The Golden Angel and the Dark

I am now the mother of two boys, both of whom, for the moment, are rather Angelic.

please disregard my inability to sketch baby heads.

I know this is not a state of affairs that is likely to last for the next 12-18 years, so I figure I'd better enjoy it while I can.

You may recall that TLG was not originally on board with getting a Little Brother, but that we eventually brought him around.  Well he has stayed around, and he is stoked as hell about LBB.  He helps me with diapers, lets me know when I need to feed Little Brother (you know- in case I hadn't noticed the grousing infant) and bestows millions of kisses upon him.  For his part, LBB is still kind of indifferent to TLG, although he did smile at an appropriately-timed moment in response to TLG tickling his feet, so who knows.  Strangers things, Horatio.

When we got the anatomy scan of LBB the tech switched it over to 3D, so we got to see LBB's facial features- and we were pretty shocked by how much he looked like TLG.  Once he made his Exterior Debut, however, two Main Differences jumped out immediately:

1) He has his father's dark hair
2) He has his mother's cleft chin

TLG was born with sort of medium-brown hair, and it shocked exactly no one when, after he rubbed that initial fuzz off, the new growth came in golden.  Blond/e babies are fairly ubiquitous in both of our families (Nathan notwithstanding), so it was more or less expected that any child of ours would follow suit.  LBB is the first grandchild on either side (that's one in fourteen, mind you) to come out with truly dark hair, and we're hopeful he'll grow up to be as black-maned as his father.

As for the chin- I'll admit, I was a bit wistful when TLG showed absolutely no evidence of my ancestral chin-dimple, and in fact I spent probably way too much time staring at the aspect in question, attempting to will an indentation into existence (and possibly also poking at it in an attempt to encourage one to develop... don't judge me...)  So when I first saw LBB from not a crown-down angle (visibility is limited for that immediate, skin-to-skin contact) I literally let out a little gasp of delight and squeaked, "He has my chin!"

See, the beautiful thing about TLG is that he blends our familial features so perfectly that it's really hard to consistently say, "Oh he looks like so-and-so!"  More often it's a certain expression he makes that has us going, "Oh yeah, he's related to Cousin _____ for sure."  But with LBB it's like he's taken specific traits that are immediately identifiable as one or the other of us, and arranged them in the best possible way.

Other differences include:

-LBB has a wider mouth (but whenever he makes a moue it looks exactly like TLG's, especially in conjunction with their identical noses)
-LBB has a wider jawline, which right now codes as a rounder face
-LBB is built on longer/narrower proportions than TLG, and in fact he may end up being a throwback to my paternal grandfather, judging by his feet

Granted it's been all of three weeks since LBB emerged, so we'll see how it all pans out.  But in the meantime- genetics, man.  Some crazy stuff.

Pride (Words for a Memorial Gathering)

(As always, this is what I wrote, but not necessarily what I said.)

***

When I was young child, I felt sorry for the kids who had two "Grandmas".  How confusing it must be, to have the same name for two different people, always having to throw on a modifier to clarify who you were talking about.  I took smug pride in my possession of an "Oma", obviously the superior arrangement- just as German was obviously the superior ancestry.

Oma and I got along brilliantly when I was small: she taught me about important things like proper silverware etiquette, the best kind of bread to feed ducks, and how to behave in a sauna.  She would spend hours cooking and baking with me, or watching the dramatic performances I dragged my little brother into, or swimming with me in pools and lakes.  She would blow bubbles for me to chase, and we were special friends.  Our relationship was a simple one, and easy.  We loved one another.

As I got older, and began the transition into adulthood, it became apparent that I had a lot in common with Oma- and that commonality lead to, shall we say, friction.  Both of us smart, both of us strong-willed, both of us so certain we were right.  I struggled between wanting so badly for her to be proud of me, and not wanting to care at all what she thought.  She would bait me, and I would overreact.  Our relationship was a complex one, and not easy.  We loved one another.

I got older still, undeniably a woman by anyone's measure.  I brought Nathan into the family and I swear- I swear that was the best thing I ever did for my relationship with Oma.  She adored him, and her adoration of him made her think better of my decision-making abilities.  And I was more confident in my self and my life choices, less likely to take offense where none was intended, and more able to laugh things off.  Our relationship became mature, and good.  We loved one another.

