Are non-Western cultures conversations peppered with trite, colloquial sayings?
Like, in Kapushi, Zambia (population: 26 people per mile) — does one friend say to another (in Kaonde) upon receiving news that their baby was trampled by antelope, “Everything happens for a reason”?
These condensed and optimistic phrases are woven into our chats and unless you are a hermit or deaf, we are all guaranteed to hear at least one per day.
Sometimes a man’s manliness must be recognized. Manly is a term often reserved for a lumberjack, firefighter, or bounty-hunter. A narrow and unfortunate caricature. Why not a goatherd? Or glass-blower? Or gemologist?
Anyman* that strides confidently into their chosen arena (office, field, arcade, classroom, rubber raft, bowling alley, butcher shop, grist mill) and owns it is, in my opinion, a beast.
Give them this small token: (They will grunt, nod, excuse themselves, and go into the bathroom to shed a single tear.)
*Did I make that up?
I’m talking about leap day. Don’t even bother trying to explain it to me, I don’t actually care. The important thing is that I milked one more day out of this prudish month.
Zeichen Press would be nothing without self-imposed deadlines (and cake) and our card-release was set for March 1.
It was a real pressure-cooker situation around here — and because I don’t have enough intensity in my life, I locked myself in the linen closet and reenacted Apollo 13’s return journey. Just me, my laptop, both cats, and toilet paper tubes. We got home safely, God Bless America.
Anyway, we can thank the ground crew (Kim & Fred) for jury-rigging up product photos:
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.
The Epilepsy Foundation needed a new look for their fleet of trucks and The Carney Group contacted me (via telepathy) to see if my brain was available to think of ideas. I’m not just a brain. Geez.
I rescheduled my ice-pick lobotomy and put on my thinking cap.
What if the trucks were bright red and had big white letters with a line like, THIS TRUCK CONTAINS TWO TONS OF HOPE??
Yes?
Okay.
Do I have to write the script myself? The script that tells the tale of an experiment gone horribly wrong — a pharmaceutical company hot on the heals of developing a drug that ends all pain and suffering forever??
The drug, nicknamed “Bozo” does so well in animal testing… So well, in fact, it is released to the general population of prison inmates.
Death row no longer feels like a death sentence, cold concrete cells feel like a day spa, “relationships” feel special.
Until… The unexpected “side effects” begin to develop… Oh, it’s too sick. Just imagine a zombie movie but replace the zombies with clowns.
Here’s a birthday card:
Who’s the fairest one of all?
There is SO much happening around here! First, I had to bait a squirrel trap
to catch the Kitchen-Squirrel. I was going to fill the trap with my kitchen garbage (her favorite) but I decided to go for something more bourgeois: Skippy Peanut Butter.
And then there was a serious decision to make: Which card would Paper Source like more?
I hope we chose wisely because one of our lives (Jen’s) is on the line.
Oh, and I didn’t forget that it is Valentine’s Day today, I am very romantic. Here is proof:
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:
In the belly of the Good Ship Whistlesnot sat two strangers — one called Captain Fatchtinkle and the other, Timtim Lipskin.
They chatted like two gentlemen between rounds of whiskey-pong and Password and it wasn’t long before discovering they shared a passion for shuffleboard.
A friendship was born!
(To be continued…)
Hello.
My name is Pevenshire Wiffynuts and I’m here today to talk about targeting your demographic. Whether you are marketing adult diapers, cowboy hats, or cemetery plots, it is critical that you understand your audience. That may mean that you have to poop in your pants, herd cows, or bury a loved one.
Don’t be afraid to do these things — they will help you effectively move product and change lives.
Wow! Thanks, Pevenshire.
I hear what you’re saying — I ripped off my mom-mask to reveal the face of an eight-year-old-boy so I could create this birthday card:
The poor peasant said it best, “even if we had only one and it were quite small, and only as big as a thumb, I should be quite satisfied, and we would still love it with all our hearts.”
If Fairy Tales were true, hedgehogs would speak and donkeys would spew gold. And poor old peasants could wish and receive tiny children.
I wrote a Fairy Tale about an old childless couple and a duck. Inspired by true events. In the story, there is a duck, a baby, and an angry mob.
But I’ve said too much!
I’ll get that published someday but MEANWHILE here is a card for the new parent — it features a disgruntled chick.
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: