />
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<br />
Which of course leads us to diet and exercise and self control and all those other annoying resolution-type spankings that I will spare myself.<br />
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<br />
My son Max has enthusiastically inherited my love of procrastination. For the most part, he does his homework right after school like I've Nazi-drilled into his blond head in high-stepping upstairs fashion. He always comes in my room to say hello before he gets started and we lay on my bed and talk about his day. That boy is the best snuggler ever, and he knows it. Snuggling is my kryptonite. Plus, that kid can stretch out a story. Eventually I call him on his stalling tactics. He calls it procrasti-snuggling. <br />
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<br />
Speaking of stalling, it's time to apply to <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">art shows</a>. Mostly, my job as a <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portrait artist</a> is a lovely trifecta of comfy pants, working on the computer and drawing someone's special something while watching trash TV. It is a delicious life and I'm grateful for it. Because most of my days are very much the same comfortable routine, when I have to do something different and slightly more challenging, I am outraged. I stomp around and dramatically announce how much I do NOT want to do whatever it is while Joe tries to ignore me. Such as:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Prepare for a show and count inventory of prints, mats and frames. I wouldn't have to do this if I were more organized. But I'm not.</li>
<li>Pack up all my crap for a show and go set it up somewhere while sweating/freezing/worrying whether it will be worth said time/sweat/shivers.</li>
<li>Pay my sales taxes or do anything money related.</li>
<li>Make adjustments to a finished portrait when my client gives me helpful feedback like "Why is my dad so fat in this drawing? I mean, I know he's fat, but could you make him less fat? On second thought, here's a different photo of him." <em>Grrrr.</em></li>
<li>Apply to art shows.</li>
</ol>
<br />
When I first got <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">canned from my corporate job</a>, and decided to give my drawing hobby a full-time go, I started out doing little craft shows near my home in the far north Chicago suburbs. Little by little I improved my display and applied to fancier shows. I've dipped my toe into fine art fairs for the last few years. I still feel like I don't know what the hell I'm doing. <br />
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<br />
Some of my fellow fine art exhibitors have displays that looks like freaking galleries. Carpets on the floor, beautiful polished wooden display racks, walls like a museum. I'm rocking some white mesh walls that cost me $750 five or more years ago. They are getting dirty and dingy. I used to have my portraits in plastic, dinged up frames. Now I use frames with real glass in them, even if some of them are still rather dinged up. If I want to run with the fine art crowd, I really need to step up my game.<br />
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<br />
Fine art shows require photos of your work and a photo of your set up so a jury of artists can decide whether you're up to snuff. I've drawn a lot of stuff so I have to figure out which portraits to submit. Most of my portraits are of other people's stuff so do I submit portraits of adorable kids or of my Chicago scenes that are more marketable? What are these jury people going to like better? I DON'T <em>KNOW</em>. <br />
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<br />
I keep forgetting to take photos of my booth when I'm actually working, so all my booth photos have been taken in my driveway or yard on consistently overcast days, accompanied by my very best bitching and whining while setting it all up. Fortunately I have some beginner's Photoshop skills, so I can play around with the photo and try to improve it. Here's this year's driveway photo:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZoJ6ECRUeAWugoScY0_iLr7sG28IfELXO97RrqY1BpR6kMcmcHb53VAZbFpbQU8nloVKP0CHnVoE8STnlJEGGo2ncLw3j0LT6MSKXeCTnGzpK5jv6HfEecN_BKxp_7lm9jBJkYn_Mv4/s1600/2012+booth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZoJ6ECRUeAWugoScY0_iLr7sG28IfELXO97RrqY1BpR6kMcmcHb53VAZbFpbQU8nloVKP0CHnVoE8STnlJEGGo2ncLw3j0LT6MSKXeCTnGzpK5jv6HfEecN_BKxp_7lm9jBJkYn_Mv4/s320/2012+booth.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If only I could Photoshop the scuffs off the walls in my house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="goog_1837189030"></span><span id="goog_1837189031"></span><br />
I am worried about this photo. I have no fancy carpeting. The frames are different types/sizes. Does that matter??? Oh worra worra.<br />
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Now I need to review the spreadsheet of art shows that I look at every year. Good shows are getting more and more expensive... up to $600, plus an application fee, just to show up. If it pours rain or nobody shows up or a twister comes and mangles all my stuff, too bad for me, it's still $600+. I used to sign up for shows willy-nilly and as the booth fees came due, Joe would have a mild conniption. <br />
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVD6_WAXjk8nHRq7kIO0QYZVeRUGnsCRPEcX7OjHa2ixq2yNs1BeDCoHk_3ByM-6NPVINiG6G8x2m0pTNyD4Qr6Ia5hPJRFeJMXO6CG6B8cbedm_GUpkANbOIF1fJ-z6Q5BatDNNTIcJ4/s1600/joe+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVD6_WAXjk8nHRq7kIO0QYZVeRUGnsCRPEcX7OjHa2ixq2yNs1BeDCoHk_3ByM-6NPVINiG6G8x2m0pTNyD4Qr6Ia5hPJRFeJMXO6CG6B8cbedm_GUpkANbOIF1fJ-z6Q5BatDNNTIcJ4/s200/joe+small.jpg" width="198" /></a>Whenever Joe would question the art show fees racking up on my business credit card (a new one at 0% every 18 months or so), I would get all defensive and freaked out, proclaiming my need for some sort of marketing. How are people going to hire me to draw their <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/page7.php" target="_blank">cats</a> and/or chubby family members if they can't find me anywhere? <br />
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<br />
The key to managing Joe's stress level is preparation and communication. We sit down together now and review my choices and he sometimes suggests a more aggressive schedule than I'd choose on my own. He's helped me at some of the busier shows and he knows that they're more expensive for a reason. But damn, it's hard to know which shows are the right ones to choose. <br />
<br />
<br />
That time is now. Like <em>right </em>now while I'm procrasti-blogging. Most of the fine art shows I've done have been Amdur Productions shows and the deadline is midnight <strong>TONIGHT</strong>. Way to stall! Max would be proud. Joe is working from home today, but he has meetings nonstop. We'll figure it out, we always do. I'll panic about the money and he will be level-headed and encouraging and help me choose some portrait images. I'll worry that I won't be accepted... I'll cringe about the money. I'll feel panicked about my booth photo. I'll announce that I need a corporate job again with a regular paycheck.<br />
<br />
<br />
Becoming a professional full time artist has been a step at a time. Applying to shows, paying thousands of dollars in booth fees, schlepping my Durango full of art stuff out into the elements... it's all the stuff I hate doing because I'm lazy. But, the unpleasant work is what makes the stories happen. All the sweet stories behind the portraits that make it all worthwhile. Portraits of families, precious young faces, weathered beloved ones, bright eyes peeking out of fur. Homes full of memories, moments in time when it's all going by so fast.<br />
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<br />
People are so full of love and they want to show it in amazing ways and I get to be a part of it. That's worth putting on pants with an actual zipper and getting some work done. <br />
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But maybe a little procrasti-snuggling with Max first.<br />
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Wendy Zumpano<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-71129566121272301552012-12-08T11:52:00.002-08:002013-08-12T07:14:42.876-07:00A stinky Christmas Carol<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other day we watched the second of <em><strong>four</strong></em> of our couches
get clawed, lifted and crunched by the garbage truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m glad to see them go, although they’ve each
seen some very interesting and varied action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am not very pleased about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i>
they went. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As my holiday gift to you, I’d like to share a very
important rule for pet owners of which we were sadly unaware.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQfXy5rqICcT1HMN3ntAe7VMdi7sU7WaCKkMd6VYYNW87zW_0Vo6jAvdqf4Rk-N6dVEkIh3O8wOPd0RdVZsDsL8zmmpm2t_jNWTm-19lLH8dOzLXCwGEKI5nH1nNY4XhAVyvPeSpxCcAc/s1600/skunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQfXy5rqICcT1HMN3ntAe7VMdi7sU7WaCKkMd6VYYNW87zW_0Vo6jAvdqf4Rk-N6dVEkIh3O8wOPd0RdVZsDsL8zmmpm2t_jNWTm-19lLH8dOzLXCwGEKI5nH1nNY4XhAVyvPeSpxCcAc/s200/skunk.jpg" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pepe le Bastard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If your dog gets sprayed by a skunk… <strong>do not immediately let
him into your house</strong> so that he can sprint around, crop dusting your home and belongings
with foulness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A couple weeks ago, our dog Bullock trotted out into our backyard
for a quick pee and sniff, only to immediately get sprayed in the ear by a
skunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt there was time for
peeing, but there was much manic yipe-ing and dog hysteria, causing <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">my husband Joe</a> to
open the door to investigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a
completely reasonable reaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
possibly much less reasonable to refrain from slamming the door in horror at the wall of
stink that rushed in like a funky apocalypse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The dogs are accustomed to rocketing up the deck stairs and into the house as
if they are in the race of their lives and perhaps they scampered in before Joe
even realized what was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve later read and heard that it is a good idea to wash
your dog with a much posted and celebrated </span><a href="http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/skunk.htm" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">anti-skunk concoction</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OUTSIDE</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe multiple times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead,
Joe and I washed Bully in our master bath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>More than a week later, my son Joey referred to our bathroom as “ground zero.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY3ToL1AY2lS939_IKE1rCqwKbACJM1IRVoK5Cn9WIZgKBhvjbOolInPS1enTmePt_z-VtqK_Qf0mw-TJjCFShaqYlRcpOhuPn8OmdfK1fDbdly842m-EVq06GhrbLpmsP09MWj0MWRWQ/s1600/bad+smell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY3ToL1AY2lS939_IKE1rCqwKbACJM1IRVoK5Cn9WIZgKBhvjbOolInPS1enTmePt_z-VtqK_Qf0mw-TJjCFShaqYlRcpOhuPn8OmdfK1fDbdly842m-EVq06GhrbLpmsP09MWj0MWRWQ/s200/bad+smell.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Please kill me.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sort of don’t mind an outside skunk smell as you’re
driving along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gets your attention,
everyone agreeably identifies the weird, strangely sweet stank as skunk, maybe
a “phew” or two is uttered and it’s a nice little bonding experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a skunk sprays someone or something that
lives in your house, it’s a whole other deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That kind of skunk smell is airborne HELL.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It smells like diseased werewolf scrotum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently, one of Bullock’s first miserable resting spots,
before semi-permanently polluting our bathroom, was on our leather family room
couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the next week or so, we sprayed fresh sprays and cleaned
and deodorized as best we could, but that couch sucked up the skunkness like you
know who with </span><a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">wine and cheezits</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
favorite spot on the couch is right next to the end table, near Joe’s
recliner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each time one of us sat in that
beloved polecat position, a whuff of gutrot would come shooting up out of the
couch and we’d leap gagging back up like we’d been goosed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> E</span>xcept Max who really was not all that
bothered by it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poor Joey woke up the
morning after the skunking armageddon with a broken nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was all so smelly you didn’t really realize where it was coming
from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sat in the skunky couch spot
watching TV and I drove him to school, not even realizing that he’d been
marinating in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As his classmates
began to freak out around him in the hall, poor Joey immediately changed into
gym clothes and suffered through a whole day of questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has post
traumatic stink disorder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of
mother am I to send a smelly gigantic child to school?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet another bullet point for his future
therapist to assess and hold against me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On second thought, Joey kind of deserves it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Joe came upstairs with his surprise stinkbomb,
Joey and I were watching TV together while I was </span><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">drawing</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of offering assistance, Joey fled
like a little girl and hid in his room for the rest of the night while Joe and I began
the Stinkapalooza ’12 battle of our lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a bit of an overactive nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our other dog, Duncan, rides the doggy short
bus and is basically a special needs dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If nobody is around to notice that he needs to go outside, he cheerfully
pees in a corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of his favorite
places to pee is on our computer desk where I used to spend a shameful amount of
time with </span><a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/08/six-reasons-i-hate-facebook.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Facebook games</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, wine and my snack of choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would constantly complain that I smelled
pee until Joe bought a fancy carpet cleaner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I still smell pee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus Duncan sometimes
poops under the dining room table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
once had a semi-celebrity client pick up a pencil portrait while I was buying power
carpet pet de-smeller stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She beat me
home and Joe claimed that she made a lot of disgusted sniffing/coughing noises
while waiting for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the
things I relive over and over, mentally writhing in nonstop shame shudders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been regularly paranoid about Duncan pee
and/or poop smells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this…<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Bully skunk smells were far more worth complaint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And God knows, I can complain. </span>I announced every ten minutes that I still
smelled skunk until Joe fantasized about beating me with a shovel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After accidentally sitting in the skunk spot
for the 20<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> time, Joe had heard enough complaining and I’d endured
enough skunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was time
to buy a new couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Considering the
stinky leather couch had a broken arm (thanks to two rough boys) and a million
little scratches and rips (thanks to two scrabbling dogs), I was glad to see it
go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d been meaning to buy a couch for
our basement anyway, so Joe and I headed out to a local cheap furniture store
for the next pieces of furniture in a long line of upholstery to be ruined by the Zumpano family asses.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We chose two sectionals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The love seat in our family room which had escaped
the worst of the skunk wrath, would replace the scratched up couch in the front
of the house where I greet my </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">pencil portrait clients</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our downstairs couches, lovingly given to us
by <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/10/meep-moop-means-i-love-you.html" target="_blank">Vicki</a> when she moved and promptly destroyed by our inevitable destruction
(we’re rough on things), the broken smelly couch and the scratched up business
couch all went into a holding cell in the garage and out to the curb one at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a good time joking about what would happen
if some hapless curbside shopper picked up “Ol Skunky”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How soon before it would return to the curb,
perhaps with an angry note attached?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The garbage man (wearing industrial gloves, thank goodness) dragged Ol Skunky away from the curb and the claw arm
flung it into the hopper where it released one last stinky poof of a death
rattle as it was crunched up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Rot in
hell, Ol Skunky!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate you!” I yelled
in triumph.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The front room couch, which is a burgundy leather, is a
perfect couch except for its “distressed” treatment by eight long-nailed little
feet leaping on and off of it for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You might want to check our curb if you’re interested.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We waited for our new couches like it was Christmas morning, only to have the family room sectional show up too big for the room and with two right armed ends and the basement sectional unable to fit down the stairs. A beautiful Christmas miracle moment all hosed up in Zumpano style. We are currently waiting for the replacements. You can come over for the holidays without any fear of remaining skunkiness. I hope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Merry Christmas!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope
you have a stink-free new year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(P.S. I know I said that the last post had to be my last of 2012 because of my crazing drawing schedule, but you deserved a little extra Pencil Envy love.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wendy Zumpano</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-54067190782368074312012-11-10T10:54:00.001-08:002012-11-10T11:19:44.175-08:00Christmas Card Wars<br />
<br />
Before I worked for the small company that <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">fired me</a>, I had a brief stint working for a <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/confessions-of-corporate-flirt.html" target="_blank">big company</a>. Once while lunching in the employee cafeteria, back when my pencil portraits were a hobby and not my <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">full time gig</a>, I tried to convince my coworker Laurie to let me draw her twins. And by twins, I mean her children, not her boobs, as my husband would automatically suggest. (In a house full of men, you have to roll with the "that's what he said" punches.) Laurie was politely interested, which meant she was in <strong>no way </strong>going home to dig through photos, bring them back to work and cough up cash. But she made some maybe noises and it’s hard for me to back off when I’m getting a buying sign. In my frenzy to force her into envisioning a gorgeous portrait of her twin boys, I blurted out, “I could even scan the portrait and print it on Christmas cards!”<br />
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<br />
“OH. MY. <em>GOD</em>,” breathed my friend, “That would be… spectacular.”<br />
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<br />
And she meant it. Women can be a bit competitive about Christmas cards. It’s our time to show off our families and act like life is GREAT, even if it is messy or borderline disastrous. If you’re like me, you even go that extra annoying step and include a newsy letter touting whatever good stuff you’ve got going on, most of which is not newsworthy by anyone else’s standards (let's leave my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/08/six-reasons-i-hate-facebook.html" target="_blank">Facebook game playing</a> OUT of it, though). Sorry, that’s how we roll.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubgGNoLFdDgYmZNm1CxnqqqlPeHxPfUm420ljRhXHmckbJ4ss_wjvww6BBuqWGUIBAH0a-nahGcHAmObRdVguZGAPspqmnHyimesMa_sORDCVcIgSqCpG_bg2mYT4nCbhMYhZFVfLpzw/s1600/card1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubgGNoLFdDgYmZNm1CxnqqqlPeHxPfUm420ljRhXHmckbJ4ss_wjvww6BBuqWGUIBAH0a-nahGcHAmObRdVguZGAPspqmnHyimesMa_sORDCVcIgSqCpG_bg2mYT4nCbhMYhZFVfLpzw/s200/card1.jpg" width="161" /></a>Laurie never bothered to order a portrait, but an idea was born. I have printed several kabillion Christmas cards (one client ordered 370 – who knows that many people?), birth announcements, invitations, address changes, any piece of mail that can be enhanced with a photo can have a magnificent pencil portrait slapped on it. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig7M3PtEolKTV_Od799J1ti8p-q5Sf-M_q9Cw68r1hH23PJ_qg4fJLheIdJx0rYKDiLl4Csogk966i_lRNmpElnR1GktKcEW3sPdJSjntkDflAF4F_hwBQFtq_EALdn8xolcS1bh0f-fg/s1600/card2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig7M3PtEolKTV_Od799J1ti8p-q5Sf-M_q9Cw68r1hH23PJ_qg4fJLheIdJx0rYKDiLl4Csogk966i_lRNmpElnR1GktKcEW3sPdJSjntkDflAF4F_hwBQFtq_EALdn8xolcS1bh0f-fg/s200/card2.jpg" width="200" /></a>And here's where I'm gleefully rubbing my hands together and giggling... my website address is on the back of every card. Ta dahhh!!! The recipient often knows the subject of the portrait, so it is a particularly good way to sell my accuracy. What better marketing is that? Plus a portrait becomes much more lucrative when I am selling multiple copies of it. I once had an order from Denmark when someone received a portrait Christmas card from a client. Me likey! <br />
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I’ve sent portrait Christmas cards almost every year featuring my boys. Sometimes I’ll see my cards stuck to refrigerators more than a year later or even displayed in a picture frame. They seem to have a longer shelf life than cards with glittery sleigh scenes or Rudolph drunk on eggnog or the Shutterfly photo cards that everyone is doing now. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLcbi-sBEJvujZhY0XCd4gnkB8LA0im_RhS5gA2zha2JtJ1DUw4hhjJh7vio7Ay_qrXEkbHopnby_u3sCvl1aZwUaJ8SusC8IEO-e6zD9qaAq2QrDivYuRYz9OZHZi_KUNilEBgb5HDU/s1600/card3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLcbi-sBEJvujZhY0XCd4gnkB8LA0im_RhS5gA2zha2JtJ1DUw4hhjJh7vio7Ay_qrXEkbHopnby_u3sCvl1aZwUaJ8SusC8IEO-e6zD9qaAq2QrDivYuRYz9OZHZi_KUNilEBgb5HDU/s200/card3.jpg" width="200" /></a>One client, who had sent out about 200 Christmas cards, called me shortly after she’d sent them out to report that she’d received 52 messages on her answering machine about the cards. That's awesome, but where are those people and why aren’t they calling me? That client actually contacted me herself because she’d received a Christmas card. It’s like Partylite or Southern Living! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuJR8wkih0yaS9_I8wg5JQrVW1ViND94X6mTiJOdsIRNxXoeXwgdpJ2mGsVpgSTrIMwpM7u0k5gVyEHMedbdxvJDWO93IFpU_jYN1F9GmufbmZyTeMA4ITSDTFO-8T1qqTLtKYzfupII/s1600/card6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuJR8wkih0yaS9_I8wg5JQrVW1ViND94X6mTiJOdsIRNxXoeXwgdpJ2mGsVpgSTrIMwpM7u0k5gVyEHMedbdxvJDWO93IFpU_jYN1F9GmufbmZyTeMA4ITSDTFO-8T1qqTLtKYzfupII/s200/card6.jpg" width="200" /></a>When I first started sending my own portrait Christmas cards, I had a full time job and drew my kids for fun or maybe for<a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank"> my mother</a> as a gift. After almost eight years of marketing full time, I don’t always make the time to draw them. Like this year... I had a plan to draw the boys as a gift but it didn't happen so if you're on my card list, now you're just going to have to be satisfied with something else.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ifcVW4LOcBEBzedq_FG5eWmzuWLw97AZRvXU1PIHeHFMltGi6Fy9aZVq6_DP1GG2eIEgVI7DCstFLyrvGyMJ2GX3p31iJFavFNF8p6V5NIHcNS2TSCn3nas4HrdmllSs1TYdapJ9_Xc/s1600/card7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ifcVW4LOcBEBzedq_FG5eWmzuWLw97AZRvXU1PIHeHFMltGi6Fy9aZVq6_DP1GG2eIEgVI7DCstFLyrvGyMJ2GX3p31iJFavFNF8p6V5NIHcNS2TSCn3nas4HrdmllSs1TYdapJ9_Xc/s200/card7.jpg" width="200" /></a>A long time ago, I attempted to write and illustrate a children’s book. I used my kids as models for a few illustrations, but pooped out on the project when I decided that the story wasn’t good enough. I am a big fantasizer and talker, but not always the queen of follow through, as you know.<br />
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<br />
The illustrations were lying around accusingly and I decided to use them for that year’s Christmas card:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYX2fnPuBCae1aGKKhyphenhyphenUINMoBJnFtK7qTkFSEqltHEvcUBhutfoXXD6OUnf-pRTDidamqmpLm2DSkONB25UH2FfX7OowUQA-mQaFkzJFyGhgzQE-0VY4sHgRnvcmYwTZTCVXcYToKv-4/s1600/card4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYX2fnPuBCae1aGKKhyphenhyphenUINMoBJnFtK7qTkFSEqltHEvcUBhutfoXXD6OUnf-pRTDidamqmpLm2DSkONB25UH2FfX7OowUQA-mQaFkzJFyGhgzQE-0VY4sHgRnvcmYwTZTCVXcYToKv-4/s320/card4.jpg" width="320" /></a>In my story, a little brother hated being left behind by his big brother and the big brother hated being held back by his little brother. It wasn’t Pulitzer material, but I thought it might be something that both siblings and parents would relate to and enjoy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmx-e1OAnVTIOiv2cImFBDVUqGqvQ7rW6UIexJjO1-_cIxYb8xIy4VmBHeiSH2SPgrrErjyQo5zlUY9TXt7iOBGDCnE2xUH46oOE-vzX2jt17rPKMC9MKWM31dqdttz26nZfA0-U0c1Y/s1600/card5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmx-e1OAnVTIOiv2cImFBDVUqGqvQ7rW6UIexJjO1-_cIxYb8xIy4VmBHeiSH2SPgrrErjyQo5zlUY9TXt7iOBGDCnE2xUH46oOE-vzX2jt17rPKMC9MKWM31dqdttz26nZfA0-U0c1Y/s320/card5.jpg" width="302" /></a>Max was really crying hard about something and in one of my less than proud parenting moments, I snapped a photo of him to use for this drawing. Joey was probably legitimately pissed off and pouting about something else. I added some drawings of them jumping on the bed to the inside of the card. </div>
