Burying My Head in the Snail Mail Sands

Note: All products mentioned below were purchased by little ol' me, and were in no way solicited nor sponsored product placement - though if, ya know, Crane's Stationery were to come calling - please come calling! - Mama likes her paper. And handbags. Also, ponies. Um...

This article, brought to my attention by favorite Invisible Internet Friend Ouiser B, suggests that as we lead more of our lives online, many of us simultaneously grow attached to more traditional means of communication such as writing an old-fashioned note. Kinda dovetails wonderfully with that digital age netiquette stuff we talked about yesterday, eh?

Of course, many of us never abandoned pen & paper in the first place, looking for any excuse to jot a note to someone, whatever our online habits. E-reality notwithstanding, some of us still race to the mailbox every day, hoping that there's a special something from a loved one nestled amongst the dreary bills & Chico's catalogs (!)(How, HOW did I end up on your mailing list?)(Parentheses). We look forward to spending that extra minute thinking of how to word a card and carefully savor & save the ones sent to us.

I'm cheered to see the continued art of a well-written missive, whether it be the organic result of all this time we - as in, the royal We, since I'm pointing the finger squarely at myself here - spend online, or thanks to the marketing efforts of small-market stationers as that WSJ article suggests. Machiavelli & I may be on the same page (zing!) here, but the Pretty Paper ends justify the means as far as I'm concerned.

So I will continue to do my online stuff with you & try to get caught up with the Facebook announcement times but, by the powers vested in me by the State of Denial, I will continue to send things via snail mail too. Speaking of, here's what's in the outgoing Pretty postbox lately:

                                                                                Source: preppyprincess.com via Melissa on Pinterest

My notes - aggressively pink, just how I like it.

                                                                                              Source: tinyprints.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Here are Master P's notes - yes, he has them already, thankyouverymuch - and the high chair hurricane couldn't be a more suitable photo.

                                 [THIS SPACE LEFT BLANK INTENTIONALLY]

Here is where the Anonymous Husband's notes should be, except that he refuses to have his own stationery, claiming that it is - wait for it - "women's stuff". Sigh. When forced - ahem, encouraged to write thank you notes, as is mandatory with any relative of mine, he puts pen to . . . law firm paper. Guess what's coming to his Christmas stocking this year?

                                                                               Source: carolandcompany.com via Melissa on Pinterest

The best housewarming gift I've ever received; I use this Three Designing Women stamp regularly and, unlike a plant or bottle of wine, I've yet to be able to kill it.

                                                                                     Source: minted.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Try as I might not to hop on every blogger trend going, who am I to resist a calling card designed for my new Chief Executive Mom position? I've had good experiences with Minted, who designed Master P's first birthday invitations, so I'll happily be blog trendy just this once for the mere price of shipping 25 of these to me.

Here I'll remain, one foot planted firmly in the past, learning to live with those Facebook announcements & dreaming up more excuses to find Pretty paper - for the Pug? Imaginary Child #2?

Pretty, Snarky Paper

For those days when I'm pretending to be a polite member of society, I have the requisite Good Paper. You know the drill - personalized notecards with the hefty paper weight, name prominently displayed in an inoffensive font*, of the sort that haughtily whispers, "Not only am I a responsible grown-up, but I don't (usually) get kicked out of Junior League meetings either."

*I never thought a font could be offensive until the Ed Hardy phenomenon. Who knew douchebags came with their own typeface?

The other days, the ones with friends where I can drop the adult act much to their dismay, call for a different sort of Good Paper. One such friend / reader has a birthday coming up, and so, armed with some web tips from favorite bloggers & paper gurus Maggie & Kate, I've set to the interwebs to find the appropriate, non-Hallmark-y missive.

Thanks to that alternate universe of crafty goodness known as Etsy, I bring you my favorites so far, the "Bittersweet Ink" line from Spark Stationery:

Take that, generic greeting cards - and you, Ed Hardy, just because.

The (Un)Grace(ful) Experiment, Part 5

This is my weekly attempt to start things off even though it's Tuesday night already and basically mid-week on an appreciative note for the little things, with varying degrees of snark-free success.

