Hello Adoring Audience.
After a long forced vacation (I was going to use the word "sebatical" but I can't spell it for the life of me, even though I tried every vowel I know in that last vowel spot, and even a few arrangements that I knew ahead of time were wrong - promising beginning, I know.) I'm back.
Why did I leave? Well, its complicated. Mostly because I opened this Etsy shop and got a bunch of orders and then, shocker, I had to MAKE the stuff that people ordered and ship it out in a timely manner. It turned out to be... like working a second job, after I put my child to bed each night. The kind of job where you have to ride to the work site in the back of a truck and you usually only make $3 an hour. But I made some cool stuff (the highlight was a Song of Hiawatha-themed shadow-box for my amazing and patient friend Amanda - shout out, Amanda - stay cool! What, what!) I just hated life and because I was staying up so late to work on projects and then getting up so early (opening @ Starbucks) I would try to make Davy take 4 hour naps with me every day when I got home. You can imagine how well that went.
The real kicker, the nail in the coffin, if you will, of my Etsy career came when a lady messaged me, asking if I would ship an order out of country for her. I reluctantly agreed, because I'm easy to bully, even over the internet, and then she proceeded to place a huge order with outrageous specifications and vague instructions like, "Make it super special for me, k? Like with ribbons or something." And I ... didn't know what to do. Ribbons were out of the questions. I might be a serf, but I am not a sell out. At least not at such a low rate. Then she changed her mind 15 times and would always ask me to "Please respond quickly" to every question that she asked, leading me to imagine that her kid was having a REALLY rough time living without this door hanger that had his name on it. Why was it so urgent? I mean, I usually did respond within a day. I pictured little Hung (real name) tinkering away in his room, perhaps working on a time-machine or a reverse razor that GIVES mustaches instead of removing them, and of all the insufferable interruptions he must be dealing with while he was waiting for his personalized door hanger to ship from America. And so I worked as fast as I could. Don't worry, little Hung; for you; for science; for humanity! Does that make me a hero? Probably.
Luckily I didn't have to do much thinking for myself (the sleep deprivation made that hard) overall, and my most enthusiastic customer told me how much I was allowed to charge her for shipping. So I obeyed, and slaved away for 2 weeks and lost about $400 probably and approximately that many hours of sleep also. When I finally mailed off her package I only took a hit of a couple of dollars on the shipping price that she had mandated. I left that post office doing a jig, just imagining the joy that little Hung would soon bring to millions who had always wanted to be clean shaven for breakfast and mustachioed for lunch.
Wait! I have to go and make sure that I don't have the link to this blog on my Etsy site. What if...
Ok, I'm safe.
So that's the first reason. The second reason is that my baby has been cutting teeth at a rate of 4 per day. Really. She's part shark. Thats why she likes her baths so much. Or so I heard from my mom, who was really the only person giving Davy baths at that low point in my life. I could see the little boogers hiding in her neck, and lets not even talk about what the back of her ears smelled like, but I had a robot door hanger to make, so, sorry little girl, we'll push it for another day.
In fact for a few months there, my one year old baby was really getting very good at telling me exactly what she wanted me to do and punishing me effectively if I didn't do it fast enough by waking up at 2:30am and staying up until (literally. Non-exaggeration disclaimer.) 3:50am, which is 10 minutes before I have to get up for work in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I love that little mold muncher. But I was showing signs of wear and tear, like begging and threatening her alternately "Go to sleep, please, please, baby, just go to sleep. I'm going to put you in your crib and let you cry. I'll do it. Don't think I won't. I will. What do you want? Another bottle? Ok, ok." And then one night, after Davy settled down cozily in my husband's and my bed for her 8pm-2am nap, she kept kicking and kicking and kicking and I finally said, Have it. Its yours. I will sleep on the floor. And I did. As I laid there, her tiny, purple owl quilt barely covering my left leg, I thought, "This will all be put to rights one day. When Hung makes that time-machine, I will fix all of this." And on that sweet thought, I snuggled into the pile of once-worn shirts on my floor and drifted to sleep for a delicious 10 minutes.
