Greeting Card Obsession

Squibknocket Cards: Brilliantly simple, wonderfully cute and memorably funny, but unfortunately no longer being made.

Another card, under Apologies, reads like this:

You Can't Squeeze The Toothpaste...

back into the tube.

What's said was said, and I deeply regret many of the things that came out of my mouth. Especially the part where I said you were only the second generation in your family to walk upright. Or wait, maybe that was another argument. Anyway, the point is that I was wrong. And I do apologize. I really don't much like being at odds with you.

This is a strange little thing to dwell on and I know this, but I think it might be because I thought I could easily get more and when I couldn't... well, obsess much? At first, I figured I couldn't find them because I wasn't trying hard enough. You can find anything on the web nowadays, right?

Surprisingly, I did find a few and a nice little update from the maker himself.

10/25/2007 Lane F. says: Sincere apologies for the winnowing supply of Squibnocket Cards. I've been a bit occupied over the past two years with a couple kids and an unexpected return to the advertising/design world. However, I'm not one to stand in the way of those who are Holy Grailing after a particular card. So if you were to let me know what card(s) you wanted, I suspect I could help you out. Send me an email at: lane.foard@mac.com. Oh, and thanks for doing your part to help further the Squibnocket Revolution there in your part of the world. -LANE FOARD, Squibnocket

The Seven Deadly Virginia Slims

The Seven Deadly Virginia Slims

1.
“He who angers you conquers you.”

~ Elizabeth Kenny ~

I reached for my pack of cigarettes because when someone says, "we need to talk," you know it's going to be rough. Shane Holiday took my hand and dramatically led me out onto his balcony; the clatter of partiers humming inside was shushed by the closing of the sliding glass door. And then he dropped the news as I was inhaling.

"Your boyfriend Tate, is nailing Renee?" He stated bluntly and I coughed a cloud of smoke.

It was early in the party and I didn't want to be dealing with this.

"Renee Mallory? Chad’s ex?" I inquired and my face was getting hot. I could feel the intense rhythm of my heartbeat rattling through my veins and pounding in my chest.

Shane was motioning yes, in slow exaggerated nods.

"That bitch!" I continued. Cigarette still in hand, I turned on my heals and headed straight through the party. My target, Renee.

I abrasively grabbed her arm and jerked her towards me, not hard enough to really move her, but enough to throw her balance off and gain her attention. I unleashed my wrath, like gunfire and her face said she was guilty before her mouth did.

"I'm so sorry," she said in a calming tone, in a way that was more aimed at soothing me rather than out of genuine regret. "-But this isn't the time or place to discuss this. Perhaps we should take this to a more private location."

"I could care less if this conversation is private or not. I can give a fuck if you're embarrassed or not. You're a tramp, everyone knows it so I don't care how this conversation makes you look or feel."

The room fell silent and heads turned.

"Look, I said I was sorry." She repeated.

"Oh, ok... you apologized. Well, I guess that makes it all better then?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything." My voice was becoming more intense as the minutes rolled on. "I know you're not sorry and you saying it, just pisses me off more. If you were truly sorry, you wouldn't keep nailing all the guys in our school and fucking up every relationship."

"Stop yelling at me! I'm not your boyfriend, I'm not the one that's committed anything to you, and I don't owe you anything." Her face was red and her words came out in a flustered, face-paced tone, "Why don't you go yell at him?"

Renee gave a smirk and shrugged as if to say, "I can't help it if the men prefer me to their girlfriends." She didn't have to say it; it was all over her face.

"Yea, keep smiling Renee. You think you have one over on every girl, but I know the real deal; you're not good enough to have a guy longer than one night. You are nothing."

She stopped smiling.

I wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt me, so I continued to verbally hit below the belt.

"Keep whoring yourself around to make yourself feel needed, Renee -" and with that she balled up her fist and aimed it right at my face.

I guess being the victim in this situation becomes null and void, when you become the aggressor. When you verbally take an aim-shot at someone's ego and self worth, you shouldn’t be surprised when the fight becomes physical, but I was surprised.

2.

“There are some circles in America

where it seems to be more socially acceptable to carry a hand-gun

than a packet of cigarettes.”

~ Katharine Whitehorn ~

It happened so fast that I couldn't remember the details. The next thing I remembered was sitting in the bathroom with Shane holding a bag of frozen vegetables over one eye and Rude Boy, dressing a cigarette burn on my forehead.

"Honey, you really should learn to keep the cigarettes away from your face when someone’s about to punch you." Shane suggested.

"I forgot I even had the damned thing in my hand and I didn't know that bitch was going to start swinging."

