The Dangers of Yell-telling

It has taken a very long time, but I am officially facing the fact that I have an embarrassing chronic condition that affects my life and the people around me. 

 

I have a million stories!
And they are all equally LOUD.

I am too damn loud when I tell a story.

When I was a kid, I used to sit at the dinner table and tell what I believed were hilarious/fascinating stories from my day at school that required much gesturing and flailing around.  My father would wince and calmly say, in a deliberately low voice, “We’re right here.  Can you tone it down?”  Anyone in my Bunko group has witnessed this phenomenon repeatedly, usually when I have accidentally hit someone or spilled wine, although there are a couple other yellers, which doesn’t make me any quieter. 

Any kind of a negative reaction to my tail-wagging loud story-telling triggers my other wretched affliction about which I have regularly blogged or shared directly to your face or on the phone or in the street to a stranger.

I am hopelessly oversensitive.

The combination of the way I like to yell a story and my big fat easily hurt feelings has yielded many unfortunate circumstances.

1. Shame.  Receiving an “N” for “needs improvement” on all grade school report cards in any category relating to self control, behavior or generally keeping my yap shut. 
   
2. Getting shushed.  I have a dear friend who regularly shushes me at parties.  In small groups, if she is sitting near me, she touches my hand or my leg under the table which is code for, “You are interrupting again.  Why are you so loud?  For the love of God, shut up and let someone else talk.”  Once we were drinking wine on my friend Lauri’s deck and I was telling an admittedly inappropriate story.  I was enjoying the crap out of telling the story and hollering the funnier parts.
   
   "SHHHHHH!!!!” my friend hissed at me from across the table, “The whole neighborhood does NOT need to hear about that.”  The funny thing was, I’d mentioned to Lauri about 15 minutes before the shushing that our friend always shushes me.  I glared at Lauri and mentally texted her, “SEE??!!” Lauri made a sympathetic face that did not disguise the fact that she enjoyed the entire exchange.  I sulked like a big baby for the rest of the evening and eventually had to go into the kitchen to cry because I probably had too much wine.  Another friend followed me into the kitchen to witness my humiliation.  The memory of this whole episode gives me a stomachache.  Wine clearly exacerbates both of my conditions.
   
3. Panic. I’ve seen certain family members’ faces begin to change when trapped by my stories at a party, eyes darting around for an escape.
   
4. Official complaints. Joe and I recently went out with two other couples for a birthday dinner at a fabulous restaurant called Ad-lib Geocafe. Guess what? I was yelling a story again. In my defense, I have no sense of anyone around me when I am yell-telling a story. We were all having a grand old time and unfortunately, the shusher was not there to assist. “Excuse me,” interrupted a grumpy fellow patron, “but my husband and I are trying to have a romantic evening. Could you keep it down?” Yikes. We giggled our apologies and she returned to her seat, TWO tables away, BEHIND me. My voice wasn’t even aimed in her direction. We all agreed that they should have stayed home if silence was key to their romance, but we all knew I’d gotten an N for self control again. How ladylike.
   
5. Dismissal. A manager of Giordano’s in Rosemont asked my college roommates and me to leave because they were “closing” even though other patrons hadn’t received their food yet.
   
6. Dirty looks. Just the other day, Vicki and I were in Kenosha celebrating our friend Kim’s birthday at the Tilted Kilt. I thought the Tilted Kilt would be entertaining, but I found it disturbing. All that waitress cleavage and bare belly walking and/or jiggling around was sort of creepy and out of place with our club sandwiches and mom selves. Vicki and Kim and I have been friends for more than 30 years and needless to say, I’m never on my best behavior with them. Proceed with the yell-telling! I am often made aware of my volume when someone at another table makes direct eye contact with me. The person looks pointedly at me while experiencing some combination of amusement and/or disgust. This is embarrassing and alerts me to my loudness. “Ugh!” I said to Vicki and Kim in a much lower voice, “I’m getting the stink eye! Switch seats with me.” We switched so there were only backs facing me. I revved back into my story and within a few seconds, someone TURNED COMPLETELY AROUND to see what in the hell was causing such a ruckus. DAMN IT! I switched seats again so that I was facing the back, empty corner of the restaurant.
   
   I whined about being a constant freak in public while telling stories and my best friends covered me with their warm friendship acceptance blankets. They told me that they loved my stories and didn’t care what anyone else thought. Although Vicki did remind me that I got shushed at her gigantic spin class, even though the fans, bikes and instructor should have been loud enough to drown me out. Reassured by my wonderful friends, I proceeded to imitate the way that I meow at my dog and the crazy way he reacts. Kim sighed and said, “Well, maybe I can see why people are giving you looks. You’re making some REALLY weird faces.” Suddenly I could see myself from the outside in and imagined my reaction if I saw some grown woman contorting her face and loudly meowing at a restaurant. We all threw our heads back and laughed, LOUD.

Oh well.  Go ahead and stare, glare or shush.  Hurt feelings be damned, you know I’m yelling the next story anyway. 

 

Wendy Zumpano

www.pencilportraitcards.com
 

www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

 

The Truth about Stephen and Henry

I haven’t written a blog post in forever because I’ve been crazy busy and there hasn’t been anything juicy to complain about.  Maybe I’ve turned a corner?  Instead, I’m inspired to write about some very special boys named Henry.

When my sister in law, Karen, was pregnant with her first baby, I was over the moon.  I freaking love babies.  We had a baby shower at my house, and in an effort to one-up myself, I also offered to take care of the new baby when Karen returned to work.  I’d been fired from my corporate job, I was home drawing full time and my mother was with me almost every day.  I would be great at it!  I am the Cesar Millan of soothing crabby babies at parties.  I happily ignored the alarm on my mother’s face when I announced that we were now a pencil portrait/daycare biz. 

