I may still be a little hopped up on painkillers due to the eviction of that little cherub in the previous post, but how's about a little giveaway?
In this post's 'comments' section, post your first name and any nickname that might have been thrown at you at some point during your life. The winner will be picked at random and the drawing will be videotaped and posted on Wednesday, July 2nd.
Wanna know what you get? One winner will get the ENTIRE Summer 2008 Collectionbefore it's even listed on the website! Talk about exclusive...
Here's a sample of some of the cards that come in this 16-card package:
I've always kind of subscribed to the theories of a man named Thomas Malthus. In a nutshell, Malthus believed that overpopulation was the cause of all the terrible things in the world, which would in turn stem overpopulation. Too many people, let's have a war, get rid of some people. Too many people, oops there's a famine, get rid of some people.
That might be oversimplified. With some paraphrasing. I might have missed some important parts. Or lost a bit in translation. But it's the way I like it.
Those big events that wipe out populations are known as "Malthusian Crises". There. You've just received the Reader's Digest version of 2nd year economics.
I'm convinced that we're due. Not that I'm all "sandals and a sandwich-board" and predicting the end of the world. It's just that I've met at least three people this week who could use a good plague. And thinking back, I think I'd met two the week before.
That's an alarming trend. I might be encountering 11 jackasses a week by the end of the summer.
Where is the pestilence that will come to my rescue? Antibiotic-resistant superbug? Where have all the killer bees gone?
Recently we've had a few customers who've been awfully close to home. The area we live in is somewhat rural, so it's actually kind of a coincidence.
One person who contacted us actually grew up just one street over from us. Literally one house separates our properties.
And this one house is occupied by a retired couple who have been wonderful neighbors to us. They visited when the kid was born, bringing chocolates and presents and some much needed reassurance and advice. They're active in the community; canvassing for the Cancer Society and taking part in other grassroot environmental movements. They take better care of their property than I do, and they don't have a dog that craps on my lawn, which are ultimately the two most important things to look for in a neighbor.
Now, I was raised to always respect elders. In this case that means I always called my neighbors "Mr. and Mrs. X". I didn't know their first names. Kind of like your elementary school teachers. As far as you knew, they didn't even have first names. Which is sometimes being ruined these days by the new breed of teachers who insist on being called "Miss Suzie".
But I digress.
This recent customer contacted Carol and after finding out how close we lived, recounted tales of when "Dick and Tiny" would throw crabapples at them when they trespassed on their beach. Carol thought this was hilarious and asked if I knew that Mr. and Mrs. X's first names were "Dick and Tiny".
I didn't. And I'm still not sure if they are. For all we know, that was just what the neighbourhood kids called them. For all we know, the neighborhood kids could call us "Assface and that Crazy Bitch".
After all, we throw tomatoes at the trespassers on our beach.
I think Lee thinks I’m spending too much time at drive-through establishments. The kid’s speech has been getting more and more diverse and this has turned into a typical conversation:
Me: Jack, would you like more strawberries? What do you say?
Jack: Peeeeeze
Me: Here you go. (handing him strawberries)
Jack: Kack-oooo (translation: ‘thank-you’---which, interestingly enough, is the same word for cracker. At least when he starts throwing racial slurs I can just say, 'No, no... he really said, 'thank you'.)
Me: You’re welcome.
Jack: Habaniceday! Bye-bye! (waving vigorously)
Apparently, all that’s missing is the enthusiastic ‘Come again!’ at the end.
We’ve been working pretty hard on drilling basic songs into his head, as well. The kid can now sing ‘Twinkle-Twinkle’, and the ‘ABC’s’(well, up to about the letter J, after that, he only goes with every third letter’). His appreciation for fine musical arrangements has also extended to this:
Around 10:00 am every day, he comes running into my office yelling, ‘lowlowlowlowlowlow’ and pointing to my laptop.
I’m concerned. I guess it’s time to start censoring… But first, I'm working on teaching him how to act out the part where they say '...turned around and gave that big booty a smack.'