"She knocked you out in one punch, ran through the party and started whaling on Tate. I guess she thought he was the one that told you. She was so bent out about you confronting her in front of... well, damned near the whole school. Three people had to pull her off of him. It was the best fight I've seen since those two cheerleaders went at it a year ago."

Chad stopped talking to let his mind replay that cheerleader visual for a minute and then focused his attention back onto me.

"Lets go get something to take the edge off, something a little stronger than the Miller Lite they have here." And when Chad says "something a little stronger," he means whiskey.

"Hey!" Shane scoffed, body stance switching flamboyantly to the I'm a little Tea Pot, position. "And what's wrong with Miller Lite Mister?"

"Nothing Shane, Miller is fuckin' fabulous." Chad scoffed shaking his head.

"Ok that sounds great, Mr. Jobless, but I'm low on the cash flow and can't afford stronger, right now."

"I've got it covered." Chad assured.

"What does that mean?"

"Lets just say that people don't pay attention to their purses when fists are being thrown, especially if they're the ones throwing them. Some greedy little fucker helped himself to something that wasn't his." He said, pulling a wad of money out of his pocket and then reached back in his back pocket for more, "And whattya' know, she also smokes Virginia Slims." He continued, waiving the slender box of cigarettes.

"You're bad... but far be it from me to judge others for their wrong doings. Besides, that cow nailed my boyfriend and made me burn my face, she owes me a drink." I finished, lighting up one of Renee's cigarettes.

"Hey," Shane grabbed the lit cigarette out of my mouth and flicked it into the toilet. "No smoking in my bathroom!"

3.
“The jealous are troublesome to others, but a torment to themselves.”
~William Penn ~

We surfaced out of the bathroom and walked through the party, in search of the stealthiest exit. My gaze lingered across the room and caught a glimpse of Renee, being calmed by a crowd of men. Even though she was my target for the evening, I wasn't as mad at her as I was at Tate.

She was right, she didn't owe me anything; she wasn't the one in the relationship with me. I was more envious than anything. Jealous that she seems to get the attention from men, that I wished I could have. Jealous of the fact that she could break through the bond that I thought Tate and I had, even if it was just on a physical level instead of a mental level. I guess boys aren't really capable of such connections, especially when being presented with such tempting, lustful offers.

4.
“Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds.”
~ George Santayana ~

The next morning I awoke with anxiety already consuming me. And it wasn't just because of the news, it was everything; my public display of hate and humiliation, my gluttonous consumption of cigarettes and whiskey, my regrets.

By the time Chad pealed himself off of the spot where he had passed out (the kitchen floor), I had reached the lowest point. I was slothfully sitting Indian style in the middle of the living room, crying with an unlit cigarette dangling between my lips. Not just any cry, the kind you had when you were a child. Deep heavy sobs that causes your body to jerk back when you inhale and every now and again, you choke on your own spit. The kind that reduces your ability to talk down to a broken one - word - per - deep - breath type of speech.

Unsure of what to do with me, Chad stepped lightly, sat quietly next to me, pat me on my back and eventually gave me a confused "there, there, now."

I sucked up my tears and swallowed my sorrows away, enough to try and hold a conversation. No one wants an audience to their pity-party.

"I just feel heavy and regretful." I slurred through deep breaths as Chad removed the soggy cigarette that had set up camp between my lips. He reached for a new one from the pack and scrambled around for a lighter.

"You've just reached Dante's fifth circle, girl. You're under water."

"Drowning." and when I finally composed myself, I continued. "I can do the math. Shouldn't Karma have kept me from getting my ass handed to me by that heifer?"

"I think your attack negates due Karma."

Just as Chad found a lighter to light the cigarette with, we were interrupted by the sound of a car rolling up to the front of our house. Chad and I glanced at each other and simultaneously stood up to view the world outside of the living room window. That car looked familiar. It looked like the real confrontation was about to happen and an inevitable end of a relationship.

"I guess it's time for the talk, whether I'm ready for it or not" I stated to Chad with a sigh as I watched Tate's car door swing open.

"Hey," Chad called my attention back as he popped the cigarette in his mouth. He lit his and tossed me the pack and the lighter. "Don't take his shit, you don't need him. You're better than both of them, remember that."

Chad drew an imaginary heart in the air with his index fingers, framing my face in it.

I smiled a weak smile and nodded.

5.
“We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.”
~ Anaïs Nin ~

Out on the front porch, I told it like it was. There was no buying of his bullshit, no acceptance of his apologies, no taking him back.

"I just want to explain. I don't think you realize how much you mean to me. It was a mistake and the situation is not like you think it is -" Tate tried to explain, words stumbling over his thoughts. I can only presume that he was hoping to talk his way out of this one.

"You hooked up with some other girl while I was wearing your promise ring. The situation is exactly like I think it is. That's all the details I need to know. There's nothing more to explain and there's nothing that you can say that will make this ok."

