I always do this. I go off somewhere fun and interesting, buy lots of postcards to send to family and friends (mostly to make them jealous, although they think it means I like them) and most of the time I'll even write them up, including address and everything... then I go home, get back to Real Life, and it's weeks or months before I rediscover the backpack or suitcase pocket where the poor postcards have been sitting lonely and unloved. Or more to the point, unsent.
Well, I've been cleaning up my mess and prepping bags in anticipation of my trip to Austin, Texas for a week of unparalleled geekery (scientific computing conference; it doesn't get much geekier than this). And of course I've stumbled across stacks of unsent postcards from three separate trips (to three different states: Nebraska, Missouri and New Hampshire).
So I've just spent the last half hour licking stamps and getting postage math wrong in various fun and inventive ways (I blame the stamp glue fumes).
The foot-high stack (if you measure its height next to an actual foot, it reaches a reasonably-sized middle toe) is now sitting next to the front door along with a bright red Netflix envelope (helps with the not forgetting). Tomorrow morning they will move to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, where a little red flag will be raised to alert the postman of the presence of outgoing mail (I love that system!).
By Monday they will be on their way -- one to Jamaica Plain (that's a neighborhood in Boston, before you get too excited -- although it is admittedly quite an exciting one) and a gazillion others to Belgium. There would be one going to York in the UK but I've lost your snailmail address again, Mike.
If you think you should be getting one but you don't within two weeks, leave a comment and I will be in touch to get your address. You too, sis, if you're reading this. I have a booklet for your man. About a Finnish architect.
Sorry this post doesn't include photos of muddy girls, Mom. And sorry if that sounds wrong in so many ways.