Wouldn't that just be precious?
In other, non-child-related news, I’ve been working on a long post about our trip to the National Stationery Show in NYC. I’m hoping to squeeze a little free time later this evening and get everyone updated.
Also, be sure to check the main site tomorrow morning. I've designed a brand-new bunch of cards just in time for Summer.
New York is a rather awe-inspiring city and sometimes it amazes me how different ways of life evolve in different places in the world.
For example, the pre-emptive honk was something that I've only ever encountered in New York and always struck me as terribly efficient. The cabbies don't wait to find out if you're gonna be asleep on the green. They honk *before* the light turns green, just to make sure you're alert enough to go on the green when it comes.
I love that.
We were awfully lucky that a similar phenomenon doesn't take place on the sidewalks. Carol has four weeks to go before the kid gets a brother, and walking posed a bit of a challenge. And I'm not sure if you've met many women with four weeks to go, but I think if anyone were to honk at her, they would probably end up dead. Or with urine on their shoes. Either or.
I now know what "ambling" is.
But pregnancy didn't make the whole trip slow. Don't ask Carol about the $163 ticket she got in Pennsylvania.
Carol's been telling me about something called "elimination communication". Basically, it's when you take the diaper off the kid, let him run around naked, and watch for the times he goes to the bathroom. It's supposed to help with potty training.
I'm not sure if "communication" is necessarily the right word.
It seems kind of messy, so I'm trying to convince her to wait until summer when we can put him outside. Pee freely, nekkid nature boy, pee freely.
I already have an area all set for him. I killed the patch of grass last year and have the seed put down, so the lawn will be fresh and new and pristine. I figure my neighbor's dog always goes for my nicest area, so outdoor poopers must have a thing for good turf.
As I was laying down the new seed, I thought maybe it would be nice if I put up a little fence to keep him safe. Then the bigger picture flashed before me, and I realized that a naked 2 year old crapping in a fenced-in pen might draw some unwanted attention and social worker visits.
Accordingly, that corkscrew anchor thingie with a leash would probably be out of the question too.
I first started really smoking when I was 15. Sure there was that time I was 7, but I don't think it counts unless you're buying your own.
But by 15, I was nicely settled into my routine and probably up to a pretty consistent half-pack a day. I never really strayed from that half-pack limit; it's about one an hour, except work times, and it's always kind of worked out for me.
"They" always say that you'll quit when you need to. Or when you have the proper motivation. For me, it was the kid. It got to the point where I couldn't possibly feel more ghetto than putting the baby in front of the TV so that I could sneak out for a smoke. So I quit. Used the patch. Worked like a charm.
I still miss it like crazy though. Especially on a day like today. Stressful work, beautiful weather, 20 minute uninterrupted drive home. But I know I shouldn't go back.
So I made a deal with Carol. On my 75th birthday, I'm buying a carton and having the time of my life. Get me an extra large from Dunkin' Donuts and an ashtray and stand back.
Carol says if that's the case, then she's gonna buy herself pounds of Ghirardelli and join in on the festivities.
We have several greeting cards that have been in dire need of a facelift. Since I've been feeling inspired as of late, I got my ass in gear and set to redesigning. The trend seems to be following stripes and damask these days (this also happens to be a favorite combination of mine):
We're also gearing up for the National Stationery Show in May. Unfortunately, we won't be exhibiting (insert hysterical sobbing here). We made this decision based on the fact that I'll be about 9-months-pregnant when the show comes. I'm not sure if the world is ready for this scenario:
Me: Hi! Welcome to my fantastically designed booth. Can I show you some of my work?
Them: Ummm, no, thank you. I'm just looking.
Me: What? You *don't want* to see my stationery line? (the tears start to flow right about now) What the hell is wrong with you? I worked hard to get here! I'm tired, huge, and I neeeeeed you to tell me I'm pretty, dammit. (and now the anger)Look. At. My. Line. Before. I. Kill. You.
