Comparing my innie to her outie:
"Look Mommy, you have an uppercase and I have a small-case."
2.14.2009
2.10.2009
Pottymouth
Short Stack knows the alphabet and is learning to write it. One evening (this almost qualifies as a tantrum) she insisted that I tell her how to write the word "POOP."
It was not worth fighting.
I told her (see picture).
"Another 'a'?" she said in disbelief.
"Yes, honey, you want me to tell you how to spell 'poop,' don't you?"
I am a bad mommy.
(By the way, she wrote it boustrophedon -- the way early literate cultures did -- as the ox turns the plough. Left to right, then right to left, then left to right again.)
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2.09.2009
My First Young Widow and Her Advice
Last Sunday after service, I was introduced to a woman around my age who had just lost her husband to another cancer. It was a hallway meeting, rushed, and we scribbled e-mails and gave our two-sentence summaries. When I mentioned just having remarried, her eyebrows rose in an "mm HMMM" that I remember from meeting my first young widow.
My connection to Marie was a surprise from church and happened during Gavin's last several months. Of course, I was in a cranky e-mail conversation. In this case, I was complaining that a certain local politician, eligible for an upcoming election, was scheduled to present a sermon. I didn't like him because he was promoting the light rail that was planning to run through my porch. I knew of one serious ethics violation* and the gentleman's general dishonesty and didn't feel we should give him such a bully pulpit.
I was referred to the worship committee. After some e-mailed discussion of the issue, Marie wrote, "On another note, I don't know how you'll take this, but I want you to know that my husband died after several years fighting cancer and I had small children at the time. It's been several years, and I am doing much better now. But if you ever want to talk, about anything at all, I'm here."
Did I ever.
We had coffee in a reading nook that was multitasking while her kitchen underwent remodeling. Copper granite, her late husband's art books, and a toaster oven resting on a bookshelf next to a jar of Smucker's.
We talked about his illness, and ours. Her kids had been two and four. His death was a surprise; he had good odds after a second chemo but then broke his hip and died from complications. Yes, there had been life insurance. She had long ago abandoned grad school to stay at home and they'd moved to an area she didn't like for his job. She didn't know what to do next or who she was but she knew she had to take care of her kids. And all her friends were married with kids the same age.
She told me two things that had a huge influence on me. HUGE.
(1) Grieving can take many forms. Listen to your body. It may not be what you expect. "Ummmm... like what?" Well, for her, it had manifested as intense horniness. I laughed. Okay, if anything happens.... I guess I will just respect what my feelings and try not to be too shocked.
Almost two years later, when the wave of horniess hit me, I told her and she said, "What took you so long?" When had these feelings started for her? "Um, the next day."
(2) Wednesdays, wine, and West Wing. Marie had no identity, no direction, but some time to grieve and take care of things. What did she know about herself? "Well, I knew I liked wine. And I liked to watch the West Wing."
So every Wednesday she would put the boys to bed early, open a bottle of wine, and watch her favorite show. "Were you studying wine?" "No, it was pretty much anything. I wasn't ambitious or intellectual about it."
Somehow, for Marie this ritual dedicated to herself turned into an evening out each week, and dating and sex, but I don't remember the details too well. She was married and in grad school when we met. Now she's starting a new career that is good for her and uses her talents. Her family is pretty well settled in (and the kitchen is finished).
What I remember was how she carved something out from this tiny nook -- just a little bit of insight into one or two things she enjoyed, no matter how ordinary.
And these two bits of advice from Marie were instrumental in my journey, even though he was still alive and fighting. Of course, I knew I would need them, so I listened despite myself. Someone had been through it, and out. She'd even had choices on what steps to take.
I try to pass on Marie's wisdom whenever I can, though I'll admit I get some funny looks. Hey, we're not all Unitarians.
* In the end, he was disqualified from that election because he didn't meet the eligibility rules -- and he's, um, a lawyer. Nah, nah, I was right.
* * * Some comments * * *
My connection to Marie was a surprise from church and happened during Gavin's last several months. Of course, I was in a cranky e-mail conversation. In this case, I was complaining that a certain local politician, eligible for an upcoming election, was scheduled to present a sermon. I didn't like him because he was promoting the light rail that was planning to run through my porch. I knew of one serious ethics violation* and the gentleman's general dishonesty and didn't feel we should give him such a bully pulpit.
I was referred to the worship committee. After some e-mailed discussion of the issue, Marie wrote, "On another note, I don't know how you'll take this, but I want you to know that my husband died after several years fighting cancer and I had small children at the time. It's been several years, and I am doing much better now. But if you ever want to talk, about anything at all, I'm here."
Did I ever.
We had coffee in a reading nook that was multitasking while her kitchen underwent remodeling. Copper granite, her late husband's art books, and a toaster oven resting on a bookshelf next to a jar of Smucker's.
We talked about his illness, and ours. Her kids had been two and four. His death was a surprise; he had good odds after a second chemo but then broke his hip and died from complications. Yes, there had been life insurance. She had long ago abandoned grad school to stay at home and they'd moved to an area she didn't like for his job. She didn't know what to do next or who she was but she knew she had to take care of her kids. And all her friends were married with kids the same age.
She told me two things that had a huge influence on me. HUGE.
(1) Grieving can take many forms. Listen to your body. It may not be what you expect. "Ummmm... like what?" Well, for her, it had manifested as intense horniness. I laughed. Okay, if anything happens.... I guess I will just respect what my feelings and try not to be too shocked.
Almost two years later, when the wave of horniess hit me, I told her and she said, "What took you so long?" When had these feelings started for her? "Um, the next day."
(2) Wednesdays, wine, and West Wing. Marie had no identity, no direction, but some time to grieve and take care of things. What did she know about herself? "Well, I knew I liked wine. And I liked to watch the West Wing."
So every Wednesday she would put the boys to bed early, open a bottle of wine, and watch her favorite show. "Were you studying wine?" "No, it was pretty much anything. I wasn't ambitious or intellectual about it."
Somehow, for Marie this ritual dedicated to herself turned into an evening out each week, and dating and sex, but I don't remember the details too well. She was married and in grad school when we met. Now she's starting a new career that is good for her and uses her talents. Her family is pretty well settled in (and the kitchen is finished).
What I remember was how she carved something out from this tiny nook -- just a little bit of insight into one or two things she enjoyed, no matter how ordinary.
And these two bits of advice from Marie were instrumental in my journey, even though he was still alive and fighting. Of course, I knew I would need them, so I listened despite myself. Someone had been through it, and out. She'd even had choices on what steps to take.
I try to pass on Marie's wisdom whenever I can, though I'll admit I get some funny looks. Hey, we're not all Unitarians.
* In the end, he was disqualified from that election because he didn't meet the eligibility rules -- and he's, um, a lawyer. Nah, nah, I was right.
* * * Some comments * * *
2.08.2009
History According to the 4.5-year-old (plus Pink)
Hamish and his Mommies love Pink. He knows all the words (clean versions) and dances along. In preschool he was learning about the Civil Rights movement. Rosa Parks was told to go sit at the back of the bus. Hamish protests: "She should say to the bus driver…" (he stands with his hands on hips):
(Ugh, another full disclosure: I've been telling this story wrong for months: it was Susan B. Anthony.)
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"So what, I'm still a rock star,
I've got my rock moves, and I don't need you.
And guess what, I'm having more fun,
and now that we're done, I'm gonna show you…."
(Ugh, another full disclosure: I've been telling this story wrong for months: it was Susan B. Anthony.)
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More About that Artwork (the Zen one)
Presenting one artwork, and the detritus from the Day of the Dead performance, makes me want to present everything I wrote about that blank piece of paper, which I cut up and distributed with this note, to all the guests. Forgive the repetition from a previous post. In real life, things weave, repeat, abbreviate, rephrase, expand, as they will here.
For Gavin O'Leonard
I have very few regrets, but I do wish I had said this at Gavin’s memorial service.
Gavin always believed the meaning of his work was in the eye of the beholder. He hated writing artists’ statements and trying to explain. “That’s just what I think the work means,” he’d say. “That has nothing to do with anything!” He believed that only your eyes at a particular time can see the work and give it meaning, a highly individual meaning each time you view any piece.
