Blog - Family

Jen was part of a dangerous expedition

New product was added to the shop and I can’t help but wonder which cards will sell well… will they be sheep-related?:Or not?

My older brothers had a bunk bed, my little brother had his own bed and my sister and I shared a queen-sized bed.

We also shared countless hours of strange bedtime rituals: she would put on her school uniform (white blouse and brown plaid jumper) and pull her nightgown over it — that was for early morning efficiency… I would skip the uniform step and go right to the nightgown.

I was so slow!

She would coat her arms in Elmer’s Glue,

I would dress and redress Raggedy Ann.

I don’t know if she shared my fear of the monster under the bed.

No, what am I saying? She did not. In fact, she created the fear!

Siblings can be so cruel.

PHEW!

My Faith in Humanity was fortified! I bought a tripod from a stranger on Craiglist and he made no mention of kidnappng, torturing, OR skinning me.

Now I can stumble my way through taking photographs of the new cards!

The Craigslist man assured me (three times) that the tripod was the “real deal” so that should help.

She waited.

Pacing the widow’s walk, praying for his ship to appear on the horizon, her view of the sea uninterrupted from her perch.

But no!

And who but those onboard could know the truth — was it a storm? Pirates? Mutiny?

Or was it The Kraken?

My high school English teacher told the class that if we looked up the word ‘glib’ in the dictionary, there would be a picture of me.

She was right!

I think I felt insulted.

I’m sure Jen’s high school English teacher said something similar about her.

And if not, she should have.

What does this have to do with angry parents or a new card?

Obviously, my glibness was not celebrated at home. In fact, it was frowned upon — can you believe it?! 

And Jen’s reckless behavior?? You’ll have to ask her about that… I mean, pregnant at 19?! What was she THINKING?! (Wait, that was me?? We need to hire a fact checker.)

For Immediate Release: In an attempt to build the Zeichen Press Fan Base, Jen Shea and Fran Shea will appear on a local cable-access show locked in a cell and covered in Fancy Feast™. 1,000 cats will be released into the cell through a small hatch. Fran and Jen will sing a medley of famous duets, including Islands In the Stream, Endless Love, and You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.

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I’ve been told that life is full of challenges. And I’m sure that, someday, I’ll encounter one. I hope it’s not a shipwreck or banishment. …I will probably contract the Ebola Virus. I designed a card for myself in preparation.

Oh, but here’s a more “buyable” card for those of us that need encouragement:

I’ve nursed a few babies in my day and that makes me an expert on sacrifice.

It does.

Or is it laziness? Making a bottle seemed like so much work! …Get out of my cozy bed, walk all the way to the kitchen, measure and pour powdered formula into a bottle, warm water in pan on stove, add water to bottle, test temperature

OR

lift up my shirt.

Anyway, I made a card for the new mother:

Isn’t that a comforting thought?

If I had a tumor, I’d want a group of strangers to pray it away.

Less messy than surgery.

Also, if I could train a field-full of meerkats to pray for me, I would.That would be adorable.

Thanks (or no thanks) to Facebook, phrases that were once packed with meaning, are like a watered-down drink: You are in our prayers… We are all praying for you…

These, followed by a frowny-face 🙁 are now much more common than a hand-written note.

🙁 x 1,000!

Someday we’ll create Encouragement Cards for the most grievous of events (will we??) but how about those events that still deserve more than a Facebook comment? How about: sewage backups, low-risk operations, stomach flus, power-outtages, lost dogs, lost luggage, car-jackings, rat-infestations, or hauntings?

Not quite tragic but still entitled to a show of support. A card like this (IN THE MAILBOX) would cheer a person up posthaste:

It was time for The Sign Of Peace, and as all members of the congregation turned to offer their hand for a firm shaking, I slowly let my sleeve swallow my hand.

With a forlorn look and one missing hand, I imagined the gasps of concern for my deformity. I turned to the family in the pew behind me — they would wonder if I was born crippled or if my hand had been lost in a bloody accident. I was eager to extend my handless arm, my face already prepared and appropriately pitiful.

Oh, but why do parents have to crush their children’s fantasies?

And here’s another story about hands:

I took woodshop in highschool.

I did. I was the only girl. The room was filled with dangerous power-tools and I secretly hoped for the “automatic A” decribed by the teacher: “If a student is dumb enough to sever a finger or an entire hand, they will receive an automatic A.” 

Unfortunately, I successfully made a box:Speaking of hands, here’s a new card: