Be Positive, Sarah Jessica!

As I was sulking in my hot tent during the worst art show ever last weekend, I tried to think positively for once instead of crying and/or complaining. I didn't cry, but it was impossible not to complain.

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 jewelry drunks 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.

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-hollering 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.

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.

Now's about the time that I feel power-sorry for myself and begin dramatically announcing to my husband Joe and my mom that I need a real job 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 not 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.

Instead, I worked hard on my drawing, tried to yell-chat over the tribal music in a non-frightening way with the occasional visitor.  Plus, I stayed very busy fending off weird old guys.

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.

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.  WHO 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. 

Homely or sexy?  Weird old guy #2 says... both.

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 that bad.

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.

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 "All the artists KNOW they CAN'T drive into the area until ALL the pedestrians have LEFT."  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. 

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.

Actual online map where I picked my crappy spot.

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. 

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.

See what happens when I try to stay positive?  Okay, sort of positive.

Ode to Joe, or how I used to be an idiot

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?

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.   

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.  Anyone who had more than he did –more money, a car, a better place to live – made him mad. 

Growing up, I believed that I had the perfect family and regularly announced how lucky I was.  I reminded my friend Vicki 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. 

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. 

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 fake-cry 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.   

When I playfully tried on Dick’s jeans one day, they were almost too tight.  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.

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.

When Joe and I met at MicroAge, my first job out of college, Joe couldn’t believe I was dating such a jackass.  I couldn't believe that my advertising degree had only landed me a job at the 90's equivalent of Best Buy.  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. 

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 - we 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.

One night at the bar after work, it was just Joe and I telling stories the way new friends do.  Joe told about the time he flipped off his mom at 16 and got caught by his dad.  Instead of berating Joe, his dad talked to him about maturity and good choices.  He told Joe that he loved him and that he was proud of him.  Ninety minutes later, his mother returned from the hospital to tell Joe and his younger brother and sister that their father was gone.  A sudden heart attack had ripped their world apart.  And that brief father/son conversation was suddenly a precious, unexpected good-bye.

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 Turner and Hooch on his brand new VCR.  I patted myself on the back for spending charitable quality time with my lonely girlfriend, Joe.  One time, I had to leave in a hurry to pick up my mother from somewhere and Joe stopped me at the door.

“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. 

“Can I kiss you?” Joe asked softly, hopefully.

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.  Yet 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. 

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.

It was finally over with Dick when he gave me not one, but two porcelain dolls for my 25^th birthday.  After I opened the first, I saw the second, same-sized package and felt actual fear. 

He thought I could start a doll COLLECTION. 

Insert creepy horror movie music here.

I hate dolls.  Not to mention, I was 25, not seven. 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.  Enough. He could shove those dolls up his ass sideways.

From then on, I was going to date whoever I wanted.  This went badly.  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 see him.  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.

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.

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.

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. 

“I’ll hurt you,” I told him.  “I’m not interested in anything serious.”

“That’s okay,” he said, happily. “It’s worth it.”

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.  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. 

“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.

“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.”

“I am surprised,” Joe said tenderly.  “Things like this never happen to me.  But I always hope.” 

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.

“Sleep with him!” my mother helpfully suggested, thankfully not in front of my dad.



And then I finally tumbled over the cusp of friendship into love, where Joe had been waiting since the first day we met.

We couldn’t wait for the rest of our lives to start. From then on, 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 funny.  M.E. was our maid of honor. 

I would have married Dick if he’d asked.  I’d been hinting about moving in. I was so ready to be a wife and a mother, I would have put up with just about anything in order to make it happen.  It was true love that was hard to accept.  I had to stop focusing on all the things I thought Joe wasn’t and embrace all the wonderful things that he is.

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 draw for a living instead of finding another corporate job to worry and worry over.

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.

A bad sports mom gets a hug from Lepoleon

I met Lepoleon Swopes through Joey’s 3rd grade football team.  I fell in love with him and he made me wish I were cooler, as many people do.

Especially in the first years of drawing full time after getting canned from my corporate job, I tried to draw my pencil portraits in public whenever possible, hoping to attract new customers.  I probably should have drawn the line at my kids’ sports games, but I’m a shameless capitalist.  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.

Mostly, I’m not a big sports fan, anyway.  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.  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.  That’s my kind of competition.

