So, a frenchman walks into a bar…

Let me begin by saying…I love my husband. So very much. No one is more supportive of me and my art. He is usually the first person I show my art to, and the one whose opinion usually matters the most.

Being married to an artist is not always easy. Or should I say, being married to me can be a real pain in the butt some times.  I’m an artist, a geek, a girl, and often times…a four year old who wants her way NOW.

One of the “fun” benefits of being married to me is being subject to my artistic whims. Which means if you happen to be sitting across the table, couch, or room from me when I decide to draw, you must sit there and be drawn.  You cannot escape me. (Strangely, I’ve started to notice my friends and family refusing to sitting in my line of sight when I have the sketchbook out. Whats up with that…?)

Over the years, Clint has been the victim *cough* subject of  many sketches.  I have a giant life sized drawing of Clint on purple paper, as my final project in figure drawing class in college.  I have drawings of Clint playing video games. I have ugly drawings of Clint that looking nothing like him at all, and pictures drawn in crayon. I even have a picture of the SHAPE (just the shape) of Clint’s head…drawn on a napkin, at a wedding, after a few glasses of champagne.  I was trying to make a point. (LOOK! YOU HAVE A UNIQUE SHAPED HEAD! ISN’T THAT COOL?) Anywhoo…

Clint has gotten used to me drawing around him over the years.  The embarrassment has worn off for the most part.  Take your wife to a sports bar pizza joint to watch the game, and what does she do? Cheer for the wrong team? No.  Spill beer all over some one? No. She pulls out her watercolors and starts drawing the bald guy sitting in front of her. Sigh.

Picture it for a moment.  Our evenings out go something like this: We arrive at a lovely English pub, and get seated a our booth. Clint pulls out the menu to decide what beer he wants. I pull out my sketchbook and pen.  Clint looks up from the menu to find me staring at him intently…in a really creepy way…while drawing furiously in the book.

“Really?” he says with a sigh.

“But…the red wall behind you! Its sooo red!”

Now one of two things happens. He will either decide to ignore me and return to the menu, OR he will start making funny faces and wiggling around in his seat. I prefer to be ignored, though the funny faces make for a more entertaining picture.

After a while, I will put down the pen. Usually around the time our food arrives.

“So, do I get my wife back now?”

“Yes,” I say grumpily (see comment earlier about a four year old).

Now he wants to see the drawing I just completed of him. I hand it over for inspection.

He starts laughing.

“What is this? I look like some french dude. Posing for one of those weird french paintings!”

“Hey!” I grab the book back from him in a huff. “You do not!”*

He laughs and starts making weird…french…noises. “Ah-huh-huh. Oh chante! I should be drinking a cappuccino!” And proceeds to make sipping motions with his hand while holding his pinkie in the air.

This is when the evening falls apart. I throw my pen cap at him, which ends up under the table, and the dinner winds to a close with Clint, the waitress, and I on our hands and knees looking for the missing pen cap with a cellphone flashlight.

And this, boys and girls, is why I’m not allowed out for parties and get-togethers. Because inevitably, pen caps will fly, and someone French will be offended.

*He really does look like a guy in weird French painting. Sigh.