Happy Valentine's Day.
xojc
Showing posts with label The HUZ. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The HUZ. Show all posts
February 14, 2019
November 19, 2014
Meet my font.
For a long time, The Huz has been trying to convince me to make a font. I just never had time. I still don't have time.
But I'm building the Kindle version of PickleWeasel Picture Riddles (book 1) and I want it to have popups - super fun, right? But the popups are text based. So it became an unavoidable necessity.
How to make a font? It was a bit of a hack getting this font made; the look of my line comes from a certain blobbiness in Flash. I've tried to reproduce it in other apps and programs and it's never quite right.
But to get from Flash to the FontLab meant jumping through several hoops including backwards saving from Flash CS5 to CS4 to CS3, going from W7 to MAC to XP on different machines. Then output to Illustrator and finally to Eps, which could be imported into FontLab.
And speaking of time, this font is going to save me tons. Thanks to The Huz!
Tweet
But I'm building the Kindle version of PickleWeasel Picture Riddles (book 1) and I want it to have popups - super fun, right? But the popups are text based. So it became an unavoidable necessity.
How to make a font? It was a bit of a hack getting this font made; the look of my line comes from a certain blobbiness in Flash. I've tried to reproduce it in other apps and programs and it's never quite right.
But to get from Flash to the FontLab meant jumping through several hoops including backwards saving from Flash CS5 to CS4 to CS3, going from W7 to MAC to XP on different machines. Then output to Illustrator and finally to Eps, which could be imported into FontLab.
And speaking of time, this font is going to save me tons. Thanks to The Huz!
June 18, 2014
Menopause FUQ.
WARNING: This post is bold. In fact, my husband is pretty much convinced that I'm destroying my blogging career with it. Do I care? Not really. Both my daughters and my own mother burst out laughing viewing these drawings. But anyways, if you’re at all squeamish or easily offended by anthropomorphic lady bits you should stop reading now and click away from this blog post. I’m taking no prisoners.
“MENOPAUSE.”
Yeah, I said it out loud. Seriously, nobody* wants to talk openly about this fact of female life. I grew up, got married and had three children, and was all the while blissfully unaware of anything to do with menopause. I only learned how to spell it properly when I got my first attack of the sweaty-undertits. No one wants to talk and no one wants to listen.
*A group comprised of most people.
Just for fun, I Googled some of the female-exclusive reproductive words to compare interest levels (I included a Google search of "sex" just for laughs.):
9.1 billion mentions of "menopause" on the Internet seems like a lot. But is it? I mean, it has a tad more presence than "menstruation", which kinda surprised me, but is still nowhere near the search results for "pregnancy", or "sex", which is totally off the charts.
I’ll say it again:
“MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE.
MENO - wait for it ......pause.”
I feel like sharing. Here’s a list of things no one told me about menopause - think of it as a PSA falling kerplunk! into the category of answers to Frequently Unanswered Questions, or FUQ:
1. First off - Tweezers will be your new best friend. You'll want a magnifying mirror to see the nasty black bristles you've been oblivious to for the past six months since your eyes have been going bye-bye.
2. When you look in the mirror, you'll sometimes see a man staring back at you. This is especially true if your teen-aged daughterssteal borrow your tweezers. Weirdly, make-up tends to enhance the masculine effect. It’s kind of a drag.
3. You will need three different bra sizes in one month. Randomly undulating breasts are fun! Try to enjoy it.
4. My Hot Flashes are probably contributing to Global Warming. I'm sorry about that. If only there was a Think Tank clever enough to dream up a way to harness this sustainable energy resource...
5. Night sweats can totally happen during the day. (Note the sweaty- undertits.)
6. Things that you used to be able to set your clock by, suddenly go haywire. And just when you think you're in the clear because it's been months and months since you've had to tear off a strip, your period will come raging back into your knickers like an old acquaintance that you never liked very much cornering you at a cocktail party.
Wear white at your own risk and above all, avoid swimming in shark infested waters.
7. Oh the mood swings! Oscillating between crying jags and vicious snarls is exhausting. Too bad those hot flashes are keeping you awake at night.