Football was easier on my emotions because I couldn’t tell what was happening.  Plus, I loved seeing my Joey in his first set of football pads.  With a 6’8 father and a sturdy Swedish mother, Joey was always tall for his age and built like a truck.  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.  My baby suddenly looked so huge and tough, and he knew it.  

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.  I’d watch for awhile, then give up and draw.  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?”  I can’t fake it with Joe.  He knows. 

At one of Joey’s football games, another mom was sitting nearby with her girls.  They were actually watching the game while I was drawing without even pretending to pay attention.  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.  I thought Chester was quite handsome and I was thrilled to add his portrait to my portfolio.

Someone once emailed me, “I don’t see any dark skinned people on your web site.”  This was embarrassing and true; almost all my clients check the Caucasian census box.  I got a little overly excited when Chester Swopes’ lovely niece, Jacqueline, asked me to draw him.  I was honored and proudly displayed his portrait at my shows.  I was hoping he’d be a handsome lure to a better melting pot of work.

The real prize in drawing Chester, was meeting his brother, Lepoleon.

Lepoleon called me on the phone to tell me how much he enjoyed his little brother’s portrait and I was instantly smitten.  He had a melodic, lilting voice full of warmth, as if he was always on the verge of telling the punchline of a joke.  

There is something about an elderly black man that humbles me.  I always think to myself - here is someone who has experienced things that I couldn’t begin to understand. 

In a rich voice straight out of the movies,  Lepoleon praised my portrait of his brother and told me what a wonderful person Chester was, a leader in his community and church.  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.  He said that it seemed like I knew what I was doing and that he hoped I could help him with another project.  Lepoleon explained that he had a drawing of his grandfather that a young girl had drawn for him.  It needed some work and he hoped that I would be willing to take a stab at it. 

I couldn’t wait to meet him, and when Lepoleon came over with his drawing, I couldn’t get enough of him.  He was a wiry little man with a rubbery, animated face and eyes that snap and spark.  He could have been 60, he could have been 80, in that ageless way some people have.  He would rub his dry hands together slowly while he talked, rocking a little bit and revving up his story.  I was transfixed.  I wanted to be about five years old and climb into his lap while he talked.  Of course it would have startled and crushed him if I'd actually done it, but you know what I mean.  I loved him and I wanted him to love me because I’m just inappropriate and greedy that way.

Lepoleon had never met his grandfather and there were no photographs of him in existence.  In anticipation of an upcoming family reunion, Lepoleon was gathering photos for a family tree.  Wouldn’t it be a fine surprise for his family to include a drawing of his grandfather?  The girl who had attempted the drawing was a fledgling artist in the family.  One of Lepoleon’s cousins remembered their grandfather well, and said that the girl’s drawing was a close resemblance.  But the eyes were wrong and it was a little rough. 

I worked on the drawing while Lepoleon leaned over my shoulder, giving me instruction.  I felt like a police sketch artist.  As I would add a wrinkle here, an adjustment there, Lepoleon would make rumbling pleased noises and say, “Nooowwww, we’re gettin’ somewhere.  Now, I’m seein’ him.” 

When we were through, Lepoleon sat back with a slow, big grin.  “Well what do you know,” he said softly, with a little catch in his voice.  “There’s my grand-dad.  I’ve never seen him before.” 

I don’t know that I’ve ever had a more rewarding moment as an artist. 

Later, Lepoleon decided to bring me a photo of his grandmother to add to the drawing of his grandfather. 

“Wow,” I said, surprised by the stern looking woman.  “She looks like she had a lot on her mind.”

“Well, I 'spect she sure did,” Lepoleon agreed.  “She had herself eleven kids!” 

“Maybe she was thinking about all that laundry,” I guessed.  Lepoleon laughed and hopefully decided I was hilarious.  I drew his grandmother separately and then digitally put them together for his family tree. 

Lepoleon was delighted when he came to pick up his family masterpiece.  “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.  He paid me from a big wad of cash in his fanny pack. 

“Wow!” I gasped playfully, “You’re loaded.” 

He chuckled and said it was money from his shop.  “I’m a barber,” he said with a little pride and maybe a little fatigue.  I don’t think I could have pictured a better job for him.  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.  White people don’t ever seem to connect in the joyful way that black people do.  I know you’re not supposed to say black, but I think black people are so much cooler than white people.  White people don’t see each other and think, “Hey, awesome!  White guy!”  We think, his car is better.  Or my car is better.  We are idiots.

We are not cool.