On Sunday, March 30th, I'll write down all of the commenters on teeny, tiny bits of paper and record a video of the kiddo drawing a name out of a hat. If you're picked, you win! How easy is that? And I'm not even asking you to tell me your life story or anything. It really is win-win. For you.... and for me.
Is this nutty? A little. Is this also a way for me to keep my 19-month-old busy before 'night-night-time'? Absolutely.
The kid just went and got his hair cut at one of those fancy shmancy places with planes and cars and horses.
Carol: Hey look, they do streaks and tips here. Whaddya think if we get him some streaks and tips?
Me: I think he'd look like a gay George Takei.
Carol: But George Takei already *is* gay.
Me: I know.
Carol: Imagine if the next one came out blonde?
Me: Um. I think I'd be asking for a DNA test.
Carol: Shut up. If I just gave birth, and you asked for a DNA test, I'd never talk to you again.
Me: Um. If you give birth to a blonde baby, I'm not sure if you'd have to worry about talking to me again. I figure, at that point I'd have as good a chance as George Takei of being the father.
They once did a study on whether or not your name would have any determining factor on who you became.
I have a friend who's always joked about naming a son "Sue". He said it would build character and probably toughen up the kid because of all the fights he would end up getting into. And I wonder. Being a boy named "Sue" has to have *some* effect. Maybe it *would* make you tougher. Or at least have a better sense of humor.
Or maybe it would just make you hate your dad.
Most of us don't get to pick our own names, but in this digital age we get to pick our screen presences. And I'd love to see a study on how these names reflect our personalities. Because they are *chosen* by us. There *must* be a correlation. Even if you take the "Susan64782" that AOL gave you because you're so damn unimaginative, it still says something about you.
And these days, our screen names can be used almost as often as our real names. Yesterday I was watching the news and they were going through viewer's email comments. There was one very serious comment signed off by "BigGurlzWitBrowneez".
Sometimes you come across something which is the world's biggest revelation to you. But it sucks when it appears that everyone else in the world has always known.
The other day the kid spins some toy which kickstarts a melody. It's the ABC song, so I start to sing along. I'm up to Q, when Carol walks in singing, "Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky."
Dramatic pause.
They're the same song! "ABC" and "Twinkle, Twinkle" are the same song!
I feel like I'm at the end of "The Crying Game" all over again.
We're having a clearance sale on a boxed set of notecards. 13 for $13!
Greetings include:
You're a special kind of crazy Jesus loves you... but I hear He's not picky. You know you can't return it, right? Welcome to reality. Here's your shovel. It's a good thing you're pretty Someday, I hope to be as good as you think you are. Sometimes I love you. Sometimes. Jackass When I found out, the fourth person I thought of was you. Your probation officer must be so proud. There's no 'I' in 'you're a moron'. Why can't you be more like your sister. I admire your low standards.
I've been blessed with a condition known as "finger-toes". These are long, extra-dexterous toes capable of picking up small objects, dialing phones, minor watch repair, etc. It was something my dad had, and wasn't shy about using.
The worst thing my dad used to do was pinch us with his toes. The one thing about finger-toes is that they have the strength of like 8 fingers. (Two hands!) As the old joke goes, "Finger-toes are like regular fingers all hopped up on coke."
But it wasn't just the strength. Your dad's toes are a pretty gross thing to start off with when you're 10. And to top things off, he had a bit of a fungal infection that made his toenails look like cornchips. So you'd be doing something you're not supposed to be doing, keeping an eye on the upper half of your parents, and out of nowhere toes would come and assail you. It was almost like they were a separate entity. The top half is casually reading a paper, and the bottom half is like a swarm of punishing lobsters.
I have vowed to use my finger toes only for good, not evil. Picking up cheerios, passing toys, soft caresses when the kid hurts himself.
The kid is showing some mad skillz as well. As often as not, when he drops something, he goes for it with his feet before using his hands.
But there's a bit of the dark side in him. With unclipped nails, he's more like a swarm of snapping turtles. Pinchy to pinchy in three generations.
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