Since I am of late cranky and feeling tired and sore and haughtily superior but not in a witty  way and insecure about the Big Grown Up decision stuff I've had to deal with and stuff and flagrantly doing the run-on sentences thing yet again and pondering my reality TV watching issues- ((deep breaths)) - frankly, I'm struggling this week to be grateful.  However, in my more Oprah, fuzzy-lighting moments, I know these are the times to struggle through - *cue the soaring movie music which tells us to start feeling pensive* - realize I am in fact very fortunate, and act like a grown-up, so . . .

1.  Upcoming visit from my active-duty little brother, despite the fact it is wholly motivated by a lurrrve interest nearby. He will deny this, which is part of why I still adore him.  

2.  Speaking of lurrve, finding my new Good Paper crush.  I know, I know - paper?  Yes - this is grace in the little things, and Good Paper certainly qualifies.  In any event, introducing the Crane Plum Blossom line:

(Credit:  Stationery Style)

I am of course referring to the notecards, and not the wedding invitation sample listed above - although whenever I do get around to marrying those other husbands Hugh Jackman, I'll definitely take this one into consideration.

3.  2 Pugs are better than one:

The HRH and temporary foster Pug enjoying a cuddle.  Love in a snorting, shedding pile.

4.  Chatting with my Twitter girls during our Oscar night snarkfest, which made the Geometry-class* long ceremony nearly bearable . . although I'd like to thank the Academy for the lingering hangover exhaustion I suffered as a result, not to mention the High School Musical nightmares.

*No offense intended for any high school math teachers out there, although I'm presuming you aren't a power crazed nerd working out his daddy issues on the class. Just a thought.

5.  This, which I happened upon today during one of my internet rambles.  In turns offensive, adolescent, ridiculous, silly, voyeuristic, and funny, it was just what I needed on my commute.

Etiquette Smackdown, Sort Of

Ladies & gentlemen, it is with regret that I must change this week's topic from other people's appalling behavior to my own.

Travelers & you former study abroad-ers in particular, please raise your hand if you've heard of the following, ahem, Theory of International Dating: once you have traveled across an international border, you are free to ignore the domestically delightful restraints of a romantic relationship in your native country.*

*It is implied that the partner left back home is to dutiful remain faithful and spend much time chastely pining for the traveling partner. Duh.

I hasten to add - I'm hastening so quickly, in fact, that I may trip over my adorable horsey boots here - that I myself never adhered to** this particular belief, as I'm sure none of you have either. I am also definitely, definitively not saying that I regret not grabbing this theory by its deliciously deceitful horns and dating that Ferragamo model during my study stint in Florence. Truly. Quiet there, you in the back.

**Nor do I now, obviously. Hello, Anonymous Husband!

Having so faithfully, ardently, ill-advisedly eschewed this line of reasoning before, I was aghast to discover this week that I've been applying my very own International Rule to . . . thank-you notes. Yes, that grandmother and Pretty-approved tradition was, until recently, apparently limited in my mind to the confines of the United States of Propriety here, as I learned upon receiving a rather lovely thank you letter from a friend currently working in Geneva.

Switzerland?!? I cried internally, upon seeing the address. Granted, Friend & I generally exchange letters & thank you notes, but . . . but . . . this means she had to go to the post office and buy fancy-pants postage and translate my address. The very thought had me diving for the pinot - not that it takes much - until I stopped to wonder where I'd come up with this odd international rule in the first place.

Why on Earth am I hung up on something like thank you notes when apparently we're all destined to lose our jobs and the economy still stinks and mysteriously hirsute now-ex-Governors are parading about the airwaves? It's the comfort of ritual, simply. When everything else appears to be threatening my cozy little world, and not in the good, boundary-expanding Oprah-fuzzy-lighting sort of way, it is a comfort to know how to act in at least one, albeit small, situation. Most importantly, it is nice to know that I can - or could, if I was willing to get up off my oh-so-comfortable couch and just go to the stupid post office already - inexpensively and quickly convey a kindness to a faraway friend in a non-computer, non-Facebook broadcasted*** manner. That's all.

***Now THERE is a topic for future discussion. Fellow Facebookers, you're on notice.

(Credit: I bring you my next thank-you notes, courtesy of the ever-correct Preppy Princess)

That isn't my actual name on the card; apparently they couldn't fit "She-Ra, Princess of Power".