Now that things have settled down a little I'm hoping to have more time for you, my faithful followers (Haaaay, Mom)! Here are the new ground rules though: 1. No one is allowed to pay attention to my spelling or my liberal use of commas 2. Have low expectations ok? 3. The 'Monday's Story' feature will return as soon as I can get it up and running. Its a little rusty.
Thanks for checking in!!!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Monday's Story - Vol. 2
I once attended a very distinguished southern university. I was only there for a year, but year in college can provide stories for a lifetime. This story happened to my friend Jack.
On the night in question, as he was staggering away from the circle, with his date in his arms, he had one of those flashes of consciousness where you wonder what in the world you would have thought if someone had snapped a polariod of this moment and time-mailed it to your younger self. Say, you at age 16. The crowd that they were leaving behind was still standing in a shocked hush, but the further they got he heard the murmuring and chuckles pick back up.
But perhaps I should let Jack tell the story in his own words:
Ahem. So I was a junior in college taking a class on - well, nevermind what class it was, but I sat next to this girl, Lindsay. We weren't really friends. I mean, we were friendly. We'd chat during class and stuff, but we never hung out or anything. She was a nice girl. I mean, I dunno. I didn't really think of her a lot, she was just the girl who sat next to me. From time to time though, I kind of got the impression that she had a little crush on me.
Is that cocky or conceited to say? No. It really was true. Later events confirmed that. But at the time it wasn't even a thing. I was sort of keeping my eye on someone else. So when my friend Charlotte asked me one day if I would go to the dance with Lindsay, I said sure. I thought it was a little weird that she didn't ask me herself, but whatever. I said yes.
The dance was this 20's themed thing where the girls dressed up like flappers and there was swing dancing. She seemed really excited about it and we talked about it in class a few times leading up to the dance. I guess girls just like that sort of thing where they force guys to dress fancy. I dunno why she was so pumped.
...
...
We went out to dinner first and we were with a few other couples and it was nice. We were having a good time, everyone was cracking jokes and getting along and it was going good. I think she was enjoying it a little more than I was, but I was by no means miserable. She's a nice girl, I was having fun. I tried not to think too much about the dancing that was coming up. At the dance, there were swing dancing lessons and of course we were really good at it. After a while, as all white people at a dance will do, we circled up and different people would take turns dancing in the middle of the circle. Its very customary. There were the serious swing-dancers who had probably been waiting all year for this dance and who had like, dropped suggestions a million times about how "We should really have a spring formal with, like, a swing dancing theme..."
And there were the people who just danced however they wanted no matter what kind of music was on...
And the people who were clearly having the worst date of all time.
And then it was our turn. Lindsay and me. So, she was ready, she was all like, "Let's go!" But I thought that we needed a plan, so I pulled her over to the side and asked her if she had ever seen that SNL Spartan cheerleaders skit. She hadn't. I wasn't deterred. This was going to be really good, I knew it would, so I described it to her and there was this part, I told her, "where you'll like squat down, and I'll swing my leg over you and then you'll jump up and we'll keep dancing." I don't know. It's all a little blurry now. But I'm sure I said that. She was like, "Yeah, I sort of think I get the idea. I can do that. Ok, got it." So we jumped in the circle. I just knew it was going to be hilarious.
We were almost through our routine. The crowd was loving it. Suckers!! They WISH they had thought of this idea. It was time for the leg-swing-over. She squatted, I was glad it was ending, because, to be honest, I was getting a little tired. I gave one last burst of energy and swung my leg as hard as I could and somewhere about 12 inches from passing over her head, I realized that she was starting to stand up.