 

I am not a morning person, but I was excited to hold baby Henry in my arms at 6:30 am when my brother in law, Alan, dropped him off for the first time.  At the end of the day, I made dinner while snuggling my nephew at the same time like an old pro.  When I handed him back, I put dinner on the table and excused myself to go upstairs so I could dramatically throw myself on my bed and sob uncontrollably for five solid minutes.  Over the following weeks I heard the same thing from all my friends… “What in the hell were you thinking?”



My sainted mother holding Henry
while I am weeping somewhere.

I had completely forgotten how hard new babies are.  God bless you if you’ve got one, it’s a nonstop job.  I had a business to run, a messy house to sort of clean, my own kids who needed me.  I had bitten off way more than I could chew.  My mother was a godsend, helping with Henry like he was her own.  I made it a month before Karen looked at me with concern and asked, “How are you?”  I burst into tears when I admitted I couldn’t handle it.  Karen cried with me as we agreed that babies were harder than either of us expected.  I had wanted to show Karen and Alan how much I loved them, to forge a close family bond that I crave so much.  Instead I disrupted things and stressed them out.  They were hesitant at first about my recommendation of our amazing sitter, Raquel, who cared for my boys when I worked out of the home.  I breathed a huge sigh of relief when they fell in love with her, too. 

Babies are hard work, but toddlers can be even more demanding.  And when Henry didn’t reach expected milestones, his attentive, intelligent parents worried and researched and faced the diagnosis they had feared.  Henry is autistic.  Their immediate and constant call to arms for every possible resource and piece of information to help their son has been nothing short of stellar.  No matter how often I tell them how impressed I am, how lucky Henry is, there’s always doubt in their voices.  Is it enough?  Will he go to public school?  Will he be okay?

There is no more room in here.

As if there wasn’t enough on their plates, my highly educated, overworked in-laws unexpectedly added another baby boy to the family almost exactly a year later.  Surprise!!!  Here you go again. Now at 5 and 4 years old, Henry and Mitchell are adorable together and I bet it has helped Henry immensely to have a ready friend, even if Mitchell is usually running the show.

When I was recently asked by a wonderful repeat client to draw a portrait for her son’s high school graduation, she attached a story to the email she sent with his photo, called “The Truth about Stephen Henry.”  As I settled in to read about my new subject, I discovered that Stephen had more in common with my nephew than a name.

Stephen’s mother Maureen chalked up some of his unusual baby behavior to quirkiness.  But other worries she shared with their pediatrician, hoping for guidance.  “Stephen doesn’t want me to rock him to sleep.  He’d rather lie on the floor and rock himself.  He cries uncontrollably when he hears sounds, or when he has to wear certain clothing.  And the babble talk he had before age 2 has disappeared.”  The doctor listened to Stephen's chest and checked his ears and pronounced him healthy.  He told Maureen, “So, he’s independent, so what?  Nothing wrong with that. He doesn’t like to wear clothes?  I don’t like to wear a tie.  Stop comparing him to other children, he’ll catch up.”

But Maureen knew something was wrong.  At a preschool parent-teacher conference, she sat in a preschool chair with her husband, rocked by a wave of denial and relief when they heard the word “autism”.  Relief that someone had taken Stephen’s struggles seriously.  Denial that it had to be something else.  Evaluation after evaluation, they heard the same curse, the same condemnation. 

So they went to work.

They made three decisions early on; to learn as much as they could, to never remain silent, and to lean on other parents of autistic children in support groups.  They read every book, searched every internet site, attended every conference.  They told everyone, “Stephen Henry has autism.  We’re not sure what that means exactly, but we know it is serious and we are telling you now because we know we will need your understanding and support.”  Not a single person ever turned them down, or turned away.  Not family, friends, bosses, or co-workers who helped pick up the slack so they could take Stephen to his twice weekly therapy sessions.

They learned that autism is a developmental disability which inhibits social behavior and affects a child’s language and ability to learn.  There is no known cause and there is no cure.  The rise of autism in California by 200% in the last five years has been described as “alarming”, “explosive” and “epidemic”.  It seems everyone is touched by autism, by children we love and who are loved by people we know.

Maureen and her family stayed positive and refused to be discouraged. Wonderful teachers fought for Stephen every step of the way, while others shook their heads in doubt.  As I read Maureen’s story, I felt triumphant that Stephen is graduating from public high school next month.  I drew his graduation portrait with pride, honored to help celebrate his success. 

 

I shared Stephen Henry’s story with Karen and Alan, thinking it was so inspirational that they’d be wowed by my awesomeness (which is my admittedly ridiculous hope about every move I make).  Recently, I asked Alan at lunch if I could write about his Henry in my blog about Stephen Henry.  He said it was fine and that people without an autistic child find stories like theirs inspirational. 

 

“For me,” Alan said quietly, “it’s a glimpse of the very hard road that we have ahead of us.” 

I want to believe it will get easier and easier for Karen and Alan and Henry; he’s made such terrific progress.  Mitchell is more of a handful these days than his easy-going, sweet, big brother.  They work so hard to do all the right things and to give their boys everything they need to thrive.  It’s the not knowing what’s coming next that is the hardest. Life with young kids is an alternating climb through grueling and wonderful terrain in the easiest circumstances.  They post smiling pictures of their happy boys and links to stories about autism that are both hopeful and heart-wrenching, listing feelings of parents with special needs children.  Fear, loneliness, inadequacy.

I am tempted to try and pretend that Max was enough of a stinker as a little kid that I have some idea of what it might be like to face a real parenting challenge.  Those who saw a three year old Max in action might even agree.  But it’s almost embarrassing to have had it so easy when others have such a different, frightening road.  It's not fair.