And then, almost four years ago, I had my son, TLG.  Oma was getting older, more physically fragile- she couldn't play with her youngest great-grandson in the garden as she had with me, but she could- and did- admire him as he wore her own son's handed-down lederhosen; could give him little cars to play with; could blow bubbles for him to chase.  Their relationship was a simple one, and easy.  They loved one another- and it enriched my love for her.  I think seeing me as a mother enriched her love for me, as well.  Our mutual respect deepened, and we were proud to be called similar.

The last time I saw Oma, she was in a garden, surrounded by people she loved, and who loved her.  TLG was using Opa's cane as a wizard's staff, magically "turning" us into various animals.  Opa became an elephant, Nathan a newt- but then TLG turned to Oma (better known to him as Ur-Uma), and said, "Poof!  You're a lion!" and she smiled and laughed, tired from her recent medical ordeals, but delighted by his choice.

A lion, I thought.  How appropriate.  Not just because she was born under the sign of Leo, but because she was strong and fierce like a lioness, protecting and providing for her family, her pride.  Queen of her surroundings by sheer force of will- and the ability to roar when necessary.

She is gone now, which adds some complexity back into our relationship, but the love remains as strong as ever.

As does the pride.

Mini-Memorial

We are getting ready for bed, and I am explaining to TLG that tomorrow we are going to up to Olympia, to see Ur-Opa.

"I think he must be very sad," says TLG.

"Yes, he is," says Nathan.

"He will need a big hug," I add. "You can tell him you're sorry that Ur-Oma died, and that you love him. That might help him feel a little okay."

I go on to say that we will be dressed up nicely, because we will be going to a Memorial Service, where we will share memories and stories about Ur-Oma.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because that is what you do, when someone you love dies," I say. "You tell stories about them, and remember, and it helps with the sadness."

"Me too?" he asks.

"You can if you want to," I respond. "Do you have a story about Ur-Oma you'd like to share?"

"Yes," he says, with all the innate, unflappable confidence of a 3-year-old.

"What story would you like to share?"

He hesitates. "Um," he says, obviously thinking hard. "Ur-Oma died,"

"Yes she did," I say. "But did you want to share a memory about her?" His little brow furrows, and he continues to think.

"Hugs," he says at last.

"She gave you hugs?" I ask, just to clarify. "And you liked them?"

"Yes!" He beams up at me, pleased with his answer, and my comprehension. I smile at him, stroking his hair and thinking, it took me nearly two hours to write the tribute I plan on delivering tomorrow... but his is probably better.

Listening to Sad Music So That I Can Cry

My Oma died today.

(Oma, of course, being the German word for Grandmother: in this instance my Mom's Mom.)

It wasn't a surprise at all- she'd had a stroke back in May, was hospitalized/in rehab for about six weeks, and we all knew that basically the goal was to get her well enough to come home to die.

And she did.  So at least there's that.

I got the call while I was at the playground.  Nathan and I had taken TLG and my best friend's son (whom we were babysitting this weekend) to run off some energy, and thank all the gods Nathan was literally standing right next to me when I got the call, able to put his arm around me and be a solid presence grounding me.

It was my mom, and her voice when she said hello- I knew.  And I cracked a joke because that's how we roll, and we both laughed and cried and then I had to lock that shit down because I had two little boys I had just told I was taking for ice cream.

I'm proud of my ability to compartmentalize- it is extremely useful is emergency situations.  But the problem is that it's a lot harder to unlock that emotional box than it is to lock it in the first place.

Even after we were back to our typical Family Unit of Three, with Nathan occupying TLG downstairs so that I could have some Alone Time upstairs... nothing.  Numbness.  And I feel like I can't talk about it with TLG until I can express honest emotion.  Right now I'm too detached, too clinical.  I a not a healthy model of grief.

Hence I'm now working on this blog entry, forcing myself to face and process things, and listening to sad music for good measure.  Sometimes you just have to artificially jump start the emotions before they'll flow properly.  Priming a pump, or something.  I don't know.  I don't have it in me to make elegant metaphors, at the moment.

And just like that, it's working.

Father's Day 2019

(How's that for a distinctive title?)

It's been somewhat of an Emotionally Weird Father's Day.

Let me explain.

It's been five years since I've had a truly Terrible Father's Day- that being the one that occurred right after the second miscarriage, and Nathan and Katie and I got lunch at Red Lobster and the clueless waitress said brightly to us (a trio of extremely quiet, mid-thirties people eating lunch at 2pm with no children in our midst), "Are you here celebrating Father's Day?"