And God, Gavin hated the way his work looked on slides. When you have a slide, you have a feeble reproduction, with light shining through it, of what the camera saw on that day. Light is so much brighter than white cotton. It just gets flattened by the lights given the camera, which reflect back on the surface, and then the work would get washed out from the bright light of a slide projector. He said his work looks better in person because in his technique, the light comes from inside the paper.
I saw from watching him work how well he understood every fiber of the Arches he listened to every day from 10 to 10 with breaks for lunch, dinner, the news and a few beers. While it looked pale, in Gavin’s classic work he ground the pigments of the pencils deep into the paper, punishing the cotton fibers while he made them sing. (Ask me about the “original” Smithy drawing if you don’t believe me.) The paper was another skin. That Arches 100% rag paper was his partner more than anything.
He also pointed out how in the classic O'Leonard, the source of the light is never pictured. A device from Vermeer and others, very classical.
So this what I wish I had read at the memorial service on June 25, 2006 – when we showed his “Audubon of Lamps” drawings – this quote from the Buddha, whom Gavin respected more than any other teacher:
Therefore, be ye lamps unto yourselves, be a refuge to yourselves. Hold fast to Truth as a lamp; hold fast to the truth as a refuge. Look not for a refuge in anyone beside yourselves. And those, who shall be a lamp unto themselves, shall betake themselves to no external refuge, but holding fast to the Truth as their lamp, and holding fast to the Truth as their refuge, they shall reach the topmost height.
- - - - - - (p. 2) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is a piece of the first drawing that Gavin did not start. It was hung and ready to go on the studio wall. It would have been used as the base for the fifth piece in The Mysteries, which I always considered the culmination of his life and life’s work. I only wished he had started it earlier.
(Wives!)
Please use this paper to write a note to someone you love right now, to write a note to Gavin which you can burn and thus send to him in the afterworld (if he’s in one of the seven Chinese hells still), or to make a drawing. Or just feel the cotton and remember his every day. Or all of the above.
It’s yours now.
* * * Be the first to comment * * *
For Gavin O'Leonard
I have very few regrets, but I do wish I had said this at Gavin’s memorial service.
Gavin always believed the meaning of his work was in the eye of the beholder. He hated writing artists’ statements and trying to explain. “That’s just what I think the work means,” he’d say. “That has nothing to do with anything!” He believed that only your eyes at a particular time can see the work and give it meaning, a highly individual meaning each time you view any piece.
And God, Gavin hated the way his work looked on slides. When you have a slide, you have a feeble reproduction, with light shining through it, of what the camera saw on that day. Light is so much brighter than white cotton. It just gets flattened by the lights given the camera, which reflect back on the surface, and then the work would get washed out from the bright light of a slide projector. He said his work looks better in person because in his technique, the light comes from inside the paper.
I saw from watching him work how well he understood every fiber of the Arches he listened to every day from 10 to 10 with breaks for lunch, dinner, the news and a few beers. While it looked pale, in Gavin’s classic work he ground the pigments of the pencils deep into the paper, punishing the cotton fibers while he made them sing. (Ask me about the “original” Smithy drawing if you don’t believe me.) The paper was another skin. That Arches 100% rag paper was his partner more than anything.
He also pointed out how in the classic O'Leonard, the source of the light is never pictured. A device from Vermeer and others, very classical.
So this what I wish I had read at the memorial service on June 25, 2006 – when we showed his “Audubon of Lamps” drawings – this quote from the Buddha, whom Gavin respected more than any other teacher:
Therefore, be ye lamps unto yourselves, be a refuge to yourselves. Hold fast to Truth as a lamp; hold fast to the truth as a refuge. Look not for a refuge in anyone beside yourselves. And those, who shall be a lamp unto themselves, shall betake themselves to no external refuge, but holding fast to the Truth as their lamp, and holding fast to the Truth as their refuge, they shall reach the topmost height.