SCROLL NO FURTHER IF DIZZY, NAUSEOUS OR UNABLE TO MAKE A FIST.
Still here? Well alrighty then, don't say I didn't warn you.
8. Vaginal dryness happens to OTHER women. Nobody wants to admit they have it because our plump, juicy vagina is tied directly to our core sexuality. But one day you'll be innocently going about your business when suddenly there'll be a scratching sensation. The closest thing I can liken it to is having sand in your bathing suit and you'll wonder how on earth it got there.
Sex can be ouchy! You might be well and truly turned on but it still feels dry and it hurts. Some days it feels like if your vagina had a face it might look like this.
But don't freak out - it doesn't have a face.
Actually, I looked "vaginal dryness" up on a reputable site, and guess what?! The vagina is not necessarily dry; it could just be that the tissues are all thin and shriveled due to a decrease in estrogen and progesterone. So yaaaaaay.
9. You will lose your memory. You will even lose the memory of your memory.
10. What was the question again? I'm sorry I can't hear you above the wailing wind whistling through my empty cranial cavity.
11. Somehow, through this tornado of bleck and uncertainty, The Huz still finds me hawt. Hurrah! I will keep him.
On the bright side, I've only got another five to ten years of this menopausal crap. I wonder what's supposed to happen after that...?
Tweet
“MENOPAUSE.”
Yeah, I said it out loud. Seriously, nobody* wants to talk openly about this fact of female life. I grew up, got married and had three children, and was all the while blissfully unaware of anything to do with menopause. I only learned how to spell it properly when I got my first attack of the sweaty-undertits. No one wants to talk and no one wants to listen.
*A group comprised of most people.
Just for fun, I Googled some of the female-exclusive reproductive words to compare interest levels (I included a Google search of "sex" just for laughs.):
9.1 billion mentions of "menopause" on the Internet seems like a lot. But is it? I mean, it has a tad more presence than "menstruation", which kinda surprised me, but is still nowhere near the search results for "pregnancy", or "sex", which is totally off the charts.
I’ll say it again:
“MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE, MENOPAUSE.
MENO - wait for it ......pause.”
I feel like sharing. Here’s a list of things no one told me about menopause - think of it as a PSA falling kerplunk! into the category of answers to Frequently Unanswered Questions, or FUQ:
1. First off - Tweezers will be your new best friend. You'll want a magnifying mirror to see the nasty black bristles you've been oblivious to for the past six months since your eyes have been going bye-bye.
2. When you look in the mirror, you'll sometimes see a man staring back at you. This is especially true if your teen-aged daughters
3. You will need three different bra sizes in one month. Randomly undulating breasts are fun! Try to enjoy it.
 |
| You're looking at my star qualities aren't you. |
4. My Hot Flashes are probably contributing to Global Warming. I'm sorry about that. If only there was a Think Tank clever enough to dream up a way to harness this sustainable energy resource...
5. Night sweats can totally happen during the day. (Note the sweaty- undertits.)
6. Things that you used to be able to set your clock by, suddenly go haywire. And just when you think you're in the clear because it's been months and months since you've had to tear off a strip, your period will come raging back into your knickers like an old acquaintance that you never liked very much cornering you at a cocktail party.
Wear white at your own risk and above all, avoid swimming in shark infested waters.
7. Oh the mood swings! Oscillating between crying jags and vicious snarls is exhausting. Too bad those hot flashes are keeping you awake at night.
 |
| See what I did there? |
SCROLL NO FURTHER IF DIZZY, NAUSEOUS OR UNABLE TO MAKE A FIST.
Still here? Well alrighty then, don't say I didn't warn you.
8. Vaginal dryness happens to OTHER women. Nobody wants to admit they have it because our plump, juicy vagina is tied directly to our core sexuality. But one day you'll be innocently going about your business when suddenly there'll be a scratching sensation. The closest thing I can liken it to is having sand in your bathing suit and you'll wonder how on earth it got there.
 |
| Life is a beach, and then you get sandy shorts. THANKS A LOT, MENOPAUSE. |
Sex can be ouchy! You might be well and truly turned on but it still feels dry and it hurts. Some days it feels like if your vagina had a face it might look like this.