(Read the room, lady.  Read the room.)

The 19 years preceding that, they'd run the gamut from "Crying most of the day," to "Hey who wants the day off because I will definitely take your shift and get some extra money out of this stupid made up holiday!"

But then TLG came along, and the game changed.  Suddenly it was a Happy Day again, with an actual reason to celebrate, and warm, tender feelings for my Lifemate in his role as Lifegiver.  It gives me great pleasure to be able to anticipate the made up holiday with joy and expectation, to be able to make it into a Special Day (or at least a day with Special Moments) for my mate.  The Specialness I had planned for today was helping TLG make a card for Nathan, taking him to the second service of church so he could see Daddy play, and then going out to eat wherever Nathan wanted (not Red Lobster...)  Nathan obviously left the house at his usual way-too-early time (since he plays for both services, and gets there early to run through things), so I was alone as TLG scarfed his breakfast downstairs and I ruminated my Costume Choices.

In the end I felt a very powerful call to wear an old shirt of my dad's leftover from his early Air Force days (Yep, a ~40 year old t-shirt.  It has exactly one tiny hole in it, the result of a too-enthusiastic cat.  They do not make things like they used to, that's for damn sure.)  I didn't put much thought into it, just "Yes, this is a good shirt to wear today, to remember my father in a non-painful way."

But then... someone actually asked me about the shirt.

"Okay, I have to know," says the kind substitute pastor gesturing to my back.  "Who is JP 13?"

"Oh," I blink, taken off guard by the question, and suddenly realizing it wasn't perhaps totally appropriate to wear a shirt that says, "The Hell We Can't" into my husband's church.  "JP was my dad.  And 13 was his..." I fumble for a way to translate into Civilian Terms.  "...class... thing."

"Class of 2013?"  The pastor eyes my obviously late-thirties-self with a smile.  "I don't think so,"

"No no,"  I wave my hands helplessly.  "Not the year.  Their class number.  Like a squadron.  It was from some training he did after he graduated from the Air Force Academy.  They... they got to design their own patches and..."  I stretch the front of the shirt out, as though somehow he hasn't already noticed, "They chose squeezing blood from a turnip.  Obviously.  And I, uh... I decided to wear it in remembrance of him today."  Sorry about the 'hell' thing, I add mentally.

"It's a wonderful remembrance," he says, and I like him that much more.

The conversation wrapped up pretty quickly thereafter, but the shock of it- of someone who doesn't know me asking, and me actually talking about my father- shifted my brain a bit.  So that rather than "Okay thought about Daddy for 30 seconds this morning now I can put all my focus onto Nathan," it became more of a balance between the two.  The bitter and the sweet.  And I'm not saying it's bad, or that I'm upset it happened.  But it added an emotional nuance to the day I wasn't expecting.  And I may or may not have teared up a bit at the end of service when Nathan was talking to the congregation about what it means to be a good father.

Anyway.

Overall it was an extremely good day.  We had (a very late) lunch at Thai Orchid, and then Nathan went to the guitar store for a few hours (because I firmly believe that Mother's and Father's Days ought to be about the parental figure in question doing something for themselves) while TLG and I hung out at home.  And now I'm going to bed, because I am of an age where Good Days include Early Bedtimes.

::sigh::

Festivities

It was an extremely full and satisfying day for the O'Richey-O household.  We had two Events scheduled for today: TLG's School Picnic in the AM, and the Multicultural Festival in the PM.

For the picnic we signed up to bring brownies, and I thought it would be a good experience for TLG and I to bake them early in the morning, and then bring them to the picnic.  Pride in accomplishments, and all that.  So around 0900 (after a quick trip to the store to buy eggs, which he helped me check for cracks) we began the process.

He was extremely excited about the egg.

It didn't take too long to put the batter together (even including cleaning up the egg he crushed rather than cracked), and soon we were popping it into the oven.

Official Taste Tester

Which, uh, kind of decided not to work.  As in, it decided that 250 was pretty much it's default setting, consequences be damned.  I kept those brownies in there nearly 90 minutes (did manage to coax the oven up to about 335 for the last 10), and finally had to pull them out so they could cool for fifteen minutes before we left.

Those brownies were 100% not done.