Not good. I kicked her. Hard. In the head. She went down immediately. I was terrified. I thought I might have knocked her out. The circle was horrified. I just... did the first thing that came into my head, I was thinking "All these people are staring, I need to get her out of here so she can recover without everyone looking at her." And I just picked her up and started to run away. Well, limp away because my shin hurt like heck after kicking her in the head. It turns out that was my fatal mistake.
See, I didn't know this, but you do not EVER, EVER pick up a little person. Its very offensive to them. I had no idea. Did I mention that? That she was a little person? I would have said midget, but I learned that term is also offensive. The correct term is "little person". I didn't know. How could I have known? She was hurt, I had just basically roundhouse kicked her in the head, people were staring at us, I thought I had to get her out of there. Not a good move. She took it like a trooper, she really did. She was ok, and she was even laughing about it. I think that was only because she sort of had a crush on me still. At that point. Later, after mulling it over, I think she kind of got over me pretty quickly, but at that point, things were still a little in my favor in her mind.
Things went downhill for us from there though. I was never ever invited to an event sponsored by that sorority again. I actually ended up kind of being branded as this big jerk because I picked her up. I had no idea. I mean, it wasn't the kicking in the head that did it. It was the picking up and running with her. So. Lesson learned, I guess. Well first, don't pressure your date into re-enacting a SNL skit with you, second, when she does, don't kick her in the head, and third, do not EVER pick up a little person.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Monday's Story - Vol. 1
*to protect the sort-of-innocent I have changed the name of the girl in this story.
Shayla McBird liked to kiss boys. So what? It's high-school. From what I hear, that's pretty much all that goes on there anyway (I wouldn't know. I was home-schooled.) Shayla wasn't the most popular girl in school, but that didn't stop her from approaching the most good-looking guys. Or the guys on the football team. She would catch a glimpse of that letter jacket as she was standing at her locker and, I don't know... something would come over her. The crushing, oblivious crowd would fade away as she focused on him. The one with the curly brown hair and the delicate shadow of a downy mustache. She began to walk towards him, quietly and calmly.
As soon as he saw her coming, she knew it would be much harder.
20 feet. A few girls caught a glimpse of her and stilled their chatter.
15 feet. Quiet, quiet.
10 feet.
He sensed something. He turned. She caught the look of horror on his face for the slightest second before he was off - oh, was he fast! No wonder he was on the football team! And she was after him, just like that! She might weigh a few pounds less, but she wasn't as light on her feet. Sheer terror is a winged shoe on the foot of the pursed, but Shayla trailed her quarry with plodding determination. You know, like when a mummy is chasing Bugs Bunny in a cartoon. When Shayla caught him, it would be the same as it always was, hold him down, sit on him if necessary, wrestle and push her face closer and closer, and he'd squirm and buck and try and fling her off, but usually she'd get her kisses. Boys usually had reservations about being too rough with a girl. Even one who was hanging on their back, trying to kiss them. Go figure.
So, now you know Shayla. And you'll know why Stephanie was not excited to see that the seat usually occupied by her Biology lab partner was, on that day, filled by Shayla's stout frame. She paused at the door (I imagine) and rolled her eyes and huffed in annoyance. Finally she plopped down next to Shalya, did not say hello, and determined to ignore her the whole class. She took out pencils and a notebook. She was all business. But... she was also a little nervous.
That is Shayla McBird right there, on the left. Nothing fancy. No name brand clothes, no Jansport backpack.
(do you like these stools I drew? This is what stools in science class look like right? Like they came from a french bistro? Yes, I always imagined as much. Oh, and they're not hovering, I just forgot to draw a floor. Newbie mistake, I know.)
Back to Biology. For a little while things went as planned. Stephanie worked on her own, took her own little notes and tried not to notice whatever Shayla was doing on her side of the table. She poked around reluctantly in the cat and felt sick a few times, and then wondered if she could have anyone over to spend the night this weekend. She didn't notice when one of the tools went missing.
At Stephanie and Shayla's public school they had all the correct utensils for dissecting a cat.