“I’m so glad you’re happy,” I told Lepoleon, feeling a little shy and choked up.  “I loved drawing for you.”

“Oh honey, I love you, too,” he said, and he gave me a tight hug.  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.

Every time I’m finished with a project that has involved a few meetings, especially when the subject is so important, it’s hard.  We look at each other and think, “Well, what now?  Is this good-bye?”  There’s emotion there, sometimes.  A connection.  And then it is over and we move on with our lives.  I told Lepoleon to please come back and tell me all about the reunion.  I didn't want him to go.

I wish I could give an afternoon with Lepoleon to everyone I know.  He would make you smile and want to be a little kinder, because you'd want to make him proud.

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50 Shades of Procrastination

Thanks a lot, Joe, E L James and the ladies at my boot camp.  I got NOTHING productive done this weekend thanks to you. 

As you know, I am supposed to be a) drawing,  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 pencil portrait projects to work on. Guess who didn't do ANY drawing?  I read naughty books the whole trip instead.

If you haven't heard of the book Fifty Shades of Grey 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.

Every thirty seconds, Fifty Shades of Grey 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:

I can't wait to talk to my wife about her feelings.

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. 

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.

My Boot Camp Friend:  READ IT.  Your head will explode.
Me:  Wow, okay, maybe I will. 
MBCF: Text me as soon as your head explodes.

Not even close to what my boot camp looks like.

So in a rare moment of early adoption, I downloaded it to my Kindle.
 

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 wine and cheez-its leaves me no choice.  It's a losing battle. 

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.

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. 

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.

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 50 Shades series.  The first one, 50 Shades of Grey, 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 Erika "Erotica" Leonard, enjoyed the crap out of Twilight too, because in Fifty Shades, 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.

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.

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.

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 50 Shades of Grey and the ENTIRE second book, 50 Shades Darker.  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.

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.  

Laters, baby.

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The Irish carnival ride at Apartment 21

As a kid, I loved to cut crap out of colored construction paper and write short stories with naughty words in them.  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.

My mom and dad met on a blind fraternity/sorority date at the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana.  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.  Wendy Wentzel?  I went to U of I.

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.  This process turns out well for some people.  For me, it was a repeat of my humiliating cheerleading tryouts.  Other than my mother’s bookish alma mater, only one sorority invited me to join.  I happily pledged before realizing that the perky blonde girls who’d rushed me were not typical of the rest of the serious, studious, devout JEWISH girls in the house.  I wasn’t serious or devout about anything and despite the fact that I looked the part, I didn’t feel like I belonged. 

So I was stuck in the dorms with horrible roommates in the only all girls dorm on campus.  If it weren’t for my glorious neighbor, Kari, my freshman year with an obese townie roommate would have been a complete loss.  My sophomore year was spent fake-crying, which is a story for another day.  I lived with a Swedish girl and a Japanese girl in a triple room.  Both chattered on the phone incessantly in their respective languages with occasional angry whispers while glaring at my messy side of the room.  The Japanese one made her boring, white boyfriend tell me to be neater and quieter.  I told the Japanese one’s boyfriend several things, loudly, while looking directly at my roommate, who looked at her feet. 

"She's a crybaby and a total pig."

Hey ABBA, you don’t have to whisper.  I don’t speak Swedish.

 

Across the hall was a room full of alcoholic Catholic girls who appeared to be reenacting an ongoing sequel to Porky’s.  They were FUN and I wanted in.  I barged into their party landscape as often as they’d allow.  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. 

“I’m sorry, Wendy,” said the nicest, most sober one, “But you are such a drag.”

To make matters worse, I had a campus job at the University of Illinois Foundation calling alumni for donations.  Perhaps you heard from me between 1986 and 1990?  If you've never randomly called people to ask them for money, it is exactly like you'd think it would be.  I called for four hours a night, four nights a week.  It was one of the higher paying jobs on campus because it was miserable.  Here is how most of my conversations went:

Ring ring

Alumni: Hello?

Me:  Hi, This is Wendy from the University of Illinois Foundation calling to….

Alumni: Click!  …Dial tone.

Me:  What’s that?  You want to donate $100,000 because you think I sound professional and super hot?  Okay!

My manager:  Way to go!

It was godawful.  They must have it much easier now with caller ID because nobody probably answers.  I know I don't!  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.  This was excellent, as I am very nosy and super critical. 

