Getting Laid: A New Hallmark Niche Market?

I thought they made greeting cards for every imaginable occasion, but as I discovered recently, there are no greeting cards with which to congratulate a friend who has just gotten magnificently laid for the first time since the traumatic end of a major relationship over a year ago. That being the case, I had to make do with what was available: one of Hallmark's Cinco de Mayo e-cards. So after my friend's new lover left--after she changed the sheets on her bed, smiled at her ridiculous bed-head in the mirror, applied various lotions to her newly chafed nether regions, settled in with some coffee to read her email, and gave me the low-down on her hot date--she got an e-card featuring a mariachi band playing some wildly festive tune while the words "Sing... Dance... Celebrate" appeared on the screen. So the card actually wasn't all that off the mark, but still. Hallmark? Can you say "untapped market niche"?

Bus Stop Symphony

Today the sky is turquoise, like tropical waters, with a fine mist of cirrostratus clouds high above. The sun is strong and perfect, not overwhelming as it sometimes gets later in summer. My grandmother's wedding ring throws out an aurora of rainbows from my right hand; my engagement ring, on my left, is blue and gold and brilliant like the day.

I'm sitting on some church's concrete steps, waiting for the bus and listening to my summer mix. Bjork's "All Is Full of Love" just sent me into a state of god-breathing ecstasy, simultaneous waves of immense reverential gratitude for all the love given and received in the past year, and of immense depth, the depth of this world itself that I'm sitting in: cracked concrete hot in the summer sun, a dried apricot inexplicably lying on the sidewalk, people of all different ages and races, colors and shapes walking by--the adorable skatepunk with his skateboard and attitude and skin-tight purple jeans, the sporty black guy with little dreads like black caterpillars and pectorals as full as breasts, the old man in white bent over his walker, and the beat-up working-class guy who peers at me with the permanent faint suspicion of a life-long underdog, but then--in response, I suppose, to the look in my eyes--his gaze softens; he seems to emerge tentatively from behind a wall of defensiveness, as if realizing, "Oh yeah, we are both human beings, aren't we."

And the grass is rich and lush, and the trees are spangled with little yellow-green leaves shining translucent in the sunlight, and I love life.