- - - - - - (p. 2) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is a piece of the first drawing that Gavin did not start. It was hung and ready to go on the studio wall. It would have been used as the base for the fifth piece in The Mysteries, which I always considered the culmination of his life and life’s work. I only wished he had started it earlier.
(Wives!)
Please use this paper to write a note to someone you love right now, to write a note to Gavin which you can burn and thus send to him in the afterworld (if he’s in one of the seven Chinese hells still), or to make a drawing. Or just feel the cotton and remember his every day. Or all of the above.
It’s yours now.
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2.07.2009
Death is the Mother of Beauty.
It occurs to me how wordy I can be when there are wonderful visuals. Writing about the Days of the Dead reminded me that I have pictures of them.
802, 801, 800. The top of the ofrenda. (Left) Fertility charms from friends, hospital bracelets. (Center) Gavin’s baby sweater, birthday greetings, our rings, a sex charm I made in a sardine can. (Right) Photos, wedding invitation, more hospital bracelets.
806, 807, 808. The base of the ofrenda. (Left) Portrait of Gavin by a friend, milagro. (Center) Wooden flowers intended for our wedding, mums, painting from Oaxaca. (Right) Drawing of Gavin by a friend.
2006_Cancer Drawings. I’m not actually sure when Gavin did these, possibly in the summer of 2005, before the spine surgery. Everyone is drawn to them. I despised them on first sight. “Look, honey, I’m drawing the cancer going away.” Grrrr. It looked to me like he drew himself fading away. Losing weight, holes in his bones, mets all over, one drug after another, it still looks like prophecy.
It saddens me that people respond well to them – that he thought they would work, as part of his “visualization” routine, making it real with his eyes and his hands. And perhaps it’s contempt that makes me tell visitors how I thought these pieces foretold how he would erode and then disappear from this world. People want to buy them, I am broke but I don’t care. (Though I don't really want to keep them, either).
It’s not what he would have done, before disease, during, or now.
810. The blank piece of paper, hanging at the ready, which I cut up to make “party favors” for the 2007 Day of the Dead fire dance dedicated to Gavin.
I could talk more about how my Dad was a a photographer, and how careless I am about my history through images. I could talk about how a collective offering with Felipe Ehrenberg turned me back into an artist again, a long time ago. But for now, I’ll let the pictures do the talking.
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802, 801, 800. The top of the ofrenda. (Left) Fertility charms from friends, hospital bracelets. (Center) Gavin’s baby sweater, birthday greetings, our rings, a sex charm I made in a sardine can. (Right) Photos, wedding invitation, more hospital bracelets.
806, 807, 808. The base of the ofrenda. (Left) Portrait of Gavin by a friend, milagro. (Center) Wooden flowers intended for our wedding, mums, painting from Oaxaca. (Right) Drawing of Gavin by a friend.
2006_Cancer Drawings. I’m not actually sure when Gavin did these, possibly in the summer of 2005, before the spine surgery. Everyone is drawn to them. I despised them on first sight. “Look, honey, I’m drawing the cancer going away.” Grrrr. It looked to me like he drew himself fading away. Losing weight, holes in his bones, mets all over, one drug after another, it still looks like prophecy.
It saddens me that people respond well to them – that he thought they would work, as part of his “visualization” routine, making it real with his eyes and his hands. And perhaps it’s contempt that makes me tell visitors how I thought these pieces foretold how he would erode and then disappear from this world. People want to buy them, I am broke but I don’t care. (Though I don't really want to keep them, either).
It’s not what he would have done, before disease, during, or now.
810. The blank piece of paper, hanging at the ready, which I cut up to make “party favors” for the 2007 Day of the Dead fire dance dedicated to Gavin.
I could talk more about how my Dad was a a photographer, and how careless I am about my history through images. I could talk about how a collective offering with Felipe Ehrenberg turned me back into an artist again, a long time ago. But for now, I’ll let the pictures do the talking.
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2.03.2009
Two and a Half Years, Dozens of Anniversaries
Is it the mid-winter blahs, or real S.A.D.?
Is it that we haven't had a break, got married fast, no honeymoon, childrearing consumes all?
Is it that I overvolunteered for church stuff?