I hope Karen and Alan and Henry and Mitchell know that we are always here for them, even if I don’t reach out as often as I should.  And while the hard road Stephen Henry travelled may be daunting, I know our Henry will achieve amazing things, too, because he has wonderful parents and professionals fighting for him. 

He’s off to kindergarten this year, if Mitchell can bear to let him go.



www.pencilportraitcards.com
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Dinner with Skip

On Saturday night, Joe and I joined my parents and my dad's best buddy Skip for dinner.  We got stuck at a table under a speaker in the bar section of the restaurant and the entire evening went like this:

Waitress:  Would you like a side dish with your ribs?
My Dad:  What?
Me:  SHE WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU WANT A SIDE.
My Dad:  A what?
My Mom: (blocks my dad's menu as she reaches across him to rearrange their water glasses, maybe to avoid spillage, maybe to stake out more personal water territory.)
My Dad: (trying to see around my mom's arm) Scalloped potatoes.
Waitress:  What?

My dad has come a long way.  He was a very intense person for most of his life and rather terrifying to a frizzy-haired chubby girl with purple glasses and a full-time outside voice at the dinner table.  I worked for him and with him for many years and after so many years of being in tense situations with him, it's a joy to see him throw back his head and laugh, hard, with his good friend. 

Hey, let's hang out here
for six hours! 

As I may have already bragged to you, my dad designed the moving walkway, like the one at O'Hare.  My son Max chose to do his science fair project on the moving walkway as a tribute to his Papa.  I enthusiastically supported this choice until I realized an experiment involving a walkway would require an actual walkway.  Three round trips to the Milwaukee airport later, I was thinking maybe he could have watered plants with 7-Up and coffee for the science fair like his brilliant father, Big Joe.  Or my choice of testing the flame resistance of pajamas by lighting them on fire.  But I digress...

My dad has invented all sorts of stuff and he knows how everything works.  His friend Skip has known him for about 30 years, and as the owner of an auto service business, he's no slouch in the smarts dept either.

Skip is a great big man with a bigger laugh and personality to match.  I started working for my father when I was 14 and it seemed like Skip was around from the beginning.  He was close friends with my dad’s former boss, who owned the machine shop where my dad first started his business.

“Your dad came striding into the coffee room one day with a briefcase in one hand and a cigar in the other,” Skip once told me conspiratorially.  “Your dad told me he needed some help with that old Toyota Corolla he had.  He started telling me about the alignment being off and went into a long technical diatribe about his assessment of what was going on based on the angles of oversteering or understeering.”

My father is a technical person and when it comes to fixing things, he’s the king.  He kept my mother’s clothes dryer running for over 30 years, replacing every single part, which eventually required some serious appliance store detective work. “If you don’t want to know how a clock works,” I overheard someone once say, ”don’t ask him what time it is.”  I knew exactly what Skip was talking about.

“Your dad may have understood the physics behind it all, but he had no goddamn business telling me how to fix cars.” Skip barked with assurance.  “I told him, ‘Dan, just give me the keys to that shitbox and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it.’  Now at the time, I didn’t know him that well.

“Your dad…  was…pissed.”

No.  Really?  My dad?

Skip laughed.  “Your dad stood real still and stared at me.  He hollered that his car may be a shitbox but he needed it fixed, and he slammed out of there.  I couldn’t believe he’d yelled at me like that and I just sat there for a minute, stunned.  I stewed about it for a bit and got more and more ticked off.  I took off running for his office and I slammed his door behind me just as hard as he’d slammed the other one. Your dad was on the phone and glared at me while he ended his call.

“I said to him, ‘Hey, look, asshole, I don’t care if you drive a Toyota or a Mercedes or a Rolls Royce, they’re all shitboxes to me!  They all have engines, they all have brakes, I don’t care if they have tits, I still have to figure out what’s wrong.  Just give me the goddamn keys to that shitbox and I’ll fix it!”

My dad looked at Skip in surprise, leaned back and roared with laughter.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” he told Skip, wiping his eyes and handing him the keys.  When my dad's brilliant mind hadn't realized the problem was a flat tire, a beautiful, twisted, Scotch-infused friendship was born.

We had a fleet of limping cars, thanks to putting two kids through college while my dad was struggling to keep his computer consulting business afloat in the choppy waters of nonstop changing technology.  My dad developed software to help run Skip's business and their friendship grew. During all the years I worked for my dad, Skip treated me like family.  He always called me “sweetie” and told me jokes that were consistently foul and occasionally hilarious.  I felt a special connection to him.

When Skip heard that I had been fired from my corporate job, he wanted to help because he’s a fixer, like my dad. He called me out of the blue, asking me exactly what had happened so that he could use some connections to fight for the job I was supposed to get.  I was touched.  By that time, I was committed to trying to build my pencil portrait art career and I’d probably dodged a bullet by not starting a demanding, technical career.  I was coming to terms with how severely my ADD compromises my ability to make it out of the house with keys and clothes on.

So Skip ordered a portrait instead.

He told me all about his long distance relationship with the love of his life.  He'd had a rough road, unlucky in love, with nonstop challenges around every turn.  When he and Teresa reconnected through email, after knowing each other for years, life felt complete.  With demanding careers, they traveled together and Skip visited Teresa in Arkansas whenever he could, eventually buying a beautiful house together.

During one trip, Skip was driving back to Teresa after visiting his son. On a dark, overcast night, he came upon a dump truck, parked in the middle of a little country road. "The guy’s story was that he’d stopped to talk to someone," Skip explained, "but I believe he’d gotten out to take a pee. The truck's tail lights were so dirty that you could only see a faint glow.  When I came over the rise, I couldn’t see a thing until I was right on top of it.  I swerved to the left to try and get around it and didn’t make it.”