"I just want to, uhm -" There was an eternity of silence as I stood and watched him struggle to find some other words to rectify the situation. " I'm sorry."

"You are sorry. Sorry and stupid." I removed his ring and tossed it on the ground in front of him. "You'll be even more sorry when you realize that you just fucked up the best thing you'll ever have."

And with that I turned, lit my last cigarette from the pack and walked back into the house. Even though I didn't fully believe it myself, I didn't want him to leave thinking that he got the better of me. It was the only piece of pride I had left.

Shattered in my hands

I'm a clumsy girl. On a normal day, you may find me stumbling over my own feet and then promptly scanning every direction to make sure no one saw me. I also may trip over words, drop items or slam unsuspecting body parts into doors. My fingers, hands, arms or feet carry the purplish blue battle wounds often.

This past week was rough and gravity was testing me. A few stumbles here and there, some dropped trinkets, followed by a miss aim of the doorway. I'm pretty sure the tall glass window next to the sliding glass door still has my face print on it.

Now mind you, the majority of these are sober moments. I don't fall this much when I'm intoxicated. Odd, I know.

So, the climax of the week was Sunday, when I was trying to take some dainty wine glasses back to their home on the wine shelf. Again, I was sober when this took place. Really, It's a short walk from the sink to the wine shelf and about two steps in, a glass begins to slip from my hand. I tried to make a quick gesture to prevent a tumble and when I did, the bulbous ends of the glasses met and shattered. They shattered in my hands.

It was a few cuts and stabs, nothing a couple of glow-in-the-dark Casper band-aids couldn't handle. Nothing to really complain about, but I'm excellent at complaining, even about minor boo-boos.

The walls are not very tall at all, my friend

The walls are not very tall and I can hear you.

Yes, I can hear you, you little potty-mouthed rooster. Fuck-a-doodle-doing from your cubicle at six in the a.m., almost daily.

It's a bit early and somewhat inappropriate for your dive-bar type of language. Your "Fuck this bitch," desktop cocktail with a "Sonofabitch," chaser.

My office is a typical Corporate American office. Grey fabric walls snapped together like Lego’s, placing desks back-to-back and side-by-side. The walls are tall enough to make you feel like you're in your own office, until someone walks by. If you are one of the lucky ones, who's cubicle resides in an area where there is minimal traffic, you can almost forget that other people are here. My cube is situated in one of those areas. I can see two other co-workers from my cubicle, but I'd have to turn around to do that. The other two co-workers can only be seen if I stand up. I rarely ever turn around or stand up, so I forget that they are there. I forget, until they make noise.

It's six a.m. and our system goes down, followed by a deep, elongated sigh and then foul language from the man sitting behind me. Mind you, our system goes down daily, so I can feel his frustration. Usually, he takes the words right out of my head, but I had always thought it was in bad taste to use such language in the workplace.

"We can hear you," grumbles the girl directly behind me, sharing the wall next to his.

"I'm sure you can, but this fucking thing never works!" Was his reply.

"I know you're frustrated, but try using your big boy words." I add to the conversation. He brushes me off with a wave of his had, without ever turning around.

Don't get me wrong I'm not offended. I've been known to throw a few colorful four-letter words around, but I do it outside of the office. Mostly in my car.

So, when did it become acceptable for corporate America to use curse words? Now, I'm not talking about curse words being exchanged in conversation between friends on break-time and it's not just this guy that sits behind me, it's being used in general work conversations on the floor. Outside of this small area that I sit in, I've heard others drop an S-bomb here or there and someone referred to themselves as a bitch during a meeting.

Did I just happen to get the most relaxed office in the world or do other offices work this way? I mean, why bother having us dress up and look uncomfortably professional, if we're going to talk as if we're waiting for our rounds at the bar.

Speak first, no time for thinking

Happiness is a warm cup, read the words on my coffee cup sleeve.

"Happiness is a warm cup, indeed," I agreed, out-loud.

"Pardon?" A quiet voice questioned over the gray, fabric, cubicle wall. Sometimes I forget that my desk doesn't have real walls.

"Oh, sorry, I was talking to my coffee." I said before thinking about how it would sound.

I tend to do this a lot. Speak first, think later. No harm has come of it yet, just minor embarrassing moments. Like, answering yes to my waiter when he asks "Soup or Salad?" After some thought my face flushes red as I realize there is no Super Salad, just my vague answer to a either or question.

Then there are the random moments where I plan to say one simple sentence and somehow the words get fused together. "Hey, same here," fumbles out of my mouth as “Hey'smear." There's no smooth way to play off an incoherent word jumble of a sentence. You just back that jumble train up and say it again, clearly, then wait for your friends to stop laughing at you.