Is it that pizza I had delivered on Friday was so bad that it made me take the failing economy much, much more seriously? I mean, when you eat something, you really internalize it.
Or is it that I remember this day three years ago – my daughter's second birthday – when I had to get up super early to drive an hour to the hospital and pick up the prescriptions my dying husband had neglected to pick up?
February 1, 2006. When I came home from work, he'd been asleep for a few hours after his visit to the oncologist. Cindy had driven him there and back, and gotten a wheelchair to wheel him through the medical center. He was on Nexavar, the first miracle drug, which was sapping his energy and seemed to be stealing his breath. He could barely move without collapse. Cindy was one of his oldest friends, and she not only helped but enjoyed getting some time with him.
He was close to the end of his life, but I didn't know it, or admit it, and the drug was actually working.
After he'd woken up and eaten a few paltry bites of dinner he started to put his prescriptions away. I think there were eight that day. Three were missing – all the opiates: the patch, for a continuous low dose; and two strengths of oxycodone to supplement whether he needed a big hit or a little one. He had the tags, but not the bags, and we were down to maybe one pill.
And it was the night before our daughter's second birthday.
It was a complicated situation. He'd paid for them, and they were opiates; yes, they had them stored in the safe so it was a little complicated to pick them up, but really. If someone at the pharmacy had their eyes open they could steal them with no trouble at all by "forgetting" to put them in the bag. It would be so easy to take advantage of my sleepy 100-lb husband in his wheelchair, with his ditzy escort. Maybe it's the New Yorker in me, but I don't trust anyone, and there are some pharmacy workers who abuse their access. I had no reason to distrust these folks, but it's a large public hospital with many indigent patients in a forlorn secondary city, and I had, in the past, experienced consistent problems with another pharmacy giving me 28 pills instead of 30 for a maintenance drug. (And that had happened when I was paying out of pocket and generic was not yet available. So I really felt it.)
I was furious. I thought how much pain he'd have that night with only one pill available. I thought how lack of sleep and what minimal humor was left would hurt the next day's birthday festivities. I was the only competent adult around and the only one who could drive (opiates made him unwilling to risk driving). I had a busy day at work plus the birthday stuff. I was failing. I couldn't do it all. This, I had to.
He kept saying, "But the tags were there! Why would I think to see if the bags were full?" It was a huge handful of white bags and tags, plus receipts on top.
"See if your goddamn TAGS keep you warm at night!" I fumed.
I was going to be pissed, but I also had to act. I left a long, very anxious message for the pharmacy which was, of course, closed. And I rose early like the Groundhog to be at the hospital when the pharmacy opened. They hadn't listened to my message yet. The drugs were still in the safe and they apologized profusely.
I dropped the drugs back at the house, where Gavin was lying on the pulled-out futon (it was the middle of his two months there), told him I loved him and gave him a kiss, played with my girl, arranged dinner with my Mom, and went to the office.
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Is it that we haven't had a break, got married fast, no honeymoon, childrearing consumes all?
Is it that I overvolunteered for church stuff?
Is it that pizza I had delivered on Friday was so bad that it made me take the failing economy much, much more seriously? I mean, when you eat something, you really internalize it.
Or is it that I remember this day three years ago – my daughter's second birthday – when I had to get up super early to drive an hour to the hospital and pick up the prescriptions my dying husband had neglected to pick up?
February 1, 2006. When I came home from work, he'd been asleep for a few hours after his visit to the oncologist. Cindy had driven him there and back, and gotten a wheelchair to wheel him through the medical center. He was on Nexavar, the first miracle drug, which was sapping his energy and seemed to be stealing his breath. He could barely move without collapse. Cindy was one of his oldest friends, and she not only helped but enjoyed getting some time with him.
He was close to the end of his life, but I didn't know it, or admit it, and the drug was actually working.
After he'd woken up and eaten a few paltry bites of dinner he started to put his prescriptions away. I think there were eight that day. Three were missing – all the opiates: the patch, for a continuous low dose; and two strengths of oxycodone to supplement whether he needed a big hit or a little one. He had the tags, but not the bags, and we were down to maybe one pill.
And it was the night before our daughter's second birthday.