Now, they were done enough.  Enough that I'd eat them, or give them to family to eat, and just enjoy the chewy rawness of the bottom.  But to take to a Class Picnic, where people might actually complain about salmonella?  No.  So on our way to school we popped into WalMart to pick up a substitute; "We already have brownies!" TLG shrieked in indignation (pride in accomplishment, sigh), but after I explained the situation (ie lied and told him I didn't think we had enough) he grudgingly agreed to their purchase, with the caveat that he got to carry them.

The point of the picnic was to celebrate grandparents, but since TLG's all live far far away, we instead brought my aunt and uncle to represent the generation.  TLG had a grand old time running his great uncle ragged on the playground!

Not nearly as death-trappish as they were in MY day.

I may or may not have indulged in some hokey pokey with him.  But there's no photographic evidence, so who can tell.

Fortunately for everyone he fell asleep on the way home, so he got an hour nap (and I got a chance to write some Severan stuff, which I'll share in a few days) before we had to get ready for Event Number Two.

I'd been so focused on the chance to eat delicious ethnic foods that I had totally spaced on the fact that we've got some multiculturalism in our household, too.  But fortunately at the very last moment it occurred to me, and I squeezed TLG into his vintage lederhosen (passed down through the family from the aforementioned great uncle).  I was bummed that I hadn't thought of it in time to have my mom ship me my dirndls, but there's always next year...

Ready to Ride!  Possibly for the last time, because he's just about outgrown that seat.

We rode my bike there (love being able to ride my bike to fun things) and TLG was an immediate hit with the police officers wandering around: they gave him a shield sticker and directed us to the bike corral.  Once we had it locked up, TLG made a beeline for the playground, but pretty quickly thereafter he caught sight of the hula dancers on stage and got mesmerized.  I eventually coaxed him back down, and we checked out some of the booths, until he told me he wanted food- but then on the way to the food he caught sight of kids with balloon animals, so we had to take a detour for "a brown monkey!"

He would literally bite his money's face off within five minutes.  Enemies beware.

Monkey secured, we got ourselves some delicious street tacos, and followed it up with a peach ice-pop to share.

Not necessarily multicultural, but a favorite from the Farmer's Market we were excited to find here.

We spent some time watching beautiful Mexican dancers, and playing with a little paper toy bus (TLG is enamored of city buses), but eventually we were ready to head home.

They looked like butterflies.

A burst of sunshine!

All in all it was a great time, and next year I'm thinking I'll wear my dirndl, have Nathan wear a kilt, and we flip a coin to see which of our 52 flavors TLG will represent!

Cultured!

Wild Morgen's Core*

*(this is what auto-correct turned "Elf Mother Colors" into when I emailed the photos to myself.)

True to my word, I am well and truly back in the watercolor saddle, and feeling pretty damn fine about it.  It's been a really interesting project, in terms of forcing me to come face-to-face with my own shortcomings and growth edges (although it's been a pretty good year for that in general, I'd say) and tonight I realized that one of the most important lessons I've learned from this project is that it's okay not to be perfect all the time.  It's okay to play, to produce art for no audience but myself (::coughcoughshesaidonherpublicblogcough::) and to not freak out if it's not of a quality that I'd want it to be if someone were paying me.  Turns out I produce a lot more that way- and producing more means sharpening my skills faster, which means better products when I do create on behalf of someone else.  Which, while rare, does still happen on occasion...

But enough narcissistic navel-gazing.  On to the pictures!

Yep, this is the one you've already seen.  Just to remind you of what the stark linework looked like.

When I orginally dew this, all the way back in May, I was going for a Tolkien-esque elf vibe (as opposed to the Pini-esque elf vibe I usually channel), but a side of them we don't really see in the books.  We know they can have children, but we never really see them in that context- so here I come with my imagination and my pens (and my brushes)!

Honestly it was probably "good enough" after one night's colors, but I wanted to do more.

When I finished up last night, I knew that I'd allow myself one more night of colors, and then it would be time to move on to the next image.

The "finished" piece.

For what it's worth, I'm actually quite pleased with it (smear on her hand aside).  Okay, yes, I can pick it apart on several levels, but dang it all, I'm telling my Inner Critic to shut it, and just enjoy it for what it is, which is a pleasing little what-if portrait.

I'm excited to see what my brain spits out tomorrow.

Shiny!

You guys, I'm so excited about what I finished up today that I'm not even going to bury this lead:

BLING BLING BABY!