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<br />
I have a booming-voiced neighbor who is rather outspoken and, frankly, can be terrifying at times. Shortly after I’d sent this card, she stopped by my house while walking her dog and said, “I got your Christmas card. The front of it was creepy.” <br />
<br />
<br />
Nice.<br />
<br />
<br />
Considering I hadn’t intentionally drawn the pictures for a card in the first place, I hadn’t spent a ton of time analyzing it, I just thought it was funny. I was so flustered that she’d called my kid and my artwork, or both, “creepy,” I didn’t even know what to say. She seemed to realize that perhaps it wasn’t the friendliest, most neighborly thing she could have said and began an awkward attempt to un-say it, which made it worse for both of us. I will never look at that card again without hearing the creepy comment in my head, and sort of agreeing with it.<br />
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<br />
Two years into my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">full-time artist</a> extravaganza, I had absolutely no time for drawing my kids for a card. I need to draw them in the summer, when my workload is slower, but I am sometimes too busy drinking margaritas and buying flip-flops. So I had the cutesy idea to have my boys and <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">my husband Joe </a>draw our Christmas card. That way it would still be a portrait card, sort of. <br />
<br />
<br />
I asked Joey and Max to draw each one of us, on a separate piece of paper, so I could pick drawings from each of them to scan and digitally combine. I tasked Joe with drawing Bullock, our rat terrier/miniature pinscher mix, who we adopted from a shelter. Before we had kids, Joe and I bought an enormous Alaskan Malamute from a breeder. Niro was sweet and stupid and produced messes similar to having a retarded adult man crapping in the back yard. I wasn’t interested in having more pets after Niro met his maker. It was terribly sad when he died and really… nobody in a democratic country should have to clean up that kind of natural disaster for long if they have bigger dreams.<br />
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<br />
But a little dog… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad? As soon as I gave my husband the slightest inkling that I was weakening, he went into a frenzy, deciding on the name (not after Sandra, after Seth Bullock from the HBO show Deadwood) and frantically researching shelters. In his defense, I can change my mind quickly and he had to move.<br />
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<br />
Bullock turned all four of us into baby-talking fools. We adore him. I asked Joe to draw Bullock because the kids tend to draw dogs that look like toilet paper rolls on sticks. My Joe puts up with many annoying requests from me and he obediently took to the task. Joe sticks his tongue out like Michael Jordan when he is concentrating and spent a good 15 minutes with his tongue poking, painstakingly drawing his portrait of Bullock. <br />
<br />
<br />
I set myself up. I am a perfectionist and I’d wanted Bullock to be drawn standing up so I could pose him with the kids’ other drawings of us, which I didn’t communicate to Joe. He drew a close up instead, which looks like a deranged cat with a penis for a nose. <br />
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Bullock looks nothing like this.</td></tr>
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I laughed out loud when Joe proudly unveiled it to me and I hurt his feelings. He snatched it back from me and looked at it incredulously, announcing, “This is the best thing I have ever drawn.” He got in a bit of a huff and stomped off, accusing me of not recognizing good art when I see it.<br />
I hurriedly drew Bullock for the card, the way I’d wanted him to look and Joe was outraged that I’d rejected his fine artistic contribution. <br />
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“I can’t believe you aren’t going to use my awesome drawing,” he sulked.<br />
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Finally, I put the penis cat on the inside of the card next to the greeting, “Hope your Christmas is picture perfect.” Joe was somewhat appeased, but still pissed. <br />
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Happy holidays!</div>
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Wendy Zumpano</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-15760609235261116172012-10-27T13:31:00.002-07:002012-11-01T07:43:12.115-07:00"Meep-moop" means I love you<br />
Blogging about my client’s sister last entry got me thinking about family. There are different kinds of family and sometimes friends can be the family you choose for yourself.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQbNvypuA0voymkvvr95YtglO8TolN8P27IX_GFrhKhm9frtApMfoK8M7JBaepb98hK_s3N4nFAmEo4bfRaHIwcFFfbNF-FaPyfuHysbcYnFnAuQobxf3DnqnMB9yeEnH7fXL2l3IKvw/s1600/new874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQbNvypuA0voymkvvr95YtglO8TolN8P27IX_GFrhKhm9frtApMfoK8M7JBaepb98hK_s3N4nFAmEo4bfRaHIwcFFfbNF-FaPyfuHysbcYnFnAuQobxf3DnqnMB9yeEnH7fXL2l3IKvw/s200/new874.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
My first memory of Vicki is from junior high, before it was called middle school. To me, “junior high” sounds cooler than middle school, which sounds like middle aged kids having middle aged kid crises. Vicki and I toppled into puberty around the same time. Some of the pushy, strangely confident girls in our gym class made us stand back to back in the locker room so they could compare our boobs. I was horrified. Vicki thought it was funny. And so began the dearest friendship of my life with my sister friend, my confidante, my person. Her boobs were bigger than mine then, and they still are. She continues to take everything in stride, while I still seize up with <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">worry</a>. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bhgKk85ifT0-C43DdBWHAZt9flNvzTPSFBZ0QTijrsdIFSmDp8_vo4vBYbdQN_Rr4fmCm8K3y5cpw8_M_ELH8yVZ1OP3mtbXtrK6Bf7KJ9AfR_At8X3yRHf8u3BiV64ijgLID4XePMY/s1600/photo+booth784.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-bhgKk85ifT0-C43DdBWHAZt9flNvzTPSFBZ0QTijrsdIFSmDp8_vo4vBYbdQN_Rr4fmCm8K3y5cpw8_M_ELH8yVZ1OP3mtbXtrK6Bf7KJ9AfR_At8X3yRHf8u3BiV64ijgLID4XePMY/s640/photo+booth784.jpg" width="127" /></a>I don’t remember when our friendship eased away from being fellow uneasy in-betweeners on the periphery of more popular girls and into full fledged best friendship. Looking back, I don’t think that either of us felt entirely accepted, although we both treaded social water with the feathered alpha dogs as best we could. We threw each other a neon 1980’s life preserver and clung to each other during good times and bad for the next thirty plus years. <br />
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The 80’s were an awesome and yet dangerous time to become teenagers. Our parents weren’t all that concerned about what we were doing or where we were, as long as we didn’t get caught. There were no cell phones to check in, no internet to point out the hazards. I rode my bike seven hot summer miles down a busy highway to Vicki's house. I’d flop, exhausted and sweating, on her couch where her spazzy dog would jump up and pee on me. I'd borrow a clean shirt, and we'd walk to Taco Bell, where we would pollute ourselves silly.<br />
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Remembering some of our teen shenanigans makes me shudder and consider installing LoJacks on both of my children. We wandered and experimented and made stunningly risky choices, usually followed by long, tears-streaming, belly laughs. I think we only saw Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight once, but we successfully used it as a late night excuse for all sorts of other secrets.<br />
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My only real date to a high school dance was thanks to one of many visits to Columbia, Missouri, where Vicki spent summers with her dad. We’d cruise up and down “the loop”, gaping out car windows at cute boys, pretending not to be interested when they shouted suggestive come-ons at us. We were 17 years old and lucky not to be dragged into an empty lot somewhere. We met a slew of boys and it was all sort of innocent, but sort of not. My Missouri souvenir boyfriend had a southern accent, a full beard and I dated him through prom until college, when I promptly dumped him.<br />
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Vicki visited me at <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/irish-carnival-ride-at-apartment-21.html" target="_blank">U of I</a> while she was taking her twisty, winding path through growing up. Her father was in the Navy and she moved constantly as a child; a habit she's kept. As we became young adults, Vicki was so utterly gorgeous that it was sometimes annoying to be her friend. We’d be out at bars and guys would smile at me sheepishly after Vicki shot them down. “Okay. Well… how about you, then?” they’d ask me dejectedly, trying not to be too obvious about lowering the bar. Vicki earned a degree in social work, modeled awhile, got a degree in nursing. She had tumultuous crazy relationships with the guys who adored her and/or wanted to kill her. She could wreak havoc when she wanted to, driving her mother and boyfriends nuts on cue. There was just no stopping her when she made up her mind.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7_MIeC_XPo7CuM_qv_8wTvMAW2a22zJgzqoc8JW_VDxl7ArAgLHc4lK4g8s3ypMrCq9aztF9nym2DcJL2yFrNJzGkaIXqpVpiyt8dn4zQfbmmJugQhbX92fBHh_tDEZ8ut8iK6oQ_Rs/s1600/vic+me+grad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7_MIeC_XPo7CuM_qv_8wTvMAW2a22zJgzqoc8JW_VDxl7ArAgLHc4lK4g8s3ypMrCq9aztF9nym2DcJL2yFrNJzGkaIXqpVpiyt8dn4zQfbmmJugQhbX92fBHh_tDEZ8ut8iK6oQ_Rs/s320/vic+me+grad.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">U of I and Mizzou. <br />
I'm sure the floral print and haircut weren't helping my odds. </td></tr>
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At my wedding reception, there is a fabulous scene captured on video when Vicki’s date of the moment was incorrectly doing the electric slide. He was faced the wrong way and it looks like he’s having a dance off against the entire floor of people. He was the last of Vic’s guys to be out of step, as she was about to find her husband, Steve and hang up her naughty hat. I recently teased Steve, for the hundredth time, about how very quiet and shy he was when <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">Joe</a> and I first met him. Steve patiently explained that I was so damn hyper and loud, nobody could get a word in edgewise. Plus, I think we freaked him out. Touché. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alec and Maxie</td></tr>
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Vicki is my son Joey’s godmother. I’m not <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/holding-my-ham-hostage.html" target="_blank">religious</a>, so for me, it was a chance to show Vicki again, in every way and in a new way, that she is my family. Her son Alec and my son Max are less than a year apart. They are hilarious and unusual and they remind me of Vicki and me. They aren’t vanilla mainstream kids and in miserable middle school, that can be hard. They’re full of imagination and laughter and they love each other, which is unexpected and delicious. Vicki’s daughter is beautiful like her mother and means business; she wants her own way in very much the same way Vicki did when I first met her. We agreed just today that justice will probably be served when Olivia is a teenager.<br />
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We’ve lived seven minutes door to door when our babies were little. We’ve lived a plane ride away for years; we’ve had long, long drives between us for other stretches. Some years we’ve only needed to drive 45 minutes or an hour, and visits seemed as hard to schedule as the plane rides when we were sprinting around with work and kids. When Vicki’s dad was dying, she was a million miles away, in shocking pain she couldn’t share, even though we lived close. As of three months ago, we’re back to being only 15 minutes apart after four years of rare visits between Arizona and Illinois. <br />
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The distance was different this time, because we really needed each other and it was just so far. When we had visits, they were more precious than ever because we knew the next one would be a long time coming. We were needy and hurting, at times, and we’d put all our friendship eggs tenderly into each others’ baskets. It’s hard to lean on someone new when your lifelong friend suddenly can’t hop in her car to hold your hand the way she used to hold your hair when you made all those forever ago bad choices.<br />
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So now my person is back, and it’s funny. I don’t even need to be talking to her or see her; life feels different knowing that I can. I am so insanely lucky to have my husband, my kids, my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">parents</a> nearby. But now I have my neon life preserver back within reach and I feel grounded and safer and more like one of the cool kids, even though it’s just in our own weird little world.<br />
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Olivia recently asked Vicki if she and Aunt Wendy ever had fights. All these years and we really haven’t, probably partly because I am terrified of arguments. Plus, we are both usually too awesome and entertaining to irritate each other. When I was <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">working full time</a> and Vicki was a stay at home mom with baby Alec, I would try and listen to her on the phone while I was working on the computer. I’d half listen to her while click-clacking away and then give her my full attention when I had something to say. It was the closest thing we had to a real fight. She was pissed that I was half-assing my part of our bargain. She gave me the silent treatment for a little while, maybe to let me know how it felt not to feel heard. Now, Vicki is the one who is crazy busy with work and her active family, trying to fit in chats with me between endless discussions about cancer with the frightened patients who need her help. We’re still growing up together and learning how to balance it all. <br />
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My husband Joe imitates Vicki’s soft, rather nasal voice, by saying, “Meep, moop.” Sometimes when he calls me on the phone from work, he says “Meep, moop,” in greeting, which I take to mean that someone I love is on the line.<br />
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I talked Vicki into hosting our high school Bunko group last week. She’s only been back home for a few fast months, but in some ways, it feels like she never left. I sat in her bathroom while she was getting ready for Bunko, just like we did in junior high, in high school, during college visits, on our wedding days, for grown up girls’ nights out, before our high school reunions. Talking and laughing and looking forward to sharing time together. And yet that ordinary moment that we’d had a thousand times before, was suddenly a kind of miracle. And I’m just so grateful. Love you, Vic.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-37310119097883555272012-10-16T19:58:00.000-07:002012-11-01T07:43:22.986-07:00Hey soul sister, justify my blog<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man, I can't seem to make time to write in my blog. Have you missed me?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">How embarrassing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">How did Housewives of DC get on there?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm also having trouble finding time to run, shower, grocery shop, watch the 500 educational shows on my DVR, call my wonderful friends (you know I still love you, right?), etc. etc. etc. People often interrupt my complaining by saying, "You're lucky to work from home doing </span><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial;">something you love</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">." And I am. I <em>am.</em> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">But it's sort of like </span><a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/irish-carnival-ride-at-apartment-21.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial;">college</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">. There were things about college that were off the charts fun-tastic. And yet, while I was knee deep in the fun stuff, there were so many other things that I should have been doing. Like homework or finding my ID or <strong>not</strong> pushing anyone into the bathroom to drunkenly make out. And then feeling guilty and procrastinating more.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having your own business means that whenever you are laying around drinking wine and eating cheez-its, you probably shouldn't be; and not just because of the calories/hangovers/inappropriate texts. You should be drawing, marketing, fixing your broken website, putting layouts together, preparing for <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">art shows</a>. I can sort of justify writing this blog because it loosely falls under the marketing category. Even if I'm <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/08/six-reasons-i-hate-facebook.html" target="_blank">complaining about Facebook</a> or confessing my marathon </span><a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/50-shades-of-procrastination.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">50 Shades</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> sessions, as long as I also mention the fact that I can draw your kids, pets, or belongings, then presto... marketing! I do have a degree in advertising, you know. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But really, I just want to tell stories, preferably in a bestselling book. Although that's rather unlikely, as only my friends on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards" target="_blank">Facebook</a> and a few artists from my favorite artist websites (</span><a href="http://www.artfairinsiders.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">artfairinsiders </span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and </span><a href="http://www.thecornerbooth.proboards.com/index.cgi" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the corner booth</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">) read this blog. Getting discovered is even less probable than working hard enough to make it happen on my own. It's hard to justify this rambling blog when I've got drawing to do, plus it's past dinner time, RIGHT NOW. Listen closely and you'll hear the Zumpano men sighing and snacking in the background.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank goodness this time, Beth will help me justify my blog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Out of the blue, I got an email from someone who had been reading my Pencil Envy posts. Not only did Beth order a chunky sized portrait, she <em>wanted a story</em>. A story about her sister. Hey! That's almost like getting <strong>paid</strong> to write stories, only she's not paying me to write, she's paying me to draw. But I'm making it a package deal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My first thought about the portrait and story about Beth's sister, was that I don't have a sister, because I'm rather self-absorbed that way. I wonder what it would be like... would I be close with a sister? Fight with her? Would she love me despite all my many flaws? Would I love her beyond hers? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I assumed that Beth's story would be about sisterly love, a Walton's hair-braiding slumber party childhood with some eventual grown up wise advice with wine. But it wasn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Saying my sister and I have never been close is an understatement," Beth wrote me. "We hated each other growing up. The only thing we're close in is age; for six weeks every year we were the same." She said her sister could be mean, choosing exactly the right words to form the kind of word weapon only the most familiar family can wield. The kind that cuts you to your core. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As adults, they had an uneasy relationship, going months without speaking. They lived less than an hour apart, but only saw each other a few times a year. "We are polar opposites," Beth explained. "She's a minimalist, I collect everything. Her house is sparsely decorated, mine looks like a gypsy’s den. She has a firm sense of right and wrong. I have often been described as having no moral compass. She's </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">successful, I was always just getting by. We just never meshed. I often said if she wasn’t my sister we would have never been friends. But still, we're family."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you've ever told me a story, you probably enjoy how I immediately butt in and relate the story back to myself, even though I've read <em>Don't Sweat the Small Stuff</em> and I know I'm not supposed to. I told Beth how I've struggled in my family relationships, too; how my closest family friendship has deteriorated and how terribly painful it's been. How I could relate all too well to those mean missiles that leave such deep, gaping wounds. Here, I thought, is someone I can understand; I'm not the only one. I've counted each month of silence with a pit in my stomach. It wasn't supposed to be this way. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span style="color: #666666;"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;">"I know," Beth told me. "My sister got mad at me in June and she didn't speak to me or my mother until September. </span></span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next time we spoke was when she called to tell me in her matter-of-fact cold
tone that she was sick, probably dying." And Beth was forbidden to tell their mother. "I was as close to my mother as you are to <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">yours</a></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">," Beth stressed, "maybe closer. It devastated me not to be able to tell her, but I knew if I did, my sister
would never ever speak to either of us again." It was excruciating for Beth, fearing her mother would hear from someone else, until her sister was just too sick to hide it anymore. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"My sister told me she wouldn’t have done the same thing for me, wouldn’t have taken me in and cared for me as I was dying, cared for my family, pets, my belongings, my affairs. I told her I knew that. I wish we had shared that moment much sooner. It seemed to bring some peace to her to know that I wouldn’t change no matter who or what she was. That’s when she finally got me.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"She thanked me for making </span></span></span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">her watch Fight Club. She forced me to watch Eight-Legged Freaks. The last movie we watched together was Man on Fire. She loved Denzel and really wanted to see it. I begged the Blockbuster guy to help me locate the last copy in the store, a needle in a mountain of movies haystack. It took over two hours but we finally found it. As I was checking out, he said they could’ve ordered it, it would only take about a week to come in. I remember thinking we probably didn’t have a week. She died four days later."</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"My sister's death haunts me, much more so than the deaths of my mother and father," Beth told me. "I am guessing it’s some form of guilt I just can’t let go of. Some sort of ‘<em>it should have been me, not her’</em> thing." </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This summer, her nephew told Beth he can't remember the sound of his mother's voice. She tries to keep the memory alive, knowing that the hardest part about dying for her sister was losing her kids. Not being there to see who they will become. The best photo the kids had with their mother was when they were quite young and Beth's niece hated her hair. Funny thing about death, there are no more "through the years" pictures, no more do overs. Beth asked that I combine recent photos of the kids with their mom, taking extra care to make sure I got her niece's hair just right. A Christmas memory for two wonderful kids who can't yet fully realize what they've lost. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">There are children in my version of Beth's story too, and I worry about them. At first, I listened to Beth's side, thinking, yes, yes. I get it, I can relate. Up until the cancer. Then I'm a puddle thinking about it. I'm torn up. I'm thinking how maybe my family member would probably take me in; but I don't know if I could do the same. I don't know if I can be as forgiving. I shared more about my own family experiences with Beth, eager to connect, telling her about our long struggle of distance and disease and pain and tough decisions and judgment. That the hardest part is how we'd always loved each other like crazy and now neither of us can get past old wounds far enough to have a healthy relationship. I know I have some terrible faults that have made things worse between us - I'm too critical, I'm too sensitive. And now I'm too scared.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beth shared that she's had many of the same struggles. But not the same as me. The same as the person who has hurt me the most. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then I realized, this whole time I'm rooting only for Beth, thinking I'm in the Beth role... But I'm not. I'm the cold one. I'm the judging one. And I don't know if I can be the one to forgive and open my arms, and my home and my heart again. I'm too closed off and I'm just so <em>hurt</em>. But people make mistakes. Does it really take something so catastrophic to build that bridge?</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;">Beth owns her part of her story and I own mine. I do. Writing this entry about a client's family has caused me to do more soul searching than any that I've chosen to write on my own. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a> </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-58631001248058894452012-09-09T10:48:00.001-07:002013-09-11T16:44:21.135-07:00Finding Noah<br />
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No good photos of your kids together? <br />
I'll clean them up and make them look like they like each other.<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When I first heard from Jennifer, I didn’t think I was
going to be able to help her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When drawing a <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portrait</a>, I often combine </span>different elements of the same person from different photographs (good
hair day from one, a smile from another). </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I'd combined separate photos lots of times. But Jennifer wanted me to create a whole new person from pictures of other people. It sounded hard. I prefer not hard, because I am lazy that way.