So off I go to watch "Grey's Anatomy" even though it's utterly worthless now to put some notes in the domestic & international mail alike. As for Giorgio the model, we'll always have - or would have had, rather - Tuscany. Sigh.

We Pause for a Hallmark Moment

I was itching to prattle on further about Good Paper and the teeth-achingly darling notes I ordered this very day, until I recalled the tags passed along to me by some other very kind blogettes. These delightful forwards alternatively called for me to share fun facts about myself or state some things for which I'm grateful. In predictable fashion - just ask my family- I've altered the rules a bit and bring you just one thing for which I'm grateful; rigid as I am with enforcing Pretty Laws on other people, you'd be surprised how moral relativism appeals when applied to self.

Please allow me to apologize in advance for the perilously high Unicorns-and-Rainbows level of sentimentality that is to follow. Unfortch I'm going to have to bore you with a bit of a love story, which is admittedly rather nauseating and precious of me, but it simply must be done. Fasten your seatbelts, ladies . . .

Have you ever had to have one of those conversations with your significant other? The one where your stomach is churning and your hair hurts from thinking about it and if only I could make a bargain Upstairs and get out of talking about this and man now my teeth hurt too and did I forget to wear deodorant today because I'm sweating a little and did I mention how nervous I'm feeling and how I wish we were in the "Mad Men" days where I could have a dirty martini before noon so I could drown my thoughts just temporarily and maybe if I eat some more candy corns that will help and how do I talk about this with him and this is icky and where is my comfy blankie and pjs when I need them and oh God now my hands are clammy and I probably smell bad but I can't leave the office today and shoot I forgot to change the load of laundry this morning which is further proof of why I'm a bad wife and person generally and why oh why isn't vodka allowed in the office again?

(((deep, cleansing breaths)))

Just to be clear, I'm talking about news that isn't necessarily terrible - say, in the case of my own Anonymous Husband ("AH"), something like "ESPN is folding so professional sports will no longer be broadcast on television" - or even really my fault, but something that certainly isn't fun, or fits the prettily picket-fenced yard image of the tidily perfect home and life you imagine in your mind, complete with 2.5 kids and tail-wagging dog, and hope others believe in kind.

(((deep, cleansing breaths)))

So I summon my Big Girl Words - sans vodka, thankyouverymuch - and deliver the news to AH, and . . . grace. AH digests the news and immediately gives me a hug (a good one, big arms and all) and tells me things will be fine and that it isn't a big deal. And, suddenly, it isn't. I literally can breathe again and turn my tired brain to "off" and just wallow in the inexplicably kind man I have the privilege of calling my husband. (Gag, I know. Please bear with me here.)

David Sedaris, the completely genius author you should all be reading right now instead of this rubbish, wrote something about meeting his partner, and how he determined to trick this person, who he saw as more handsome, kind, intelligent, etc. than himself into liking him. Thing is, I immediately knew what he was talking about. I'm not being falsely self-deprecating or begging for compliments here, although it's entirely understandable if you think so given the usual Pretty modus operandi.

One of the few - and I mean few - fabulous things about getting older is realizing how little I know for certain. Knowing that your spouse is a much, much better person than you are, and if you're lucky, you'll get the chance to try and trick that person into liking you for the next 50 years or so, and perhaps pick up on a few of his many good traits yourself, is a tremendous thing to be certain about. And that's news of the grateful, Pretty kind to me.
************************************************************************************

If you're still with me after that schlock, please remember (if you're so inclined) to enter into my supercalifragilistic Tori Spelling giveaway. I'm almost through it myself, and what a read - the HIGH VOODOO PRIESTESS (I don't often encounter this sort of professional , so I figure she merits Caps Lock treatment) is merely one of many highlights. My BF-J, who is briefly pausing in Texas this weekend between world travels, and I will judge entries over a bottle or five of champagne in utterly non-subjective manner; the lucky winner will be announced on Monday.

Ask the Etiquette Maven - Thank You Note Edition

***Important, Special Disclaimer to Readers: The question "writers" in our etiquette columns in no way resemble actual people - that is, not people we actually like or know very well in real life. In any event, this is merely an exercise in smug judgment writing both sides of an advice column and is meant all in good fun. Doesn't everyone do this? No? Hmm . . .