From left to right: Tongs, trident, cleaver, butter knife, runcible spoon, dead cat, spatula, serrated knife, tweezers,.... missing scissors.
Try as she might, Steph couldn't completely ignore Shayla. She was glad that Shayla was keeping to herself, but she was acting a little weird. "Weird is normal if it's Shayla," Stephanie reminded herself, as she snuck a sidelong glance in Shayla's direction. What was that sound?
It was like... like a ripping noise. No. More like... cutting.
It was hair.
Shayla's own hair. She had been snipping away at it while Steph was diligently trying to mind her own business and as soon as she had, I don't know... a respectable sized hair-pile, she turned, and threw it on Stephanie. It didn't flutter like confetti, or make crazy whirls and twists like paper planes might, it was like a bomb. The air was thick with it (or so I imagine) and the long pieces stuck to Stephanie's face and the short pieces got in her mouth, and the cat had a sprinkling of it on him too. Of course there was screaming and, I imagine, some pretty regrettable name-calling and some accusations. The teacher didn't see what had happened, but Stephanie was screaming, and there was hair everywhere, and it certainly looked like Shayla McBird's hair, and after all it was Shayla McBird we're talking about, so he shipped one off to the principal, and the other to... the nurse? And to this day (at least this is how it seems to me) whenever Stephanie gets a hair cut, as the long strands and the short little bristly bits are all getting swept up into the dustpan, she can almost feel it again, Shayla McBird's shorn hair, falling softly on her shoulders like a thick January snow.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Tell Me a Story
I love stories. I love hearing stories, I love telling stories, I love funny stories. When I hear a story that I like, I will tell it over and over, not realizing that you may have already heard it. People who I work with get a little exasperated with me sometimes, due to this fact.
When we were first dating and early in our marriage I would always demand of my husband, "Tell me a story," to which he would exasperatedly, reply, "I don't KNOW any stories." "Tell me a true story then. Something that happened to you," I would say. "I can't think of any," said he. So I'd ask him questions until I received some interesting answers, or until something triggered a memory, and he would say, "Actually, there was this one time..." and I would hear the story of a time he was really scared as a child, or a story about that boy in the neighborhood who always hurting everyone because he was such a klutz, about his first kiss (at camp, a girl who's dad few planes), the few times he was ever in a real fight, etc. I've become good at asking probing questions. That, and I am surrounded by people with funny and interesting stories, I guess.
When I was little my dad was a truck driver, and he would come home exhausted every day. Despite this, each night he would read to my brother and I while we were in bed. We had separate rooms, but I'd usually sleep on the bottom of his bunk bed anyway. Somewhere along the way, dad would usually fall asleep mid-sentence, and we'd wake him up with little grace and extreme frustration. This was not a book club. We had a standard list of books, and once one was finished, we would go on to the next, in an endless rotation. My Dad read us the Chronicles of Narnia as part of that rotation. He also read us (brace yourselves for some serious nerdiness) the two Star Wars books that come after Return of the Jedi. Several times. He read us 'The Princess and the Goblin' by George MacDonald, and 'The Princess and Curdie' also by George MacDonald. There were definitely sections I couldn't understand when he first read those to us, but they were added to the rotation and as I got older I understood more and more.
Re-reading a story is wonderful, because after the first read, you carry a version of the story around in your head, and it isn't quite right, even if its lovely in its own way. Then, when you go back to the real version, you add to the facts that you always carry around with you, until, gradually, over several readings, you have a storehouse of understanding and memory about a book that has grown up with you and even grown organically in your memory. Its one of the best ways to know a book, I think. And that is how I feel about books like the Chronicles of Narnia, and the MacDonald books. And yes, even the Star Wars books. Some nights, we would demand a story, made-up, on the spot. One night we said, "Tell us a story." groan. "Once up on a time there were two children named Hannah and David - " "NO." we interrupted. "Tell us a story about Star Trek." "What?! A story about Star Trek?" "Yes. And make it good." This really happened, and although I can't remember the story that we were told, the fact that my dad did tell us a story about, of all things, Star Trek, tells me that I come from a line of masterful story-tellers.