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Considering how picky some clients can be about a drawing of an existing person, how was I going to match Jennifer’s expectations for someone I couldn’t see? <br />
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About fourteen years earlier, Jennifer had been expecting her first child, a little boy. Over the moon with excitement, she went in for an ultrasound. As she began telling me her story, Jennifer asked me if I had kids. “You know how there is sometimes a hesitation by the ultrasound technician that can be a little scary?” </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I knew what she meant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had some greenhorn hack of a nurse’s aide
during an early appointment when I was expecting Max.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We'd heard a heartbeat immediately with Joey, but this time the nurse </span>couldn’t find one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she fumbled around, she kept
glancing furtively at me with what seemed like fear or pity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time she gave up and called a doctor into the room,
I was sick with terror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor found Max’s
mischievous little whooshy heartbeat quickly and I burst into relieved tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse’s aide gave me a sheepish smile while I fantasized about giving her hair a good yank. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Nobody came to Jennifer’s rescue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She left the appointment with an ice cold suspicion that something
was wrong. Her doctor called her at work a day or two later with devastating
news. Her baby boy had anencephaly – an absence of brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The baby had a brain stem that allowed him to
grow inside of her, but once he was born, he wouldn’t survive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Let’s pause for a moment and collectively consider the stupidity and insensitivity of that nimrod doctor calling
someone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at work </i>with that kind of
news. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t doctors go to school for
like 20 years?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How about a pre-med class
in not being a dick??</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpkNHJe2JhvYRMTL5B3GLhOq4JkWew9ccquDP2mPAIvLafSBDWMeAP8u0S2iZRf520OB7_VnLw2t8ak1-FYCAw-g4dF-MJMk0FzQxSJOyU5Hei6D17O5JnTWM7UKfgc8fAyNYsLoqhjE/s1600/doctor+courses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpkNHJe2JhvYRMTL5B3GLhOq4JkWew9ccquDP2mPAIvLafSBDWMeAP8u0S2iZRf520OB7_VnLw2t8ak1-FYCAw-g4dF-MJMk0FzQxSJOyU5Hei6D17O5JnTWM7UKfgc8fAyNYsLoqhjE/s320/doctor+courses.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Somebody missed this class.<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There would be serious health risks for Jennifer in continuing the
pregnancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and her husband were stunned,
devoutly religious and devastated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
sought the help of their pastor who sadly advised them that in their case,
terminating the pregnancy was a necessary, terrible thing they needed to
do for Jennifer's safety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same pastor baptized
their son, at 22 weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">They had planned to name the baby Zachary, but Jennifer saw in a
baby book that Noah meant “at rest.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
they named him Noah and he was alive in their hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Thankfully, Jennifer had three more healthy pregnancies… three
beautiful, vibrant children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Noah’s loss has always been something that we talked about openly
with the kids,” Jennifer told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My
children are very spiritual and they have always understood why Noah is still
important to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay to say his
name and to remember that we had another baby.” </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Noah came into the world, and left it, on December 1<sup>st</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every year, Jennifer has a little birthday party with a cake in his memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On a scrapbooking web site, she ran across an artist’s rendering using photos of a baby’s siblings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jennifer thought it was one of the most heart breaking and sweet things that she had ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">This wasn’t the first time I’d worked with a grieving parent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jennifer knows that most people can’t
understand how she feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had always
suffered painful, mixed feelings about the Polaroid picture that had been taken
of Noah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As scary, blurry and broken a
picture as it was, Jennifer couldn’t bear to throw it away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least it proved he was real.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“In my head,” Jennifer said, “he’s whole, he’s complete."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Jennifer googled me about her idea and we exchanged tentative emails. I told her I would try to digitally combine aspects of Noah's siblings to come up with a layout she could approve. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">It was a little nerve-wracking for both of us. I love to connect with my clients and
there was a sad divide between us as I approached the project from a technical
perspective and she held her breath, wondering how close I would come to the
flesh and blood Noah of her dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Trying to ease the tension, I gushed with Jennifer about how delicious
babies are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me, “My favorite
baby stage is around 9 months when they are sitting up on their own and
cruising around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> M</span>y other children were all big juicy babies, chubby and happy.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoNHbQ8VA1dJL5eqvnM8sR0ndkg6qXgaE0bNA0y4ud2yUAWNYS6akbbWevPCcRFdXAADFi6FVrX0jo_aWwGn5bV6gdVs6uYulHAhq9V0kB37dRlh_y0ks5rD6HrKgzTs57K2JYXWN-s0/s1600/sibling+photos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoNHbQ8VA1dJL5eqvnM8sR0ndkg6qXgaE0bNA0y4ud2yUAWNYS6akbbWevPCcRFdXAADFi6FVrX0jo_aWwGn5bV6gdVs6uYulHAhq9V0kB37dRlh_y0ks5rD6HrKgzTs57K2JYXWN-s0/s400/sibling+photos.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“That’s how I picture Noah. I just don’t want to
think of him like in that photograph, anymore.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I'd never faced such a heavy responsibility, as an artist. To create an image of Noah, of hope, of what should have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put him
in overalls, because I’d loved them so much on my chubby baby boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I drew Noah’s name stitched on the front of his little boy’s
overalls and remembered the soft, sweet, heft of my own babies in my arms, wishing I had
those hectic, glorious days back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It was my turn to hold my breath as I emailed a scan of the portrait off to Jennifer. She admitted, she was afraid to open it at first.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">To both of our relief, Jennifer loved the portrait and was
particularly thrilled with Noah’s overalls; her
little boys had worn them, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said that Noah’s
portrait reminded her of a police sketch artist's age progression to find a missing child, and when
the child is found, the sketch miraculously matches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>It choked me up that I’d come anywhere close to
the private image in her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial;">I thought about my easy pregnancies, how I happily announced to anyone and everyone that I was expecting about ten minutes after I knew for sure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I never worried for a second. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>How would I have coped with something like this? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Was Jennifer able to enjoy her subsequent pregnancies?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did the fear ever give her rest? I wanted so much to ease her pain, if only a little. </span></o:p></span>Looking back, I wish the sketch was better, that she'd found me after I'd had more practice being <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">a full time artist</a>.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Jennifer surprised her family with Noah’s portrait on what would
have been his 14th birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
all delighted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It hangs in their
kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jennifer’s son, Joshua, called
him “No No,” and he asks where Noah is when he looks at the portrait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I tell him that Noah is in heaven,” Jennifer
says with confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Although the portrait hangs in a prominent place, Jennifer hasn’t
really shared it with anyone outside of her family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It was a long time ago,” Jennifer tells me,
“and people think you’re supposed to be over it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you haven’t experienced it, you just don’t
know how it feels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t go away.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There have been other special stories, like Gideon – a
baby who was given little or no chance of survival but fought like a warrior,
the meaning of his name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
woman worked with my husband and wanted a baby more than life itself, trying
and trying, only to have her only surviving baby gone in a flash of hospital
white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me not to rush on
her lost baby’s portrait; she had waited a long time and could wait as long as it
took.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I called with the finished
portrait months later, there was a baby’s cry in the background; an adopted
answered prayer that brought a lump of happiness to my throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Most of the lost babies I've drawn took a few precious breaths before they left their broken hearted families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the photographs have been wrenching to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some parents have asked for wings or a halo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some just wanted no more tubes or machines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>They all want what Jennifer wanted… a picture of a healthy baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dream child, a portrait from within their hearts, from the way things were supposed to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Wendy Zumpano<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-74970385426867240252012-08-14T08:39:00.000-07:002013-08-12T07:10:35.972-07:00Six reasons I hate Facebook<br />
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Sometimes I hate Facebook, and it's not just because of Timeline.<br />
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Mostly I love it. I would not be writing this blog if I hadn't been inspired by a Facebook post. The sense of community that Facebook provides is comforting to this isolated <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portrait</a> artist. I have no other coworker drama and/or chatter to entertain me (except for my awesome <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">mom</a>). Plus it scratches my ADD itchy-itches by providing an endless parade of distractions.<br />
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However, Facebook can cause serious problems for someone with already questionable work discipline. Unlike my lucky son Max who so enjoys when I say, "turn off the video games and practice your trombone," I have nobody to chide me for spending too much time doing things I shouldn't. Like trying to find my evil <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">ex-boyfriend</a> online or watching that weird talking cat video that you just posted or writing this blog instead of drawing. (P.S. I found a photo of my ex, "Dick", online and he got FAT.)<br />
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On one hand, Facebook allows me to have a fake social life and market my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards" target="_blank">pencil portrait business</a>. On the other hand, Facebook stirs up trouble.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Problem 1: <strong>Screwing around</strong></span><br />
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Everyone relates to typical Facebook voyeur and/or exhibitionist time wasting. In addition, I accidentally developed an embarrassing crystal meth-like addiction to mindless Facebook games like Bejeweled and Zuma Blitz. <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">My husband Joe</a> actually mentioned this addiction in our family Christmas letter, which I promptly edited out. Joe HATES to be edited as he is an enormous fan of his own comedy. He has disgustedly reminded me of this edit a couple times, convinced that my Bejeweled obsession warranted a mention. Sorry, but my game-playing shame spiral was just too severe at that time and the pride I took in my high scores was a private, beautiful thing that I did not want printed alongside the kids' sports activities. I am relieved to report that I quit playing games cold turkey and even spent a good hour or so trying to figure out how to block myself from ever playing them again. <br />
(You can't.) <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_Tk5fmn2A_cIlD_96oUWmI4c5k0vBymgOPmCCKPyhNeSzUvN-kcpcHUtBC6esKlSsHNYwbVYKcQ44srQ9vhIgBOcyLJZLBWSEeKwmcPMF6NBXy1d_mYUvBC_skpiv_hkEMSonzCyBic/s1600/bejeweled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_Tk5fmn2A_cIlD_96oUWmI4c5k0vBymgOPmCCKPyhNeSzUvN-kcpcHUtBC6esKlSsHNYwbVYKcQ44srQ9vhIgBOcyLJZLBWSEeKwmcPMF6NBXy1d_mYUvBC_skpiv_hkEMSonzCyBic/s400/bejeweled.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Don't you do it. <em>Do not click.</em> Dammit, there goes two hours.</td></tr>
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After I stopped playing, my game-accompanying wine and cheez-it consumption was much reduced and my productivity went way up. I recently rewarded myself for getting a bunch of work done by allowing myself to play a <em>few</em> games for the first time in many months, and I find myself yearning for more. <br />
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I must not chase that dragon.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Problem 2: <strong>Jesus and Obama</strong></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDV4xSl4Tyf-zqG4u5IGkmAAtkE7DTbycsOx0aS0JS1-woDcZ4WkVbf989ppKu_t3_w1axb6KfHaWsxEu5sQXhH-9_XZLrPoI9Ft7NPHQUcHzYeFffgnuNQkU_f_j1HIWzHsDi1jfZqnE/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDV4xSl4Tyf-zqG4u5IGkmAAtkE7DTbycsOx0aS0JS1-woDcZ4WkVbf989ppKu_t3_w1axb6KfHaWsxEu5sQXhH-9_XZLrPoI9Ft7NPHQUcHzYeFffgnuNQkU_f_j1HIWzHsDi1jfZqnE/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This kid is probably 30 by now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you are my friend on Facebook, I am connected to you, somehow. I have a few requests from people who have 59 mutual friends, but I honestly can't remember them for the life of me. Photos are often no help. Unlike my kids who collect FB friends like Pokemon cards (let's pretend it's still 2002, I don't know what kids collect now), I don't want you on my personal friend list if you are a stranger. However, I don't know everyone on my list <em>that </em>well. And some of you like to talk about Jesus and Obama. <em>A lot</em>. I have the deepest respect for faith and I sort of admire the passion that some people have about our country's leaders unless you get super annoying about it. But <em>my </em>Facebook is a place for talking about things that are mainstream and comfortable to <strong><em>me</em></strong>, like booze and family and being forgetful. I like all your borderline obscene jokes, your unfortunate bar photos and even your child/spouse/pet bragging tributes. I'm sort of annoyed by your "Like this post if you love your cousin" shares, but I'll let those slide even though you and I have better things to do with our time. But if you start ranting about Jesus or Obama, I'm <em>out</em>. UNSUBSCRIBE. But sometimes, it's too late. I can't unsee your post, and sometimes it makes me sad and worried about you. I'm sure you're sad and worried about me too and that is a problem with Facebook. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF60Zh_mTA8QzqULr5Vw2SC2RM-m1Np-NPdddzGVBQojHNYx6rUU8xJ7BU4WwNBXLmq-21JMyLcpAHf3m370zhKav2iYEkPedIU0Zsi0abcn1Wb2kDB_MghRuxIYUMUVwxqruCFh7HLuk/s1600/427114_862611188531_64396089_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF60Zh_mTA8QzqULr5Vw2SC2RM-m1Np-NPdddzGVBQojHNYx6rUU8xJ7BU4WwNBXLmq-21JMyLcpAHf3m370zhKav2iYEkPedIU0Zsi0abcn1Wb2kDB_MghRuxIYUMUVwxqruCFh7HLuk/s200/427114_862611188531_64396089_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This goes out to you, Tina beans.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Problem 3: <strong>Jealousy</strong></span><br />
<br />
Maybe you look skinny in your photos. Maybe you are out with our mutual friends having fun without me. Maybe you are having conversations with people I don't even know (thank you weird rolling nanny-cam feed up the side of the screen) and those conversations are funnier than my conversations. Whatever, I'm jealous.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Problem 4: <strong>Annoying others</strong></span><br />
<br />
The flip side of Problem 2, is that sometimes I'm the one with the Jesus/Obama-esque post that makes YOU mad. That's okay if you quietly unsubscribe from me like a normal person. I've seen some serious scuffles between complete strangers on a mutual friend's post. (Ellie, I'm thinking of the stolen locker clothes throwdown.) This can be hilarious for the rest of us, but I have the emotional constitution of a battered four year old. If I'm involved in one of those scuffles, my saran-wrap emotional protective layer gets immediately ripped and I lie awake sulking for days. I avoid arguments and negativity like the plague in my interactions with others. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9umMPL7qrxvWfjmMmqqKY5F1dCo98Q-ePcUY2nDmgXZbDC9HZK3fcvne-DMs5ulWXe2Yf8ho7QzlaB5wM0-baxyhQHplP_Tc4QoVkZzDOW84RUZXRDUceypR6UX_niIVJoIR2o4EOeI/s1600/98-girl-fight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9umMPL7qrxvWfjmMmqqKY5F1dCo98Q-ePcUY2nDmgXZbDC9HZK3fcvne-DMs5ulWXe2Yf8ho7QzlaB5wM0-baxyhQHplP_Tc4QoVkZzDOW84RUZXRDUceypR6UX_niIVJoIR2o4EOeI/s200/98-girl-fight.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">STOP TAGGING ME in photos!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Once a friend called and scolded me for sharing too many things on Facebook. The friend asked whether I felt I was extremely important or whether I was so damn lonely I felt the need to post every time I go to the bathroom. The friend continued to complain about other friends who enjoy posting very regularly. I sent my friend instructions on how to remove those friends (including me) from the newsfeed. This friend doesn't get my posts anymore and I have another war wound to pout over. Facebook was not helpful in this particular relationship. But that was <em>mild..</em>. <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Problem 5: <strong>Making enemies</strong></span><br />
<br />
I considered including this story as part of Problem 4, but this is really another level. Sometimes I am a smart ass... perhaps you've noticed. I NEVER want to hurt anyone's feelings, ever, but I really like to joke around. Like Joe, I find myself rather entertaining. Plus, I have trouble with self control.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A former coworker, who only reached out to me when he needed something, was a semi-friend in my corporate life. Now, we're barely acquaintances. The "friend", who we will refer to as "Jackass", posted a rave review on Facebook about the television show Parenthood. For some reason, I found it kind of funny that a guy would gush about this particular show. It seemed girly. So I called him a skirt or something like that, in a JOKING way. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
In retrospect, this was a poor choice on my part. But that's how we roll at my house. If you do something slightly out of character, we automatically begin a competitive juvenile joke-off about each other. Unlike my twelve year old, Jackass has ZERO sense of humor when it comes to himself. He replied to my comment with some sort of incredulous statement like "<em>What???</em> Why would you say THAT?" Then he deleted my comment. Censureship?!! "You deleted my funny?" I posted, and he deleted that too. <br />
<br />
<br />
So I unfriended him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This was the first time I'd unfriended anyone, but this person wasn't really a friend. Just a prior coworker from 8+ years ago who wasn't much of a friend then, either. This guy is way too sensitive (and that's coming from <em>me </em>for Pete's sake), and he doesn't appreciate my sense of humor, so that was about enough of that. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Months later, I bumped into him while lunching downtown with a former work buddy. He introduced us to his boss and began aggressively mentioning things that had been happening in my life. I found this surprising, as I'd unfriended him and I don't give a rat turd about what's happening with him, so why was he so overly informed about me? Then he proceeded to start bragging about his boss in an almost romantic manner. "Wow!" I observed, <em>in a joking tone, </em>"You sure are a maestro of ass-kissing." Or something like that. Everyone laughed, including his boss, because he was REALLY laying it on thick. I like to make jokes. I'm not a corporate person anymore and as a civilian, I can say what I want to say, although I often have to face the consequences. Besides, Jackass was being a jackass.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And then I received this message at 1:23 am.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
There are many things I love about this message. The misspelling of "Tourette's", the apostrophe deficiency, the abundance of "...", the total defensive foot-stomping of it all, the comparison to his poor wife who has to LIVE with him. I have news for YOU, Jackass, I now own a <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">big girl tent</a> and have you forgotten that you PAID for a portrait of your kids from me and RAVED about it for years? And NEWS ALERT, Jackass, I have a friend who lived in a trailer park and she runs <em>rings</em> around you in EVERY category. <br />
<br />
<br />
Mostly, this note smacks of the fact that I really, really hurt Jackass's feelings with that unfriending. When we worked together, I regularly made jokes much worse than the ass-kissing observation. And yet, I was probably out of line then, too. If he'd told me in an adult way that it bothered him, I would have fallen over myself to apologize. I admit that I have a problem acting like a grown up sometimes. I have a friend who constantly <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-dangers-of-yell-telling.html" target="_blank">shushes me</a> in groups because I'm too loud, especially when I'm telling inappropriate personal stories. I know I'm not classy. Especially now that I've had some time and distance, this nasty, mean, furious note is pretty funny<em>, </em>especially since he was clearly drinking and messaging... I mean, it was 1:23 am. Sadly, I'm no stranger to late-night mean drunk messages and I know them when I see them. He wanted to be the one who unfriended ME and called ME the ass-kisser, so <em>there!!!</em> I guess he showed me!!! And he did. At first, I was devastated that I'd made somebody so upset and that his words were so hateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I learned a very important lesson...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Problem 6: <strong>Facebook can be MEAN.</strong></span><br />
<br />
Unfriending, blocking, changing relationship status to single... the impact of how small the world has become and what we can do to each other in "public" is brutal. In pre-Facebook days, I would have blissfully lost contact with this big fat Jackass and never thought of him again. Instead, I accidentally hurt his feelings with an unnecessary comment about his obsession with Parenthood. I did send him a sincere apology, explaining that he misinterpreted my comments as being deliberately rude, when they were meant as affectionate teasing. There was no response, and that's okay. I try to be more careful about my questionable sense of humor now and I never unfriend anyone. I just take them off my newsfeed or block them from seeing my posts like any normal passive aggressive person should.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mostly, I've learned that if you do unfriend someone, don't forget to unfriend his wife.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-69510958998702276612012-07-29T13:28:00.002-07:002018-04-16T10:48:42.517-07:00Barry Henby and the Birthday Emergency<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">When I first met fire chief
Barry Henby, we were freaking out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">It is a disturbing phenomenon that
young children must have fancy birthday parties, preferably someplace
innovative and expensive. I have never been a planner, plus I am cheap, so I was NOT a fan of this trend when my boys were having their little boy birthday parties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">T</span>he fire station seemed like a reasonable choice
for my son Joey’s seventh birthday, because what kid doesn’t love a fire truck?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Despite my reluctance to part with money, </span>I would rather write a $150 check than have a bunch
of sugar propelled kids sprinting around my house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">This was back when I actually had a <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">corporate job</a> and drawing <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portraits</a> was just a fun side gig, so I shouldn't complain about the cost, but you know how I enjoy complaining.</span></span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvCVzD021Ui4l9j42_Vqb2AftCAMppuxY03Jv3ApeGtXoKnhe5H1uaSgh2THb0a-BxInGKL55hdCoH9fgm2SpP5aFHhX1laWDcxEkKoeNBMcZMS1iyLi1o_PKZdQjL7a7geLAvGBnJ2c/s1600/10957063-woman-waking-up-and-running-late-looking-at-the-alarm-clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvCVzD021Ui4l9j42_Vqb2AftCAMppuxY03Jv3ApeGtXoKnhe5H1uaSgh2THb0a-BxInGKL55hdCoH9fgm2SpP5aFHhX1laWDcxEkKoeNBMcZMS1iyLi1o_PKZdQjL7a7geLAvGBnJ2c/s200/10957063-woman-waking-up-and-running-late-looking-at-the-alarm-clock.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you want me to hate you, <br />
be early.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">On the day of the firehouse
party, being the chronically late fool that I am, some of Joey’s guests were already
waiting for us when we breathlessly arrived in a rush of tangled balloons and
plastic bags full of birthdayness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I
ever invite you to anything, please don’t ever be early. One time a friend came a half hour early to Bunko and I almost punched her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Enduring