But don't freak out - it doesn't have a face.
Actually, I looked "vaginal dryness" up on a reputable site, and guess what?! The vagina is not necessarily dry; it could just be that the tissues are all thin and shriveled due to a decrease in estrogen and progesterone. So yaaaaaay.
 |
| Also known as "Reasons to die young". |
9. You will lose your memory. You will even lose the memory of your memory.
10. What was the question again? I'm sorry I can't hear you above the wailing wind whistling through my empty cranial cavity.
11. Somehow, through this tornado of bleck and uncertainty, The Huz still finds me hawt. Hurrah! I will keep him.
 |
| Yay! Someone loves me, vadryna and all! |
February 1, 2014
Just married...22 years ago.
We became engaged after one month of dating; we just knew.
It's our 22nd wedding anniversary today and I'm feeling nostalgic. I went through the wooden box of treasures from our wedding back in 1992 and found a couple of cute things to share with you.
Ois and I did have some "official" fancy wedding invitations that my parents insisted on. But we wanted to do our own version too, so I drew this.
He doesn't look so enthusiastic about being glomped in this drawing; but I sure do!
Look, I did all the lettering by hand...
And these were our thank-you cards for the guests.
It's pretty cool to be able to spend the rest of my life together with this person. I'm pretty happy I found him - I mean, what if our paths had never crossed?
The HUZ figures we'll have 25 more years together; he reckons he'll be the first to pop his clogs. I don't know, but I can't bear to think about life without him.
That's OisÃn in the video. He's pretty special. When you know, you just know, you know?
Someday I'll draw the story of how we met in London.
Happy Anniversary, husband of my days, father of my children!
Tweet
It's our 22nd wedding anniversary today and I'm feeling nostalgic. I went through the wooden box of treasures from our wedding back in 1992 and found a couple of cute things to share with you.
Ois and I did have some "official" fancy wedding invitations that my parents insisted on. But we wanted to do our own version too, so I drew this.
He doesn't look so enthusiastic about being glomped in this drawing; but I sure do!
Look, I did all the lettering by hand...
And these were our thank-you cards for the guests.
It's pretty cool to be able to spend the rest of my life together with this person. I'm pretty happy I found him - I mean, what if our paths had never crossed?
The HUZ figures we'll have 25 more years together; he reckons he'll be the first to pop his clogs. I don't know, but I can't bear to think about life without him.
That's OisÃn in the video. He's pretty special. When you know, you just know, you know?
Someday I'll draw the story of how we met in London.
Happy Anniversary, husband of my days, father of my children!
March 17, 2013
The DOLL.
This story originally appeared on Aiming Low.
When our first baby was born, the stars twinkled and all the flowers bloomed. It was spring and we were blown away. We were in love, we had cool hair...and a brand new daughter.
The infant girl was perfect. I dressed her up in old fashioned baby clothes, kinda vintage, with lace dresses and Victorian bonnets. She never cried, except when she wanted my milk. I used to joke that “sleeping like a baby” actually meant “waking up every two hours”. Ha. Ha. Ha.
After two months of Sleepus Interruptus, reality kicked in. Life as we knew it was OVER. Forget about cool hair.
We were living in London at the time, and it happened that we drove down to Penzance in Cornwall to visit my mother-in-law. One evening, The Huz suggested we go out to the pub and have a civilized pint. I wanted to go …but I couldn’t leave my baby alone with anyone, not even my MIL. I just wasn’t ready yet. So we decided to see if the pub would let us in with our baby.
Out we went with our tiny daughter in her pram. She’d just been fed so she was quietly blissed out.
We walked along until we came to a really nice old pub called The Admiral Benbow. And in we went with the pram. The barman marched right up to us and said we couldn’t come into the pub with a baby. The Huz looked him right in the eye and said,
“That’s not a baby. That’s a doll.”
The two men stared at one another.
The Huz raised one of his eye brows.
The barman glanced down at the pram.