That's the angle that lets you see the shiny gold embellishment, but here's what the whole thing looks like:

Inara Serra, ladies and gentlemen.

(Fun Fact: I sent a shot of this to my brother earlier today, and he demanded I put a banana in the photo so he'd have a size comparison.  I did, but since bananas come in all sizes, I'll just tell you the page is like 9"x12" or so)

I've actually been working on this piece since the last time I updated (before, even) in addition to my daily stuff, so I'm pretty glad to be done with it.  And like I said: so pleased with how it came out.  It was my first Big Experimentation with using masking fluid, and doing iridescent accents.  I learned a lot from it (namely that if I'm going to do larger pieces, I need to suck it up and get REAL watercolor paper from The Internet and stop pretending like Strathmore will ever fulfill my needs), which I will surely put to use in future pieces.  Woo!

Now let's look back at Other Stuff, including me adding color to the Ladies of Firefly (which I can now tell you started off as a thumbnail for the above piece):

I spent probably four nights adding color.  They could use more noodling, but (having reminded myself of the SKETCHBOOK NATURE OF A SKETCHBOOK) I've decided to move on.

Oh speaking of sketches, here's one I didn't finish because I lost interest!

Characters from ElfQuest.

And the reason I lost interest in finishing is because I got this super sweet metallic paint to play with!

Plaaaaaaay!

But I made up for it by spending a few days working on fan art for other fandoms, ie for Tamora Pierce's Song of the Lioness!

Yes, yes, I know the freckles are too stark.  OH WELL.

This was mostly about seeing what it took to get a nice, even appearance from the gold.  Minimum two coats, is the answer.

So, yes.  Feeling good about Art at the moment.  Also feeling good about having passed the Series 66, and my upcoming Insurance Licensing Exam.  Also feeling good about my awesome family.  Yes, goodness all around.

A Candle Held By Steady Hand Goes Dancing in the Dark

I've mentioned before that I've repressed much of 1994, the year my father was diagnosed with- and died from- cancer.  This is just my brain's way of doing its best to protect me from the horror of that time, which just goes to show that Jerk Brain is definitely not part of my Real Brain, which is obviously a much more thoughtful and considerate entity.  Because when you've mostly repressed something, you can't really spend time dwelling on it, and if you don't really spend time dwelling on it, you're far less likely to slit your own wrists in a moment of poor judgement.  Of course, the flip side to that is that I also don't, generally speaking, remember the good times from that year, either- and yes, there were some; moments here and there of brave candlelight in a long dark night of fear and sorrow.

Yesterday I found out that my Great Aunt (sister to my father's mother) died.  I was at work when I heard, and work isn't really the time or place for processing such things, so I shoved it down and went along with my day, until I could get home and write in my journal.  And as I wrote in my journal about how I felt, and the impact Cordelia Ann Richmond Dew had on my life, memories suddenly bubbled up from the repressed darkness.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized that I thought of the summer of 1994 as The Terrible Summer- I mean, I didn't really think of it at all, so how could I have a Title for it?- but apparently I do.  And one of the things that happened during The Terrible Summer was that my brother and I, eight and thirteen, went to live with Aunt Dee and Uncle Gene while my dad was poked and prodded, poisoned and sliced open, and all those other things they do to try and save you when you're very very sick.  In the haze of recently-recovered adolescent-memories it seems as though we stayed with them The Whole Summer, but I know it wasn't- surely it wasn't more than a month, maybe even only three weeks.  Regardless, three or four weeks is a very long time for a child (even a very clever child who has had to do a lot of growing up over the previous few months) to be sent to live with a great-aunt with whom she's never been around except in the company of the rest of her boisterous family.

I was not very gracious about it.  I don't mean that I was a brat, or rebellious, or anything like that- I was too much the Goody-Two-Shoes for any sort of negative acting out- but I was very, very self-centered and selfish, and spent a great deal of time alone.  My memories are of swimming in their pool, discovering MTV on the television in their office (I have very vivid memories of watching the video for Black Hole Sun over and over again), and reading Renegades of Pern in the room that had been designated as mine.  I remember finding Dee's copy of How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way, and devouring it, and her providing me with reams of printer paper (remember when it was perforated?) to practice on, because she was an artist too and understood.  And I rememer her patiently showing me how to use the type writer so I could labor over my Very Epic SciFi Adventure Romance Story wherein a bunch of teenagers were abducted by aliens and dumped (naked, naturally) on an uncivilized planet to see if they'd survive (and breed, also naturally).  Definitely the main character was based on me (her name was Leia naturally) and the main love interest was 100% based on my three-years-older-than-me-crush.  And the other characters were also based on my best friends at the time and their crushes.  Just... thank goodness the Internet wasn't ubiquitous yet, that's all the commentary I have on that.