the mild fear that seems to accompany any event where I
am the hostess, I trooped into the fire house with my amused guests and excited children, only to hear that they didn’t
know that we were coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d paid in
person weeks before, but of course I hadn’t thought to confirm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a frozen smile on my face, I pleaded for
mercy through gritted teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More children arrived and I began mentally
checking off the stuff I wouldn’t have time for, like decorations or any sense
of calm, rah-rah birthday parenting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
that any of it mattered in comparison to dragging the whole crowd over to my
messy house or out in the parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Before we knew it, Battalion Chief Barry Henby
had arrived to rescue us. </span></span></div>
<br />
<v:shape id="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 194.85pt; margin-left: 234.35pt; margin-top: 37pt; position: absolute; width: 182.95pt; z-index: -3;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-80 0 -80 21525 21600 21525 21600 0 -80 0"><span style="font-family: "arial";">
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><v:shape id="_x0000_s1027" style="height: 3in; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; position: absolute; width: 125.5pt; z-index: -2;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-129 0 -129 21525 21600 21525 21600 0 -129 0"><span style="font-family: "arial";">
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<w:wrap type="tight">
</w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">They’d called Barry at home on a Saturday, and he’d rushed over as if it were a real emergency instead of an abnormally large boy's 7th birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The party was freaking adorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chief Henby was a showman, entertaining the
kids and a few curious parents, while teaching important fire safety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We loved the animated
way he involved each of us, keeping a dozen second-graders in rapt
order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After his dog & pony show, we
took a tour of the fire station and all climbed into an ambulance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids got to try on a real fire
hat while Joey got to put on the whole fireman shebang.</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OBTA6912vsqLlIcMVcfLHhQYJJjA_H9Dk5DQwqlT1RV-cgeBWGKheSqGYw3j2PmCBDrnZW25ZgcvUcslfscb8lqcZSnO5lZm2IF1idTrxROoJURpukN9dwD8WG42QdchgkBr_cE0-P8/s1600/joey+fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OBTA6912vsqLlIcMVcfLHhQYJJjA_H9Dk5DQwqlT1RV-cgeBWGKheSqGYw3j2PmCBDrnZW25ZgcvUcslfscb8lqcZSnO5lZm2IF1idTrxROoJURpukN9dwD8WG42QdchgkBr_cE0-P8/s320/joey+fire.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adorableness worth every birthday party penny.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Joey got to sit in a big
fire truck and <strong>RUN THE LIGHTS AND SIREN</strong>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
A</span>ll the kids secretly despised him for getting to do something so
cool, none moreso than his little brother Maxwell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>he photo below is an excellent example of how Max was a master at picking the worst times to pitch a fit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At three years old, Max could blow a good
time in thirty seconds flat, if he wasn’t the center of attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It amazes me that Max is the polite, sweet boy he is today. We thought he just might grow up to be a serial killer back then. It's a good thing he was so damn cute.</span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3atBfLfm-0SuOVs0o3iz2ONyRGi4k2ODss-wGFKhwNpWrxGA4kHTwX0pOSHzT8EE5tPw44kChXUV6UjgxKmm8EqVT-qLZfsopPzGfJ3Zg91S3Q5vrx8IDPz2TrxRSdsHLvxS5KOVKGpw/s1600/max+fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3atBfLfm-0SuOVs0o3iz2ONyRGi4k2ODss-wGFKhwNpWrxGA4kHTwX0pOSHzT8EE5tPw44kChXUV6UjgxKmm8EqVT-qLZfsopPzGfJ3Zg91S3Q5vrx8IDPz2TrxRSdsHLvxS5KOVKGpw/s400/max+fire.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max being Max and Joey in firetruck heaven.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">All in all, I walked away
thinking that Barry Henby was one heck of a guy. I wasn't alone. </span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">By that time, Barry had
clocked many hours becoming one of Gurnee’s greatest guys. When I started to write a book about some of the wonderful people I'd drawn, Barry graciously agreed to give me the dirt on what it's like to be a local hero, although he'd never call himself that.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Barry grew up in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Tuscola</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">IL</st1:state></st1:place>,
a small farm town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He earned an associate’s degree in criminal
justice from a junior college and a BS in Law enforcement administration from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Western</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Illinois</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
wanted to go get some bad guys.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Barry met his wife, his soul
mate of 36 years, in college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We had a
first aid class together,” he told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
tried to fix her up with some of my friends and three years later, we got
married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought I was rich because I
bought her flowers every week, then she found out the sad truth.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“When I got out of college,
my mom made me look for a job and I got hired as a police officer in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Glencoe</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">IL</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved
being a police officer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> P</span>eople thanked me for arresting them sometimes because I did my job
in the most pleasant way I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t get aggressive or nasty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
figured I was just putting them into the system and the judge would
figure out what to do with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew some police officers in different
communities who let the power go to their head."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Becoming a police officer in
a <st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city> suburb was a rude awakening for a farm
kid from central <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Illinois</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“When I came up here, I was
shocked at how many more officers were needed because of what people do to
themselves and to others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a burglar invaded
someone’s home, the victims were devastated to be so violated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard to see the outrage and anguish they
felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glencoe had a high Jewish
population, and there were some terrible anti-Semitic phone calls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a shock to see what people thought was
funny and the resulting pain it caused.</span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAxHdB5lW0WHugb7RrjlsO2LyF2O8Ju1nhdAunWo7JoRp_PU6Hnahu0E2RdgeJwcdOsekErox0txWQw0AidWJFUBbAlwpZ0U3yDEIlb1f3j_ZuNXXdXZLq19WDqPAWrL0ku2nVcqecvM/s1600/bad+guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAxHdB5lW0WHugb7RrjlsO2LyF2O8Ju1nhdAunWo7JoRp_PU6Hnahu0E2RdgeJwcdOsekErox0txWQw0AidWJFUBbAlwpZ0U3yDEIlb1f3j_ZuNXXdXZLq19WDqPAWrL0ku2nVcqecvM/s320/bad+guy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yesss! We have <em>guns.</em> Rock <em>on.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“My buddy Paul and I were
passionate about our jobs and VERY motivated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We </span>were rookies with only two months
under our belts, but by the end of our shift, we caught bad guys right and
left, filling the jail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was fun to be a police officer!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were constantly high fiving each other and enjoying
the heck out of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“The chief let us
borrow his unmarked squad car for burglary
control at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night, I responded to a call with lights and sirens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone pulled out in front of me and I locked the brakes, skidding into a big boulder in front a residence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sent the car flying onto a woman’s front
porch, crashing into the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
lights were flashing, radiator was steaming, it was a mess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back then, we didn’t wear seat belts and I’d
really hurt my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was staggering
around in pain and the lady came out on the porch, yelling, ‘Oh no!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A drunk hit my house!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call the police!’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said, ‘Lady, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> the police.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“When I was in high school, I
loved the show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Emergency!</i> Going on rescue calls was amazing; everyone could tell that I liked it
so I went to paramedic school and I was first in my class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t that smart, but if I hadn’t passed,
I would have gotten fired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife and I
were thinking about starting our family and I was scared half to death of what she'd do to me if I didn't pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“Today, on a rescue call, you’ll see two or three paramedics at the
site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back then, there was only one and
they relied on you to know your stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of my first saves was when we were defibrillating a guy and giving
medication.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To see everything that I was
trying actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">work</i> blew my
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To see someone hurt with major
trauma, apply the skills that I’d been given, and save a life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wild</i>."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Barry also delivered a baby in
someone’s home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span>Ironically, the parents
were a doctor and a nurse who waited too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was on the scene with a lieutenant who was on the receiving end of the
mother to be, so to speak, while I was on the telephone with the hospital, letting
them know that the baby was coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
lieutenant called me over to check something out, and then grabbed the
telephone from me, tricking me into changing places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was something to see a life come into
the world right in front of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“I’d heard good things about
the Gurnee fire department.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I interviewed for the chief and got on as a
volunteer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About a year later,
I tested for a full time fire fighter/paramedic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Working for the fire
department has been wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
helped deliver three children in town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was the first one in on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Warren</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Township</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">High
School</st1:placetype></st1:place> fire.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“Hey,” Barry interrupted
himself, “I don’t need to take up too much room in your book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just tell me when you’ve heard enough of
my crap.”</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><em>What</em>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he kidding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved this guy and he was more a part of
my history than I’d realized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The high
school fire had happened my senior year at Warren, in December 1984.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It had gutted our school, destroying the oldest, wooden part of the
building which had included the English department.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I loved to write and m</span>y favorite teacher of all time, Mrs. Johnson in freshman Honors
English, had such a student following that older students had returned to build a
stage in her room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had years and
years of costumes, props and precious writings from the school’s creative
magazine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much of it had all gone up
in smoke with the rest of our senior year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My classmates and I stood
beside the wreckage, peering up through the charred
gash that had once been the center of our school, our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in tears. I graduated early and felt robbed of those last happy high school days.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">I remembered that the fire
had been initially extinguished and we were all so relieved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then hot spots had re-ignited and burnt
it beyond repair. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Barry corrected me with some rare frustration. “That’s
not how it went down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knocked out the
first fire really quickly and then the kid came back and started it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hated how it overshadowed the incredible
work we’d done on the first fire. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“Another big fire happened at
a hotel in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Waukegan, </st1:city></st1:place>eight
people had died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We climbed to the sixth
floor, discovering a number of deaths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I carried a barely alive, elderly woman
through the flames six floors down on the rickety fire escape while a buddy of
mine helped navigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was in her
nightgown and had suffered smoke inhalation… it was a pretty dramatic sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got down to the ambulance, I was
exhausted and rested off to the side while they put the woman on a
stretcher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly,
TV cameras rushed in and my buddy got all the credit for the
rescue!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got calls all the way from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state></st1:place>
congratulating him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kidded
me, insisting that I hadn’t actually been there, telling me I’d imagined it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“We work hard, but hanging with the guys at the firehouse is the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A lot of them are young and crazy, messing with each other all the
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we have carrots for dinner, I
can’t look away or someone will grab a carrot off my plate, stick it up his
nose and put it back before I know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re always playing jokes, picking
a bed up off the floor while someone is sound asleep, then dropping it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I can’t go to the bathroom without
someone sticking a video camera over the stall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“But when it comes time to do
our job, we’re instantly focused on what needs to be done for the public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We get it done.”</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Barry told me that it isn’t
enough just to fight fires and protect the public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They need voters to support their fire
department with taxes in order to get the training and equipment they need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">We have to get out there and
show the public what we do,” Barry stressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I believe strongly in the customer service aspect - how we treat the
public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We send get well cards, signed by the fire chief and the paramedics, to
anyone who lives in Gurnee when they are involved in an ambulance call with
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have birthday parties for
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
open our doors to college or high school students looking for
technical/vocation education, and have them ride along with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We're among the best fire
departments in the state on customer service."</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFatyqYoG1uAJIbL2n0GcoTeP0XSsNE6ulyjEx0A5Lz5PzUh6BdQe_AO5NpCZF5u3DJELcaAjg7kD4zGvsDsY5qW7oBgSVlu6tLv6TEMlal-J1s1ZAHNdRKrAFChof16QTWJu0GhKTe0c/s1600/cap_henby4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFatyqYoG1uAJIbL2n0GcoTeP0XSsNE6ulyjEx0A5Lz5PzUh6BdQe_AO5NpCZF5u3DJELcaAjg7kD4zGvsDsY5qW7oBgSVlu6tLv6TEMlal-J1s1ZAHNdRKrAFChof16QTWJu0GhKTe0c/s320/cap_henby4.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">And it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> make a difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Barry did a demonstration for the kids at school stressing the importance of having a home fire exit plan. Children should know two
ways out of every room, families must have a meeting place outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Our </span>kids came home from school
determined to make an exit plan, which we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barry was featured
on a fire department poster that I saw hanging at the kids' schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His friendly, capable face made you feel
safer just looking at him. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">In 2006, I saw in the newspaper that Barry Henby was chosen as the Gurnee Days honoree, nominated by the people of Gurnee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called the Gurnee Days group and suggested that I draw Barry for his recognition dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They loved the idea, if it was free. For once, I didn't worry about money.</span></span></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSqMWCfvxkzI9cEp0IR2W2HQMcFxVCZ5DoqF_D3f9stpK8QU9cIsBKm8fnMcD2wnwAf26FIKghPdIfn5ITQejbkvnkAdADFYy93KyIH1nEQPDq56ODsrJYbCca8uY86-zn3k9LQOJapQ/s1600/barry+henby+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSqMWCfvxkzI9cEp0IR2W2HQMcFxVCZ5DoqF_D3f9stpK8QU9cIsBKm8fnMcD2wnwAf26FIKghPdIfn5ITQejbkvnkAdADFYy93KyIH1nEQPDq56ODsrJYbCca8uY86-zn3k9LQOJapQ/s400/barry+henby+portrait.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">“What an honor!”
Barry exclaimed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span>I guess it's my small town
roots, but I think you should help your neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cut the grass for some of my senior
neighbors, give them a hand if they need help, take down their Christmas
lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t that what you’re supposed
to do?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<v:shape id="_x0000_s1028" style="height: 3in; margin-left: 1.05pt; margin-top: 0.25pt; position: absolute; width: 151.95pt; z-index: -1;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-106 0 -106 21525 21600 21525 21600 0 -106 0"><span style="font-family: "arial";">
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<w:wrap type="tight">
</w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></v:shape><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">I presented Barry with his portrait at his honoree dinner in front
of 250 people, who each knew him personally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“My mom came up from central <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Illinois</st1:state></st1:place>,”
Barry smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She was so proud!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was really something special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sons shaved their
heads to match dad’s balding head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought there were lots of deserving people and I just felt so humbled to be
chosen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like an everyday guy got
recognized, and people seemed to get a kick out of that. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">"My wife gets uneasy with some of the
accolades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a good sport, but she
doesn’t like being the center of attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You can take one look at my wife and know why I fell in love with her, she
is such a beautiful lady."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">A few years after Joey’s party, we ran into Barry in line at Ace hardware. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>My kids recognized him instantly and stood up a little straighter, brightening at the prospect of rubbing elbows with a local celebrity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>They poked each other and whispered loudly, peeking at him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I said hello, shook his hand and reminded him that he’s saved the day for Joey’s party. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>He acted as though he remembered (it takes a good fake-rememberer to know one) and proceeded to pull magic tricks out of his pocket for the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did a little show for them, right there in line, which as much gusto as if he were performing for a roomful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I asked if he always walked around with magic in his pocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>“Of course!” he said, as if there wasn’t any other way to live. </span></span></span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">In 2010, Barry retired after </span><a href="http://triblocal.com/gurnee/community/stories/2010/06/battalion-chief-barry-henby-says-goodbye-to-the-gurnee-fire-department-after-30-years-of-service/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">thirty years of service</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> to the Gurnee fire department. With so many</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">important accomplishments, so much to take pride in, Barry probably doesn't remember the September day in 2003 that meant so much to a frazzled mom trying to show a sweet little seven year old boy how very much he's loved.</span> <br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLPcJCc2ifosDNfTo3nKhFtg0yVzwuh1hGLwxJLXWgw1-RYznt8zWCppcyuMCNsqZH_Q3Dhuyy6d8UOl5Qf9mSiRJtYbglQKcEICmOOUO2pcPm1JGiqP_t3UNcOWmNIWwTVdPmXjL2JY/s1600/firetruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLPcJCc2ifosDNfTo3nKhFtg0yVzwuh1hGLwxJLXWgw1-RYznt8zWCppcyuMCNsqZH_Q3Dhuyy6d8UOl5Qf9mSiRJtYbglQKcEICmOOUO2pcPm1JGiqP_t3UNcOWmNIWwTVdPmXjL2JY/s400/firetruck.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our hero.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-20287192844323557582012-07-14T07:23:00.003-07:002012-10-28T16:37:04.907-07:00Confessions of a Corporate FlirtDuring almost all of my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">corporate life</a>, before I became a full time <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portrait artist</a>, I worked for, or with, my father. When I work hard, I feel my dad's influence. When I play hard, it's there too. If there is a repetitive ticking noise somewhere, both of us react like we've been poked with a fork. My son Max has it too... it's cool and a little scary how it works that way. <br />
<br />
<br />
Every job I ever had was due to my father's connections or his computer consulting business. I worked for him summers and weekends from the time I was thirteen and full time for five years after college. We developed a closeness that wouldn't have been possible otherwise. At work, you use all your abilities... social, emotional, logical. While in the trenches, you get to know your coworkers better than you know some of your dearest friends. I surprised my dad sometimes with the things that I accomplished at work. I surprised myself. I'm glad we had that chance to get to know each other so well, even if I still have Vietnam flashbacks about some of it.<br />
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<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj60LucxVXki9ZtelZ2KB-LgctLOqg4DMKeu0fn6krT_zyg6lYaG8lHM3k1Ee8d7WfdND3n8uEpUKMUgKZdz2CGw0R-UjmXqvAdjH9AiklHJql4rk_qiG2b6R32VUpzvjTm7VyiPBtT_4U/s1600/WomanLyingOnOfficeFloor2+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj60LucxVXki9ZtelZ2KB-LgctLOqg4DMKeu0fn6krT_zyg6lYaG8lHM3k1Ee8d7WfdND3n8uEpUKMUgKZdz2CGw0R-UjmXqvAdjH9AiklHJql4rk_qiG2b6R32VUpzvjTm7VyiPBtT_4U/s200/WomanLyingOnOfficeFloor2+copy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working makes me tired.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Working for family can be challenging. My dad used to say that somebody was always in the room who shouldn't be... a father when there should have just been a boss. A crabby teenager or hungover college student when there should have been a diligent employee who wasn't secretly napping on her office floor. Eventually, the financial and emotional strain was just too much, and I left my dad's business for Hewitt Associates, where my husband Joe was working. The decision to leave my dad was so difficult, I used a spreadsheet to weigh the emotional toll, money, daycare issues. How in the hell do you measure hurting your dad? It was the hardest choice I've ever made.<br />
<br />
<br />
Karma rewarded my anguish with the best time I would ever have at work for the rest of my life. That includes my current job which entails goofing around writing stories before I <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">draw pictures</a> in front of the TV.<br />
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<br />
I started off at Hewitt as an ITS person. I forget what that stood for, I-something Technology Service? Anyway, I was a computer helper like the <a href="http://www.hulu.com/#!watch/19050" target="_blank">Saturday Night Live skit</a> with Jimmy Fallon ("<em>MOVE</em>!") The funniest part of this job was sending official sounding emails to associates about their naughty files cluelessly stored on the network. People would FREAK. OUT. "Um, oh, <em>crap</em>, I don't know where that came from, I swear, somebody must have saved it there by mistake, not me, oh God." <br />
<br />
<br />