One of the student callers I was supervising had red hair and a deep, south side Chicago voice, not unlike our biker friend Diane.  Colette seemed tough and I was scared of her.  I was scared of everyone then, especially south side redheads.  I’m a born complainer as you know, and I was whining to another caller about how nobody wanted to live with me.  I was doomed to live in the dorms as a junior.  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.   

Overhearing, Colette interrupted, “Hey, did you say you needed a place to live?”

I was about to fall in love with my very first portrait subjects.

Colette and her two friends were desperately seeking a fourth for their magnificent apartment.  They picked me up from my dorm in a big old dad type car to check it out.  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.  She had the skirt knotted on one side, about mid hip.  They were an Irish Catholic carnival ride and I hopped in because I had no other options.  I have a wealthy aunt who enjoys making me tell the story of what I wore to sorority rush at family gatherings.  She finds it hilarious and doesn’t seem to notice my shame spiral when I recount it.  I had NO business questioning anyone’s fashion sense.  But those three were a mess.  As it turned out, who cared?  That apartment was to die for. 

Apartment 21 was on the top floor at 1006 S. 3rd Street.  It had a long, shared balcony that faced south.  This meant all day sun.  To a college girl with large thighs, this private tanning bonanza alone was worth weird roommates.  It was a tri-level apartment with exposed brick walls and a kitchen that overlooked the living room.  Plus we could throw stuff on the roof of the sorority next door. It was fabulous.

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.  The guys had briefly formed a freshman band called Leprosy, later christening their rented campus home, “Leper House.”  A few of them helped the girls move into Apt 21.  They talked weird, they looked weird, and they wouldn’t leave.  Most of them were named Tom.  I was concerned. 

Then they all became some of the greatest loves of my life.  

Colette wasn’t tough after all.  She’s a softy.  When she was happy, we were all happy.  When she was down, we were all bummed.  She became a barometer for whether we were having a great time or not.  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.  In any case, it worked out just fine for Colette and their future three children.  Colette sends birthday, anniversary and holiday cards, on time, to every human being she knows, even my husband.  I just got a Mother’s Day card from her in the mail.  She’s insane.

Karen loved to laugh, especially at our expense.  Although she is Kimi’s older sister, she's happy letting Kimi call the shots.  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.  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.  Or on that day. 

After a year together, Karen graduated first, a full year before Kimi and me, followed by Colette a semester later.  When Karen came back from the real world for college visits, we decorated and rejoiced.  She was furious we were having fun without her. 

Kimi and I attempted to replace Karen and then Colette with creepy roommates who don’t deserve much comment.   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.  Enough said. 

For two years, Kimi and I lived together in that magic place between being a kid and a grown up.  She deserves her own story for having such a complicated, unexpected life.  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.  I babied her when her heart was broken and told her to stop bossing everyone around.  I knew she’d be a magnificent manager one day, which she was.

Before marriage, kids or jobs, we were stressed out and having the time of our lives.  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.

I took one elective art class that taught me to use a grid when drawing a subject.  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 portrait I draw in my current life as a full time pencil portrait artist.  Nothing else really stuck.   

When Karen graduated, I decided to draw the whole Leper House group as her graduation present.  I thought it was a brilliant idea because I had no money and it provided a lengthy excuse to procrastinate in studying for finals. 

My first portrait.  Yikes.  At least Frewbud's not in it.

Kimi supervised my progress, peeking over my shoulder regularly to tell me to make her thinner until her legs looked like Q-tips.  I drew myself sitting in the lower left corner with my misshapen hand awkwardly positioned on my knee.  If you look closely, it appears that I’ve been punched in the face, twice.  This portrait is not good.  You can at least recognize Karen, because she has a graduation hat on.  I had a long way to go before anyone would commission me to draw a portrait.  But Karen loved her gift and I was encouraged.  Drawing thirteen people as my first real portrait attempt was pretty ambitious.

As graduation for Kimi and me approached, I couldn’t keep drawing pictures.  I had to find a job.  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.

Ha.

Rejection letters lined our Apartment 21 entryway from good companies who wanted nothing to do with us.  Most of them were for me, from Chicago ad agencies.  Advertising seemed like a great idea except that you couldn’t get an actual job in advertising without experience or a master’s.  I was horrified.  While my brother and I had been piling up tuition, rent, book and bar bills, my 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.  I graduated in the top 1% of my class with an $1,800 student loan to repay.  I had no idea what a gift I was given.  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.

