Skip to main content

Post Cards


 

Post card # 1

Idyllic beach at sunset

Dear Florence

Picked this card up years ago in Aruba, back in days of travel and cursive writing. I’ve decided to return to those days. Not the travel but handwritten, thoughtful discourse. I’ve tried email, but my laptop is far too slow to keep up with my brain and I, apparently, am too slow to keep up with stupid updates, the last one included switching the locations of the ‘reply’ and ‘reply all’ options, with catastrophic results. Now everyone subscribing to the Button Collection News knows that I am unhappy with the latest edition. 247 of them emailed me personally to let me know that they are unhappy with me, not the least of which because … 


Postcard #2

A cat with a smug expression  

Dear Florence

Well not enough space here to explain my problem with the Button Collection News nor its rude readers. I suppose it also explains why I never got the hang of tweeting or twatting or whatever it is that Bryson uses. He spews his thoughts in short word bursts to everyone but his mother. I tried texting him, but auto correct changed my suggestion of a chat with his father to dick suck his reliance on social media and now suddenly I’m the laughingstock of the twitworld.  And speaking of laughing, did you know …

 

Post card #3

Bold Comic Sans font: “This pandemic has me missing people I don’t even like.”

Dear Florence

I LOLed Bryson when informed me – by text for crying out loud – of his divorce. Insisted it did not mean lots of love, but it gave his 5,000 ‘followers’ plenty to LOL about. Well, I was mortified so I sent him a note on messenger because it’s the only place I know how to include those picture emotey thingys. I showered him with Hershey’s kisses. Wrong again. Bryson did say those brown piles of not-chocolate were emblematic of his marriage. Then he dropped a huge bombshell, he’s about to …

 

Post Card #4

A miniature bride and groom atop an intricately decorated wedding cake.

Dear Florence

Bryson is engaged!  He did a zoom thing so his father and I could meet the woman, but my laptop died and took its sweet time reboosting. My tablet was at 30%, I couldn’t find the Brady Bunch view, and, no matter where I held it, I couldn’t hide my boobs, bra-less and resting on my knees. I turned the tablet off, but it kept zooming, anyway creating a horrible screeching noise when the laptop finally reboosted. Bryson tried to mute me, but I was trying at the same time. We kept cancelling each other but not the noise. I grabbed the tablet, raced to the bedroom, and hid it under pillow forgetting that everyone could see that I was sans pants as well as foundational garments. So, THEN Bryson says …

 

Post Card #5

Two chocolate Easter bunnies. One with tail bitten off says “My ass hurts.” The second one, missing ears, says “What?”

Dear Florence 

I’ve been kicked out of Button Collectors Canada and banned from my own son’s wedding! They’re going to hold it over zoom for her relatives overseas, but they don’t want me logging on. I texted Bryson’s father to plead my case, but he told me there was nothing to dick suck!.

So I’m off technology and will spend my days Wordling in my knickers.

Wish you were here.

 

Post Cards 6 – 10

Canada post insignia

Dear Sender

No such person at this address.


**Note, photo credit to Bale Guy Greetings. (Thank you it was a great card!)

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In the Manger with Jesus

  Young children have a hard time understanding complex ideas and things they can’t see. This is why they say the darndest things as adults struggle to explain concepts like God, death, and the small microbes that live on their grubby little fingers which they should wash before supper. My nephew, we’ll call him Sebastien, was four years old when my father passed away. Dad had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and while he had trouble breathing and didn't have much energy, he always had time to read a story or share some red grapes with Sebastien. There were lots of naps in the big easy chair with Grampa. When Dad got sicker, the chair was moved out of the front room to make way for a hospital bed. Dad died on December 24, 2009, as my brother and I held his hands and my mother stroked his face.   At Sebastien’s house, his mother struggled to explain what had happened. Why there would be no more naps, stories or grapes with Grampa. “His get-better-bed didn’t work,” s...
9 comments
Read more

Life with Neville

  Neville and I exist in a drafty, clapboard house at the end of a gravel road. We don’t see much of the neighbours. It’s conversation-worthy if a car goes by or, more likely, turns in our lane to avoid the dead end ahead. Neville mostly does his own thing and, especially in the winter, I rarely see another human being outside of the monthly trip to town. The view from every window is white and devoid of beauty.   The interior landscape is just as bleak. I dust, mop and wipe, yet see only a film of gray blanketing my home. Neville and I sleep in the same bed and eat our meals together, but the deeper connection we once had has now also accumulated a hazy grey-white patina. He used to gaze lovingly into my eyes, sit cuddling close, and pay attention to whatever I was doing, angling for my attention. Now Neville looks at me when supper is late. In lieu of meaningful looks, caresses or conversation, I tell him to do the thing he’s already doing. It gives me the illusion that he...
2 comments
Read more

Red

  Mother summons me to her office on Monday morning to scold me and  I’m transported back in time. I’m five years old. Her red pinched lips are shouting and her red-tipped finger is wagging at me. You horrible bad girl, where is Mother’s sweater? What did you do with it?   I’d taken it to bed with me, to feel something soft that smelled like her mix of menthol cigarettes and Chanel Number Five.   While she and the rest of the family were skiing in Mount Tremblant, I’d explored our big empty house, including Mother’s walk-in closet. The sweater, cashmere, lay crumpled on the floor. I hid there, amongst her clothes, shoes, purses and scarves, missing my family – my father who was rarely home but smiled and sometimes told me stories; my boisterous teenage brothers, who were rarely home but sometimes played games with me; and my mother who was always home and whom I tried so very hard to emulate and please. I hid the sweater under a pillow in my frilly pink bedroom. Rosi...
Post a Comment
Read more