My excellent porn sniffing abilities led to a promotion in less than six months to a software specialist. There the real fun began. I was the resident building expert for Microsoft Office (Word, Excel, Powerpoint), which I liked, although I was faking the expert part. I worked in a big open room with seven guys, all in their early twenties. I was in my early thirties, but felt fifty sometimes, because young guys are full throttle and I'm no delicate flower. I had to keep up, no matter how disgusting it got. Our DTS (desktop services) room was far away from the rest of the work world and it was a nasty slice of heaven.<br />
<br />
<br />
And in that testosterone soaked room, I fell in friend-love with Jason.<br />
<br />
<br />
I liked all the guys, but Jason was particularly hilarious (check!), adorable (check!), a former Marine (yum!) and a great talker. If you know me personally, you might have noticed that I'm a bit chatty. Jason and I talked our heads off about everything... home, work, rumors, love. Jason was dating a Hewitt girl named Jennelle and he was a goner. I gave him advice and drew a pencil portrait of them as his gift to her. <br />
<br />
I am a shameless flirt. I can't help it. If I think a guy is funny or smart, I try to rein it in. But I never had a date in high school, I had ONE DATE in <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/irish-carnival-ride-at-apartment-21.html" target="_blank">college</a>. When I wasn't busy slumming it with assholes, I was wondering if I would ever, ever find someone. Once <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">Joe rescued me</a>, many of my insecurities disappeared. I bartended for a few years after I discovered that Joe liked sitting at home way, way, way more than I did. I found my flirt and she's been inappropriately showing up whenever cocktails are involved ever since. <br />
<br />
<br />
Considering the atmosphere, I'm surprised there wasn't ever alcohol in the DTS room. But even sober, I was a little more flirty than I probably should have been with Jason. Work friendships between men and women can be a slippery slope; emotional intimacy can be just as dangerous as physical. But Jason loved Jennelle and I loved Joe. So we play-flirted in the sweet safety of our respective, rock-solid relationships. <br />
<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I got a taste of being a 20-something guy. For a full hour, every day after lunch, we played a video game called Unreal. I had never been a big video game player, but Unreal revealed to me why it becomes obsessive for some. Unreal was a shooty, wandering around game that involved finding bigger and bigger guns to blast each other in the face with.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnaPNfClrbtwbC_MHMOz_avF4_fr9Fq5wwRzoChOMu44hgoDG-BVH0NCYbjO5-_rSVL45U63aElohWwP_DKaRHU-DEbdujvErrKlDSHwF-mw2pEldAGFPt-dNd0m-CwOLeKqR6qiMgDw/s1600/UT99_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnaPNfClrbtwbC_MHMOz_avF4_fr9Fq5wwRzoChOMu44hgoDG-BVH0NCYbjO5-_rSVL45U63aElohWwP_DKaRHU-DEbdujvErrKlDSHwF-mw2pEldAGFPt-dNd0m-CwOLeKqR6qiMgDw/s320/UT99_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at me, I'm a gamer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The end of your gun was you, and the people running around in the game were the actual guys in our office. This is an everyday boring concept in the world of gaming, but for me in 1998, it was hysterically new and intoxicating. <br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqMc__MB7Z8hIc6jsAsVJngjljXBw8uLptwYyl3SrE2eZifkyxDVo5T044GSSAq18T-02abc8e8azdWUBXKppttuwU9lONbXrhC8laAxQ1kM-kB2oZ-lfvbks404O9CatREY0P5seWYg/s1600/2003_Aida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqMc__MB7Z8hIc6jsAsVJngjljXBw8uLptwYyl3SrE2eZifkyxDVo5T044GSSAq18T-02abc8e8azdWUBXKppttuwU9lONbXrhC8laAxQ1kM-kB2oZ-lfvbks404O9CatREY0P5seWYg/s200/2003_Aida.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Zumpinator was awesome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You picked a character from a few different juiced up robot looking choices. I picked the busty, slutty looking female ones and called myself the Zumpinator. Jason was always hollering <strong>"ZUMP!!! I SEE YOU!!!"</strong> at the top of his lungs from his cube across the room when I tried to hide and snipe him. Being the only girl and a novice player, I held my own. Our quiet, nice manager tried to ignore that we were totally screwing around, but it must have been hard with the constant yelling and laughing and not even pretending to work even a little. Sometimes he came out of his office and said, "<em>Guys</em>. Really?" There was no stopping us. Plus, we weren't even supposed to have games loaded on the network in the first place, but everyone in the room was a kick ass tech. So they manipulated the system and nice boss looked the other way as long as we actually got some work done. Which we usually did.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Every day, I looked forward to going to work. It was fun and funny and I was proud of my ability to not flinch too much at the absolutely vile atrocities that Jason and his friends would casually show me on the internet. "Hey, Zump! Come here a sec," meant trouble. I pretended that I didn't have nightmares about the delightful video clip they shared entitled <em>Beer Poop.</em> I'll never look at Braveheart the same way again. Jason and I were like detectives, keeping a careful log of a married chick's constant visits to one of our married cohorts. Now they're married to each other. See? A slippery slope.<br />
<br />
<br />
Not long after I left my father's business, my dad admitted defeat after a long, bloody fight against bigger competitors and rising costs. The timing of me leaving just before his business folded provided great material for my future therapy. He joined the Chicago consulting firm where I would eventually <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">get fired </a>in six quick years. "They could really use a Wendy," my dad told me, and that was the end of my best job in the world. The new firm offered me more money and the chance to work from home. I was about to get knocked up with Max and my little family just couldn't pass that up. <br />
<br />
<br />
The day I left Unreal, Jason and all my hilarious boys, my voice choked with tears when I tried to yell, "The Zumpinator has left the building!" I'd been with them less than a year. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Ahhh, Zump," Jason teased as he hugged me good-bye.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jason and Jennelle had a destination wedding on the beach. They reminded Joe and me of us... a real team, happy and laughing and made for each other. They got a house and geared up for the next step. Jason was a family guy and he was great with our kids when we visited them and they wrote GO BEARS all over his Wisconsin driveway. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1jNyz42rHaquPVN9krg6uxKpoKrtWXuwnaLaGhW1vm8vMwPrL0Dy-LN3Wb1y9b9NV-tXa3zyYKyUtFlZCUZeQ6M0Yoa-kjacSmGDQelfi9HSTQHPRecJVTu1MHg9k2FHNCJtUyArHwI/s1600/chalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1jNyz42rHaquPVN9krg6uxKpoKrtWXuwnaLaGhW1vm8vMwPrL0Dy-LN3Wb1y9b9NV-tXa3zyYKyUtFlZCUZeQ6M0Yoa-kjacSmGDQelfi9HSTQHPRecJVTu1MHg9k2FHNCJtUyArHwI/s200/chalk.jpg" width="145" /></a><br />
<br />
"Your kids suck," Jason cheerfully observed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When I started my full time portrait thing, Jason asked me to draw his parents for an anniversary gift. We didn't talk as much as we used to, but all I had to hear over the phone was "<em>Zuuuuuump</em>!" and we were back in Unreal mode.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I don't remember Jason telling me he had cancer. Maybe I blocked it, because it was way too close to home. He didn't talk about it much in the beginning, when he and Jennelle were frozen with fear. I sat with him during a chemo session and we laughed and chatted while my stomach was in knots. Some of the people in the room with him were like living cadavers. Jason is one of the most full of life people I've ever met. What if... <br />
<br />
<br />
Not to worry. My Semper Fi friend banked some artillery, kicked cancer's stupid ass and their son Callan miraculously came into the world. Jason and Jennelle were swept into the nonstop grind of working full time and new parenthood. Joe loved Jason too and saw more of him than I did at poker tournaments and work. Jason ordered a portrait of little Cal with their big bulldog, Spike. He nagged me to make sure that he was represented somewhere on my pencil portrait website (<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/Packers_Lambeau_Field.php" target="_blank">right here</a><span id="goog_252611741"></span><span id="goog_252611737"></span>). Some friendships don't require a lot of interaction. Our bond has been built and it's there whenever we need it. <br />
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<br />
One day, Joe was working in his home office (his lazyboy with his laptop on his lap in front of the big TV) and he stopped rocking with a sudden gasp. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Holy shit," he looked up at me in shock, "Jason just texted that Jennelle wants a divorce." <br />
<br />
<br />
Conversations with Jason were with somebody brand new. Gone was the happy go lucky, smart ass goofball. Here was a boy crushed to his core. The pain in his voice killed me. And that constant question, "Why? Why?" She wouldn't listen, she didn't care. It was all business now about splitting time with Cal, the house, money. He beat cancer. How could he have lost her?<br />
<br />
<br />
The honeymoon phase doesn't last forever and maybe there had been some signs, some warnings. When you think you're in it forever, there is all the time in the world to stop playing games, lose weight, quit smoking. And then forever is gone and there was nothing Jason could do to bring it back. He begged and opened up to Jennelle in complete vulnerability, admitted his failings, promised the world. But she was done and forever was ice cold. She told him that his pleas made him seem weak. <em>Bitch.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I told Jason that he was funny and true and smart and a great dad. When we jokingly talked about who we would choose for each other if one of us were hit by a bus, Joe chose Jason for me. I told Jason that eventually hooking up with someone new was probably going to be <em>fun</em>. I told him, with complete sincerity, that he was a catch. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Really?" Jason asked, in pain. "Do you really think so?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Yes, I do.<br />
<br />
<br />
Conversations with Jason are different again, now. They are with yet another Jason. This Jason works out constantly and looks more and more like the Marine he once was. He tells me about girls and asks for my advice sometimes, but doesn't really need it. Last year he asked if I'd draw another portrait for his parents. This one was celebrating their new family. Jason, Cal and his wonderful, supportive parents at Cal's first Packer's game.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5xUS7zkG7v0b_Uj4n-gOql2DDFLg4DjWQldADjuL_AwSjZX46H2xNgtvarIxSz7I84V8owWlebvftIPENmwBVSvU73if9TW5r01YNdgtifHapt1CNqdC9gcqhuc6bZVjZ7CLAMj3gIo/s1600/ottum+portrait+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5xUS7zkG7v0b_Uj4n-gOql2DDFLg4DjWQldADjuL_AwSjZX46H2xNgtvarIxSz7I84V8owWlebvftIPENmwBVSvU73if9TW5r01YNdgtifHapt1CNqdC9gcqhuc6bZVjZ7CLAMj3gIo/s640/ottum+portrait+web.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
Eff off, Jennelle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Jason was thrilled with it and hung it in his new bachelor pad, a beautifully decorated house just right for a boy named Cal and his dad. Jason happily pointed the portrait out to his friends at his housewarming party and introduced Joe and me like we were family. I put together Christmas cards for him blending a photo from the game and my drawing of Lambeau on the front, and the Jason and Cal parts of his parents' drawing inside.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_CL8h2ygho2hBA7W2840onCZiLCID8h1qfcsoNJKCmOCo5tZleSh-dyIShP_NO6npDw6CPeleKG5_CYuwtEfFD7oCXKE37c57IJ9TSBejKyWjrPn_7TBGcf0od5bj-W-sXnGwsn7qPw/s1600/front+of+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_CL8h2ygho2hBA7W2840onCZiLCID8h1qfcsoNJKCmOCo5tZleSh-dyIShP_NO6npDw6CPeleKG5_CYuwtEfFD7oCXKE37c57IJ9TSBejKyWjrPn_7TBGcf0od5bj-W-sXnGwsn7qPw/s320/front+of+card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Jason recently had a 4th of July party and told me we needed to come. "You'll get to meet the girl I've been telling you about!" he confided. <br />
<br />
<br />
We didn't make the party and I haven't met the girl yet. <br />
<br />
<br />
She better be worthy of my friend, because he is one in a million. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Zumpinator, out.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-979588927543630082012-07-12T18:42:00.002-07:002012-07-12T18:42:43.923-07:00Coming to America<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About a year after I started
<a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">drawing full time</a>, I raised my prices for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was tired of hearing that my <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/page9.html" target="_blank">pencil portraits</a> were
“reasonable.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A lot.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not interested in being a
bargain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, when it comes to
getting cash for my time, I’m fine with being right on the verge of
rude but hopefully not obnoxious. That's a hard balance to find sometimes.</span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rome Gulliford picked up a
price sheet at one of my earliest <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">shows</a> during the first traumatic months after I got fired from my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">corporate job</a>. For more than
a year, she saved the price sheet and saved her pennies. She wanted to give her mother a special portrait of her brothers and sisters… all seven of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I kept my base prices the
same, but after the first year, I doubled my fee for each additional subject
from $25 to $50.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Rome</st1:city></st1:place> called me over a year
later, the price for a seven subject portrait had increased by $175.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a Mother’s Day order and I was
swamped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A good business person knows
when to make an exception, and when to stand firm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it’s pouring rain, nobody’s putting
umbrellas in the clearance bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rome was crushed that she had
saved so long and needed to wait until Christmas if she was going to get this
portrait for her mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not always the
shrewdest business person or any other kind of person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To her relief, I told her I would draw her
portrait for the old price.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When the portrait was
complete and I heard her story, I was glad that I did.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rome was the first person I asked to interview for my book, rather than telling the stories from memory. She sat on the floor with me at my coffee table and we talked like old friends. Hers was the story I meant to tell when I wrote about <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">my mom</a> last post, but once we ladies get started on our mothers, it's hard to stop. Rome knows what I mean. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rome’s mother brought her six little
children to the <st1:country-region w:st="on">United States</st1:country-region>
from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Mexico</st1:country-region></st1:place>
in 1975.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had nothing but the clothes
on their backs – no possessions and not a single photograph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">During the thirty plus years
they’ve lived in Chicago, Rome’s mom treasured this snapshot that was taken for
their visa and the six tiny photographs used for their applications for citizenship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Times were tough and a camera was an impossible luxury.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8X0tnby1PwzlqCYz1g9Y0ZOHBFJxxJAzuZg5mme2cBbFXpcakMC_FeSR0JPQ_j2rvov2o2At1v4ACrStWLVaXnISL1p2WtiK2eL7rogZ8oWhMC1cqObhhOL8KmHCjVAS4n25QGi8-pUc/s1600/gulliford+visa220.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8X0tnby1PwzlqCYz1g9Y0ZOHBFJxxJAzuZg5mme2cBbFXpcakMC_FeSR0JPQ_j2rvov2o2At1v4ACrStWLVaXnISL1p2WtiK2eL7rogZ8oWhMC1cqObhhOL8KmHCjVAS4n25QGi8-pUc/s400/gulliford+visa220.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“We came to America when I
was six years old,” Rome told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My
mother was 27 and she already had six children, each born within a year and a
half of the next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was technically a single parent because my father had
been working in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">United
States</st1:country-region></st1:place> as a welder for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my grandmother became sick and died, my
mother couldn’t bear to stay in Mexico without her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother was only 44 years old."</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Wow. Um, I'm 45. Just saying. Also, what if Joey had six kids already?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Life was so hard there," Rome went on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "My mom had almost no education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was cooking for her family when she was only 7 years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>She married my father at 18, had her first
baby at 21 and also cared for her younger siblings when my grandmother got sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no washing machines, no
running water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The water for all of that
laundry had to be hauled by hand from a well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mother had to wash clothes, dirty bedding and soiled cloth diapers on
a washboard every single day, rubbing her hands raw. She works nonstop to this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know where she finds her energy.”</span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC35phqz74Yfe9IMeO-FVolfruevYtPOXHZ7aNAbEB3Z57VlBQZdKukpZGmFaG8dVxsi-7Qoj4EDJzE2vZhNwDKSR3AclQWg3Fr-SeeXH1d0KJ1X1-0ZIfjJcJ27a1MYis43ymmvOPfmA/s1600/dryer+stink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC35phqz74Yfe9IMeO-FVolfruevYtPOXHZ7aNAbEB3Z57VlBQZdKukpZGmFaG8dVxsi-7Qoj4EDJzE2vZhNwDKSR3AclQWg3Fr-SeeXH1d0KJ1X1-0ZIfjJcJ27a1MYis43ymmvOPfmA/s200/dryer+stink.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh Lord, no. It still stinks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I shivered at the thought. I don't have the
slightest idea what real labor is like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagining
Rome’s mother slaving away made me feel embarrassed for throwing a snit fit at the dryer
stink that keeps happening. When my friend Lauri had her kitchen redone, I thought of her as a desperate frontier woman for several months, especially since she has four kids, which is far too many for me to imagine, let alone six. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In order to leave Mexico, Rome’s
mother dreamed and saved and scrimped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She scraped up enough from the meager money sent home from her husband to
bring her six young children to America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She joined her husband in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city></st1:place>
where she knew nobody and didn’t speak a word of English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<br /><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“My mother’s life has always
been all about our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">S</span>he never sits still - cooking, cleaning, worrying about everyone. She was strict and protective; we were never
allowed to sleep over anywhere else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
we asked to stay at a friend’s, my mother would scold us, ‘You have your own
bed, this is where you stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you
need to sleep somewhere else?'"</span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About eight years before I
met her, Rome had returned to Mexico with her mother for the first time since they'd left. It had been more
than fifteen years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Her brother was very ill,” <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Rome</st1:city></st1:place> explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My mom had no intention of <em>ever</em> going back there;
she had such painful memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted
to block that part of her life.” </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Rome</span></st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-size: 10pt;">’s eyes glistened and she swallowed, pausing to wipe </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">her eyes with the back of her hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t like to think about how my mom suffered,”
she said quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I didn’t blame her for not wanting to go back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I told her that she might never get to
see her brother again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her I’d go
with her, although I was nervous about how she would react to facing everything
she’d gone through. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /><br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“It hurt her deeply to see
that life is still so bad there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
poverty is terrible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are kids
running around with no shoes on gravel roads, kicking a can because they don’t
have a ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s depressing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The houses look like they are ready to be
bulldozed over."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rome looked out my window in thought. I realized the window was pretty dirty and I felt lazy on a whole new level.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“I don’t even know how she got
us all out of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Mexico</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were so little and there were so many of
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone had to walk long distances to
get anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember my brother was
sick for awhile and my mother had to take us on a long walk to the bus depot and then
endure a 2 ½ hour, steamy bus ride to get to a doctor in the nearest city, all while
toting two toddlers, a baby in diapers and one on the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then do it all over again to get home.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“It makes me feel so lucky to
have this life and so foolish for complaining about the small stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m grateful we got out of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Mexico</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, at the same time, I feel bad that there
are so many people who can’t get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re
stuck with nothing; no resources, and no education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are vulnerable and naïve, they believe
whatever they are told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they were
better educated, maybe they could lift themselves up.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Thoughts swirled in my head,
listening to Rome, of the angry disdain some people have about immigrants in
our country, despite the fact that every one of us is here because of dreams for a better life
like Rome’s mother’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d heard similar
stories about Mexico from our beloved Raquel, who cared for my boys back in my corporate
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> How hard she worked, h</span>ow shockingly little she charged us,
how absolutely devoted she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My father goes back to Mexico at least three
times a year,” Rome continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He brings
all the donations he can cram into his van.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is like Santa Claus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He drives
all the way there from Chicago.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since Rome’s story had been
mostly about her mother, I wondered about her dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he still around?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was getting the picture that perhaps they
had divorced.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“No, my father was always around,”
Rome said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But my mom was both
our mother and our father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She handled the
house, our needs, our discipline, caring for us, everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
my father put in his 40 hours of work, he figured he was done - he’d put in his
time and now he could relax. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my mom
was working just as hard and her job never ended, she never rested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was there for everything, attending every
parent/teacher conference by herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
dad sat back at home, waiting for my mother’s report on what was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s part of their culture and their
generation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Rome</span></st1:city><span style="font-size: 10pt;">’s mother never attended school in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>, there wasn’t any time or
money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she did put herself through
driving school on the sly, without her husband’s consent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“When we were growing up in
Chicago, we dragged huge army duffle bags full of laundry up three flights of
stairs, up and down with the dirty and clean clothes, to a Laundromat three
blocks away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hispanic men like my father were too macho to drive
laundry around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was tired of waiting
for him to drive her, so she learned to drive without him knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He probably was nervous that she’d gained
that little bit of power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was proud
to be able to go where she wanted to go.</span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“There was always a distance
between my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between all of us,
really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From what I’ve experienced and
seen in my parents’ generation, they are not very affectionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was all business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held the little ones, but once we were
old enough to help, we were expected to do our part, to get to work.</span></span></div>
<br /><br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“In fact," Rome said, leaning forward, "I remember the first time I