What he saw was a Victorian bonnet with tiny silken eyelashes resting on a pink porcelain cheek, perfect rosebud lips mutely dream-sucking, and an impossibly dimpled hand on the lace blanket.
He looked back up at me, my mother-in-law and The Huz and said,
“What a beautiful doll. Please have a seat.”
Judge me if you want, but I'm sure a fair number of you have snuck your baby into a pub.
Tweet
When our first baby was born, the stars twinkled and all the flowers bloomed. It was spring and we were blown away. We were in love, we had cool hair...and a brand new daughter.
The infant girl was perfect. I dressed her up in old fashioned baby clothes, kinda vintage, with lace dresses and Victorian bonnets. She never cried, except when she wanted my milk. I used to joke that “sleeping like a baby” actually meant “waking up every two hours”. Ha. Ha. Ha.
After two months of Sleepus Interruptus, reality kicked in. Life as we knew it was OVER. Forget about cool hair.
We were living in London at the time, and it happened that we drove down to Penzance in Cornwall to visit my mother-in-law. One evening, The Huz suggested we go out to the pub and have a civilized pint. I wanted to go …but I couldn’t leave my baby alone with anyone, not even my MIL. I just wasn’t ready yet. So we decided to see if the pub would let us in with our baby.
Out we went with our tiny daughter in her pram. She’d just been fed so she was quietly blissed out.
We walked along until we came to a really nice old pub called The Admiral Benbow. And in we went with the pram. The barman marched right up to us and said we couldn’t come into the pub with a baby. The Huz looked him right in the eye and said,
“That’s not a baby. That’s a doll.”
The two men stared at one another.
The Huz raised one of his eye brows.
The barman glanced down at the pram.
What he saw was a Victorian bonnet with tiny silken eyelashes resting on a pink porcelain cheek, perfect rosebud lips mutely dream-sucking, and an impossibly dimpled hand on the lace blanket.
He looked back up at me, my mother-in-law and The Huz and said,
“What a beautiful doll. Please have a seat.”
Judge me if you want, but I'm sure a fair number of you have snuck your baby into a pub.
February 1, 2013
December 12, 2012
The BUST of ELVIS.
DISCLAIMER: ...nah. Forget it.
I love kitsch. So it was like hitting pay dirt when I walked into Glenn Silver’s apartment and saw the ultimate kitsch icon – the Bust of Elvis. Glenn lived in one of those Montreal flats that went on and on. He had very little furniture, so there was room after room of hardwood floors with nothing in them. And Elvis was just sitting there on the floor against the wall.
I couldn’t conceal my delight!
Glenn grinned, “Yeah, my mom gave it to me. You want it?”
“Seriously?” I examined the specimen. It was one of the nicer ones I’d seen; fine kitsch as opposed to cheap and nasty kitsch, if you will. Resplendent in his gold-studded white jacket and adorned with a peach coloured scarf, Elvis’ expression was wonderfully vacant. A benign sneer teased from the edge of his top lip.
“Yes please!” I jumped up and down clapping my hands together. I couldn’t believe my luck – best present ever! Glenn laughed.
My douchebag boyfriend was less than thrilled. He tried to convince me not to take it, saying “you don’t really want that thing,” which didn’t work cuz HELLO I KNOW WHAT I WANT. It was heavy but he flat-out refused to help me carry it home.
I said, no worries, that I could do it. I started down the steps holding tight to my plaster prize. But when we got out onto the street, things just got worse. As I struggled under the weight of the Bust of Elvis, Douchie declared he didn’t even want to be seen walking down the street with me.
“And you’re not going to put it in the living room – you keep that thing in YOUR studio!” (Uh..."that thing"??) He was shouting. There was definitely some rage in his face.
Douchus Baggus stomped off leaving me confused on the sidewalk.
Cradled gently in my arms, Elvis stared blankly up at me.
I flagged a cab and went home to the apartment I shared with the Douche-a-saurus.