Skip hit the back of the dump truck going about 50 mph driving Teresa’s little Honda Accord.  Being a big guy at 6’4, Skip’s knee was only about an inch from the dashboard and the impact forced his femur out the back of his pelvis, smashing his sciatic nerve.

“I had to stay in Arkansas,” Skip told me, “I was going to be bedridden for months.  I couldn’t walk at all.  Teresa saw me through it all, the hospitalization, the surgery, taking me to physical therapy three times a week for the better part of a year.  She cared for me constantly, bathing me, making sure I took medication.  One time I developed blood clots and she rushed me to the hospital.  She was my nurse and my salvation.”

Skip suffers from permanent nerve damage, causing numbness and cramping.  “I can’t feel my foot touch the gas pedal,” he says. “You know that tingling feeling you get when your foot falls asleep?  It feels like that all the time, like pins and needles.  It gets to the point where I can’t stand it.  I can’t walk more than half a mile.”

Still, Skip is stunned by his good fortune, that he’s alive, that he has this amazing woman by his side. Since he couldn't help me with my corporate job, he ordered a portrait celebrating their first ten years together, a collage of their favorite places they've visited.  He wanted a special gift to show Teresa how much she meant to him.

It was the largest, most detailed portrait I'd drawn back then, and I was so grateful for the work - especially for somebody I loved.  When I delivered the finished portrait to him, Skip gave me such a warm, wonderful, fatherly hug.  He told me that I was talented, that he was proud of me.  He'd wanted to help me, but I was so glad I made him happy too.  They hung it in their office, over their computers... a sweet reminder of how they fell in love through emails. 

It looks like I forgot to sign it, though.   

Solving the world's problems one beverage at a time.

Over dinner, my dad showed Skip his photo retirement book I'd put together with messages from colleagues, clients, family and a few friends.  Workaholics don't have a lot of time for friends.  Skip has a two page spread in the book with great photo of them in Arkansas and a long funny story about my dad fixing a problem.  He and Skip happily share war stories about their businesses, the state of the country and the times they've injured themselves.  At one point, my dad was joking about the time he ripped his entire rotator cuff off his shoulder while stubbornly trying to start a power washer.  He said it was tricky getting used to using his left hand for bathroom hygiene, if you know what I mean.  

Skip, not missing a  beat, said "I'm surprised you didn't invent a machine for that.  Like maybe a corncob and a drill?"  It took us all a solid minute or so to stop laughing, wiping our eyes and sighing with appreciation.  Joe had never met Skip before and he got a huge kick out of seeing them swap puns and stories and hugs and laughter.  Everyone deserves to really be known by a good friend and I'm so deeply grateful that my dad has Skip in his life.

 

Wendy Zumpano
www.pencilportraitcards.com
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

I'd rather be procrasti-snuggling

Look away!  I'm so ashamed.

I considered making a list of resolutions as my first blog topic of 2013, but I've procrastinated too long.  Plus I would forget about them and make myself feel bad when I blow them all off later.  One resolution would unfortunately be, once again, to control my Facebook game playing.  I stayed away for quite awhile with impressive and uncharacteristic restraint.  But over break I allowed myself some wine, Cheez-its and Bejeweled. And by some I mean a lot.  Honestly, that combination is my own patented brand of crack.  If my husband Joe didn't announce it was time for bed, I would burn through an alarming amount of Cheez-its.


Which of course leads us to diet and exercise and self control and all those other annoying resolution-type spankings that I will spare myself.


My son Max has enthusiastically inherited my love of procrastination.  For the most part, he does his homework right after school like I've Nazi-drilled into his blond head in high-stepping upstairs fashion.  He always comes in my room to say hello before he gets started and we lay on my bed and talk about his day.  That boy is the best snuggler ever, and he knows it.  Snuggling is my kryptonite.  Plus, that kid can stretch out a story.  Eventually I call him on his stalling tactics.  He calls it procrasti-snuggling. 


Speaking of stalling, it's time to apply to art shows.  Mostly, my job as a pencil portrait artist is a lovely trifecta of comfy pants, working on the computer and drawing someone's special something while watching trash TV.  It is a delicious life and I'm grateful for it.  Because most of my days are very much the same comfortable routine, when I have to do something different and slightly more challenging, I am outraged.  I stomp around and dramatically announce how much I do NOT want to do whatever it is while Joe tries to ignore me.  Such as:

1. Prepare for a show and count inventory of prints, mats and frames.  I wouldn't have to do this if I were more organized.  But I'm not.
2. Pack up all my crap for a show and go set it up somewhere while sweating/freezing/worrying whether it will be worth said time/sweat/shivers.
3. Pay my sales taxes or do anything money related.
4. Make adjustments to a finished portrait when my client gives me helpful feedback like "Why is my dad so fat in this drawing?  I mean, I know he's fat, but could you make him less fat?  On second thought, here's a different photo of him."  Grrrr.
5. Apply to art shows.

When I first got canned from my corporate job, and decided to give my drawing hobby a full-time go, I started out doing little craft shows near my home in the far north Chicago suburbs.  Little by little I improved my display and applied to fancier shows.  I've dipped my toe into fine art fairs for the last few years.  I still feel like I don't know what the hell I'm doing. 


Some of my fellow fine art exhibitors have displays that looks like freaking galleries.  Carpets on the floor, beautiful polished wooden display racks, walls like a museum.  I'm rocking some white mesh walls that cost me $750 five or more years ago.  They are getting dirty and dingy.  I used to have my portraits in plastic, dinged up frames.  Now I use frames with real glass in them, even if some of them are still rather dinged up.  If I want to run with the fine art crowd, I really need to step up my game.


