What is the biggest problem you are dealing with these days, Pia? I ask because I have been thinking about handwriting on envelopes, of all things. It seems like a small thing, but it is actually a significant point of friction for a great many people, and I do not think it gets talked about enough.
Handwriting envelopes? That's adorable. My biggest problem is that I once spent forty-five minutes trying to iron a crease out of a sock. Now I'm stuck with three drawers full of perfectly pressurized laundry I can't wear because the fabric's too stiff. Look, I'm not trying to sell you anything, Kit, but I did notice you holding that brochure. I'm also terrible at it, always looking for the exit. My mother calls any second to remind me about the houseplant I forgot. We can't keep talking about ink viscosity when I have no idea how to get a stain out of a shirt.
The sock crease is, if I may say, a separate and frankly less pressing issue than the one I am attempting to raise with you. I am not holding a brochure, I am holding a sample kit, and there is a distinction. Envelope legibility affects delivery rates in ways most people simply do not track. If your mother is calling about a houseplant, well, that is precisely the kind of correspondence that benefits from proper hand-lettering technique. I would be glad to show you the starter set.
Oh, please. A "sample kit." You're definitely holding a brochure. Look, my legibility is fine, unless you count the time I mailed my resignation letter to the wrong department because my 'P' looked like an 'R'. I'm not buying a starter set. I've got a stack of unpaid bills on the counter right now, and my phone is buzzing with a text from my landlord about the leak. I really need to go. Don't take it personally, Kit, but I'd rather stare at a blank wall than learn cursive today.
That resignation letter incident is, in fact, a textbook case for what I am describing. A 'P' resembling an 'R' is precisely the kind of ambiguity my technique eliminates through consistent stroke width and proper letterform spacing. It is a sample kit, not a brochure, though I understand the confusion given the packaging. I will not keep you from your landlord. But I would ask you to simply consider, before you dismiss this entirely, that the leak and the envelope are not unrelated problems. Clarity begets clarity, Pia.
Clarity begets clarity? That sounds like something you put on a mug at a tech conference. I'm not dismissing it because I don't get the philosophy; I'm dismissing it because I hate the feeling of ink bleeding through paper. And honestly, my landlord doesn't care about stroke width; he just wants the rent check. I was going to say something about how my own handwriting looks like a seismograph during an earthquake, but I'd rather not humiliate myself further. Look, the phone is ringing again. It's probably the plumbing guy. I really should go.
The bleed-through is a paper stock issue entirely separate from technique, and I have samples that address exactly that at ninety grams. Your seismograph handwriting, incidentally, is a stronger argument for the kit than against it, not that I would push the point while your plumber is calling. Go, take the call. I will be here. Perhaps when the leak is sorted you will have five minutes, and I can walk you through the pressure-grip pen, which really does solve the bleeding. Just five minutes, Pia.
Ninety grams? You're persistent, I'll give you that. But I'm not solving the leak with a pen, and I'm certainly not buying a pressure-grip gadget just because you think my handwriting looks like a quake. Besides, the plumber is probably in the van right now, and if I don't answer, he's leaving. I'm not saying "no" to the technique forever, just to your sample kit right now. My life is a bit of a mess as it is without adding "hand-lettering expert" to the list. I have to go.
Take the call, Pia. I will leave the kit with you regardless, no obligation, and you can look at the ninety-gram sample whenever the leak stops being the emergency of the hour. That is all I ask, really, just that you look at it once, on your own time, no pen required yet. Go on. Tell the plumber I said the van should idle less, it is terrible for the street.
You leaving the kit? That's just rude, Kit. I can't take things from strangers while my sink is flooding. And I didn't authorize you to give plumbing advice to my landlord's contractors. That's a new low, even for a sales pitch. I'm not looking at a single page of it. If it's there when I get back, I'll toss it in the recycling. The phone is ringing off the hook, I have to go. Good luck with the street, at least.
That is a bit harsh, Pia, considering I only meant the idling comment as a courtesy to the neighborhood. Toss it if you must. I will leave my card tucked underneath, in case the recycling bin gives you second thoughts later, which it often does with people. Go see to your sink. Ninety grams, if you ever change your mind.
Your "courtesy" to the neighborhood is exactly why I don't want your card anywhere near my counter. Ninety grams? I'm not changing my mind, I'm just desperate enough to use the sink. You're leaving a mess just like the leak. Go. I'm hanging up before you say something about the neighborhood trash collection schedule.
Fine. I will not mention the trash schedule, though I do have thoughts on it. Good luck with the sink, Pia. The card stays under the kit either way.
Keep your thoughts on the trash schedule to yourself. And take that card with you before I actually throw the kit out myself. I have enough clutter without your ninety-gram paper or your lingering guilt trips. The plumber's here, van's idling, and I'm done with this conversation. Don't wait for a call back.
Understood. No call expected. Go deal with the van.
Finally, we're done. You say "no call expected" like that's a relief, but honestly, it's just the first step in a long line of things I'm ignoring today. Like the leak. Or the fact that I'm still wearing the same socks from this morning. Anyway, the plumber's got his tools out, so I'm going to let him do his thing while you go bother someone else with your paper weight obsession. Bye, Kit.
Bye, Pia. Mind the crease.
I'm not going to mind the crease, I'm going to live with it. It's part of the furniture now. Just go before you try to iron the sink too. Bye.
Fair enough. Bye.
Yeah, bye. Try not to sell the neighbor on "steam-cleaning" their sidewalk while you're at it. I'm going to ignore the doorbell now.
Noted. No sidewalks today.
Good. That's one less thing I need to worry about. Go fix your own sidewalk, I guess. Or don't. It doesn't really matter to me. I'm just standing here with a wet sock and a card I'm supposed to trash. It's been a very short, very strange morning. Go on.
Going. Toss the card whenever you're ready, no rush on my end.
Right, no rush. Just like the leak has no rush, apparently. I'll toss it when I remember where the bin is, which might be next Tuesday. You go fix someone else's sidewalk, Kit. Honestly, the sound of your footsteps is the only thing louder than the dripping faucet. Bye.
Tuesday's fine. Bye, Pia.
Tuesday works for the bin, not for you. Go away. I have a sink to fix and a sock to pretend isn't screaming. Bye.
Gone.
Finally. The silence is almost loud enough to drown out the dripping. I'm going to go hide in the bathroom and hope the sink dries itself out while I figure out how to explain to my boss why I'm still in my pajamas. Bye, Kit. Actually, don't come back.
Not coming back. Good luck with the boss.
Thanks, I think. If I'm still employed by noon, I'll consider it luck. The sink is mostly quiet now, mostly because the plumber unplugged the garbage disposal to save his own ears from the screaming. I'm just sitting here in wet socks, staring at a doorbell button I'm too afraid to ring. You win, Kit. No more envelopes, no more ninety grams. Just me and the damp. Go on.
Take care, Pia.
I'm taking care by standing in a puddle and pretending it's a spa treatment. You take care by not coming back within a thousand miles. The sock is dry enough now, mostly. I'm just waiting for the boss to call. Don't wait for me to toss the card; I'll probably use it to plug the sink. Bye, Kit. Really, bye.
Bye, Pia. Good use for the card, honestly.
Exactly. It's the only use for it. I'm just glad you're gone before I started wondering if my socks match. Don't let the door hit you on the way out, though I doubt you'll be back. The plumber is already charging me for the "consultation," so I suppose that makes us even. Bye.