My grandfather is, in fact, one of the best storytellers alive today. Cormack McCarthy notwithstanding. He grew up in Bolivia, South America, in a large house with servants. He could charm birds, and kill attacking dogs and once got shot in the mouth with an arrow. Every time my family gets together we will sit around him (preferably outside with a fire and some coffee) and ask him questions like, "Was there ever a time you thought you were going to die?" "What was the first fight you were ever in?" "Have you ever seen anything supernatural happen?" and get amazing answers.
So, when I first headed to college, I had to decide between my two real interests, art and books. I knew I didn't want to be a literature major, so I was a studio art major. However, over the course of time (and I had plenty of it, as it took me 8 years to get my bachelor's) I realized that my true love was storytelling, so I changed my major and got a degree in Creative Writing. I would suggest this course of action to anyone interesting in working at Starbucks rather than having a real job ;-). Just kidding. My friend Becky has a degree in writing and she has a lovely job where she gets to use her degree!
Anyway, to combine my interests, I've decided to do some weekly illustrations for a few of my favorite TRUE stories, as told to me by my friends. You should check back with me every Monday for a new story with illustrations. Warning: many of these stories have a moral: Do not scare a woman who has just given birth. Do not sit next to the quiet girl in Biology. Do not kill a cow that does not belong to you, especially in broad daylight. Do not tell my great-grandfather no, because, apparently, he will pull a gun on a crowd of strangers.
Looking forward to it!
Friday, July 1, 2011
Reading, Imagining, Creating
I have such happy memories of pouring over books as a child. I would look at the pictures as often as I would read the stories, and seeing an illustration from an old book can bring back the memory of a quiet afternoon spent lying on the floor in my room, flipping pages, as easily as a hearing those lines that began so many wonderful journeys. "In an old house in Paris, all covered with vines, lived 12 little girls in two straight lines," or, "Once upon a time there was a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it, " or "'Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,' said Jo."
As a child, my favorite books were often influenced by the illustrations they contained. Like the Madeline books. They were always checked out at the library (so frustrating!), and I didn't own any. I have wanted them for years, but I just now got the complete set, bound in one large volume, for Davy, my little girl. Everyone in the Madeline books is drawn like they are all leaning into the wind, or in the middle of gliding along quickly. So simple, but I love looking at them!
One of my enduring favorites was any of the books in the Little House series. Garth Williams' illustrations had just enough detail to engross me for a few pages (I'd keep making Mom turn back so I could look at them again, if she was reading aloud) and just simple enough that I got to imagine some of the details on my own. Like colors.
I have my original set of Little House books, and most of the illustrations feature my color-job, like the one above.
Even books that weren't really picture books; even when I was much too old to read books that were true picture books, I remember scrutinizing the details in the increasingly rare illustrations that I came across. Encyclopedia Brown was one of my favorite series at that time, and helped to convince me that I was a secret child-genius if I ever solved the case without turning to the back of the book.
After I have forgotten all but the most insignificant details to some books, I can remember the illustrations clearly. I spent forever online one day trying to find the title to a book that I remembered reading over and over as a child. I couldn't remember the name, the author, or the plot. Only that there was a man who could turn into a swarm of bees and a man who could turn into fire, and a redheaded king with a pointy beard and green clothing leading a group through treacherous mountain paths. I could tell you what color the mountains were, but that didn't help the google search. Finally I found it. It is called, "The King with Six Friends". This was one of the few illustrations from that book that I could find online, and I need to buy it so I can look through it again.
I like that this princess is a brunette, and that her crown and collar are so different than most princesses'. It was unique and captivating. I'd like my little girl to have this to look at when she's old enough to flip through paper books (without devouring them).
This illustration is by Gordon Laite, and I first saw it in an Anthology of Children's Literature that I had when I was small (and have still). I like his unusual version of the fairy godmother, and the colors that he chose, i.e., not pink.