Fine art shows require photos of your work and a photo of your set up so a jury of artists can decide whether you're up to snuff.  I've drawn a lot of stuff so I have to figure out which portraits to submit.  Most of my portraits are of other people's stuff so do I submit portraits of adorable kids or of my Chicago scenes that are more marketable?  What are these jury people going to like better?  I DON'T KNOW. 


I keep forgetting to take photos of my booth when I'm actually working, so all my booth photos have been taken in my driveway or yard on consistently overcast days, accompanied by my very best bitching and whining while setting it all up.  Fortunately I have some beginner's Photoshop skills, so I can play around with the photo and try to improve it.  Here's this year's driveway photo:

If only I could Photoshop the scuffs off the walls in my house.

I am worried about this photo.  I have no fancy carpeting.  The frames are different types/sizes.  Does that matter???   Oh worra worra.

Now I need to review the spreadsheet of art shows that I look at every year.  Good shows are getting more and more expensive... up to $600, plus an application fee, just to show up.  If it pours rain or nobody shows up or a twister comes and mangles all my stuff, too bad for me, it's still $600+.  I used to sign up for shows willy-nilly and as the booth fees came due, Joe would have a mild conniption.


Whenever Joe would question the art show fees racking up on my business credit card (a new one at 0% every 18 months or so), I would get all defensive and freaked out, proclaiming my need for some sort of marketing.  How are people going to hire me to draw their cats and/or chubby family members if they can't find me anywhere?


The key to managing Joe's stress level is preparation and communication.  We sit down together now and review my choices and he sometimes suggests a more aggressive schedule than I'd choose on my own.  He's helped me at some of the busier shows and he knows that they're more expensive for a reason.  But damn, it's hard to know which shows are the right ones to choose.


That time is now.  Like right now while I'm procrasti-blogging.  Most of the fine art shows I've done have been Amdur Productions shows and the deadline is midnight TONIGHT.  Way to stall!  Max would be proud. Joe is working from home today, but he has meetings nonstop.  We'll figure it out, we always do.  I'll panic about the money and he will be level-headed and encouraging and help me choose some portrait images.  I'll worry that I won't be accepted... I'll cringe about the money.  I'll feel panicked about my booth photo. I'll announce that I need a corporate job again with a regular paycheck.


Becoming a professional full time artist has been a step at a time.  Applying to shows, paying thousands of dollars in booth fees, schlepping my Durango full of art stuff out into the elements... it's all the stuff I hate doing because I'm lazy. But, the unpleasant work is what makes the stories happen. All the sweet stories behind the portraits that make it all worthwhile.  Portraits of families, precious young faces, weathered beloved ones, bright eyes peeking out of fur.  Homes full of memories, moments in time when it's all going by so fast.


People are so full of love and they want to show it in amazing ways and I get to be a part of it.  That's worth putting on pants with an actual zipper and getting some work done.


But maybe a little procrasti-snuggling with Max first.

Wendy Zumpano
www.pencilportraitcards.com
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

A stinky Christmas Carol

The other day we watched the second of four of our couches get clawed, lifted and crunched by the garbage truck.  I’m glad to see them go, although they’ve each seen some very interesting and varied action.  I am not very pleased about why they went.  

As my holiday gift to you, I’d like to share a very important rule for pet owners of which we were sadly unaware.

 




Pepe le Bastard

If your dog gets sprayed by a skunk… do not immediately let him into your house so that he can sprint around, crop dusting your home and belongings with foulness.

 

A couple weeks ago, our dog Bullock trotted out into our backyard for a quick pee and sniff, only to immediately get sprayed in the ear by a skunk.  I doubt there was time for peeing, but there was much manic yipe-ing and dog hysteria, causing my husband Joe to open the door to investigate.  This is a completely reasonable reaction.  It was possibly much less reasonable to refrain from slamming the door in horror at the wall of stink that rushed in like a funky apocalypse. 

 

 

The dogs are accustomed to rocketing up the deck stairs and into the house as if they are in the race of their lives and perhaps they scampered in before Joe even realized what was happening. 

 

I’ve later read and heard that it is a good idea to wash your dog with a much posted and celebrated anti-skunk concoction OUTSIDE.  Maybe multiple times.  Instead, Joe and I washed Bully in our master bath.  More than a week later, my son Joey referred to our bathroom as “ground zero.” 

 



Please kill me.

I sort of don’t mind an outside skunk smell as you’re driving along.  It gets your attention, everyone agreeably identifies the weird, strangely sweet stank as skunk, maybe a “phew” or two is uttered and it’s a nice little bonding experience.  When a skunk sprays someone or something that lives in your house, it’s a whole other deal.  That kind of skunk smell is airborne HELL.  It smells like diseased werewolf scrotum.   

 

Apparently, one of Bullock’s first miserable resting spots, before semi-permanently polluting our bathroom, was on our leather family room couch. 

 

For the next week or so, we sprayed fresh sprays and cleaned and deodorized as best we could, but that couch sucked up the skunkness like you know who with wine and cheezits.  Our favorite spot on the couch is right next to the end table, near Joe’s recliner.  Each time one of us sat in that beloved polecat position, a whuff of gutrot would come shooting up out of the couch and we’d leap gagging back up like we’d been goosed.  Except Max who really was not all that bothered by it.  Poor Joey woke up the morning after the skunking armageddon with a broken nose.  It was all so smelly you didn’t really realize where it was coming from.  He sat in the skunky couch spot watching TV and I drove him to school, not even realizing that he’d been marinating in it.  As his classmates began to freak out around him in the hall, poor Joey immediately changed into gym clothes and suffered through a whole day of questions.  He has post traumatic stink disorder.  What kind of mother am I to send a smelly gigantic child to school?  Yet another bullet point for his future therapist to assess and hold against me.