But back to the heart of the matter.

What I'm saying here with this long and rambling and typically self-centered bit of prose is that I spent a lot of time alone that month, doing and thinking about the things that suited me- and Dee gave me the space and support that I needed to do and think about those things.  She didn't hover, she wasn't trying to make me talk about shit I didn't want to talk about.  She was just... there for me.  And for my brother, who doesn't feature much in my self-absorbed memories of that time (beyond one moment of him dumping ketchup on his mashed potatoes, and her laughing).  And for my parents, who surely were having a much more hellish time than we were.  And for her sister, who was thereby freed to be with her son during said hellish time (something I now appreciate in a way that never would have occurred to me before I had my own son).  Dee was just... there, doing what needed to be done, and doing it without complaint while finding a way to smile and laugh and encourage you and give you what you actually needed rather than what society said you needed.  She was loving and accepting and smart and funny and loyal and wonderful, and I'm so grateful for what she did for me and for my family.  So grateful to have had her in my life at all.

I just hope she and her big sister picked a really excellent shade of crimson to slather the Hereafter with.

Becoming My Mother: The Early Morning Edition

As I sit down to compose this entry, it is 0532.  I've been up for just a touch over thirty minutes, and I've already done my yoga, and started a cup of tea to brew.  Now I'm about to enjoy it (and the sound of my own typing) in an otherwise silent house.

I am becoming my mother.

Every morning, my mother enjoys an early morning cup of tea (or two) out on the quiet of her deck.  It's not that I've ever considered it an odd habit, it's just that I guess I never really understood it, on a visceral level, until very recently when I happened to get up at 0500 and just... stayed up.  The yoga was obvious- that's what I do when I get up, so that's what I did.  But then I had all this time stretching out before me- over a full hour of time to do... whatever I wanted, without interruption.  And when you've been honed in the time-management fires of parenthood, a full hour is an enormous stretch of time.

So why not use it in quiet contemplation of my tea, and my stories?

On a Random Wednesday in January, I Miss You Terribly

I'm walking down the street, in the bitter bitter cold, and I'm talking to my mom on the phone, and she's probably having a hard time understanding me, because my voice is breaking as I'm speaking and I'm trying so hard to keep from crying and failing utterly and I don't know how coherent I'm being, anyway.

"I'm so pissed that I'm so... so pathetically desperate for stories of my father that I'm willing to ignore that part of my brain trying to warn me that something might not be right in this situation.  And part of the pain and frustration comes from... it's just... I do deeply appreciate my friends who want to be there for me, when I'm missing him, but what I really want, what's really contributing to this sadness, is my craving for people who knew him.  It's just- I only have so many memories of him, and I don't get to make any more.  So sometimes... sometimes I just want to supplement with other people's memories."






(Never stop telling stories of people you once knew.  In the end, that's all we have.)

Unboxing Cheer

It's 0930, and Nathan has abandoned us to "go Christmas Shopping" or some such malarkey.  It's snowing out.  There's ice on the roads but more dangerously there are other drivers who don't know what the hell they're doing on the roads.  And most aggravating of all, my son's heavy winter mittens and regular fuzzy mittens have both been left at daycare, so we can't play outside longer than the ten minutes it took for his hands to go cherry red.

We're currently considering our options, which right now looks a whole lot like me reading Bunnies!!! over and over again.  (Which, don't get me wrong- I do love that book, but I made the mistake of giving the monster a Very Specific Voice, and it does wear on my throat.)

Suddenly, Isis's head comes up- and then there's a knock at the door, the sort of knock that means Something Interesting on the front porch.  Perhaps the book I ordered for my mom over a week ago?  Isis lets loose her snarling "big girl voice" and charges for the window, following it up with agitated whining, just in case we missed the frantic-scrambling-sounds of the mailman diving for safety.

I grab her collar, open the door (yell, "Thank you!" to the poor man) and look down to discover that it's not for my mom- it's from her!  Hooray!  Mom has rescued us from our burgeoning boredom by delivering up the unadulterated joy of diving into a large package full of gifts and goodies!