I mostly have an understanding and accepting nature so I refrained from judging my boyfriend too harshly. He didn’t share my enthusiasm, and that was ok...I forgave him. But deep in the core of my being something clicked. I became aware that El Doucho wasn’t the right man for me. He was so mean about this thing that was obviously important to me. I loved that Bust of Elvis the way DB loved his (insert vaguely medieval sounding prog-rock band name here) albums, and I never asked him to put those away...
Eventually I discovered that Douchie-poo was sleeping around on me. So I left him, and I took my Bust of Elvis with me. I tucked Elvis into storage with my other belongings and went gallivanting off to London to work in animation. That’s where I met The Huz. Well, he wasn’t The Huz yet, he was ...The Fiancé.
When The Fiancé and I decided to wed, we shipped my things from Montreal to London. The Fiancé helped me pack everything, including my prized possession, the Bust of Elvis. The box must have got thrown around a lot in the shipping for when we unpacked it...
...poor Elvis had cracked into 3 pieces.
I wailed.
The Fiancé said he’d help me fix him, and jokingly added, “…but only if you promise not to tell anyone.”
As a couple, we pieced the Bust of Elvis together again. It’s not a perfect job, he’s got a few scars – one traveling across the bridge of his nose through his eyes, and another at the base of his throat. But I think the scars make him more valuable, more exciting. What could be cooler than the ultimate kitsch icon? One that had been broken and lovingly glued back together!
Of course, my Bust of Elvis is much more than just the sum of his parts. He’s a symbol of my husband’s love and acceptance of me.
For many years Elvis lived in the kitchen, observing us from his lofty perch on the top of the fridge as we cooked meals, washed dishes and fed our babies. Nowadays I keep him in my studio, at eye level.
His paint is peeling a bit, his gaze is as vacant as ever, and he’s got the patina of a quarter century of basking in my adoration.
Thank-you Glenn Silver.
Tweet
I love kitsch. So it was like hitting pay dirt when I walked into Glenn Silver’s apartment and saw the ultimate kitsch icon – the Bust of Elvis. Glenn lived in one of those Montreal flats that went on and on. He had very little furniture, so there was room after room of hardwood floors with nothing in them. And Elvis was just sitting there on the floor against the wall.
I couldn’t conceal my delight!
Glenn grinned, “Yeah, my mom gave it to me. You want it?”
“Seriously?” I examined the specimen. It was one of the nicer ones I’d seen; fine kitsch as opposed to cheap and nasty kitsch, if you will. Resplendent in his gold-studded white jacket and adorned with a peach coloured scarf, Elvis’ expression was wonderfully vacant. A benign sneer teased from the edge of his top lip.
“Yes please!” I jumped up and down clapping my hands together. I couldn’t believe my luck – best present ever! Glenn laughed.
My douchebag boyfriend was less than thrilled. He tried to convince me not to take it, saying “you don’t really want that thing,” which didn’t work cuz HELLO I KNOW WHAT I WANT. It was heavy but he flat-out refused to help me carry it home.
I said, no worries, that I could do it. I started down the steps holding tight to my plaster prize. But when we got out onto the street, things just got worse. As I struggled under the weight of the Bust of Elvis, Douchie declared he didn’t even want to be seen walking down the street with me.
“And you’re not going to put it in the living room – you keep that thing in YOUR studio!” (Uh..."that thing"??) He was shouting. There was definitely some rage in his face.
Douchus Baggus stomped off leaving me confused on the sidewalk.
Cradled gently in my arms, Elvis stared blankly up at me.
I flagged a cab and went home to the apartment I shared with the Douche-a-saurus.
I mostly have an understanding and accepting nature so I refrained from judging my boyfriend too harshly. He didn’t share my enthusiasm, and that was ok...I forgave him. But deep in the core of my being something clicked. I became aware that El Doucho wasn’t the right man for me. He was so mean about this thing that was obviously important to me. I loved that Bust of Elvis the way DB loved his (insert vaguely medieval sounding prog-rock band name here) albums, and I never asked him to put those away...
* * * * *
Eventually I discovered that Douchie-poo was sleeping around on me. So I left him, and I took my Bust of Elvis with me. I tucked Elvis into storage with my other belongings and went gallivanting off to London to work in animation. That’s where I met The Huz. Well, he wasn’t The Huz yet, he was ...The Fiancé.