 

On second thought, Joey kind of deserves it.  When Joe came upstairs with his surprise stinkbomb, Joey and I were watching TV together while I was drawing.  Instead of offering assistance, Joey fled like a little girl and hid in his room for the rest of the night while Joe and I began the Stinkapalooza ’12 battle of our lives.

 

I have a bit of an overactive nose.  Our other dog, Duncan, rides the doggy short bus and is basically a special needs dog.  If nobody is around to notice that he needs to go outside, he cheerfully pees in a corner.  One of his favorite places to pee is on our computer desk where I used to spend a shameful amount of time with Facebook games, wine and my snack of choice.  I would constantly complain that I smelled pee until Joe bought a fancy carpet cleaner.  I still smell pee.  Plus Duncan sometimes poops under the dining room table.  I once had a semi-celebrity client pick up a pencil portrait while I was buying power carpet pet de-smeller stuff.  She beat me home and Joe claimed that she made a lot of disgusted sniffing/coughing noises while waiting for me.  These are the things I relive over and over, mentally writhing in nonstop shame shudders.  I have been regularly paranoid about Duncan pee and/or poop smells.  But this…

 

The Bully skunk smells were far more worth complaint.  And God knows, I can complain. I announced every ten minutes that I still smelled skunk until Joe fantasized about beating me with a shovel.  After accidentally sitting in the skunk spot for the 20^th time, Joe had heard enough complaining and I’d endured enough skunk.  It was time to buy a new couch.  Considering the stinky leather couch had a broken arm (thanks to two rough boys) and a million little scratches and rips (thanks to two scrabbling dogs), I was glad to see it go.  We’d been meaning to buy a couch for our basement anyway, so Joe and I headed out to a local cheap furniture store for the next pieces of furniture in a long line of upholstery to be ruined by the Zumpano family asses.

 

We chose two sectionals.  The love seat in our family room which had escaped the worst of the skunk wrath, would replace the scratched up couch in the front of the house where I greet my pencil portrait clients.  Our downstairs couches, lovingly given to us by Vicki when she moved and promptly destroyed by our inevitable destruction (we’re rough on things), the broken smelly couch and the scratched up business couch all went into a holding cell in the garage and out to the curb one at a time.  We had a good time joking about what would happen if some hapless curbside shopper picked up “Ol Skunky”.  How soon before it would return to the curb, perhaps with an angry note attached?   Not to be.  The garbage man (wearing industrial gloves, thank goodness) dragged Ol Skunky away from the curb and the claw arm flung it into the hopper where it released one last stinky poof of a death rattle as it was crunched up. 

 

 

“Rot in hell, Ol Skunky!  I hate you!” I yelled in triumph.

 

The front room couch, which is a burgundy leather, is a perfect couch except for its “distressed” treatment by eight long-nailed little feet leaping on and off of it for years.  You might want to check our curb if you’re interested.

 

 

We waited for our new couches like it was Christmas morning, only to have the family room sectional show up too big for the room and with two right armed ends and the basement sectional unable to fit down the stairs.  A beautiful Christmas miracle moment all hosed up in Zumpano style.  We are currently waiting for the replacements.  You can come over for the holidays without any fear of remaining skunkiness.  I hope.

 

Merry Christmas!  Hope you have a stink-free new year.


(P.S. I know I said that the last post had to be my last of 2012 because of my crazing drawing schedule, but you deserved a little extra Pencil Envy love.)


Wendy Zumpano
www.pencilportraitcards.com
 

Christmas Card Wars

Before I worked for the small company that fired me, I had a brief stint working for a big company.  Once while lunching in the employee cafeteria, back when my pencil portraits were a hobby and not my full time gig, I tried to convince my coworker Laurie to let me draw her twins.  And by twins, I mean her children, not her boobs, as my husband would automatically suggest. (In a house full of men, you have to roll with the "that's what he said" punches.) Laurie was politely interested, which meant she was in no way going home to dig through photos, bring them back to work and cough up cash.  But she made some maybe noises and it’s hard for me to back off when I’m getting a buying sign.  In my frenzy to force her into envisioning a gorgeous portrait of her twin boys, I blurted out, “I could even scan the portrait and print it on Christmas cards!”


“OH.  MY.  GOD,” breathed my friend, “That would be… spectacular.”


And she meant it.  Women can be a bit competitive about Christmas cards. It’s our time to show off our families and act like life is GREAT, even if it is messy or borderline disastrous.  If you’re like me, you even go that extra annoying step and include a newsy letter touting whatever good stuff you’ve got going on, most of which is not newsworthy by anyone else’s standards (let's leave my Facebook game playing OUT of it, though).  Sorry, that’s how we roll.


Laurie never bothered to order a portrait, but an idea was born.  I have printed several kabillion Christmas cards (one client ordered 370 – who knows that many people?), birth announcements, invitations, address changes, any piece of mail that can be enhanced with a photo can have a magnificent pencil portrait slapped on it.  And here's where I'm gleefully rubbing my hands together and giggling... my website address is on the back of every card.  Ta dahhh!!!  The recipient often knows the subject of the portrait, so it is a particularly good way to sell my accuracy.  What better marketing is that?  Plus a portrait becomes much more lucrative when I am selling multiple copies of it.  I once had an order from Denmark when someone received a portrait Christmas card from a client.  Me likey! 

I’ve sent portrait Christmas cards almost every year featuring my boys.  Sometimes I’ll see my cards stuck to refrigerators more than a year later or even displayed in a picture frame.  They seem to have a longer shelf life than cards with glittery sleigh scenes or Rudolph drunk on eggnog or the Shutterfly photo cards that everyone is doing now. 
One client, who had sent out about 200 Christmas cards, called me shortly after she’d sent them out to report that she’d received 52 messages on her answering machine about the cards.  That's awesome, but where are those people and why aren’t they calling me?  That client actually contacted me herself because she’d received a Christmas card.  It’s like Partylite or Southern Living! 