gave my mom a hug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until I was
in my twenties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember what
prompted me to do it, but I remember making the decision and surprising myself
that I was going to try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so
nervous getting that close to her, breaking the barrier of her busy, personal
space, wondering how she would react.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was surprised too, but she hugged me back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While we were growing up, she showed us in many ways how she felt about
us, but she never told us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never told
us, ‘I love you,’ out loud until we were adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t know how; her upbringing was just so
serious and hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Today, my mother is very loving
with her grandchildren.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that the
grandkids have helped her develop the ability to express her love to her own
kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I’m mad at my kids and my
father hears me, he tells me not to yell at them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he always yelled at us!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When <st1:city w:st="on">Rome</st1:city>
picked up her finished portrait she was thrilled to see that the six tiny
photographs her mother had lovingly saved, attached to an old piece of paper with
yellowing tape, were transformed into a portrait that included their baby
brother who had been born in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Rome</st1:city></st1:place>’s
children played with mine while she and her husband chatted with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEYfbVWYPb0KnzC3m1fyIrcCUs64BBSzHWzM7Uh9tpZT0JGFkzlOrMs0up_K909g4vBQAjFtQbkUnbbnA2GXB82mq8O_GML4JyO_tZB0V-JW4FaihsC3nCFogg8sux-7V35ABiGVO2VA/s1600/gulliford.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEYfbVWYPb0KnzC3m1fyIrcCUs64BBSzHWzM7Uh9tpZT0JGFkzlOrMs0up_K909g4vBQAjFtQbkUnbbnA2GXB82mq8O_GML4JyO_tZB0V-JW4FaihsC3nCFogg8sux-7V35ABiGVO2VA/s320/gulliford.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“I can’t believe Rome actually
spent money on this portrait,” her husband teased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s so frugal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t ever get her to spend any money on
something she wants.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></st1:city></st1:place></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Rome</span></st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My mom
never wants us to spend any money on her, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I’m the same way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never accepts a gift without complaining
about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’ll want to know how much
we spent on this portrait and she’ll be angry we spent it on her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn‘t like to be the center of
attention and would rather focus her attention on someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a private person.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Rome looked out my dirty window again
and her eyes welled up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She was really
very alone, all her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never had
a best friend to talk to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s kept
everything inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until I
became an adult and I went through a divorce that I fully realized how she’s
always been there for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve gotten really
close to her and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t call to see how she is
doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can always tell if she is
bothered by something, but I have to drag it out of her before she’ll tell me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn’t know how to ask for help.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“If she tells me that her
faucet is leaking, we drive the 77 miles to her house in Chicago from
Wisconsin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband gets frustrated sometimes
because I have siblings who live near her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I want to be the one who is there for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how minor it is, I feel pressure to
take responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want things my way, just like her."</span></span></div>
<br /><br />
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Rome</span></st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> holds up her
portrait, looking at the faces of her siblings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“This is so beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think
she’s going to love it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looks at me
and gives me a big beautiful smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I love my mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has been through so much on her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that she’s tough, but I want her to
know that she never has to go through anything by herself, ever again.” </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfcwuy7Ptf-wa_0sXR1bIQ_PqMVXTJ7zvfao2BC7KTB2oPhTDUwggzSCmyOh_WJrSu7FUlJ3VZhCJnhwqXFB8EbZXzci5cJs3-DqvouBSfhFGCqfraLR78hDJ7KSTxLxeuaanBJ8rm_4/s1600/gulliford+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfcwuy7Ptf-wa_0sXR1bIQ_PqMVXTJ7zvfao2BC7KTB2oPhTDUwggzSCmyOh_WJrSu7FUlJ3VZhCJnhwqXFB8EbZXzci5cJs3-DqvouBSfhFGCqfraLR78hDJ7KSTxLxeuaanBJ8rm_4/s640/gulliford+portrait.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Remind me to give my mom an extra big hug the next time she comes over. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-74383391429232755942012-07-04T19:46:00.001-07:002012-07-05T06:42:48.400-07:00Bronze Tablets and the Golden CorralA few years after I <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">got canned and started drawing</a> full time, my mother retired and offered to help me with my business. Other than one brief nasty, wretched teenage stage, my mom and I have always been very, very close. Remember, she's the one who told me to <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">sleep with my future husband</a>. <br />
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My mother has a killer mind that she can laser focus on learning or analyzing anything. She majored in Spanish and when I was growing up, she took French and Russian and Japanese classes just for fun. She graduated in the top 1% of her class and her name is engraved on a Bronze Tablet in the University of Illinois library. I used to trace my fingers along her name for strength on my way to an algebra torture chamber in the library basement. And what do you know, she did help. Because my name ended up on the Bronze Tablet too.<br />
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My mommy is smart and I am not <em>that </em>much of a dumb ass.</td></tr>
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All my life, my mother has been beyond supportive, enthusiastically appreciating us, always putting us first. My father is a complex, intense person and my mother just might have been the one and only person alive on the planet who was absolutely perfect for him. She lifted us up when we were down, she laughed her HEAD off at our jokes and stories. She sits in her chair at the end of her dining room table with a book, her face alight with complete interest at almost everything we have to say. The rest of us have a scorching case of verbal diarrhea in my family and that poor woman has had A LOT to listen to. <br />
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My mother is half intelligentsia and half Ed McMahon, often content to listen and encourage. She's my cheerleader, my friend, my careful critic; the one who wraps me in a long hug that makes me feel loved to my very core. I rest my head on her shoulder and sigh... her hugs drain a bit of my tension.<br />
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Families are complicated and I've got a big ole Golden Corral buffet of that going on, much of which begins and ends in my screwed up stew of a head.<br />
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Allow me to scoop up some more weird shit and big fat hurt feelings. <br />
I can't get enough!</td></tr>
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No matter how twisted or sad things can occasionally get, my mom is right there to promise that all will be well. Life just doesn't get under her skin the way it does for me. I sulk at my half empty glass of wine while my mom happily sips her half full manhattan. Let's drink to being more like my mom. If only.<br />
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Before my mom retired, I spent every spare stolen moment at my parents' house, which is 2.6 miles from mine. Once the kids were fed, I couldn't get there fast enough to talk to my mom and tell her every random thing I did or thought or heard or saw. She'll let me prattle on endlessly.<br />
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Once she started coming over to help me with my work, things changed a little. As much as I find joy in drawing something that is precious to someone, my work can be stressful. There is so much detail involved in finding the work, preparing the layout (which can combine more elements than you'd think), adjusting the final drawing to the client's satisfaction and managing to get paid for it. I can pretty much throw a fit and lose my shit at any point during the process. God freaking forbid something goes wrong with my computer or printer, it's full metal jacket panic spiral time. I used to have my little mental breakdowns on my own, but once my mommy was here regularly, I had an audience. On one hand, she can be wonderfully soothing, stroking my shoulder and making sympathetic noises. On the other hand, she's a mom. And no matter how glorious your mom is, there are stressful times in your life when the LAST thing you want is your MOM "helping". <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMRodLJtR0TlQE1MmrGibJ56_q0B2sbuUAuDXImNdDpQuGEHpgk2I_GrpAhYxtGudeU_BhdLITL6oUuKInVimeQlO7l-Nz4N10jUtjHWxTuwlF72OzyoQEMlhZJko8RjNaruWhwlUMWM/s1600/0312-bra-fitting-step-4-lgn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMRodLJtR0TlQE1MmrGibJ56_q0B2sbuUAuDXImNdDpQuGEHpgk2I_GrpAhYxtGudeU_BhdLITL6oUuKInVimeQlO7l-Nz4N10jUtjHWxTuwlF72OzyoQEMlhZJko8RjNaruWhwlUMWM/s200/0312-bra-fitting-step-4-lgn.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's okay, really, I've got it, Mom.</td></tr>
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Over the last four or five years, I've tried to work through some of my crap, trying to adjust my own stubborn negativity and protectiveness of my nest and routine. Sometimes I've had to outright ask my mom to give me space, like when she used to chime in when I dealt with a crabby kid's attitude. She used to keep me company in the morning while I put layouts together, watching over my shoulder and occasionally pointing things out. This was not my favorite. But I know she really, really wants to help. And if she saw something that needed adjustment, was she supposed to just sit there and say nothing? Unfortunately for her, I had to say yes. And she really tries. We've never had to filter ourselves when we are together, but I needed to protect our relationship. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt, but it can make me testy. Most, if not all of my mother's suggestions are helpful in theory; they just aren't helpful to my variable mental health. I have watched just about every episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, and I know I'm not alone in this.<br />
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When my mom arrives at my house each day, it is my cue to quit farting around on the computer. At first, it was because she would take over and work on a list of stuff I'd compiled. Later, it was because it was time to go watch a movie together while I draw. In some ways, it was helpful with my schedule as otherwise, I wouldn't have one. I am <em>never </em>done with the computer, because I have ADD and I am constantly distracted, which is inconvenient due to the invention of the internet. I should be doing real work, but instead, I'm probably sniffing around your Facebook vacation photos or writing long emails to my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/irish-carnival-ride-at-apartment-21.html" target="_blank">college friends</a>. When my mom would arrive, I'd get a jolt of work-guilt that I started to associate with her. Now she calls before she comes and I can tell her to give me a little more time to work, or stalk people or add songs to my ipod shuffle (you know I'm too cheap for a real one.) My goal is to force myself to stop in time to have lunch with her, at the latest.<br />
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I draw my <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portraits</a> in the corner of my bedroom and my mom has a big comfy chair up there that my dad and my husband Joe bought her for Mother's Day. We have probably watched more movies together in a month than some people see in a year or more. We <em>love </em>movies and take turns watching our respective Netflix arrivals. This is the sweet spot of the day with my mom. We pause the movie to tell each other things we forgot to say or to try and figure out where we've seen an actor or who would have been better for the role. I almost always remember to put the captions on for her. I did need to work it out with her that she should leave the room when Joe gets home so he doesn't have to change in the closet. These things just took awhile to figure out.<br />
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In the very beginning, my mom was at my house up to five days a week, from mid morning until dinner time. My friends would gasp in horror, shaking their heads at the thought. That's just too much mom for most people. Now it's more like three days. I've been really busy with back to back <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">art shows</a> so the last couple weeks were less.<br />
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As much as I love having my dear mom's company, I miss the days when I couldn't wait to rush to her house. I'd get away from the demands of my work and my family and my mom would be waiting there to throw her head back and laugh with me. We'd talk and talk and drink wine together. It was a break from the routine for me. Plus I never felt more special than when I was with with my mom. She listens with such love and pays me such amazing, personal compliments, I'd feel shy sharing most of them. She thinks I'm a good mom. I could never be the rock that she is. Now I get so much time with her, I don't have much left to say when she's not here. If I do, I call her and tell her. Things feel different now since we're always at my house. It never gets to be about just the two of us anymore, our time is also about running my business and being a mom myself and fighting my losing battle not to be a <em>complete </em>slob.<br />
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When we're not together, I feel my mom waiting for me to call her and tell her to come over. I feel like I let her down a little bit when I don't. She's given me her love and support so unconditionally, so wholeheartedly. She just wants to spend time with me. My mom has never been a needy person. She's very introspective and is content with a great book and my father to talk to. My parents keep to themselves and they don't socialize very much. Sometimes I feel a lot of pressure to make sure my mom is getting the attention from me she deserves. I can't predict my own schedule and we're both at the mercy of my lack of discipline. When I hear the loving hope in her voice over the phone and I've got five hundred things to do, it's hard.<br />
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I'm ridiculously lucky to have such a great mom. Someone commented about her on my last blog entry...<br />
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I wish I could get you a mom like mine, Karen Holtkamp. I am spoiled rotten. And yet I'm just not as patient with her as I should be. I snap at her when she crosses one of my changing, shifting boundaries. I don't want her to talk to me about certain things that most hurt my heart, and yet sometimes I need to talk to her about it. I don't get the chance to miss my mom and sometimes I miss missing her. Which is really an awfully greedy thing. <br />
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Mommy, thank you for putting up with my emotional roller coasters and my short fuse. Thank you for being there for everything and anything. When you love someone so much, we're responsible for each other. You handle your responsibilities with such grace, and I handle mine kicking and screaming and muttering and swearing. I feel like before, when we weren't together so much, you didn't have to see the worst in me. You just saw the daughter who was always so very eager to be with you. I hope you can forgive the moments when I take you for granted or when I need some space or when you witness yet another childish panic fit. <br />
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I'd be lost without you. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0odl_6duJePrQEup2TUeZlIcZCYiF3IPkvs3_SERcr0v3usBhaNdBsEHCYJpbpRHPoDmkLGx4lwUJ-Jxyhw33shAyKzmnMZbJvJEyZcCPrMBtlfr1I5lTaiI_dtt9jorGIf98pBaLSu4/s1600/Picture+036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0odl_6duJePrQEup2TUeZlIcZCYiF3IPkvs3_SERcr0v3usBhaNdBsEHCYJpbpRHPoDmkLGx4lwUJ-Jxyhw33shAyKzmnMZbJvJEyZcCPrMBtlfr1I5lTaiI_dtt9jorGIf98pBaLSu4/s320/Picture+036.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-19233484348187972652012-06-19T19:03:00.002-07:002013-05-03T09:46:44.175-07:00Be Positive, Sarah Jessica!As I was sulking in my <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">hot tent</a> during the worst art show ever last weekend, I tried to think positively for once instead of <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/boo-hoo-water-balloons.html" target="_blank">crying and/or complaining</a>. I didn't cry, but it was impossible not to complain.<br />
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Custer's Last Stand in Evanston, IL might have been an actual art show at one time, but apparently it is officially a flea market now. I was across from a jewelry stand (big surprise) where EVERYTHING was $5, even the fancy plastic insect keychains. The <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/boo-hoo-water-balloons.html" target="_blank">jewelry drunks</a> were actual drunks this time because it was a street fair, which means beer is fair game at 10 am. I had another jeweler next to me whose $20 earrings were pretty steep compared to the five buck table, so I felt sorry for her.<br />
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The whole sweaty, hot show was more about beer, food and weird music than about art of any kind. At one point, a native American group about ten feet away from me was pounding the living shit out of their drums while yodel-<em>hollering</em> at the top of their lungs. I don't mean to be disrespectful, I'm all for cultural experiences. But it was mind-numbingly loud and repetitive. I could barely converse with any of the four serious potential customers who entered my booth all day. Plus, the native American fellows kept demanding that the onlookers dance with them. "DANCE! IT'S AN EASY DANCE! YOU CAN DO IT!!" All white people deserve to pay for what happened to the people who lived here first. Apparently it was my turn to take one for the team.<br />
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As the crapfest nature of the show began to dawn on us, several shell-shocked artists wandered around quizzing each other in a panic. "Have you done this show before? Is it always this bad? Good Lord, this is HORRENDOUS." We were all first time dumb-dumbs.<br />
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Now's about the time that I feel power-sorry for myself and begin dramatically announcing to my husband <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">Joe</a> and my <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/07/ed-mcmahon-and-golden-corral.html" target="_blank">mom</a> that I need a <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">real job</a> while probably crying. This hasn't been working very well and they don't seem to enjoy it, so I decided to give myself a break. I was <em>not</em> going to get worked up about it. It wasn't my fault. I'd chosen this show because another artist recommended it. She stopped at my booth briefly to bitch about her spot and to share that she was never doing this show again, which made me really want to push her. One of those playground girl-pushes where the other girl sits down hard and bites her tongue while I run away.<br />
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Instead, I worked hard on my <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">drawing</a>, tried to <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-dangers-of-yell-telling.html" target="_blank">yell-chat</a> over the tribal music in a non-frightening way with the occasional visitor. Plus, I stayed very busy fending off weird old guys.<br />
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Weird old guy number one was a neighboring artist. He was the most harmless one of the bunch, and the most freaked out. He'd traveled pretty far to attend this popsicle stand of a show and kept drifting into my booth, smoking and worry-staring at me. He was sort of a bug-eyed guy and maybe couldn't help looking weird, but I'd had about enough of, "Hey, how's it going? Anytime the shoppers want to show up, it's fine with me, heh heh. How are things???" I eventually yelled at him a little and he left me alone.<br />
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Weird old guy number two made plates out of melted pop cans with Jesus and whatnot on them. He was very proud of his plates and kept coming in my booth to announce that if he doesn't do $4000 in a show it's not worth it. <em>WHO</em> in the hell is buying $4K of Jesus plates? I'm rather proud of some of my stuff, but I've never, ever sold that much in one show. Jesus plate guy had a rather unusual face. That wasn't holding him back from chatting me up and telling me I look like Sarah Jessica Parker. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmzqA5N5wFGCPN4jdHtevTRN97ApakWsgsj6RF4inC04KFNGuLKA5P3PWwoWEQhyphenhyphenRhv9Yo8GG8RSHtMBBxMNWFquVlHGOWuFaa86EV5zt7OG5h6UF7Ce6HkVybDaIz-3SXaPODUWLoSM/s1600/sarah+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmzqA5N5wFGCPN4jdHtevTRN97ApakWsgsj6RF4inC04KFNGuLKA5P3PWwoWEQhyphenhyphenRhv9Yo8GG8RSHtMBBxMNWFquVlHGOWuFaa86EV5zt7OG5h6UF7Ce6HkVybDaIz-3SXaPODUWLoSM/s320/sarah+and+me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homely or sexy? Weird old guy #2 says... both.</td></tr>
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Yeah, I know. When I bartended, I got it all the time. We both have long faces, big chins and long noses. A lovely combination. I'd rather resemble her from the neck down than the neck up, but c'est la vie. I tried to make a joke about having her horse face and weird guy #2 agreed, "Yeah, she is kind of homely. But there's something about her that guys find pretty sexy." Um, ew and EW. Stop calling me homely while hitting on me. You and your pop can plates can shut up. Later, he told me that he was going to have the Native Americans dedicate a song to me. That's pretty funny, I'll give him that one. I considered having the $5 jewelry guys protect me, but luckily, Jesus Plates packed up and left early on Sunday. This required him to cart his crap the equivalent of three city blocks UP A HILL to his car. The show was <em>that </em>bad.</div>
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The weirdest and oldest guy (somewhere in his 80's, I'd guess) at first seemed harmless with his straw hat, bowtie and fluffy foo-foo dog in his arms. He had nothing to do other than hang around and decide whether to unload his lifetime supply of crazy on me. I heard about his dog's breast cancer and the girl who he'd like me to draw but can't because they are from another time. This time around, she's too young and being programmed to stay away from him. He was the strangest combination of flirty and gay I've ever seen. I think he may have been as confused inside as I felt listening to him. He kept leering at me while spinning his crazy story web and listing all the astrological signs he was most compatible with. I thought he would never, ever, ever leave.<br />
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The grand finale was waiting in my car for 45 minutes while bored volunteers weakly begged the throngs of drunk people to clear out of the art area of the street fair so we could drive our cars in. I had taken a cue from Jesus Plates and tore down my stuff early. I happened to be standing right near the exit pass chick when she got the okay to start handing them out, so I was FIRST in line. Yay! The guy at the gate saw my magic blue ticket and let me right in, where I drove one inch every few minutes through the crowd until another volunteer ran at me in mid conniption screaming at me to stop. His walkie talkie was screeching "<strong>All the artists <em>KNOW</em> they CAN'T drive into the area until ALL the pedestrians have LEFT.</strong>" I got the impression that this was specifically for me to hear, but too bad, the gate guy let me in. Conniption guy made me pull over so I could helplessly watch people ignore his pleas to walk on the sidewalk for 45 minutes. When I FINALLY got to move up, all sorts of cars were pouring in ahead of me from the side gates and I nearly lost my shit. <br />
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My assigned spot was under some train tracks in an area that would make a perfect movie setting for a homeless drug deal and/or assault. Because of the tracks, there was a huge bottle neck in my area that shouldn't have been a problem if I'd been FIRST like I was SUPPOSED TO BE. Fortunately, I chose this spot for myself from an online map, so I can't be mad at anyone but me. Apparently, I forgot what the railroad symbol looks like. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh651pdTTMx7a3rSqtP7UF6HHRw-iCLgHV0C588_I2NqI8PLtMuWeS0E3VWPGBF2-9xXxRvvju7fd5ZFwwlNKmrztwIP5W77-WXA4T575MPikscmZHtVwPCanYI34xz-cxFZb8CdEueEZs/s1600/custer+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh651pdTTMx7a3rSqtP7UF6HHRw-iCLgHV0C588_I2NqI8PLtMuWeS0E3VWPGBF2-9xXxRvvju7fd5ZFwwlNKmrztwIP5W77-WXA4T575MPikscmZHtVwPCanYI34xz-cxFZb8CdEueEZs/s400/custer+map.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual online map where I picked my crappy spot.</td></tr>
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That was really the only time I got upset. I screamed the f-word and the cop on a segway right next to me laughed a little. It was sort of funny, really. See? This is a brand new attitude for me. <br />
<br />
Since I had been away from Joe all Father's Day weekend, he took Monday off. Instead of letting me pamper him, he suggested that we go through my display, which has been looking shoddier and shoddier, causing me to complain about it a lot. He helped me redesign the whole thing and I'm really excited for this weekend's show in Arlington Heights. And Joe gets to feel hopeful that he'll hear a little less complaining, at least about my crappy display.<br />
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See what happens when I try to stay positive? Okay, sort of positive.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-52048688361885497042012-06-13T14:33:00.000-07:002012-11-01T07:31:24.172-07:00Ode to Joe, or how I used to be an idiot<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When
I first met my husband, I had been dating Lucifer on and off for five years.