It was a complicated situation. He'd paid for them, and they were opiates; yes, they had them stored in the safe so it was a little complicated to pick them up, but really. If someone at the pharmacy had their eyes open they could steal them with no trouble at all by "forgetting" to put them in the bag. It would be so easy to take advantage of my sleepy 100-lb husband in his wheelchair, with his ditzy escort. Maybe it's the New Yorker in me, but I don't trust anyone, and there are some pharmacy workers who abuse their access. I had no reason to distrust these folks, but it's a large public hospital with many indigent patients in a forlorn secondary city, and I had, in the past, experienced consistent problems with another pharmacy giving me 28 pills instead of 30 for a maintenance drug. (And that had happened when I was paying out of pocket and generic was not yet available. So I really felt it.)
I was furious. I thought how much pain he'd have that night with only one pill available. I thought how lack of sleep and what minimal humor was left would hurt the next day's birthday festivities. I was the only competent adult around and the only one who could drive (opiates made him unwilling to risk driving). I had a busy day at work plus the birthday stuff. I was failing. I couldn't do it all. This, I had to.
He kept saying, "But the tags were there! Why would I think to see if the bags were full?" It was a huge handful of white bags and tags, plus receipts on top.
"See if your goddamn TAGS keep you warm at night!" I fumed.
I was going to be pissed, but I also had to act. I left a long, very anxious message for the pharmacy which was, of course, closed. And I rose early like the Groundhog to be at the hospital when the pharmacy opened. They hadn't listened to my message yet. The drugs were still in the safe and they apologized profusely.
I dropped the drugs back at the house, where Gavin was lying on the pulled-out futon (it was the middle of his two months there), told him I loved him and gave him a kiss, played with my girl, arranged dinner with my Mom, and went to the office.
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1.30.2009
Introducing My New (FREE) Product!
The Widow Card!
One night in my support group, S. said casually that he’d “left work early… I just pulled a widower card.” I thought about how often I’d done this in the months since LH died, but more about how I could make good use of some little advantage. All the handicaps I was living with… single (really, double) parenting, how impossible it was to go grocery shopping with a toddler, and how no one could see that anything was wrong. The side of me that is tempted to shoplift (but only cashmere or chocolate) was aroused.
I was always comfortable as an underachiever, but could I have some legitimate “cover” after surviving catastrophe? Something versatile? Something I could use every day?
And so the concept was born: Not as useful as a “get out of jail free” card, more powerful than a hall pass… it’s… it’s… The Widow Card!
How to create your own REAL LIFE Widow (or Widower) Cards:
1. Download the PDF
Womenfolk – Download the Widow Card Set A here (PDF)
Menfolk – Download the Widower Card Set A here (PDF)
2. Purchase Avery 5871 pre-perforated business card stock at your local office supply store.
3. Print the PDFs out on your stock. They are double sided; you’ll have to figure out how to run the paper stock through your machine twice.
Also, please note that you WILL get error messages saying you’re printing outside the print area, and so on. Just IGNORE it, and don’t let it automatically adjust the margins, or your widow cards will look a whole lot less slick.
4. Didn’t buy the special paper? No problemo. Print your Widow Cards out on heavyweight paper or card stock and cut them out by hand. The stripy border will hide mistakes if your scissors get shaky because you are laughing.
When can I use The Widow Card?
Pull The Widow Card on someone at work, at home, or in line at the grocery store… heck, take more than one, we’ve got nearly a dozen* here for you. You’ll be amazed at how often these little babies come in handy!
What good will it do me now?
Let The Widow Card simplify your life … avoid long awkward conversations (or silences) … evade minor niceties like being polite, remembering people’s names, and participating in adult society in a normal fashion.
But, dude, I’m a guy.
Chill – there are widower versions as well. Since there are seven widowed women to every widower, I think I can be forgiven for favoring the gals linguistically.
Okay, I get it. I can’t wait to start using my Widow Cards!
Slow down, cowpoke. There are three steps – well, four. Did you read the instructions yet? If not, there is one more – so that’s five. Number 0: read the instructions above! Then follow steps 1 to 4 in order.