When I first started sending my own portrait Christmas cards, I had a full time job and drew my kids for fun or maybe for my mother as a gift.  After almost eight years of marketing full time, I don’t always make the time to draw them.  Like this year... I had a plan to draw the boys as a gift but it didn't happen so if you're on my card list, now you're just going to have to be satisfied with something else.


A long time ago, I attempted to write and illustrate a children’s book.  I used my kids as models for a few illustrations, but pooped out on the project when I decided that the story wasn’t good enough.  I am a big fantasizer and talker, but not always the queen of follow through, as you know.


The illustrations were lying around accusingly and I decided to use them for that year’s Christmas card:

In my story, a little brother hated being left behind by his big brother and the big brother hated being held back by his little brother.  It wasn’t Pulitzer material, but I thought it might be something that both siblings and parents would relate to and enjoy.  Max was really crying hard about something and in one of my less than proud parenting moments, I snapped a photo of him to use for this drawing.  Joey was probably legitimately pissed off and pouting about something else.  I added some drawings of them jumping on the bed to the inside of the card. 

I have a booming-voiced neighbor who is rather outspoken and, frankly, can be terrifying at times.   Shortly after I’d sent this card, she stopped by my house while walking her dog and said, “I got your Christmas card.  The front of it was creepy.” 


Nice.


Considering I hadn’t intentionally drawn the pictures for a card in the first place, I hadn’t spent a ton of time analyzing it, I just thought it was funny.  I was so flustered that she’d called my kid and my artwork, or both, “creepy,” I didn’t even know what to say.  She seemed to realize that perhaps it wasn’t the friendliest, most neighborly thing she could have said and began an awkward attempt to un-say it, which made it worse for both of us.   I will never look at that card again without hearing the creepy comment in my head, and sort of agreeing with it.


Two years into my full-time artist extravaganza, I had absolutely no time for drawing my kids for a card.  I need to draw them in the summer, when my workload is slower, but I am sometimes too busy drinking margaritas and buying flip-flops. So I had the cutesy idea to have my boys and my husband Joe draw our Christmas card.  That way it would still be a portrait card, sort of. 


I asked Joey and Max to draw each one of us, on a separate piece of paper, so I could pick drawings from each of them to scan and digitally combine.  I tasked Joe with drawing Bullock, our rat terrier/miniature pinscher mix, who we adopted from a shelter.  Before we had kids, Joe and I bought an enormous Alaskan Malamute from a breeder.  Niro was sweet and stupid and produced messes similar to having a retarded adult man crapping in the back yard.  I wasn’t interested in having more pets after Niro met his maker.  It was terribly sad when he died and really… nobody in a democratic country should have to clean up that kind of natural disaster for long if they have bigger dreams.


But a little dog… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad?  As soon as I gave my husband the slightest inkling that I was weakening, he went into a frenzy, deciding on the name (not after Sandra, after Seth Bullock from the HBO show Deadwood) and frantically researching shelters.  In his defense, I can change my mind quickly and he had to move.


Bullock turned all four of us into baby-talking fools.  We adore him.  I asked Joe to draw Bullock because the kids tend to draw dogs that look like toilet paper rolls on sticks.  My Joe puts up with many annoying requests from me and he obediently took to the task.  Joe sticks his tongue out like Michael Jordan when he is concentrating and spent a good 15 minutes with his tongue poking, painstakingly drawing his portrait of Bullock. 


I set myself up.  I am a perfectionist and I’d wanted Bullock to be drawn standing up so I could pose him with the kids’ other drawings of us, which I didn’t communicate to Joe.   He drew a close up instead, which looks like a deranged cat with a penis for a nose. 

Bullock looks nothing like this.

I laughed out loud when Joe proudly unveiled it to me and I hurt his feelings.  He snatched it back from me and looked at it incredulously, announcing, “This is the best thing I have ever drawn.”  He got in a bit of a huff and stomped off, accusing me of not recognizing good art when I see it.
I hurriedly drew Bullock for the card, the way I’d wanted him to look and Joe was outraged that I’d rejected his fine artistic contribution. 

“I can’t believe you aren’t going to use my awesome drawing,” he sulked.


Finally, I put the penis cat on the inside of the card next to the greeting, “Hope your Christmas is picture perfect.”  Joe was somewhat appeased, but still pissed.  

Happy holidays!

 

Wendy Zumpano

www.pencilportraitcards.com

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"Meep-moop" means I love you

Blogging about my client’s sister last entry got me thinking about family.  There are different kinds of family and sometimes friends can be the family you choose for yourself.





My first memory of Vicki is from junior high, before it was called middle school.  To me, “junior high” sounds cooler than middle school, which sounds like middle aged kids having middle aged kid crises.  Vicki and I toppled into puberty around the same time.  Some of the pushy, strangely confident girls in our gym class made us stand back to back in the locker room so they could compare our boobs.  I was horrified.  Vicki thought it was funny.  And so began the dearest friendship of my life with my sister friend, my confidante, my person.  Her boobs were bigger than mine then, and they still are.  She continues to take everything in stride, while I still seize up with worry. 
 


I don’t remember when our friendship eased away from being fellow uneasy in-betweeners on the periphery of more popular girls and into full fledged best friendship.  Looking back, I don’t think that either of us felt entirely accepted, although we both treaded social water with the feathered alpha dogs as best we could.  We threw each other a neon 1980’s life preserver and clung to each other during good times and bad for the next thirty plus years. 