Perhaps you’ve heard of him, the prince of darkness?<o:p></o:p></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbSNxr8MN39Eu4ZweuhMSDsjfu9ytgLiSR9U1BJyTt6uFzQXvdpEaPpmPZL5-d0LFE7qgNGFWHtK4rI59p__WSybmLBakWyqCuU3AqywLrlgNnB3Q_Fy7kOZ6FYDlvIQo2TbtXeOM22Q/s1600/500full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbSNxr8MN39Eu4ZweuhMSDsjfu9ytgLiSR9U1BJyTt6uFzQXvdpEaPpmPZL5-d0LFE7qgNGFWHtK4rI59p__WSybmLBakWyqCuU3AqywLrlgNnB3Q_Fy7kOZ6FYDlvIQo2TbtXeOM22Q/s200/500full.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Actually,
that guy - let’s call him Dick - was just a screwed up kid who was the product
of bad circumstances or rotten genes or whatever bad Zodiac sign makes
you an asshole. In any case, he had a string of bad luck that led him right to me,
where I was patiently waiting for a total jerk to treat me like crap. The
table was nicely laid for my trailer trash romance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Dick
stole wallets out of people’s cars. Dick wanted me to do stuff I didn’t
want to do. Dick adored his deaf mother, hated his stepfather and slept
in their cold basement on a mattress on the cement floor. Most of all,
Dick wanted the life he’d envisioned at college before he’d lost his
scholarship; he wanted to make something of himself and didn’t know how.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone who had more than he did –more money,
a car, a better place to live – made him <i>mad.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Growing
up, I believed that I had the perfect family and regularly announced how lucky
I was. I reminded <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/10/meep-moop-means-i-love-you.html" target="_blank">my friend Vicki</a> about that a few years ago and she admitted
that she’d thought I was a little off my rocker. In retrospect, we had a
lot of love in my family with a big side order of weird stuff, like everyone
else. But my parents often declared that we were lucky to be us, and I believed
every word. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When greedy, manipulative Dick came along, I felt sorry
for him and figured I had a surplus of love to share. Plus Dick had one
of those Superman clefts in his chin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
shouldn’t go too far into the Dick stuff when this story is actually a Father's Day fairy tale about my husband Joe
and how he saved me. But you can’t entirely appreciate Joe’s rescue
unless you get a good whiff of what a kiss-ass mess I was. I would
<a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/irish-carnival-ride-at-apartment-21.html" target="_blank">fake-cry</a> on a daily basis to stave off Dick’s verbal abuse. I did what Dick
asked, or implied, even when I knew I shouldn’t. I drove my first new car
into the ground, driving 60 miles round trip on a near-daily basis to Dick’s
dumpy house, carting him around wherever he demanded like I was Morgan Freeman.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When
I playfully tried on Dick’s jeans one day, they were almost too tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His lean angry frame was no match for my
Swedish expanse and that’s just bad news for an insecure girl. His jeans were like his
affection… confining and humiliating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
rarely share exactly how bad it got with Dick, despite my usual habit of over-sharing.
I won’t tell you either, but it was bad. I’ve spent half a lifetime cringing.
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When Joe and I met at MicroAge, my first job out of college, Joe
couldn’t believe I was dating such a jackass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
I couldn't believe that </span>my advertising degree had only landed me a
job at the 90's equivalent of Best Buy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe
was the new service guy, and he was a piece of work – 6 foot 8 inches of big brown
plastic glasses and twanging nerves like a child’s toy guitar. He had a
constant rocking motion that I initially mistook for more nervous stuff, but that's just Joe. He rocked his crib across the room as a baby. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">My fabulous coworker and beloved friend, Mary Ellen, got a kick out of him. Joe took one look at
M.E. and me with our snarky laughs and our constant commentary and thought,
“Those two will be my best friends or they’ll ruin my life.” Not to worry - w</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">e
adopted Joe as our gigantic girlfriend and dragged him out for beers and girl
talk regularly. He hadn’t had much luck with the ladies. Like
a dog hit by a newspaper too many times, Joe just wasn’t sure how to make a move.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">One
night at the bar after work, it was just Joe and I telling stories the way new friends do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe told about the time he flipped off his
mom at 16 and got caught by his dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead of berating Joe, his dad talked to him about maturity and good
choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told Joe that he loved him
and that he was proud of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ninety
minutes later, his mother returned from the hospital to tell Joe and his
younger brother and sister that their father was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A sudden heart attack had ripped their world apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that brief father/son conversation was
suddenly a precious, unexpected good-bye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">It
was such a deeply personal story and Joe told it with such trust and honesty, it made me cry. I started
to fall for him a little. We made a couple friend-dates to watch movies like
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/a/a9/Turner_and_hooch_poster.jpg/220px-Turner_and_hooch_poster.jpg" target="_blank">Turner and Hooch</a> on his brand new VCR. I patted myself on the back for spending
charitable quality time with my lonely girlfriend, Joe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One time, I had to leave in a hurry to pick up my mother from
somewhere and Joe stopped me at the door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“I’ll
kick myself if I don’t ask you what I’ve been wanting to ask you all week,” Joe
said, looking down into my eyes. My uh-oh alarm went off
immediately. Things had taken a friendship U-turn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Can
I kiss you?” Joe asked softly, hopefully.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Oh
no. I was still slumming it with Dick and somehow never saw this coming. With a stunned, frozen smile, I apologized if I’d given him the wrong impression, embarrassing us both with all sorts of
demeaning, “let’s be friends” crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Y</span>et another newspaper spank for my sweet, funny Joe. He muttered
something or other about oh well, gave it a try, and I left. Standing in the
doorway, Joe half-grinned farewell at me with a forced “no big deal” look on his face. He
was crushed, and the memory of his face just destroys me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">We spent the next seven months enthusiastically avoiding each other, which was tough in an office of 18 employees. We were a pathetic pair
of freaked out individuals, much to M.E.’s inconvenience. Slowly, we
got over it and cautiously warmed up to each other again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">It was finally over with Dick when he gave me not one, but <em>two</em> porcelain dolls
for my 25<sup>th</sup> birthday. After I opened the first, I saw the second, same-sized package and felt actual fear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">He thought I could start a doll COLLECTION.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzKQG-9HuJS9SpfVnQxXr8qGwb9QhvlK8RLQohSIpr69_qwLzdATIolDillRp2KoKLoB4q1sWotX4XjfcBXezE-ma5NPunD8XW-ZH925Z9aip5Ph83i49s2RtKcempL7Kd42l3rMPttfQ/s1600/022510dolls01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzKQG-9HuJS9SpfVnQxXr8qGwb9QhvlK8RLQohSIpr69_qwLzdATIolDillRp2KoKLoB4q1sWotX4XjfcBXezE-ma5NPunD8XW-ZH925Z9aip5Ph83i49s2RtKcempL7Kd42l3rMPttfQ/s320/022510dolls01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Insert creepy horror movie music here.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I hate dolls. Not to mention, I was <strong><em>25</em></strong>, not seven. </span>He
might as well have taken those dead-eyed dolls and beat me over the head with
them. He didn’t know me, he didn’t love me, and he represented everything
that was wrong with me and insecure women like me. I'd wasted FIVE YEARS with him. <em>Enough</em>. He could shove those dolls up his ass sideways.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">From then on, I
was going to date whoever I wanted. This went badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joe got to hear all about it since he had
regained girlfriend status. He couldn’t believe I was dating more tools,
while ignoring my obvious future husband every day for almost a year. He needed me to get past his nervousness and <i>see him</i>. Joe was
hilarious; he’s the funniest person I know – and I like to think that I know
funny. Unlike the stud he is now, back then he was a bit desperate and he wore
suspenders. I was confused. Besides, he wasn’t an asshole and that
meant he was not for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Over
the next twenty years, I would learn that Joe tends to be right about most
things. You may have a different opinion, but Joe sure as hell can back
his up, so you’d better be sure of yours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">The tide finally turned when Joe invented
a girlfriend. He mentioned her here and there, quite
convincingly. I was outraged. He knew he had me hooked when I
casually asked him what was up with that tramp. After work at the bar,
M.E. began a cunning campaign of encouraging him and then
encouraging me to give us a try. “He loves you,” she slurred in my equally drunken ear one
night. “Go for it,” she told him another, toasting her own brilliance with
our beer aquariums.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Thus
bolstered, Joe gave me a handwritten manifesto on goldenrod notebook paper,
written with so much certainty that we were right for each other, so much
emotion and hope, I would have been heartless to turn him down. I read
it, gave a half-ass rebuttal and gave in. We kissed for the first time in his pickup truck,
a bit self-consciously, but with promise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“I’ll
hurt you,” I told him. “I’m not interested in anything serious.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“That’s
okay,” he said, happily. “It’s worth it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
was such a bitch. I tried to train him to be a jerk, telling him to stop saying
so many nice things, that he missed me, couldn’t wait to see me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pushed his buttons and pushed him
away. I refused to go to one of his beloved softball playoff games
because I’d felt like he’d been too clingy and went out with a friend instead,
where I talked about Joe incessantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“It
sort of sounds like you would rather have gone to his game,” she
observed with irritation. And suddenly I couldn’t get to the game fast enough. Ditching the friend, I giggled over how surprised Joe would be. I’d been
resisting so hard, this was the first time I was making a clear gesture in
return. As I snuck up to the field, delighted with my own stealth, Joe was
standing at the fence, anxiously watching for me. He rushed to wrap me in
his big arms and hugged me hard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Hey!”
I snapped, annoyed. “Why were you looking for me? I told you we’d
spent ENOUGH time together this week. You were supposed to be SURPRISED.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“I
am surprised,” Joe said tenderly. “Things like this never happen to me.
But I always hope.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">That
was the beginning of the end of me being an idiot... in love, anyway. Even though I
felt the pull toward something right, I kept waffling, resisting,
unsure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Sleep with him!” my mother helpfully suggested, thankfully not
in front of my dad.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxUzYdDM6JBU9-OGaFhOK_NAFykwIjZUtuR3NgnQIwOLfpvJZ4jIJkA1GhPYDHYwv-i0Cm98_Dt_Qhb5YpOli54fYFw0Mm4yHs7TDEDb53dVCm3l28Hbp8iGcYaNaCxSqoNq1AvlPh0Y/s1600/IMG_2733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxUzYdDM6JBU9-OGaFhOK_NAFykwIjZUtuR3NgnQIwOLfpvJZ4jIJkA1GhPYDHYwv-i0Cm98_Dt_Qhb5YpOli54fYFw0Mm4yHs7TDEDb53dVCm3l28Hbp8iGcYaNaCxSqoNq1AvlPh0Y/s200/IMG_2733.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And then I finally tumbled over the cusp of friendship into love, where Joe had been waiting since the first day we met.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">We couldn’t wait for the rest of our lives to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> From then on, </span>Joe has made me laugh every day for 20 years
and sometimes it feels like a soul-transforming laugh… where you feel so
much joy you can’t even believe that you’re laughing that hard, that life is
this good, that this man is so damn sweet and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">funny</i>.
M.E. was our maid of honor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
would have married Dick if he’d asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d been hinting about moving in. I was so ready to be a wife and a
mother,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have put up with just
about anything in order to make it happen. It was true love that was hard to accept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
to stop focusing on all the things I thought Joe wasn’t and embrace all the wonderful
things that he is.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When I have a headache, Joe gently rubs my head with his big hands. He makes fart noises when I bend over. He pays the bills because he knows money stuff freaks me out. No matter how bad I look, Joe makes lewd suggestions that make me feel beautiful. He told me I should <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">draw for a living</a> instead of finding another <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">corporate job</a> to worry and worry over.</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And
when I put his gigantic jeans on, they fall down around me and I finally have
all the room in the world to be me.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHknJ4C-3KUmtVkX8BuZm858MDEuGb-3Zfq8rBqS_r3ZFj5KGvQ1auyO3tMxfKcWFie67BExFGpMkTDHFCphWei08It9Xvvfa_2PX3UX9kcfIaxC80MbDsF1TgK4Eii-3tipuZl6eLPxo/s1600/blog+family+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHknJ4C-3KUmtVkX8BuZm858MDEuGb-3Zfq8rBqS_r3ZFj5KGvQ1auyO3tMxfKcWFie67BExFGpMkTDHFCphWei08It9Xvvfa_2PX3UX9kcfIaxC80MbDsF1TgK4Eii-3tipuZl6eLPxo/s400/blog+family+pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-51324990138462221882012-06-07T10:46:00.002-07:002012-06-11T07:02:49.156-07:00A bad sports mom gets a hug from Lepoleon<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
met Lepoleon Swopes through Joey’s 3rd grade football team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell in love with him and he made me wish I
were cooler, as many people do.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Especially
in the first years of <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">drawing full time</a> after getting <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/back-to-drawing-board.html" target="_blank">canned</a> from my corporate
job, I tried to draw my pencil portraits in public whenever possible, hoping to
attract new customers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably should
have drawn the line at my kids’ sports games, but I’m a shameless capitalist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, as much as I want to be a supportive
mom and lovingly stare at my sons as they do everything, there can be a lot of
down time before your young kids get in on the team action.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Mostly,
I’m not a big sports fan, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t
even get me started on baseball when nothing happens until all of a sudden a
kid makes a mistake and everyone is rounding the bases, rubbing the poor kid’s
nose in it and later discussing how everything would have been okay if that one
damn kid had caught/hit/thrown the ball better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My feelings are officially hurt for every kid who screws up and I’m just
too sensitive for baseball. Except for tee-ball when everyone gets a turn and
we cheer for everything and everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s my kind of competition.</span><br />
<br />
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</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Football
was easier on my emotions because I couldn’t tell what was happening. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Plus, </span>I loved seeing my Joey in his first set of football
pads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a 6’8 father and a sturdy
Swedish mother, Joey was always tall for his age and built like a truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he first put on those big shoulder pads,
his already over-sized, Baby Huey frame was thrust into the future,
time travel to his looming manhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
baby suddenly looked so huge and tough, and he knew it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Watching
football requires a gene that I lack. Joey is on the offensive line and locating
him in the pile of flailing kids was impossible to my untrained eye. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d watch for awhile, then give up and draw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way home, my husband Joe would accusingly
ask, “Did you see that block Joey made in the second quarter when the score
was this and the play was that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
fake it with Joe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">At one of Joey’s football games, another
mom was sitting nearby with her girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were actually watching the game while I was drawing without even
pretending to pay attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
chatted with me a bit about my work and I ended up doing a memorial portrait
and prayer cards for their uncle, Chester Swopes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought Chester was quite handsome and I
was thrilled to add his portrait to my portfolio. </span><br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-NzLbifAd_RO2H_5i0NBhqm2Yi9mhW7dq-Wi6Zaa9lIjByreTt_HyMT5_2_l9UbLLUhtv0yg1Ilqu9BLq49aoBqgfEwZiMyxv6L4LbeEKtdj4KpSyVXtcvRDf7mPptys1ncE7vFSLK4/s1600/chester+swopes+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-NzLbifAd_RO2H_5i0NBhqm2Yi9mhW7dq-Wi6Zaa9lIjByreTt_HyMT5_2_l9UbLLUhtv0yg1Ilqu9BLq49aoBqgfEwZiMyxv6L4LbeEKtdj4KpSyVXtcvRDf7mPptys1ncE7vFSLK4/s320/chester+swopes+portrait.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Someone once emailed me, “I don’t see any
dark skinned people on your web site.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
was embarrassing and true; almost all my clients check the Caucasian census box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a little overly excited when Chester
Swopes’ lovely niece, Jacqueline, asked me to draw him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was honored and proudly displayed his portrait
at my shows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hoping he’d be a handsome
lure to a better melting pot of work.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">The
real prize in drawing <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chester</st1:place></st1:city>,
was meeting his brother, Lepoleon.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Lepoleon
called me on the phone to tell me how much he enjoyed his little brother’s portrait
and I was instantly smitten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a melodic,
lilting voice full of warmth, as if he was always on the verge of telling the punchline of a
joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">There
is something about an elderly black man that humbles me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always think to myself - here is someone who
has experienced things that I couldn’t begin to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">In
a rich voice straight out of the movies, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lepoleon praised my portrait of his brother
and told me what a wonderful person Chester was, a leader in his community and
church. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lepoleon was so proud of his
brother and seemed to let that pride wash over me too, making me feel like he’d
been rooting for me to do a good job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
said that it seemed like I knew what I was doing and that he hoped I could help
him with another project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Lepoleon
explained that he had a drawing of his grandfather that a young girl had drawn
for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It needed some work and he
hoped that I would be willing to take a stab at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
couldn’t wait to meet him, and when Lepoleon came over with his drawing, I
couldn’t get enough of him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a
wiry little man with a rubbery, animated face and eyes that snap and spark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could have been 60, he could have been 80, in
that ageless way some people have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would rub
his dry hands together slowly while he talked, rocking a little bit and revving
up his story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was transfixed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to be about five years old and climb
into his lap while he talked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Of course it would have startled and crushed him if I'd actually done it, but you know what I mean. </span>I loved him
and I wanted him to love me because I’m just inappropriate and greedy that way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Lepoleon
had never met his grandfather and there were no photographs of him in existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In anticipation of an upcoming family reunion,
Lepoleon was gathering photos for a family tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t it be a fine surprise for his family
to include a drawing of his grandfather?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The girl who had attempted the drawing was a fledgling artist in the
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of Lepoleon’s cousins remembered
their grandfather well, and said that the girl’s drawing was a close
resemblance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the eyes were wrong and
it was a little rough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
worked on the drawing while Lepoleon leaned over my shoulder, giving me
instruction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like a police sketch
artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I would add a wrinkle here,
an adjustment there, Lepoleon would make rumbling pleased noises and say, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nooowwww</i>, we’re gettin’ somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now</i>,
I’m seein’ him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When
we were through, Lepoleon sat back with a slow, big grin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well what do you know,” he said softly, with
a little catch in his voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There’s my
grand-dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never seen him
before.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
don’t know that I’ve ever had a more rewarding moment as an artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Later,
Lepoleon decided to bring me a photo of his grandmother to add to the drawing of his grandfather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8BrVB9z0f8l_DFAGeOiOPfBIe25gFOBJXaDDVBonGvkpeJQNUkehJ1qOzsdTBfOeGZscF1_bI8bLZ8aZN6J8_h3rOkZReWuD3hn8aQtW0tsdTzpLlozkLf6H4CbkXsppqo7iLHSvRRg/s1600/lepoleonportrait+GRANDMA+AND+grandpa+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8BrVB9z0f8l_DFAGeOiOPfBIe25gFOBJXaDDVBonGvkpeJQNUkehJ1qOzsdTBfOeGZscF1_bI8bLZ8aZN6J8_h3rOkZReWuD3hn8aQtW0tsdTzpLlozkLf6H4CbkXsppqo7iLHSvRRg/s400/lepoleonportrait+GRANDMA+AND+grandpa+copy.jpg" width="337" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>“Wow,” I said, surprised by the stern looking woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She looks like she had a lot on her mind.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Well,
I 'spect she sure did,” Lepoleon agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“She had herself eleven kids!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Maybe
she was thinking about all that laundry,” I guessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lepoleon laughed and hopefully decided I was hilarious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drew his grandmother separately and then
digitally put them together for his family tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Lepoleon
was delighted when he came to pick up his family masterpiece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Everyone is going to be so surprised…
they’ll get such a big kick out of this,” he said with extra warmth and asked me what he owed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He paid me from a big wad of cash in his fanny
pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Wow!”
