"Oh look dear, we got a card from the Myers-Russo's this year. I wonder when they're going to pick one name or the other?"
Followed by, "Oh their girls sure are darlings [of course] but look at that haircut on the older one! Did she do that herself?" [No, her mother did, and Andi promises to sit still next time.]
And then the subtle, inevitable whisk-click of the card sailing straight into the trash can. It's not that I expect to achieve immortality through Hallmark. I do not expect anyone to decoupage my well-wishes onto their placemats. I don't keep anyone else's cards, either. (Sorry, Mom.)
It's just that it all seems like such a waste. Think about it. For the cards alone there's the wood pulp, the ink (ideally soy-based but quite possibly containing heavy metals), the manufacturing, the packaging (frequently neither recycled nor recyclable), the transportation to the store, and the transportation to your recipient's address. All that to say something that I hope my recipient knows anyway - I'm thinking about you and I hope you are well.
Something, in fact, I could say just as easily in e-mail. But I couldn't bring myself to send a holiday email in lieu of cards, somehow that seemed so very gauche. Or Grinch. So instead I sent cards. Lots of cards.
Don't get me wrong, some of these cards were legit. My husband is in the Navy and we move around a lot. I will happily send an annual photo and holiday happygram to our far-flung friends. Likewise with my freespirited friend Andrea, whose card read, "Andrea, Where are you? Have you moved to California yet? Do you have a phone, address, or email? Happy winter solstice." In this case, I trust the USPS and their forwarding system to catch up where other means fail.
Grandmothers, of course, always merit actual cards since they often have heard neither of email nor of anytime minutes. My paternal grandmother interrupts my calls every 30 seconds or so to say, "Well, this is costin' you money. I'd better go." She gets a card.
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