How long can I use The Widow Card?
Use The Widow Card until it stops working.
UPDATE 06/09: Keep a couple handy. They work great around anniversaries, even years later!
But I need an excuse for something and you don’t have a Widow Card that fits!
Relax. You can send in your requests for new situations that deserve a Widow Card. Don’t like the suggestions for men? Find the women’s ones inappropriate? Your wish is my command. Let me know what you want, and I will issue a new set B, C, etc. Write to supa.dupa.fresh AT gmail.com. (I don’t promise to be prompt.)
About the design
The font is Mrs. Eaves by Zuzana Licko and published by Émigré. Of course, I thought the character Mrs. Eaves was fictional, and I’m a bit disappointed to find out she was real (or, I am delighted that this fictional character has been accepted as real, as the font and its hyperactive, sometimes shizoid ligatures have gained legitimacy).
Either way, however, Mrs. Eaves was a widow, so my point stands.
Full disclosure: In this project, I owe a significant debt to the work of conceptual artist Adrian Piper.
* Hey, that’s a new expression: widow’s dozen – ten of something. Huh!
* * * Some comments * * *
I was always comfortable as an underachiever, but could I have some legitimate “cover” after surviving catastrophe? Something versatile? Something I could use every day?
And so the concept was born: Not as useful as a “get out of jail free” card, more powerful than a hall pass… it’s… it’s… The Widow Card!
How to create your own REAL LIFE Widow (or Widower) Cards:
1. Download the PDF
Womenfolk – Download the Widow Card Set A here (PDF)
Menfolk – Download the Widower Card Set A here (PDF)
2. Purchase Avery 5871 pre-perforated business card stock at your local office supply store.
3. Print the PDFs out on your stock. They are double sided; you’ll have to figure out how to run the paper stock through your machine twice.
Also, please note that you WILL get error messages saying you’re printing outside the print area, and so on. Just IGNORE it, and don’t let it automatically adjust the margins, or your widow cards will look a whole lot less slick.
4. Didn’t buy the special paper? No problemo. Print your Widow Cards out on heavyweight paper or card stock and cut them out by hand. The stripy border will hide mistakes if your scissors get shaky because you are laughing.
When can I use The Widow Card?
Pull The Widow Card on someone at work, at home, or in line at the grocery store… heck, take more than one, we’ve got nearly a dozen* here for you. You’ll be amazed at how often these little babies come in handy!
What good will it do me now?
Let The Widow Card simplify your life … avoid long awkward conversations (or silences) … evade minor niceties like being polite, remembering people’s names, and participating in adult society in a normal fashion.
But, dude, I’m a guy.
Chill – there are widower versions as well. Since there are seven widowed women to every widower, I think I can be forgiven for favoring the gals linguistically.
Okay, I get it. I can’t wait to start using my Widow Cards!
Slow down, cowpoke. There are three steps – well, four. Did you read the instructions yet? If not, there is one more – so that’s five. Number 0: read the instructions above! Then follow steps 1 to 4 in order.
How long can I use The Widow Card?
Use The Widow Card until it stops working.
UPDATE 06/09: Keep a couple handy. They work great around anniversaries, even years later!
But I need an excuse for something and you don’t have a Widow Card that fits!
Relax. You can send in your requests for new situations that deserve a Widow Card. Don’t like the suggestions for men? Find the women’s ones inappropriate? Your wish is my command. Let me know what you want, and I will issue a new set B, C, etc. Write to supa.dupa.fresh AT gmail.com. (I don’t promise to be prompt.)
About the design
The font is Mrs. Eaves by Zuzana Licko and published by Émigré. Of course, I thought the character Mrs. Eaves was fictional, and I’m a bit disappointed to find out she was real (or, I am delighted that this fictional character has been accepted as real, as the font and its hyperactive, sometimes shizoid ligatures have gained legitimacy).
Either way, however, Mrs. Eaves was a widow, so my point stands.
Full disclosure: In this project, I owe a significant debt to the work of conceptual artist Adrian Piper.
* Hey, that’s a new expression: widow’s dozen – ten of something. Huh!
* * * Some comments * * *
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