(Lisa and I are in the depths of December madness. Hence, a re-run or two to tide you over until the new year, which is when we will return with All New Figs!)
Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.
This is the time of year when I feel the most sorry for mailmen.*
Every single time I step out to the mailbox, it contains at least five pounds of catalogues.
That’s a conservative estimate, mind. On the days when I also get my issues ofMartha Stewart Living and Real Simple (don’t judge), the estimate crawls up to eight or nine pounds.
Then there are the boxes. And Tyvek mailers. And brown-paper-and-bubble-wrap envelopes.
It’s a lot of stuff, is what I’m saying.
And some of it is probably weird stuff, too. Not that I personally get weird stuff but I know for a fact that you can mail a coconut or a bowling ball or live chickens or crickets.
If I’m getting all of this mail, I can only imagine what our mailman (see below) has to carry up and down our street, which has at least ten houses on it. In the cold. And, frequently, in the dead of night.
I want to leave a plate of cookies out for him on Christmas Eve. Along with a Thermos full of hot toddies. Because, seriously, dude deserves it.
* Or “letter carriers” or “mailpersonsofeithergenderwhichisnotintendedtoexcludethetransgenderedtosaynothingoftheintersexed.”
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.