Okay let's do this!

The first level: full of tissue-wrapped, "It's okay to tear into them RIGHT NOW" parcels.

Level two: now we come to the Real Deal.  These are Presents for Under the Tree, people.

(and edible goodies, both home-baked and bought-from-the-German-deli)

Neeps, of course, is THRILLED that Oma sent him a package of tissue paper to destroy.

And a box to sit in.

No, Neeps!  I won't ship you back to Oma!

Baby's First Indie Comic

There are a few people in my life who know how to throw one hell of a party.  This is nice for someone like me, who enjoys attending amazing parties, but generally only throws casual get-togethers.  One such amazing-party-thrower is my friend Jenni Bost, who actually has an entire awesome blog about it (the appropriately named A Well Crafted Party).  Go check it out: I'll wait.

... ... ...


Welcome back!  I'm assuming it's a few hours later, because you've felt compelled to do a bunch of super-cool crafts and mix up a bunch of delicious drinks.  It's cool.  I've been there.

In fact I was literally there tonight!  Jenni threw her annual Halloween Party, and this year's theme was Comic Books.  I mentioned the other day that I decided to do more of a concept costume, and here's the result:

Embiggen for an extra joke on Neeps's shirt.

(The photo is B&W, just like our low-budget mini-comic.)

You got to read the first draft of the script the other day, so I thought you might like to check out the Final Product today:

Extremely limited run.

Yes, I misspelled pseudonym and had to hand-correct each issue.

Neeps used my copic brush pen for his subtle-yet-nuanced inking.

SPLASH PAGE!

Oh look, did someone accidentally leave AN ENTIRE FREAKING WORD BALLOON OUT and then have to go in and hand-write it in ten freaking times??

Look at that, they totally did.

We brought a handful to the party and gave them out (Nathan said that if we really wanted to sell the costumes, we should have brought a folding table and sat behind it, staring at people hungrily) and people seemed to enjoy it. I know we enjoyed making it, even if I did have to all-but-hog-tie Nathan to get him to just produce something quick rather than slaving over something "perfect".  After all, it was just a prop.

...for now...

Amber Avian Draft

We are going to a Comic Book themed Halloween party on Saturday.  Normally I'd have gone to the nines on our costumes, but since I'd already put quite a bit of effort into costumes that are not comic-book-related (stay tuned), I decide to be clever conceptually, and dress us up as Artist, Writer, and Inker.  And, of course, to complete the costumes I decided we'd make a tiny comic book.  Tonight I (the writer) wrote the rough draft of that comic:

Cover:  Amber Avian Adventures!

Page One:

Amber Avian Adventures, Issue One

Story by: Jenny O

Pictures by: Nathan

Ink by: Neeps

Cast: (just a little head shot of each character)

Duck: a mild-mannered duckling who stays in line- except when the weak need protecting: then he dons his secret identity of...

The Amber Avian: that fairest of fowls, sworn to stand against the naughty forces of the world, like…

Bad Pig: she just can’t seem to help herself- she’s always making trouble!  Especially for…

Wee Flipperling: Duck’s best friend, a seal who idolizes the heroic Amber Avian without realizing the two are one and the same!

Page Two: (little vignettes of a crying baby duck in a half shell; Duck releasing a fish from a hook; and the fish looking magical as sparkles form around Duck)

Abandoned at birth to fend for himself, Duck knows how hard the world can be for the small and defenseless.  When a magical fish granted him a wish in return for him saving her life, Duck knew just what to wish for- the power to defend all those who cannot defend themselves!  And so the fish transformed Duck into…

Page Three/Four: (two-page splash of Amber Avian fighting Bad Pig)

THE AMBER AVIAN!

Page Five:

(AA has BP in custody and is scolding her as WF looks on, stars in his eyes.)

AA: Bad Pig!  How could you steal those kids’ food?!

BP: It smelled too delicious!  I had to have it!

AA: It doesn’t matter how delicious it smelled- it’s wrong to steal!

BP: But... I was sooo hungry!

AA: Then you should have asked for some food, not just taken it!  Now, you’re going to make these kids a new meal to replace what you stole!

Page Six:

(BP looks panicked, AA looks thoughtful, WF looks helpful.)

BP: But… but I don’t know how to cook!  That’s why I was hungry!

AA: I see- that is a problem… but one we can fix!  Wee Flipperling?

WF: Yes, Amber Avian?