Karen, Kimi and Colette each have three children and they all have at least one daughter.  They still live on the south side of Chicago with their families.  I’m over an hour away, in the far north suburbs, near Wisconsin with my boys… no little girl for me.  Over twenty years later, we meet halfway and eat pizza and drink beer like we’re still one step away from the real world.  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. 

Every time I'm with those wonderful, hilarious girls, 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.  If I drew their portraits now, I don’t know how I could ever capture how very much they mean to me.  But I'd still draw a side-pony on Kimi.

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Mood swinging with a biker chick

While I’m dripping sweat or cursing my shivery lack of a jacket at an art show, there are hundreds of people wandering around.  As much as I love to whine about being ignored, many of them chat with me.  Some are pretty interesting and/or hilarious.  In one case, that would be a leather-clad understatement. 

People sometimes have an emotional reaction to my pencil portraits.  Many a visitor has cried in my booth (see, I’m not the only one) out of family love or loss, picturing their own special somebody.  Just because they cry, doesn’t mean they call me.  They usually don't.  But at least they get it.

With a bazillion people at up to three shows a month, it's a blur after awhile.  In my first year or two of drawing full time, I apparently met a woman at an Arts in the Park event.  The only thing I remember about that particular outdoor show was that beer was plentiful starting at 10 am, plastic cups in almost everyone’s hand. 

A couple years later, I got a phone call.  “Remember me?” a husky, gruff voice asked.  “You know, with my husband and the Harleys?” 

I have a horrendous memory.  It is feeble.  I can’t remember why I’ve come into a room, when I am just reentering that room after just forgetting why I was there.  My initial fear of motherhood was that I would forget I had a kid. 

  

I had no idea who this biker chick was.  So I lied. “Of course I remember you!”  Why should I hurt her feelings?  Plus I am always eager to tap into new markets that I fantasize will lead to my eventual fame.  Motorcycles aren’t cheap and there is a whole consumer subculture there, like Deadheads or Jimmy Buffet or being a Republican.

From the moment she walked in my front door, Harley Diane was a bleached blast of in-your-face personality.

"I need you to draw THIS," she rasped, proudly showed me a photograph of herself and her husband standing in a parking lot full of motorcycles.  I’m talking hundreds of motorcycles. 

“Wow.” I said, my meager math skills failing to calculate drawing time vs. her potential budget vs. how much I didn’t want to piss her off.  At a loss, I suggested, “Wouldn’t it be better to just draw you and your husband on one bike together?” 

Diane cocked her head and thrust her chin at me in a quick aggressive movement.  “FIRST of all,” she said loudly into my face, “they’re not BIKES.  They’re HARLEYS.  There’s a fucking DIFFERENCE.”

I may have peed a little. 

“And I DO want ALL of it in the picture,” she went on.  “It represents the biker life, you know?  We're totally in it, it’s all around us.  It’s a big fucking deal.” 

If one motorcycle is $20 or if I do three for... I give up.

“Okay, great!” I said, nodding agreeably like someone whose ass didn't need kicking.

“And I want it BIG.”  Diane said firmly.  “It’s going over my new leather couch and it’s a big wall.  How big can you draw it?” 

Yikes.  I looked at all the detail involved  - this was going to be a huge job.  We decided on 24”x36”, but I think she’d been thinking even bigger.  At the time, almost all of my drawings were 8x10" or 11x14"... I didn’t even know where to get drawing paper that big yet.  In the photo, their faces were about as big as a thumbnail and too blurry to see clearly.  In the finished drawing, their faces would be about 4 inches high. I need to see more detail to do a good job.

“You should give me some photos that are clearer and closer of your faces,” I told her.  “That way I can get a better likeness since I can’t see you that well in this one.” 

Diane stared at me a second and yelled,  “WELL WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT?  I could have brought more!” 

Mommy. 

So Diane stomped out and then stomped back within a couple days.  “I brought my modeling photos!” she hollered. 

MODELING?  Reading my surprised reaction, she explained, “All my friends say, ‘Di, you got pretty eyes.’ So I figured WHY THE FUCK NOT?!”  Diane looked to be in her mid 40’s, hard as nails with heavily mascara-ed eyes so blue, she must have been wearing neon colored contacts.  Suddenly a little shy, Diane handed me her modeling album.  Turning the pages, I found myself disappointed in whoever took them.  They were lit harshly and taken with a cheap camera.  Model or not, the photos didn’t flatter her.  Diane was growing on me and I felt strangely protective of her hopefulness.  We chose a softer photo that Diane liked.  Then she presented a big, close-up photo of her husband. 