Of course, I had to save one of the most influential for last. Pauline Baynes, illustrator of C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia is a lovely artist and I can't imagine Lewis' stories finding a better expression than her drawings.
The only other illustrator who I've seen do justice to the Chronicles is Christian Birmingham, and he is fantastic. He works in pastels, which I've also used a lot. I rarely see chalk pastel illustrations that I'm drawn to, but his contain everything wonderful about the medium. They are light, soft, and rich. He has illustrated a shorter picture-version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe which I own and love. The faces of his children are so innocent and joyful and, in that sense, realistic. Here is one of the White Witch and Aslan. Isn't it perfect?
Here is an illustration from the story 'The Princess and the Pea', illustrated by Christian Birmingham. All the greens are gorgeous!
This picture is form a version of Oliver Twist that Birmingham also illustrated. I like how bright the whites are (you know they're rich because they can get their linens so clean!) and all the homey and rich tones of brown, and how it really looks like a cozy, sunlight morning.
I imagine that my own style is a mixture of my own personality and the influence of artist and styles that I love and grew up with. I tend to be light-handed with pastels, watercolors and graphite. I have never had any success with oils and never used acrylics. This small water color is one of the few I've done in that medium that I liked.
I have taken so many art classes in my life, and the best were the private lessons I had when I was 15, and the one class that I took when I was at Baylor University. Every other class has just been 'practice' time, really. I would finish up whatever (usually lame) set-up we were assigned to draw and then goof around for the last hour or so. The following picture is one of those goofing around times, and turned out much more cartoony than any charcoal drawing I've ever done, but I like it. That's my had in the the mirror there. I doubt my wrist is really that small.
This next picture is much more true to my natural style, and was also done one class when I finished the assignment and was looking for something else to do. I just threw this sheet over the chair and leaned my portfolio against it. I'm really happy with how it turned out, but unfortunately its done on newsprint.
I drew these next three pictures one afternoon for my little girl when she was a few months old. I had been reading that babies like to look at faces, or pictures of faces, and that they are drawn to black and white things, and didn't have either to offer her. I drew them from photos of her, and did them pretty fast with a Sharpie. I never use ink unless I'm doodling - it makes me nervous that I can't erase it. She wasn't super interested in them (she was about 2 months old probably?), but I saved them because I think she will get a kick out of them when she's older. Its a style that kind of reminds me of the illustrations from Encyclopedia Brown, or even the ones that you'd find in a Nancy Drew book.
This last one was done from a photo of my brother when he was little, and it is also very characteristic of my style when drawing people. I think it must be very Garth Williams inspired.
One of my favorite things is finding a book that I haven't looked at since I was small and flipping through it, remembering my intrigue with the illustrations and seeing pictures that I once scrutinized. I like remembering, "Oh, that's right, that picture where she has the pink dress I always wanted!" or, "I had totally forgotten how perfectly he is standing in this picture, just like he really is afraid and working up courage." It's like tasting a kind of ice cream you used to love as a child, or smelling something that your grandmother would cook every Sunday. I try and stock my library with books that will give my own children this experience. I'm mindful that the picture as well as the story can create a lasting bond with books.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
How to be the Worst in a Drive-Thru
When I don't get to be at home making things, I work at Starbucks. I've spent years compiling a list of annoying things to do/say in a drive-thru. Here is a sampling.
2. When you order, be vague. When asked a question, always answer with a question.
"Coffee, lots of sugar."
"How many sugars is 'lots'?"
"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW!?"
or
"Would you like to try a blueberry scone today?"
"Is it free?"
At the very least, when you are asked, "Is that all?" don't answer. This is important, because it lets the window-worker know that you are in total control of the situation.
3. Spend forever looking for money, try and break a one hundred dollar bill first thing in the morning, and then pay with change and say, "I don't know how much that is, just count it."