AA: Can you teach Bad Pig how to cook?

WF: Anything for you, Amber Avian!  In fact, my best friend, Duck, is a really great cook!  I’m sure he’ll help, too!

(AA looks rueful, BP looks sulky, and WF looks delighted)

AA: Er, uh… great idea, friend!  What could go wrong?

Will Duck be able to keep his secret identity a secret when the heat gets turned up in the kitchen?  Tune in next time for more AMBER AVIAN ADVENTURES!

Back Cover:

Creators: (headshot of each of us)

Writer: Jenny O is a chronic story-teller

Artist: Nathan is an early-onset curmudgeon

Inker: Neeps is most certainly a pseudonym

Tribute

we are spending the weekend
gloriously unplugged
just our little family
and the sea

i took my son down to see
the lord poseidon
in his cold and glorious
foyer

the last time we visited
(on my birthday)
i anointed my blood
with a bit of the lord's
(a pagan-catholic baptism
as it were)

today my blood
holds my hands
walks unsteadily
across the shifting sands
to greet our patron
properly

laugh and shriek
as the foam swirls about his ankles
ancient and newly-born
playing together
beneath an opalescent sun

grains

Old Friends and New Traditions

Sometimes you love someone so much that time and space don't matter.  Sometimes you love someone so much that it transcends "types" of love, and all you want is for them to find their Happily Ever After, and you'd give just about anything to somehow wave a wand and make it happen.  And sometimes the Universe grants your wish in a thoroughly unexpected, but nonetheless delightful way.

(Well, the Universe and the Internet.)

All that to say, I got to see a very old, very dear friend today, whom I had not seen in over a decade.  And I saw him in the company of another, newer (but also quite dear) friend, because I am the Kevin Bacon to the movies of their lives, and sometimes life is a fairy tale, and I'm delighted to be the unwitting fairy godmother.

Fittingly, we took our reunion to a Pumpkin Patch, because where else do you kick it when you have a surplus of magic?

Some people want more legroom in their carriages, I guess.

Nathan and I had actually gone last year with Kayla, when my belly made it hard to actually see (let alone pick up) gourds.  So now we've done it two years in a row, and I'm calling it Officially Tradition now.

Speaking of tradition, I also indulged in my Annual Caramel Apple, painful joint consequences be damned.

Future Jenny O is going to HAAATE ME.

My feet gained like two pounds each, trudging through the patch.

And SOMEONE managed to lose a sock...

...AND THEN he muddied his remaining sock.  I have no idea how he managed it: he was on my back the whole time.

Fox magic, probably.

Waiting on the Gates

(I actually drafted this about two weeks ago, thumbing it out on my phone whilst pinned down by a sleeping baby.  I came across it this afternoon and remembered that I'd never gotten around to posting it.)

More than fifteen years ago, my mother put a book in my hands, and told me to read it. That book was Gates of Fire. "It's very good," she said. "About the Battle of Thermopylae."

Now, my mother is a voracious reader- perhaps even more than I am- and she often recommends books to me. She is not often wrong. And when she actually gives me the book and commands me to read it, she is never wrong.

And yet I did not read the book.

I put it on my shelf, to wait for the Right Time. I packed it into a box, moved it to my latest New Home, and replaced it on the shelf at least eight times. I never felt quite like I was in the mood to read it, although I did keep it through last year's great, "I'm gutting these large stacks of 'to be read' books because it's time to accept that I'm not ever going to read them" purge.  Perhaps that was because my husband (acquired after the book) also informed me, "Oh you'll love it," which only doubled-down on the guilt. 

I think the main problem I had getting into the right "mood" to read it was that I already knew the story of Thermopylae, which meant I knew the book wasn't going to have a happy ending. And me? I like happy endings. Almost exclusively. Some people, thinking themselves Quite Worldly, scoff at happy endings as Unrealistic. 

Well no shit.  I am intimately acquainted with real life's capacity for Unhappiness. So why the hell would I want more of it from my fiction?

But that's just me. 

Anyway, after my recent spate of uplifting Georgette Heyer and rediscovered children's classics, I went to my now-only-one and only-thigh-high stack of "To-Be-Read" books looking for something new. There, about 1/3 of the way down, was the bright red spine of Gates of Fire. 

I paused, carefully examining my Mood. Was I ready, at long last, to read this book?

Yes, yes I was. 

 

 

 

 

(They were both right, by the way.)