My little blue book

It all started innocently enough.

I've always known notebook people. Fabulously creative, energetic, interesting folks who make a point of carrying a little book with them, everywhere they go, just in case. The things these notebook people think of are so brilliant that nothing, no idea, no thought, no rough sketch, can afford to be lost.

And, well. Usually I'm pretty satisfied with the stuff I can remember long enough to jot down. But having embarked on a quest to see if I can write, that is, become a writer, I figure I might be better off becoming a notebook person, as well. Notebook people are often writers. Writers, or designers, or artists. Brilliant creative types. Good company.

So, to set the scene: it's a Wednesday night at Cyber Cafe, Patrick's and my home away from home. There's some tinkly synthesizer music happening on stage, there's a mug of hot tea on the table, and there's me, writing and sketching.


After a few pages of little flowers and leaves and such like, I turned to Patrick for inspiration. "What animal should I draw now?" I asked. Patrick loves animals, I knew he couldn't pass this up.

"Raccoon, of course." Easy enough.

Giraffe was next. Then he started in with the adjectives. "Pregnant Unwed Teenage Wallaby."

My husband, the goofball. But he didn't stop there, oh no.

"Clinically depressed zebra." I giggled. Depressed zebra is way more fun to draw than ordinary zebra.

After I'd dispatched the first two challenges, he upped the ante. "Cow with multiple personality disorder," he said. "But I'll settle for schizophrenia. And it has to be a Holstein cow."

Piece of cake.

"Okay. But you know the one drawing I'd really like to see? Cheetah, desperately awaiting a bone marrow transplant."

If laughter is indeed the foundation of a happy marriage, I'd say we're in good shape. I'm grateful for this guy I've found. He can make a lackluster Wednesday night into just about anything-- including, apparently, a zoo of emotionally complex animals.