4. When your drink comes, if it even MIGHT not be the right drink, recoil in terror. Literally, lean back, raise your hands and make your mouth look like you are making fish sounds. Say, "I wanted it COLD, not HOT." even if you forgot that part at the speaker, don't admit it. Suddenly become stricken with t-rex disease and refuse to reach more than your hand out of your car window for the drink. Do not extend your arm. Let the drive-thru worker lean out until their feet are just barely on the floor still, and they can basically just place the drink in your console drink holder for you.
5. Get on the phone and roll up your window and don't look to see if someone is standing there with your drink for at least 3 minutes.
6. Be on your cell phone the whole time.
Now, if you feel like following these rules, I invite you to come and visit me at the Starbucks in Spring, TX tomorrow from 5am-12pm. See you there!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Vintage Valentine Yard Sale Finds!
Aren't yard sales the best? I remember getting up early when I was a kid, and using a map - a real, paper, fold-me-if-you-can-map - to plot out a course for the morning with my Mom. In this area there is a suburb that holds a community garage sale twice a year. This spring some of our great finds were: a collapsible camping picnic table that folds up into a suitcase, a plush Cadillac of a baby stroller, an Anthropologie dust ruffle, and these two vintage snapshots:
Aren't they gorgeous?! I wish I knew where they were taken. The lady I bought them from said that she had just gotten them in a batch of old pictures from an estate sale. I think I paid a dollar each, so I couldn't get as many as I would have liked. These two were just so striking - especially the house on the lake. I'm going to put them in my journal and imagine myself living in them for years to come.
I also got this batch of vintage Valentine's Day cards. They are so quirky!!
No pressure here, right? I mean, times-a-ticking, say yes now, THIS is our hour, but ... no pressure.
Ah, the ever-romantic, "You're Unusual!" line. What girl doesn't love that? Also, nice job of the not-so-subtle suggestion that the recipient is unusual like, you know, carnival workers, unusual.
Is it just me or this this one a little threatening? I think that this valentine should probably be in an evidence box in some police precinct somewhere...
Don't even know what that means.
Open to interpretation. But I'm getting a bit of a desperate vibe from this one.
Nothing says, "I care" quite like condescension.
I had to pass up a set of Rescue Rangers Valentines that I had actually given out as a kid - but these were so much older! I ended up shelling out almost $40 for everything I bought from this lady, and I"m not quite sure what I'm going to do with all of them yet. There are a few more that aren't pictured here. I'm thinking that if my little one ever has a room of her own I'll frame them.
Each time we have a yard sale of our own I have this burning desire to make such amazing yard-sale signs that people will come because... how could they not after such signs? I always end up taking way too long to make them and really irritating my husband, but here are a few.
Since when was the Mona Lisa a native American? Good question. Also, remember not to makes promises you can't keep when advertising anything.
Nancy Drew and the Case of the Tiny, Shrivled, Hand!!!! This one was actually stolen. >:-(
For our last yard sale I made a Star Wars inspired sign. I was in a big hurry and didn't get to take pictures. I've vowed to make my signs WAY ahead of time in the future, so I won't be too busy to help price things.
Stationery Set
This was my first stationery set. It took me about two weeks to finish, and I'm pretty happy with the results. My inspiration comes from Rifle Paper Co. - if you aren't familiar with them, check out their stuff. The invitations, cards and stationery sets are wonderful.
I was pleased with the final impression of the two fonts I chose. I think that the combination is contemporary without being too trendy, and friendly without being too casual or silly.
The image is from an original I made using chalk pastel. I think that watercolor would probably work better, and I'll experiment with that next time. My sister has hinted numerous times that she wants a set like this, so I suppose I'll have plenty of opportunity to tweak that sort of thing.
I love the idea of a calling card. This particular calling card is anything BUT a business card, I feel. The graphic, the border and the cute shape make it so personable. Adding a fun nickname or smarmy quote is essential to keeping it approachable and engaging.
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