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There are four of us, and we're all in it. I draw everybody the way they really are, more or
less, from life, which at our house means from about two feet away while somebody's climbing on
me.
[NEWEST STRIP] [ARCHIVE]
Marvin
(that's me)
Dad. 35. Former insurance claims adjuster, current dragon.
Tall, gangly, and slowly losing an argument with my hair, which sticks up in back no matter what I
do, so in the strip it sticks up in back too. The green sweatshirt, the gray sweatpants and the
slippers aren't a costume. That's a weekday. In the strip I'm nearly always holding a cup of coffee;
in real life I'm nearly always looking for the one I set down somewhere. I'm the straight man in my
own comic strip, which seems about right.
Hours of sleep last night: four and a half, in two installments.
Usually holding: coffee, gone cold.
In strips: #1, #2,
#3, #4
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Connie
Mom. 34. Pharmacist.
Short curly hair, glasses, and the white coat, because on a weekday, the first the kids see of
her is when she walks in the door from work. Connie works days at the pharmacy and somehow
comes home with more energy than she left with. She's also the reason you can see NAP TIME at all:
she scans every strip at the office after closing (she asked first). When I started the comic she
asked me to draw her taller. I told her I draw everybody the way they are, more or less. She said,
"More, then."
Can do: read any doctor's handwriting. Also mine.
Dragon since: Tuesday.
In strips: #4
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Rebecca
Two and a half. Born first, by four minutes. In charge.
Blond pigtails that stick straight out sideways, overalls, and a look on her face like she's about
to explain something to you, which she is. Rebecca talks from the minute she wakes up until the
minute she falls asleep, and some nights after that. She decides who sits where, which cereal has
the prize, who gets to be the dragon, and when nap time is over. Her favorite word right now is
"actually."
Words per day: all of them.
In strips: #1, #2,
#3, #4
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Luke
Two and a half. Born second. Eating something.
A mop of curly blond hair, round cheeks, a striped shirt, overalls, and something in his mouth,
nearly always. Luke doesn't say much. He watches everything, thinks it over, and then does exactly
what he meant to do all along, usually while chewing. His sister does the talking for both of
them, and as far as I can tell that suits him fine. When Luke does say something, odds are it's
"more."
Words per day: about six, if you count "more" every time.
In strips: #1, #2,
#3, #4
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- The cashier at our grocery store (#2), who would
rather I didn't use her name, and who has seen worse.
- Grandma, my mother (#3), heard but not seen. She
says she's fine with that as long as I draw her right when she does show up.
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