That is all. And now back to our regularly scheduled snark . . .
*****

Dearest EM:

Just over one year ago, I had a wonderful, plush wedding! Oh, and married a wonderful man to boot. This past year has been an incredible blur of exchanging wedding presents - who has the nerve to buy off registry nowadays? - and doodling "Mrs. NewLastName" on my legal pads while pretending to work, when not otherwise regaling friends with tales of how incredibly fabulous my nuptials were.

In fact, I have been so incredibly busy in my duties as Mrs. NewLastName that I only recently found the time to write those pesky thank you notes to my - excuse me, our - wedding guests. Would you believe that some of those guests have the nerve to be upset at my sending out thank you notes more than one year after my, ahem, "Big Day"? Isn't there a one year rule, which gives me up to one year to send notes anyways? So I barely missed the one year deadline, but it's not as though I asked them to address their own notes - horrors! I simply sent everyone the same very generic thank you for their "very nice gift" and left it at that. I mean, writing thank you notes is so super boring and outdated and all anyways . . .

Hey, did I mention that I was recently married?

Sincerely Yours,

Mrs. NewLastName

Dear Mrs. . . . what was your name again? It's been so long since we've heard from you that we didn't recognize your sparkly new name on your note.

Oh, yes . . . first off, Mrs. NewLastName, please allow me to send my best wishes to you for your kinda recent marriage. It is an exciting time for a young lady, no?

And yet, isn't it curious that many of us recently married young ladies found the time to pen thank you notes within the recommended three months or so - three months, not one year - as suggested by Polite Society? By "notes", we mean thank you cards that weren't generic references to gifts (you know, the ones that our guests put considerable time and money into purchasing), but actually referenced the specific guest and gift in manner that suggests we actually know and care. When done correctly, these lovely acknowledgments of friends take a mere five minutes at most and need not be long - in some instances, 3 lines or so can convey the appropriately grateful (bolded for emphasis) tone we're just certain you meant to convey. To this end, we suggest putting Miss Post in your Amazon queue post haste and referencing the elegant sample notes she includes therein.

Just think of the opportunities incorporating thank you notes into your everyday life - yes, Mrs. NewLastName, thanking people does not end after the wedding - gives you to communicate with loved ones and, more importantly, purchase Good Paper! This GP need not be expensive; for our own nuptials, we ordered simply embossed notes similar to these. If you have the budget or inclination to go with heavier card stock and thermography or engraving, look for something from our friends at Crane like this. Alternatively, if you'd really like to stimulate the economy and impress your friends - with something other than endless tales about the wedding they've already attended - look at the new online bespoke store from the legendary Mrs. John L. Strong. The point being, Dearest, that Nice Ladies always keep good stationery at the ready, and the brand and expense really isn't the point - the act of being grateful is where it's at.

To conclude, Mrs. . . . oh, yes, NewLastName, you were correct to at least send notes at all, although having sent them so late after the wedding, it's advisable to include a brief explanation with your note explaining the tardiness. We imagine valid excuses to be limited:

• You were called up last minute to fill in for Kim Kardashian after she was swiftly eliminated from "Dancing With The Stars", and your related duties took up over one year of your time.
• You were involved in a serious, but not deadly, accident while performing your "DWTS" duties, which including harm to your writing hand for the duration of one year.
• You were called to be David Beckham's personal assistant. (Actually, this might be unkind to include, so likely is it to incite mayhem and jealousy amongst your note recipients. May I suggest referencing a fatal illness instead?)

The point, Sweets, is that thanking one's friends and loved ones is an absolute pleasure. And we aren't suggesting that a thank-you note is necessary on all occasions; again, reference that helpful Miss Post above for the when & where. We suspect that once you get into the habit of being grateful, you'll find it rather catching. After all, you might be so busy writing notes that you stop talking about your wedding already - and surely that's a concept we can all support?

Smootchily Yours,

***Edited to Add: Yes, I did receive such a "thank you note". Yes, I did have to stare at it for a while in order to recall who exactly had sent it. I might add that this subtracted from precious time on the couch watching "Project Runway", to add insult to injury.

I Am Legallyblondemel. I Am Six.