The 80’s were an awesome and yet dangerous time to become teenagers.  Our parents weren’t all that concerned about what we were doing or where we were, as long as we didn’t get caught.  There were no cell phones to check in, no internet to point out the hazards.  I rode my bike seven hot summer miles down a busy highway to Vicki's house. I’d flop, exhausted and sweating, on her couch where her spazzy dog would jump up and pee on me.  I'd borrow a clean shirt, and we'd walk to Taco Bell, where we would pollute ourselves silly.


Remembering some of our teen shenanigans makes me shudder and consider installing LoJacks on both of my children.  We wandered and experimented and made stunningly risky choices, usually followed by long, tears-streaming, belly laughs.  I think we only saw Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight once, but we successfully used it as a late night excuse for all sorts of other secrets.

 
My only real date to a high school dance was thanks to one of many visits to Columbia, Missouri, where Vicki spent summers with her dad.  We’d cruise up and down “the loop”, gaping out car windows at cute boys, pretending not to be interested when they shouted suggestive come-ons at us.  We were 17 years old and lucky not to be dragged into an empty lot somewhere.  We met a slew of boys and it was all sort of innocent, but sort of not.  My Missouri souvenir boyfriend had a southern accent, a full beard and I dated him through prom until college, when I promptly dumped him.



Vicki visited me at U of I while she was taking her twisty, winding path through growing up.  Her father was in the Navy and she moved constantly as a child; a habit she's kept.  As we became young adults, Vicki was so utterly gorgeous that it was sometimes annoying to be her friend.  We’d be out at bars and guys would smile at me sheepishly after Vicki shot them down.  “Okay.  Well… how about you, then?” they’d ask me dejectedly, trying not to be too obvious about lowering the bar.  Vicki earned a degree in social work, modeled awhile, got a degree in nursing.  She had tumultuous crazy relationships with the guys who adored her and/or wanted to kill her.  She could wreak havoc when she wanted to, driving her mother and boyfriends nuts on cue.  There was just no stopping her when she made up her mind.

U of I and Mizzou. 
I'm sure the floral print and haircut weren't helping my odds. 

At my wedding reception, there is a fabulous scene captured on video when Vicki’s date of the moment was incorrectly doing the electric slide.  He was faced the wrong way and it looks like he’s having a dance off against the entire floor of people.  He was the last of Vic’s guys to be out of step, as she was about to find her husband, Steve and hang up her naughty hat.  I recently teased Steve, for the hundredth time, about how very quiet and shy he was when Joe and I first met him.  Steve patiently explained that I was so damn hyper and loud, nobody could get a word in edgewise.  Plus, I think we freaked him out. Touché.

 

Alec and Maxie

Vicki is my son Joey’s godmother.  I’m not religious, so for me, it was a chance to show Vicki again, in every way and in a new way, that she is my family.  Her son Alec and my son Max are less than a year apart.  They are hilarious and unusual and they remind me of Vicki and me.  They aren’t vanilla mainstream kids and in miserable middle school, that can be hard.  They’re full of imagination and laughter and they love each other, which is unexpected and delicious.  Vicki’s daughter is beautiful like her mother and means business; she wants her own way in very much the same way Vicki did when I first met her.  We agreed just today that justice will probably be served when Olivia is a teenager.



We’ve lived seven minutes door to door when our babies were little.  We’ve lived a plane ride away for years; we’ve had long, long drives between us for other stretches.  Some years we’ve only needed to drive 45 minutes or an hour, and visits seemed as hard to schedule as the plane rides when we were sprinting around with work and kids.  When Vicki’s dad was dying, she was a million miles away, in shocking pain she couldn’t share, even though we lived close.  As of three months ago, we’re back to being only 15 minutes apart after four years of rare visits between Arizona and Illinois. 


The distance was different this time, because we really needed each other and it was just so far.  When we had visits, they were more precious than ever because we knew the next one would be a long time coming.  We were needy and hurting, at times, and we’d put all our friendship eggs tenderly into each others’ baskets.  It’s hard to lean on someone new when your lifelong friend suddenly can’t hop in her car to hold your hand the way she used to hold your hair when you made all those forever ago bad choices.


So now my person is back, and it’s funny.  I don’t even need to be talking to her or see her; life feels different knowing that I can.  I am so insanely lucky to have my husband, my kids, my parents nearby.  But now I have my neon life preserver back within reach and I feel grounded and safer and more like one of the cool kids, even though it’s just in our own weird little world.


Olivia recently asked Vicki if she and Aunt Wendy ever had fights.  All these years and we really haven’t, probably partly because I am terrified of arguments.  Plus, we are both usually too awesome and entertaining to irritate each other.   When I was working full time and Vicki was a stay at home mom with baby Alec, I would try and listen to her on the phone while I was working on the computer.  I’d half listen to her while click-clacking away and then give her my full attention when I had something to say.  It was the closest thing we had to a real fight.  She was pissed that I was half-assing my part of our bargain.  She gave me the silent treatment for a little while, maybe to let me know how it felt not to feel heard.  Now, Vicki is the one who is crazy busy with work and her active family, trying to fit in chats with me between endless discussions about cancer with the frightened patients who need her help.  We’re still growing up together and learning how to balance it all. 


My husband Joe imitates Vicki’s soft, rather nasal voice,  by saying, “Meep, moop.”  Sometimes when he calls me on the phone from work, he says “Meep, moop,” in greeting, which I take to mean that someone I love is on the line.



I talked Vicki into hosting our high school Bunko group last week.  She’s only been back home for a few fast months, but in some ways, it feels like she never left.  I sat in her bathroom while she was getting ready for Bunko, just like we did in junior high, in high school, during college visits, on our wedding days, for grown up girls’ nights out, before our high school reunions.  Talking and laughing and looking forward to sharing time together.  And yet that ordinary moment that we’d had a thousand times before, was suddenly a kind of miracle.  And I’m just so grateful.  Love you, Vic.

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