I gasped playfully, “You’re loaded.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">He
chuckled and said it was money from his shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“I’m
a barber,” he said with a little pride and maybe a little fatigue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think I could have pictured a better
job for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wished I could sit in the
corner of his shop and listen to the exchanges that must go on… all the talk
that’s so full of history and culture and connection and laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White people don’t ever seem to connect in the
joyful way that black people do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know
you’re not supposed to say black, but I think black people are so much cooler
than white people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White people don’t
see each other and think, “Hey, awesome!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>White guy!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We think, his car is
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or my car is better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are idiots.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIGSpCPWy88OlM-wpxr46lSdVmZ6hrFP0kG2jF-Upz0sOgMu4v2GM_ksoh4ug9KMu5DTLqqwb9u3x-XQKKDD1Zw3z_2dcplWwJ_CsOVMcWgQrX8n8A443Jc9Gy40kvfD-vai7n3efG5yI/s1600/white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIGSpCPWy88OlM-wpxr46lSdVmZ6hrFP0kG2jF-Upz0sOgMu4v2GM_ksoh4ug9KMu5DTLqqwb9u3x-XQKKDD1Zw3z_2dcplWwJ_CsOVMcWgQrX8n8A443Jc9Gy40kvfD-vai7n3efG5yI/s320/white.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We are not cool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“I’m
so glad you’re happy,” I told Lepoleon, feeling a little shy and choked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I loved drawing for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“Oh
honey, I love you, too,” he said, and he gave me a tight hug. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a big hugger, as you know, but this was
different and special and unexpected… this loving hug that reached across culture and generations and my sheltered upbringing. It was
just so touching to me. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Every
time I’m finished with a project that has involved a few meetings, especially
when the subject is so important, it’s hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We look at each other and think, “Well, what
now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this good-bye?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s emotion there, sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And then it is over and we move on with our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I told Lepoleon to please come back and tell me all about the reunion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I didn't want him to go.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
wish I could give an afternoon with Lepoleon to everyone I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would make you smile and want to be a
little kinder, because you'd want to make
him proud.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a><br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-37525440538266828932012-05-29T12:02:00.001-07:002012-10-22T09:54:09.478-07:0050 Shades of ProcrastinationThanks a <em>lot</em>, Joe, E L James and the ladies at my boot camp. I got NOTHING productive done this weekend thanks to you. <br />
<br />
As you know, I am supposed to be a) <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">drawing</a>, b) taking my kids places or buying/making them endless food, c) cleaning my messy house, d) finding my keys. Instead of any of the above, I was abducted by Fifty Shades of Joe this weekend and taken to Pittsburgh. Joe planned a nice little family vacation to watch the Chicago Cubs play the Pirates. Not exactly this girl's dream get away. Since there would be no cleaning or laundry to ignore, I brought two <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">pencil portrait</a> projects to work on. Guess who didn't do ANY drawing? I read naughty books the whole trip instead.<br />
<br />
If you haven't heard of the book <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fifty-Shades-Grey-Book-Trilogy/dp/0345803485" target="_blank">Fifty Shades of Grey</a></em> by now, you are probably one of those annoying people with good mental and physical health who go outside, eat right and don't watch too much television. You know who you are. You try to make me feel guilty by making your bed every morning right before you run a charity 5K while claiming that you have no time to watch the trashy TV shows that I keep asking you about. Really? You've NEVER seen even one Real Housewives? Please. If I can't talk to you about trash TV, I really don't have much to say because the TV is always on while I draw and bad reality shows make me feel better about my unmade bed and lack of charitable racing.<br />
<br />
Every thirty seconds, <em>Fifty Shades of Grey</em> is mentioned in the news, on the internet, in my entertainment magazines, on SNL... it's probably even getting a shout out in church as I expect it's causing some serious sinnin'. Why so popular? Because it's "mommy porn." Not to be confused with this mommy porn:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5t-IXuINxLRIYlXPdtQ4QXdZTW1zdDiY0IFYd66GdVewEXxIKlgwxzzWBXy1D5Fp5DIOXf25OI7E5fbsWVMBHAlz93soYXZmccI3N6rTEXCpI5FuCq2cqeKMnbf7cTqZCMpXIka6z2fc/s1600/man-ironing-shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5t-IXuINxLRIYlXPdtQ4QXdZTW1zdDiY0IFYd66GdVewEXxIKlgwxzzWBXy1D5Fp5DIOXf25OI7E5fbsWVMBHAlz93soYXZmccI3N6rTEXCpI5FuCq2cqeKMnbf7cTqZCMpXIka6z2fc/s320/man-ironing-shirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't wait to talk to my wife about her feelings.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am usually way behind the curve in any trend. I wait till blockbuster movies or popular non-reality TV shows have been out on DVD for several years and then eagerly try to talk to my uninterested friends about them when I've discovered why they were so popular in the first place. What little fashion I attempt to rock is usually on the ragged edge of over and sometimes not age appropriate. I still don't understand Twitter or Pinterest. <br />
<br />
Normally, I would wait at least five years to read a best selling book until I buy it for 50 cents at a garage sale. But when even my sweaty boot camp buddies were raving about it, I had to give in.<br />
<br />
My Boot Camp Friend: <strong>READ IT.</strong> Your head will explode.<br />
Me: Wow, okay, maybe I will. <br />
MBCF: Text me as soon as your head explodes.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQeGRE2tBF5AjfoUrzQxu1cVHt0ZudD0wVP7uqV1Azx9O6G_XBEzCHxAKTD_p4Maljc7VMPvofoDTseVZIQtgZJoj1_v4V28DQ1xTPfhKljrk-95eRDNPlN3EhQBMyrw1szdtRgzKCthc/s1600/exercise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQeGRE2tBF5AjfoUrzQxu1cVHt0ZudD0wVP7uqV1Azx9O6G_XBEzCHxAKTD_p4Maljc7VMPvofoDTseVZIQtgZJoj1_v4V28DQ1xTPfhKljrk-95eRDNPlN3EhQBMyrw1szdtRgzKCthc/s320/exercise.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not even close to what my boot camp looks like.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So in a rare moment of early adoption, I downloaded it to my Kindle.<br />
<br />
<br />
I usually only read books on my Kindle when I'm running on my treadmill. I realize that mentioning boot camp and treadmills contradicts my claims of laziness and constant bad TV-watching. I don't WANT to exercise, but my love of <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/i-cant-draw-stick-figure.html" target="_blank">wine and cheez-its</a> leaves me no choice. It's a losing battle. <br />
<br />
Due to my scorching ADD, I read a number of books at a time - one on the treadmill, one before bed, up to two in different bathrooms (where I am doing my HAIR.) I need an exciting/interesting book for the treadmill to distract me from my misery and a boring book before bed, or I will accidentally read till 2 am and then be unable to fall asleep.<br />
<br />
Because most of my books are from garage sales and thrift stores purchased for $1.00 or less, I had no interest in getting an electronic reading device. I enjoy the fact that every book I've read is riddled with questionable smudges, spills, dog-eared pages and looks beat up, like everything else I own. Plus I can lend my books to people, which I love. <br />
<br />
On the other hand, my "Only the Best for Joe" husband got a Kindle almost right away. When Joe Zumpano wants something, he usually gets it, preferably right after he realizes he wants it. Recently, Joe drove away from Max's hockey practice with his Kindle on the car roof, so now he has the fancier iPad-like Kindle. I tried using Joe's Kindle on the treadmill when I was fresh out of garage sale books or trashy magazines to read. I was hooked. Pushing a button to turn the page is WAY easier than turning pages while running since I'm not that coordinated. Now I have my own Kindle and it lives on my treadmill. P.S. Joe will point out that I bought both his Kindles for him as gifts, but my point still stands.<br />
<br />
Having a Kindle has allowed me to read popular books way sooner than I normally would, although I only read it when I run, so it can take me a while to finish them. There are three books in the <em>50 Shades</em> series. The first one, <em>50 Shades of Grey</em>, takes a while to get a head of steam going. The writing isn't exactly Pulitzer material... it was published initially through an online Twilight fan-fiction site. I'm not proud to admit that I devoured all those damn Twilight books. Who doesn't want to be power-loved by a gorgeous though tormented guy, especially when you're a crabby Kristen Stewart type, sulking around with only a werewolf as a back up? Apparently good ole E L James, aka <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:ELJamesAuthorPhoto.jpg" target="_blank">Erika "Erotica" Leonard</a>, enjoyed the crap out of Twilight too, because in <em>Fifty Shades,</em> she created her own Edwardian powerful/bazillionaire hot guy minus the fangs and her own innocent Bella-type girl primed to be swept off her Twilight-esque feet.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vX1Uoxcr-kTwv3OQB8wRDSqbe2cJU07UurpANDtHC_cMUYNja98pwbNObHwuOJl_3a5T3SniHHJrj5h5hu3Ac0LlDfwXPHnrvcd-CQNPsNG6bGvqf_XrN8aW4C458hhVS5IZ27h3_w0/s1600/Princess-Ariel-disney-princess-6395981-1024-768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vX1Uoxcr-kTwv3OQB8wRDSqbe2cJU07UurpANDtHC_cMUYNja98pwbNObHwuOJl_3a5T3SniHHJrj5h5hu3Ac0LlDfwXPHnrvcd-CQNPsNG6bGvqf_XrN8aW4C458hhVS5IZ27h3_w0/s320/Princess-Ariel-disney-princess-6395981-1024-768.jpg" width="228" /></a>Only this Bella, who is named Anastasia like another sort of Disney princess, gets swept off her feet and into some kinky S&M bondage hijinks. I'm no prude. I've seen some stuff and read some stuff in my day, and this isn't the hottest thing I've encountered. It's pretty darn steamy though, especially at first. After awhile, I felt the need to call shenanigans on the nonstop ridiculously hot action between these two. People really have mind-blowing, earth shattering experiences five times in a row? Really? Come on.<br />
<br />
In any case, it's made me stay on the treadmill longer than usual. According to a hilarious SNL skit, it's inspiring lots of ladies to do all kinds of other things more than usual, too. I just want to get my mind off of how much longer it's going to take for me to sweat through my five miles.<br />
<br />
I freed my Kindle from its treadmill shackles and brought it along to Pittsburgh. During our three day family get away, I read the last half of <em>50 Shades of Grey </em>and the ENTIRE second book, <em>50 Shades Darker</em>. I read through a whole Cubs game, I read while Joe watched a marathon of American Pickers in the hotel room, I read at rest stops, I read at restaurants. Late at night, over wine and cribbage, I discussed the book at length with Joe and may have inadvertantly given him some unsavory ideas. Okay, it might have been on purpose.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm home and gratefully, I have lots of drawing to do, I am afraid to get the third book. Discipline is not my forte. And yet, what am I doing right now? Procrastinating YET AGAIN and telling you about mommy porn instead of drawing. <br />
<br />
Laters, baby.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/">www.pencilportraitcards.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards">www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11203389881060707150noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6449963974153023419.post-53555004591851876432012-05-18T17:17:00.002-07:002013-09-16T11:10:35.383-07:00The Irish carnival ride at Apartment 21<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t1Jg28qWNWqglG79Kkw9rApeN12Mc-E_O0ua6dsEP-tUi2_HOxtctKopL0d5aBx5rb6ZJNxAeGG9IjFsyY777J2H9N_LXYZX5eU_F2nQKDAro1g-jL28P-6aN31yhWp6A6HR_BVeKVA/s1600/matisse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t1Jg28qWNWqglG79Kkw9rApeN12Mc-E_O0ua6dsEP-tUi2_HOxtctKopL0d5aBx5rb6ZJNxAeGG9IjFsyY777J2H9N_LXYZX5eU_F2nQKDAro1g-jL28P-6aN31yhWp6A6HR_BVeKVA/s200/matisse2.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">As
a kid, I loved to cut crap out of colored construction paper and write short stories with naughty words in them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
father thought advertising would be a perfect blend of my glitter-gluing and story-telling
powers. I had no other ideas, so
advertising it was.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">My
mom and dad met on a blind fraternity/sorority date at the University of
Illinois in Champaign/Urbana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was never
much of a question of where I’d attend college. Just to pretend I had a
choice, I also applied to University of Missouri, because I was dating a
guy from Missouri named Brad Wentzel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wendy
Wentzel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to U of I.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">The
torture of sorority “rush” occurs when freshmen are herded around from sorority
house to house so that mean girls can mentally weigh you and approximate the
value of your clothing while singing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This process turns out well for some people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, it was
a repeat of my humiliating <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/04/cheerleading-tryouts-in-fine-art-world.html" target="_blank">cheerleading tryouts</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than my mother’s bookish alma mater, only
one sorority invited me to join.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I happily
pledged before realizing that the perky blonde girls who’d rushed me were not typical
of the rest of the serious, studious, <em>devout</em> JEWISH girls in the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t serious or devout about anything and
despite the fact that I looked the part, I didn’t feel like I belonged. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">So
I was stuck in the dorms with horrible roommates in the only all girls dorm on
campus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it weren’t for my glorious neighbor,
Kari, my freshman year with an obese townie roommate would have been a complete loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sophomore year was spent <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/06/ode-to-joe-or-how-i-used-to-be-idiot.html" target="_blank">fake-crying</a>,
which is a story for another day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
lived with a Swedish girl and a Japanese girl in a triple room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both chattered on the phone incessantly in
their respective languages with occasional angry whispers while glaring at my
messy side of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Japanese one made her
boring, white boyfriend tell me to be neater and <a href="http://pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-dangers-of-yell-telling.html" target="_blank">quieter</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told the
Japanese one’s boyfriend several things, loudly, while looking directly at my
roommate, who looked at her feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowAEStdvLXZLSfScqkKD20PdFhDdsDnuuF4IT7Exwi2h22CD8mV9dVv_6ijuFD6v_9qVa_RLa3nuDUGB4ttBqEi7qvAbPYrCfQDTzkclBDzExlK5-b2p6qaRbKS_zTLmwiev_U5tbEwg/s1600/abba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowAEStdvLXZLSfScqkKD20PdFhDdsDnuuF4IT7Exwi2h22CD8mV9dVv_6ijuFD6v_9qVa_RLa3nuDUGB4ttBqEi7qvAbPYrCfQDTzkclBDzExlK5-b2p6qaRbKS_zTLmwiev_U5tbEwg/s320/abba.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"She's a crybaby and a total pig."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Hey ABBA, you don’t have to whisper. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I don’t speak Swedish.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Across
the hall was a room full of alcoholic Catholic girls who appeared to be reenacting an ongoing sequel
to Porky’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were FUN and I wanted
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I barged into their party landscape
as often as they’d allow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the year
was ending and I’d finally stopped crying, they didn’t want to include me in
their search for apartments. Helpfully, they avoided telling me until the last minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">“I’m
sorry, Wendy,” said the nicest, most sober one, “But you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">such</i> a drag.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">To
make matters worse, I had a campus job at the University of Illinois Foundation
calling alumni for donations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
you heard from me between 1986 and 1990?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
If you've never randomly called people to ask them for money, it is exactly like you'd think it would be. </span>I called for four hours a night, four nights a week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one of the higher paying jobs on
campus because it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">miserable</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is how most of my conversations went:</span></div>
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Ring ring<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><strong>Alumni:</strong>
Hello?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><strong>Me:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hi, This is Wendy from the University of
Illinois Foundation calling to….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><strong>Alumni:</strong>
Click!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dial tone.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><strong>Me:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You want to donate $100,000 because you think I sound professional and super
hot?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><strong>My
manager:</strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Way to go!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">It was
godawful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They must have it much easier now with caller ID because nobody probably answers. I know I don't! </span>All those hours of getting
hung up on or cussed out really helped me later in business, but not personally, because I still can’t stand rejection. Somehow I was promoted to supervisor
and I got to listen in on everyone else’s donation calls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was excellent, as I am very nosy and
super critical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">One
of the student callers I was supervising had red hair and a deep, south side Chicago voice, not unlike our <a href="http://www.pencilenvy.blogspot.com/2012/05/mood-swinging-with-biker-chick.html" target="_blank">biker friend Diane</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Colette seemed tough and I was scared of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was scared of everyone then, especially
south side redheads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a born
complainer as you know, and I was whining to another caller about how nobody wanted
to live with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was doomed to live in
the dorms as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">junior</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot think of a single thing that could have
been more embarrassing at the time, and there were plenty of other embarrassing
things that I was doing to choose from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Overhearing,
Colette interrupted, “Hey, did you say you needed a place to live?”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
was about to fall in love with my very first portrait subjects.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Colette
and her two friends were desperately seeking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a fourth for their magnificent apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They picked me up from my dorm in a big old
dad type car to check it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kimi had a disturbing pony
tail coming out of the side of her head and her sister, Karen, was wearing a tie
died shirt and mini skirt get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
had the skirt knotted on one side, about mid hip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were an Irish Catholic carnival ride and
I hopped in because I had no other options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have a wealthy aunt who enjoys making me tell the story of what I wore
to sorority rush at family gatherings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She finds it hilarious and doesn’t seem to notice my shame spiral when I
recount it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had NO business questioning
anyone’s fashion sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But those three
were a mess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it turned out, who
cared?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That apartment was to die
for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Apartment
21 was on the top floor at 1006 S. 3rd Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had a long, shared balcony that faced
south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This meant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all day sun.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To a college
girl with large thighs, this private tanning bonanza alone was worth weird
roommates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a tri-level apartment
with exposed brick walls and a kitchen that overlooked the living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>
</em>Plus we could throw stuff on the roof of the sorority next door. It was <em>fabulous.</em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
decided that I liked these three Orland Park girls and the bizarre assortment of men
who came with them… brothers and friends and roommates of brothers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guys had briefly formed a freshman band called
Leprosy, later christening their rented campus home, “Leper
House.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few of them helped the girls
move into Apt 21.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They talked weird, they looked
weird, and they wouldn’t leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them were named Tom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was concerned.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Then they
all became some of the greatest loves of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Colette
wasn’t tough after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a
softy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she was happy, we were all
happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she was down, we were all
bummed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> S</span>he became a barometer
for whether we were having a great time or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I once tried to hit on her future husband, but he immediately threw up,
which I like to think was just bad timing on my part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In any case, it worked out just fine for Colette and their future three
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Colette sends birthday,
anniversary and holiday cards, on time, to every human being she knows, even my
husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just got a Mother’s Day card
from her in the mail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s insane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Karen
loved to laugh, especially at our expense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although she is Kimi’s older sister, she's happy letting Kimi call the
shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Karen and I danced and sang while standing
unsteadily on the arms of our living room chairs. We ate food so fattening, I am
still digesting it today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I once
walked with Karen to class, joyous to have some one-on-one time with her. I
wondered aloud why we didn’t always walk together, until Karen helpfully
pointed out I didn’t even have a class in that direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or on that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">After
a year together, Karen graduated first, a full year before Kimi and me,
followed by Colette a semester later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
Karen came back from the real world for college visits, we decorated and
rejoiced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was furious we were having
fun without her.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Kimi
and I attempted to replace Karen and then Colette with creepy
roommates who don’t deserve much comment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One slept constantly and hung out with a slew of flamboyant gay men at
night until she forgot to go to class so many times that she got kicked out of school. Another
one had an enormous, loud bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enough
said.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">For
two years, Kimi and I lived together in that magic place between being a kid
and a grown up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She deserves her own
story for having such a complicated, unexpected life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She mothered me and managed me, harshly
reprimanding me for driving her big dad car, partly because I didn’t ask, but
mostly because I was drunk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I babied her
when her heart was broken and told her to stop bossing everyone around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew she’d be a magnificent manager one day,
which she was.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Before
marriage, kids or jobs, we were stressed out and having the time of
our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be years before I’d
be diagnosed with ADD, and I panicked over my consistently late projects. They
still tease me about my American Express group project which I viewed as a slightly worse challenge than the
AIDS epidemic.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<w:wrap type="tight">
</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I took one elective art class that
taught me to use a grid when drawing a subject.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That would turn out to be the most lucrative half hour I spent during my
four years at U of I, as I use the grid system for every single <a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/" target="_blank">portrait I draw</a> in my current life as a full time pencil portrait artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing else really stuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<v:shape id="_x0000_s1027" style="height: 205.1pt; margin-left: 104.25pt; margin-top: 36.65pt; position: absolute; width: 254.9pt; z-index: -1;" type="#_x0000_t75" wrapcoords="-59 0 -59 21527 21600 21527 21600 0 -59 0">
<v:imagedata o:title="First portrait" src="file:///C:\Users\Wendy\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image003.jpg">
<w:wrap type="square">
</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When Karen graduated, I decided to
draw the whole Leper House group as her graduation present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was a brilliant
idea because I had no money and it provided a lengthy excuse to procrastinate in
studying for finals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjrpCQig7L_kNfo1kTB2nGEKtVEo_zSkczu9MN1I0c5YS_4s7wc5FBHJeOlkeieC1-5sU3hAFdGU_jgItTIY6V-q1cnSFh5wkh01ZLMhCKtZwCjIM0oKJD1PE0D3D-sDhfWHE7Re7Tk4/s1600/First+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="513" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjrpCQig7L_kNfo1kTB2nGEKtVEo_zSkczu9MN1I0c5YS_4s7wc5FBHJeOlkeieC1-5sU3hAFdGU_jgItTIY6V-q1cnSFh5wkh01ZLMhCKtZwCjIM0oKJD1PE0D3D-sDhfWHE7Re7Tk4/s640/First+portrait.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first portrait. Yikes. At least Frewbud's not in it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">K</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">imi
supervised my progress, peeking over my shoulder regularly to tell me to make
her thinner until her legs looked like Q-tips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I drew myself sitting in the lower left corner with my misshapen hand awkwardly
positioned on my knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you look
closely, it appears that I’ve been punched in the face, twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This portrait is not good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Y</span>ou can at least
recognize Karen, because she has a graduation
hat on. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I
had a long way to go before anyone would commission me to draw a portrait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Karen loved her gift and I was encouraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drawing thirteen people as my first real
portrait attempt was pretty ambitious.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">As
graduation for Kimi and me approached, I couldn’t keep drawing pictures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to find a job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had stellar grades and lots of work experience
with my dad so I applied for credit cards left and right, knowing they’d be
paid off in no time when I chose a great job from my many offers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Ha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Rejection
letters lined our Apartment 21 entryway from good companies who wanted nothing
to do with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them were for
me, from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>
ad agencies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Advertising seemed like a
great idea except that you couldn’t get an actual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">job</i> in advertising without experience or a master’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was horrified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">While my brother and I had been piling up tuition, rent, book and bar bills, m</span>y father’s business was struggling. I have no clue how my
parents were able to put both of us through college when things were so
tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I graduated in the top 1% of my
class with an $1,800 student loan to repay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had no idea what a gift I was given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I think of the looming college expense for my boys, I want to turn to a life of crime and/or open several bottles of wine that I pour into one glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Karen,
Kimi and Colette each have three children and they all have at least one daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They still live on the south side of Chicago
with their families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m over an hour
away, in the far north suburbs, near Wisconsin with my boys… no little girl for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Over twenty years later, we</span> meet halfway and eat pizza and
drink beer like we’re still one step away from the real world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We laugh so loud and tell such obscene
stories that everyone gives us dirty looks and one time we were even asked to leave. Every year there’s a Leper House Christmas
party. Sometimes we have a slumber party at Kimi’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Every time I'm with those wonderful, hilarious girls, </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">it’s a carnival ride back to Apt 21, where
we remind each other along the way of every last embarrassing thing we’ve ever done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I drew their portraits now, I don’t know
how I could ever capture how very much they mean to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But I'd still draw a side-pony on Kimi.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pencilportraitcards.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">www.pencilportraitcards.com</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards</span></a> <br />
<a href="mailto:wendy@pencilportraitcards.com"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">wendy@pencilportraitcards.com</span></a></div>
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