To crib from "Eloise", the greatest book ever penned for little girls and grown-up little girls alike, there are days when I suspect I haven't much progressed much in my 30 21 years. Thanks to the tag award & challenge bestowed on me by the charming ladies at Preppy Little Dress and The Dirty Martini Diaries, I took pause today to consider just some of these very qualities, or un-qualities, as it were.

I fear from the tenor of this week's posts that you might envision me as an old biddy creaking back-and-forth in her rocking chair, crocheting doilies as I recite Crane's Blue Book of Stationery chapter and verse (not that there's anything wrong with that!), tsk-tsking about Those Kids Nowadays, and speaking in the third person to my phalanx of cats. Although I'm most assuredly and proudly traditional in many aspects, The Pretty here can knock back a cocktail or six with the best of them, and is usually in active pursuit of doing so. Furthermore, I more often than not can be found holding the couch down, wearing my Tarjay jammies, attempting to do as little as possible save watching some inexcusable television* and telepathically willing the dishes in the sink to wash themselves already. *Seriously, citizens of Atlanta, I fear for you if your "Real Housewives" in any way represents actual neighbors. Seriously.

So in the spirit of the tag - except completely cheating, as I'm sharing just one random story here (ask away in the comments if you'd like to know any others) - and veering off the Pretty Path a bit, I bring you The Uncomfortable Drugstore Purchase, my most recent of which happened today. You know the one . . . involving feminine products?

Make no mistake, I make no claim as to being the only woman who is made uncomfortable by this; in fact, I think it's listed somewhere on the back of our Woman Cards that this buy be the most squirmy and awful 5 minutes of whichever day on which it unfortunately falls. I don't know why exactly this is uncomfortable at all, given that everyone who has suffered through that "Miracle of Life" video is entirely too familiar with the concept, in addition to the 50% odd percent of us who, you know, have lady parts and stuff, but nonetheless, The Purchase just doesn't seem to get less traumatic with age.

No, my claim to fame lies in my blissfully reliable cashier selection & resultant reaction to same. Without fail, each and every single time I enter a Walgreen's and attempt to furtively just buy the FPs and hastily get on with my day already, the following will occur:

- I will pick the slowest line, which at least has a friendly female cashier at the helm, only to be repeatedly and unavoidably called over to the newly-opened line. Do I really have to add that the cashier manning this new line is, well, a man, and usually some combination of handsome, a teenager, or a handsome teenager who completed Health Ed. not one semester ago?

- Upon placing my lonely FPs on the conveyor - because in these instances, I've inevitably forgotten to hide my purchases under cover of pretextual boxed wine or Q-Tips, the following uncomfortable exchange will occur, following the same 3 predictable stages every blessed time:

Stage 1
Male Cashier (all sunshine and unicorns and rainbow-y voiced): "Hello, Ma'am! How are you today?'
Legallyblondemel (avoiding eye contact as I mutter): "Umyesfineokthanks."

Stage 2
MC (eyes fall upon the FP while blood drains from face): "Oh, um . . . did you find everything OK?" (unicorns and rainbows have rapidly and irretrievably departed the building).
ME (suddenly seized by insane desire to abandon ladylike demeanor and grab said FPs, one in each hand in manner of pom-poms, jazz hands aloft, and bellow at the top of my lungs):

"Why, YES, er (peers angrily at employee nametag), Jared, I DID manage to find the TAMPONS! TAMPONS TAMPONS TAMPONS! Regular, premium, and super-unleaded TAMPONS! In Aisle 3, more TAMPONS than you can shake a stick at! Would you like to talk about it some more, Jared? I could just talk TAMPONS all day with you here at your delightful cash register!"

ME (what I actually mutter): "Uhyesfineokthanks."

Stage 3
MC (relief washes over his face as transaction with berserk lady finishes): "Well, have a nice day!"
ME (exhaling a sigh of relief): "Uhyesfineokthanks."

Anyone else fight imaginary mental battles with cashiers on the average drugstore run? No? Just me then? (crickets chirping). My one fun fact indeed . . .

And because I just can't bear to send you off on such an Un-Pretty note - if I haven't already sent you running for the smelling salts with this post - before I bid you farewell for the week while I go drink too much beer listen to good live music at Austin City Limits and host some visiting friends, I wish you the best, FP-free, most fabulous weekend imaginable.

Smootches,