Burt, not Mr. Harley.

“Isn’t he HOT?” Diane asked with pride.  Mr. Harley had a 70’s moustache Burt Reynolds thing going that wasn’t really my cup of beer, but I could see the attraction. 

“Sure,” I agreed.  “He’s a good looking guy.” 

“I keep trying to meet people on Match.com,” Diane confided.  “It’s hard to meet cool people to hang out with, ya know?”

Wait, what now?  Match.com?  Images of why Diane and her wild Hooper husband would want to “meet” people flashed through my head.  Were they swingers?  Was I getting my first swinger invitation?  What do you wear to a swinger party?

“But… I thought you were so into your husband?” I stammered, stalling before I made my final swinging decision.

Diane glared at me, stunned.  There was a big weird pause.  “It’s been TWO fucking YEARS!” she finally snapped, guardedly. 

Um, I don't understand what is happening.

“You do know my husband fucking DIED on his Harley, right?  Two doors down from our house?  I TOLD YOU about it at the art show!  REMEMBER?  I had to walk away from you because it was too hard?  It was only a couple months then.”

Oh my God, I am such an idiot.  I did remember.  The fog faded and I could see her bright blue eyes filling up with tears when we first met as she talked about shock and pain, trying to describe the portrait she had in her mind… a tribute to their 22 years of marriage, to their biker life, so full of joy. 

“He knew the risks of riding,” she said, quiet for the first time since I’d met her.  “It was our life and he lived it to the fullest, on the edge.  He wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

The day of Diane's last visit, my friend Vicki was over.  When Diane called to tell me she was on her way, I nearly peed again, this time with glee.  “YOU’RE GOING TO MEET HER!” I yelled at Vicki, Diane style. 

Diane didn't let me down.  “GET FUCKING THIS!!!  I just saw a sewer truck!” she announced, as she strolled in familiarly, kicking off her boots.  “It feels like it’s meant to be that I’m picking this thing up today!”  The truck had something to do with how her husband had died.  “You know, the guy that was riding with my husband that night never stepped up to the plate.” Diane roughly wiped unwanted tears away, then suddenly leaned her head back and yelled, “That MOTHER FUCKER!!!!  HA HA HA!!!”  She laughed lustily and loud and with complete abandon.  Vicki and I were frozen to our seats, jaws gaping.  Diane could change moods so quickly and intensely, it spun your head around.   

“You know, I tell it like it is!” Diane cried, “I’m not afraid to put it out there!”

After instructing me to adjust her hair (more feathered), Diane wanted me to fix her husband’s biker hat, which I had drawn like Chef Boyardee.  “It’s flatter,” she said, disgustedly. “You know, like a biker’s hat.”

“I don’t know what a biker’s hat looks like,” I admitted with shame, exposing the poorly hidden secret that I am an uncool dork.  I prayed that Vicki wouldn’t laugh and get us both killed.

After I made the changes, Diane was happy, smiling a big tearful smile.  “I’m having a baby shower for my daughter and I wanted to have this ready in time.” 

Off she went, cussing happily with her portrait rolled into a kitchen garbage bag. 

“Don’t you have anything better to give to your clients?” scolded Vicki.  I do now.  Good friends like Vicki and Diane always tell you like it is. Once Vicki finished making fun of my half ass professionalism, she echoed my exact thoughts.  "Diane was wild, wasn’t she?  Don’t you love to meet people like her?  She was so different than us.  I loved her.  She told me that she’s from Crestwood, which explains a lot.”

“It does?” 

“That’s south side.”

“Oh,” I said knowingly, not knowing.  I really don’t know anything about anything.  And besides, when did Vicki have Crestwood discussions without me?  Maybe when I was pulling out my fancy garbage/sales bag. 

I loved Diane, too and I was so glad that I got the chance to share her high decibel, wonderful self with Vicki.  I can’t get over the amazing range of people who actually pay me to draw something precious to them.  I fall a little bit in love with so many of them.

I hope Diane has found a new hot biker guy who appreciates her strength and respects how much she loved her husband.  I also hope that Diane isn’t pissed at me for writing about her. 

Seriously.  She could hurt me.  But you kind of love her too, don't you?


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