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BREAKING NEWS!!!
Garden Variety Wisdom CD Greeting Cards
FOR SALE ONLINE...
An
Oscar
Winning
Performance...
...A Tony...for best lyrics
...A Grammy...for best delivery by a new artist
...A Pulitzer...for most original prose
...A Clio...for outstanding brand design
...A Nobel...for universal appeal
...An Emmy...for family friendly entertainment
...An Obie...for best shameless promotion
GVW CD Greeting Cards are sweeping the nation
...taking the world by storm...
...selling off the charts...
...topping the bestseller list...
...number one in the polls...
What are you waiting for?
...be the first on your block...
...you can't resist...
No excuses left for you...it's so simple even I can do it!
Press the BUY NOW button and SHOP! SHOP! SHOP!
GVW CD Greetings are not just cards you send through the mail with a single stamp. GVW CD Greetings come with a matching accessory...an empty CD...load your pics, movies or music...tuck in your smile, sign your name ...then Be Creative.
A GVW CD Greeting is MORE than a card...it is a GIFT
...tuck it into a basket of goodies, give them to the parents of your Pre-School class for a holiday treat, sneak a few into a suitcase as you pack off your kids to college or a new location. Think...wedding favors, retirement party memoirs, or baby shower extras. Coping cards. Remember me cards. Thinking of you and me cards.
I know...YOU KNOW...someone you love...or like...or think about...or miss...or don't see often enough...
GVW CD Greetings
...only a "click" away.
Try it.
Go Here.
Click on a card. Then click on the BUY NOW button.
Considering all the amazing awards, I thought I should write a humble acceptance speech. Here goes.
Thank you. I deserved it. I did it all by myself. No one helped. Nobody.
Nada. Zip. Zero.
I lied.
Here's to my Go-TO-Guys
To: Aaron, Eric and Chris at
for their creative care in card and web design
To: Scott, Todd and Will at
for producing such gorgeous cards with such loving hands
and for setting up the e-commerce site.
And finally to Mike at
for believing in me
for making this website
a dream come true...
and for Outstanding Customer Service...
Even for a Late Bloomer and a Yard Yeti like me!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
This
Is
Not
A
Journal
This is a storybook.
About your story and mine.
A place to dream.
A home for wishes.
A launching pad for ideas.
Why wait for wishes to come true?
Why not wish them for yourself?
Why wait for others to wish you well?
Why not wish yourself well.
It doesn't have to be your birthday.
It doesn't have to be an anniversary.
It doesn't have to be a Monday or a Tuesday.
It can be any day you choose.
It can be any way you wish.
Just close your eyes and make it so,
Once upon a time...
Happily ever after...
Celebrate yourself.
Blow out the candles and make a wish.
Don't tell anyone.
Keep it in your heart.
A gift with a bow.
Wrapped in glittered paper.
For you.
With love.
...and a card attached that reads...
Don't bother telling me that wishes don't come true.
We all have faith...
...in what we cannot yet see, cannot possibly know, because no matter how smart you think you are, none of us knows what tomorrow will be.
What we all wish for...
Is just one more...
This
Is
Not
A
Journal
This is a storybook.
About your story and mine.
A place to dream.
A home for wishes.
A launching pad for ideas.
Why wait for wishes to come true?
Why not wish them for yourself?
Why wait for others to wish you well?
Why not wish yourself well.
It doesn't have to be your birthday.
It doesn't have to be an anniversary.
It doesn't have to be a Monday or a Tuesday.
It can be any day you choose.
It can be any way you wish.
Just close your eyes and make it so,
Once upon a time...
Happily ever after...
Celebrate yourself.
Blow out the candles and make a wish.
Don't tell anyone.
Keep it in your heart.
A gift with a bow.
Wrapped in glittered paper.
For you.
With love.
...and a card attached that reads...
Don't bother telling me that wishes don't come true.
We all have faith...
...in what we cannot yet see, cannot possibly know, because no matter how smart you think you are, none of us knows what tomorrow will be.
What we all wish for...
Is just one more...
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Keep
Your
Fingers
And
Your
Opinions
To
Yourself
When I was in Jr. High, the only subjects I loved about Art Class were my teacher's fingernails. She had almond shaped perfectly manicured fingernails adorning slender fingers. I noticed because she often demonstrated artistic techniques with them, wrapping her hand around a brush or a pen with such fluid, confident ease. I noticed too, because I kept my hands tucked deeply under my armpits. My fingernails were an artistic masterpiece of my utter lack of confidence. I bit them down to the quick. This was well before the days of faux nails and French manicures. It was, however, the glory days of my faux artwork.