Let us not forget the best of all: this bad little habit I have of repeating what I though I heard someone say, no matter how much it doesn't make sense.

Case in point.

I arrived at my friends’ apartment and she was on the phone, in the middle of what seemed to be an intense conversation. She motioned for me to come in and suddenly directed me to a jar of candy that she had sitting on her kitchen counter. Then she left the room.

I'm a bit of a sugar-junkie and knowing this, my friend kept a jar of candy in her apartment that she'd often use to lure me over, or in this case, keep me entertained while she was busy. I grabbed the jar and created a carpet-picnic of Smarties and Gobstoppers on her living-room floor.

Let me tell you, this was no brief conversation. She eventually ended the phone call and walked into the living room to find me sitting Indian-style, jar of candy tucked up against my body and a flock of candy wrappers circling my body.

"Christ-Almighty!" She exclaimed. She underestimated what I can do with a jar of candy in a matter of an hour.

"Crystal Nightie?" It didn't make sense, but I asked for clarification anyways.

"Crystal Nightie? What does that even mean? I said Christ-Almighty, you dork!" She said with a laugh.

We moved on past the incident, but "Crystal Nightie," still gets used in jest from time to time. That and the slew of other phrases I've blurted out, without thinking about how it sounded first.

I was starting to feel alone in this, because I am that one friend you know that does this. However, I was listening to the comedian Brian Regan, who had much to say about similar moments and felt the need to share:

A Fraction of Myself: Beginning from an End

A Fraction of Myself:
I once heard someone ask that if we are reincarnate souls and we have 10x's the population we did centuries ago, where did all these souls come from? Had they just been waiting for their day or is it set up that every time we die only half of ourselves are able to come back, where the other half is recycled into a new human spirit? Am I only a fraction of the person I used to be eons ago... 1/16th of my spiritual possibility, having random encounters with pieces of myself through the eyes of my friends and family?

Beginning from an End:
We've got curves, we've got swerves in all different kinds of places
Like, the curves of our hips or the swerves shadowing our faces
Or how the spaces of my paces, one foot in front of the other
swerves my hips like a tree in the wind, from one side to another.

When . . .
my mother would cover my eyes she'd say,
"Our beauty mirrors the earth,"
from the smile in her sunrise, to the cries of each birth
and the worth of the world is weighed in each and every creation
to recycle life and add exuberance from her imagination

You see . . .
reincarnation, in my interpretation, is a Beginning from an End
and every time you come back your spirit will transcend,
descending history, bending centuries as our dreams links and traces
mind straining for higher gnosis to fill gaps and spaces
each face maps and places souls we've met and where we've been
from the familiar axis of each feature to the symmetry of each grin

Now . . .
within the final moments, as my eyes begin to close
the positions of my lifelines shift and juxtapose
the present day self transposes with the past
the day has seen the dawn of my lessons and I exhale at last.

Dogism

Rude Boy says so much cool shit and so much bullshit, that sometimes it's hard to decipher between the two. Oh, and he's a clever one with all his ism's and quips but now, right now the snarkiness in his tone was quickly modified into sullen seriousness.

"I've given up on trying to win her back." He said, throwing down the PlayStation controller.

"What?" I was only halfway listening. He was distracted, so I used this moment to put his Soul Calibur character into a head-lock position.

This was about seven months after his split from Renee Mallory, "the one," and the realization that he couldn't charm her back into his life had just sunk in. Frankly, every one to him was "the one," until he got bored with them. In my opinion, his efforts were intensified with Renee because she was smart and she bailed on him before he could say they were done.

"I'm winning." I stated, as his character's health bar reached it's end.

"I don't care. I'm talking about Renee," he explained, "I've given up on trying to date her again."

"Oh?"

"My new plan is to ruin her life."

"That's your new pan? Revenge?" I said, finally pausing the game and turning my gaze away from the TV screen.

"Yes."

"You've put in over a half of a year worth of effort, trying to get her back and now you're just giving up?"

"It's not giving up, it's simply revising my plan. I can't win with her. We were kinda' hooking up even though she dropped me and believe me, I was cool with that set up, but now all of a sudden she has an issue with that. She's not really returning my phone calls. She doesn't want anything to do with me."

"It sounds like she found someone else." I could tell that he didn't want to hear that, but I continued talking as I took the game from its unpaused state. "So, instead of finding a new girl and moving on, like you should do, you'd rather waste more time with Renee just so you could try to make her feel bad?"

"Yes. Dogism." He picked his controller back up and re-affixed his attention onto his flailing computerized ninja.

"Dogism? I'm not familiar with this one, please explain."

"If you can't eat it or fuck it . . . piss all over it. That's Dogism."