When The Fiancé and I decided to wed, we shipped my things from Montreal to London. The Fiancé helped me pack everything, including my prized possession, the Bust of Elvis. The box must have got thrown around a lot in the shipping for when we unpacked it...
...poor Elvis had cracked into 3 pieces.
I wailed.
The Fiancé said he’d help me fix him, and jokingly added, “…but only if you promise not to tell anyone.”
As a couple, we pieced the Bust of Elvis together again. It’s not a perfect job, he’s got a few scars – one traveling across the bridge of his nose through his eyes, and another at the base of his throat. But I think the scars make him more valuable, more exciting. What could be cooler than the ultimate kitsch icon? One that had been broken and lovingly glued back together!
Of course, my Bust of Elvis is much more than just the sum of his parts. He’s a symbol of my husband’s love and acceptance of me.
For many years Elvis lived in the kitchen, observing us from his lofty perch on the top of the fridge as we cooked meals, washed dishes and fed our babies. Nowadays I keep him in my studio, at eye level.
His paint is peeling a bit, his gaze is as vacant as ever, and he’s got the patina of a quarter century of basking in my adoration.
Thank-you Glenn Silver.
August 27, 2012
SCREAM.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAiiiiGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!"
That blood curdling scream was mine.
To celebrate the last gasp of summer me and my friend Robin like to take our 12 year old boys to Laronde, our local thrill ride park. I love roller coasters and it feels kinda good to have my vertebrae re-aligned. This year we dragged our somewhat reluctant husbands along for the day.
The Huz had never been on modern thrill rides (he's from the olde country, or at least that's what he claims). I told him not to be afraid, but definitely to scream. The reason that you hafta scream on the roller coaster is mostly to keep your lunch down. It tightens up the abdominals and locks the contents in place.
And scream we did! After five rides I felt like Steven Tyler with strep throat; I was all screamed out. The next ride we lined up for was The Vampire - aptly named since it will suck the life right out of you. My voice was gone...but the ride is only like 40 seconds long. How bad could it be? I decided to try not screaming.
It turned out to be the longest 40 seconds of my life. When it finally finished...
...I could not keep it together; I could barely walk and I'm pretty sure my brain was no longer attached to the inside of my skull.
I spent the rest of the day making up fake ride names to console myself:
Don't forget to scream! And please do add to the list.
Tweet
That blood curdling scream was mine.
To celebrate the last gasp of summer me and my friend Robin like to take our 12 year old boys to Laronde, our local thrill ride park. I love roller coasters and it feels kinda good to have my vertebrae re-aligned. This year we dragged our somewhat reluctant husbands along for the day.
The Huz had never been on modern thrill rides (he's from the olde country, or at least that's what he claims). I told him not to be afraid, but definitely to scream. The reason that you hafta scream on the roller coaster is mostly to keep your lunch down. It tightens up the abdominals and locks the contents in place.
And scream we did! After five rides I felt like Steven Tyler with strep throat; I was all screamed out. The next ride we lined up for was The Vampire - aptly named since it will suck the life right out of you. My voice was gone...but the ride is only like 40 seconds long. How bad could it be? I decided to try not screaming.
It turned out to be the longest 40 seconds of my life. When it finally finished...
...I could not keep it together; I could barely walk and I'm pretty sure my brain was no longer attached to the inside of my skull.
I spent the rest of the day making up fake ride names to console myself:
- The Stupefier
- The ZOMBIE (<<< The Huz made this one up)
- The Lobotomizer
- The Face Flattener
- The Grey AntiMatter-er
- The Slack-Jaw DROP
- The Permanent Wave
- The Seat Soaker
- The Take Me Away Calgoner
- The Oh-Em-GEE Force
- The Mop
- The Ferris Bueller Wheel
- The Stretcher
- The Ride That Shall Not Be Named
- The Dematerializer
- The Particle Accelerator
- The Defibrillator
and my personal fave, submitted by The Huz, - The Munch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)