Blog - Saints & martyrs

Discovering Instacart might change my life.These modern services enable my dwindling desire to engage with the outside world.

IN JANUARY. IN MINNESOTA.

And why should I leave my house when Millie the Dog is learning to speak Human?

If only the shop were actually connected to my house.Just look at that commute! Ridiculous.

Or… inspiring? It must be inspiring because I made this.

Tib mouthed these words while she nursed her latest brood:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more.

It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.Do you see what I’m working with here??

She just gives and gives AND GIVES.

Ah, suckle away…

Oh, another Spring is here!

Should I have photographically documented the first card printed for our Spring Release?

Probably.

But I was pretty busy having a Nurse Jackie marathon.

I DID write/design these:See how I give and give and give??

By age nine, I would delicately,

with my right hand, fold down the sharp fins of a Sunfish.

Why? 

So I could use my left hand to insert the rusty pliars into the gasping mouth of my catch to retrieve the swallowed hook.

If I was lucky.

If I wasn’t lucky, I’d stare at my motionless bobber for hours.

*Some backstory: My older brother (third of eight) allowed me to fish with him if I did whatever he said, and didn’t cry. He was SERIOUS about fishing. I had glasses and greasy blonde hair.

**Some backstory about the backstory: My brother was born in September, and I was already a sprouted seed in our Mom’s belly by the next Summer.

I think I’ve used the bobber-watching metaphor before, but it is APT. Everyday, I wait for my agent to tell me to get the rusty pliars.

Why doesn’t he ever tell me to get the rusty pliars??

He just tells me to “hang in there.”Oh, back to my Mom… She has 22 grandkids. This is her with the latest:HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

No, no… don’t worry about me — I’m fine! I actually enjoy imagining exotic travel. Who needs all of that packing and jet-lag… and those language barriers?… No thanks!

Jen is (still) in Turkey

(is she ever coming home??) and I am here.

See how I put my feet in the picture so that you can tell that I’m REALLY here?

My daydreams are broken only by Tib the Cat.And the other inmates’ bickering.

But shouldn’t I embrace this opportunity during Lent for self-denial?

FINE.

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:

I welcome the extra-ordinary. In fact, I am hyper-vigilant and ever-watchful for signs of miraculous happenings.

I ate two pounds of filet mignon on Christmas Eve and I’m pretty sure that was a miracle. It felt like a miracle — béarnaise sauce drizzled over huge hunks of very rare cow flesh doesn’t happen every day.I love Christmas Miracles, they are the most powerful kind of miracle — A change of heart is better than filet mignon and antlers growing out of a dog’s head is, perhaps, the most miraculous of all.

Jen did say I couldn’t make any more Christmas cards but I squeezed this one past her because she is a sucker for dogs and because I threw her computer in a snowbank.

My mind wandered as I listened to the Second Reading. I wondered if I could get my hands on a chocolate milk for lunch. I watched the third graders fidget. I planned my fishing-themed diorama. …Children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth… I figured out what the initials TGIF stood for — oh, that makes sense! …I felt something crawl up my uniform blouse. 

I felt something crawl up my uniform blouse! Or did I? The question went unanswered because, like Abraham Lincoln in the balcony of Ford’s Theater, I’d been shot. Most likely, an assassination plot carried out by those boys that dumped Mountain Dew on my head last week. Oh, the pain! I signaled my teacher and was escorted to the nurses office by a girl that needed a hero badge to add to her girl scout sash.

The nurses office was familiar to me. Homesickness was an ailment I suffered from semi-regularly.

When I staggered through the door, the nurse stopped her mimeographing and looked at me. I pointed to my gunshot wound — nearish my right armpit but closer to a more embarrassing region. She lifted up my blouse. I stared at the poster on the wall.

Yes, kitten. I will hang in there.

It turned out not to be a bullet lodged in my ribcage, but a bee sting.

In honor of that important event, I created my own Hang in There! card. Do not accuse me of ripping off the original, it is an homage. An HOMAGE.

But I don’t need to tell you that.

Sometimes it’s hard to stay humble. Luckily, humility is one of my greatest traits. That, and my perfect attitude and face make it difficult for everyone around me to go about their average lives.

Wait, let me throw down a little manna:

It was only a matter of time because we were standing outside their office.

METRO home is a new special section in METRO. The cover of this months issue is intriguing and frightening. It might be a photograph of a bedroom/torture chamber. What’s behind those curtains?Yikes! This room comes with shackles and nightmares.

Urban Living Manifesto sounds really serious. Do people really take themselves that seriously?? Two words for them: settle. down.

Oh, but here’s something cheerful – it’s about Zeichen Press:
Those Room & Board prints were sure worth all of the sweat I dripped on them last Summer!