Belated Easter Cards - True Story

Something (the cat mistaking my bathroom floor for her litter box) woke me up this morning and although I completely resented being awake, I wrote three cards.

Here they are.

Don’t send me hate mail.

I was getting dressed… brushing my teeth… pulling my hair into a ponytail… looking for my wallet… looking for my keys… feeding the dog… All the while, I heard many, many ducks flying overhead.

QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK

I thought, “Wow… there must be like a hundred ducks… they sure quack a lot…”

I walked outside.

There was just one duck.

On my roof.

Oscar Litterer lived in my house and he loved his ham radio. He loved it so much, he built a secret radio room under the stairs. I imagine he sat there night after night broadcasting his message to the moon and back. He was not alone — others really did share his passion for frequency modulation — but not in his own home. In his own home, his wife tended the peonies and their only son was devoted to the project of digging the hole in the driveway.

What a lonely life for Oscar!

When someone has a passion for something, they shouldn’t hide under the basement steps. They should open a shop and hire Zeichen Press to design t-shirts. 

F for Fran. Plan Fran…

Ready? OK!

F-R-A-N… That spells, Fran! Yayyyy!That’s how I start every morning. A rousing cheer, followed by a shot of micro-nutrients and a cup of coffee. Rituals are so important.

On this particular morning, I heard my favorite sound in the world — right after the cry of a newborn baby and right before the death-rattle of my enemies — the fax machine. Beep-beep-boop-beep-bip-bope-bop………..whirrrrrrrrrrr

‘Twas our first order from that paper super-power, Paper Source! I grabbed the fax, my coffee and laptop, and headed to the warehouse. I set all three things down in front of me, sat myself down, faced all squarely and said aloud, “Oh, this is nice.”

And to celebrate, I knocked over my coffee cup, spilling its contents all over the fax and into my open laptop.

Luckily, the dog ran in, lapped up the spilled coffee and pooped on the floor.

When is Jen coming home?

With Jen gone, I wander about bumping into doorways and stepping in dog poop. I think I can write off glasses and shoes as a business expense so I’m not so concerned about the money. I am concerned by my ever-growing obsession with taking photographs of everything I see.

Help.

Me.

One year, the Easter Bunny put a tiny white bunny in our Easter basket. I was sure it was meant for me and not for the other kids that shared my home and parents. An outdoor cage was built and the bunny lived in it until — and my memory gets fuzzy at this point — the bunny went to live with the Easter Bunny again? Yes, I think that’s what happened.

I don’t remember how I got it, but I also had a durable green parakeet. I usually forgot to clean her cage and the droppings rose like stalagmites from the newspaper-covered floor.

We never had a dog, although my grandparent’s dog tried to make me his wife. That was pretty traumatizing.

Last weekend, I was surrounded by six small dogs. I loved it so much, I made a new card:Oh, AND the Important Thing?  We got cards into Paper Source. It’s about time you noticed us, you big lug. (Paper Source has 63 shops around the country. Thats 63 x something x $ = $$$$)

At my ballroom dancing school, I was a hesitant, awkward girl. I wore glasses and oversized t-shirts.

My papa, and my entire Spanish gypsy family, were skilled in the ways of dance but it was hard for me to incorporate my roots into ballroom dancing.

How did I do it? As luck would have it, the handsome star of our dance school agreed to start practicing with me. Pretty soon he was wearing a matador jacket and I didn’t even need my glasses.

Speaking of Australia! Zeichen Press just got an Australian distributor!

There once was a Frenchman that could, and would, eat large objects. He ate them bit by bit and was able to digest bicycles, televisions, shopping carts, chandeliers, and even an airplane. This took patience and, reportedly, gallons of mineral oil.

Bit by bit.

This wasn’t some sort of performance art piece — he never meant for it to be a metaphor.

But he ate a plane.

Such deliberateness! I like to imagine that he carefully considered each piece as he pried it off and swallowed it.

Mister Eat All The Things (Monsieur Mangetout) could be an inspiring mascot for an economic philosophy.

I’ve been told that a printing press in the shop is just as good as three acres and a cow. We’ll see. WE’LL SEE.

Anyway, I made this card for the president of The Society of Distributism because he has a fancy book signing coming up — 150 lucky people will receive the card. Oh, and a signed book.

[maw-kish] adjective sentimental in a feeble or sickly way • archaic having a faint sickly flavor : the mawkish smell of warm beer

I don’t think I understand the definition. Or, maybe I do. Aren’t a lot of greeting cards mawkish?

Who would give that card? Wait, who made that card? Probably a very nice person. A person who loves hearts and roses and rhymes and sparkles.

I tried to make a mawkish card. That’s Hugh Beaumont, the kindly father from Leave it to Beaver.Hugh hated that he was typecast and later opened a Christmas tree farm in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. I don’t think he opened the Christmas tree farm because he hated that he was typecast. But I don’t know – he was obviously a complicated man.

The New York International Gift Fair (NYIGF) wrapped up (sans blizzard). I wasn’t there (I never am) but it must have been a huge success because our rep is faxing orders to us

faster than we can pull them.

Fax machines work just like Wonkavision and every day I hope to find a chocolate bar instead of an order. But for now, I must be satisfied with ink on paper.