In Jr. High, Home Economics was divided into three content areas. The first...Sewing & Cooking...the second...Shop...and the third...Art. Let us review. In Sewing we were given a pattern and taught how to sew. I chose a pattern for a simple shift, the armholes and facings a challenge. I opted for gray wool. Yards and yards of gray wool. I am slightly dyslexic when reading charts and diagrams. No, actually, I am dismally dyslexic. The armhole facings looked great when I cut them out. I followed the dotted cutting lines. Perfect. I missed the part about notching. The part that makes the armholes match the openings in the jumper. I did not make armholes. I created phalanges. Wings, if you will. I thought the ruffles looked kind of cool, but my teacher felt otherwise and took it upon herself to teach me by doing it herself. All that remained, two side seams. ---------one and ---------two. Then I could hem and be finished. Two straight seams. However, having limited proficiency on the sewing machine itself, I was unaware of the "speed" factor. The delicacy of managing the pedal to control the MPH. We didn't have a car. I only had a bicycle. I knew one simple law of physics, put your foot on the pedal means go. Take your foot off the pedal equals stop. I like riding fast. I floored it. The result? I sewed a perfectly straight seam. I sewed TWO perfectly straight seams, the full length of the fabric. I clipped the trailing threads and slid the jumper over my head and down down down my body. I was encased like a sausage, from my chin to my ankles in perfectly seamed gray wool. I could not walk. I had to hobble to a table, where three friends helped me slide on and lie down, red-faced, while my Home Ec teacher performed an emergency fabricotomy. Once my knees came into view, I inched off the table and back to my sewing station. I recall her encouraging words. Perhaps I could make a matching cape for my woolen ensemble with the excised material. Great. Cape and phalanges. A gray woolen flying sausage.
Next up...Shop. A Short story. Our assignment. Make a box. With a lid. A lid that fit. Both ways. Using a jigsaw with delicate blades and a racing motor. I broke three blades. Pulled out splinters for a week. Glued my wood pieces into a box. The lid did not fit. Either way. I gave it to my father for Christmas. He kept a picture of me in it.
Finally. Art Class. A special and remarkable day. We could draw or paint anything we wanted. I was reading Black Beauty at the time, and had an extraordinary film loop in my head, of a stallion flying across the grass, back lit by sun kissed mountaintops. I could see, in my mind's eye, the muscles and sinew, the flare of nostrils, the pure abandon of running free. I put my brush to paper. Stepped back. A miracle. A horse. A wild running beauty of a horse. It took my breath away, as I have never been able to draw the beauty I see around me. Maybe, this was one of those rare moments, when what you imagine comes to life. One of those I can't moments morphing into I can, fueled by the fire of imagination. If it was, it lasted mere seconds. My teacher strode over, glanced down at my work, and reached for a brush. She said, "It needs...it needs...", then dipped her brush into bright orange paint and outlined my horse in a neon glow and set fire to the mountaintops. She turned to me and said "There, now your painting is finished." I replied, "No, now YOUR painting is." The principal let me off easy for sassing. My teacher got even with me by displaying my Orange Beauty in the hallway with my name on it, even though we both knew who the artist really was.
I don't bite my fingernails anymore. A different teacher helped me break the habit. She brought in nail polish and buffed one little nail. She told me I could nibble on the other nine, but to give just one a chance to grow. Over the months, I added one at a time to admire, until I had a full set.
The teacher, my manicurist, was also my English teacher.
She introduced me to the wonder of words,
and when I began writing, kept her red pen to herself.
...who must have seen the words waiting,
right at the end of my fingertips
Keep
Your
Fingers
And
Your
Opinions
To
Yourself
When I was in Jr. High, the only subjects I loved about Art Class were my teacher's fingernails. She had almond shaped perfectly manicured fingernails adorning slender fingers. I noticed because she often demonstrated artistic techniques with them, wrapping her hand around a brush or a pen with such fluid, confident ease. I noticed too, because I kept my hands tucked deeply under my armpits. My fingernails were an artistic masterpiece of my utter lack of confidence. I bit them down to the quick. This was well before the days of faux nails and French manicures. It was, however, the glory days of my faux artwork.
In Jr. High, Home Economics was divided into three content areas. The first...Sewing & Cooking...the second...Shop...and the third...Art. Let us review. In Sewing we were given a pattern and taught how to sew. I chose a pattern for a simple shift, the armholes and facings a challenge. I opted for gray wool. Yards and yards of gray wool. I am slightly dyslexic when reading charts and diagrams. No, actually, I am dismally dyslexic. The armhole facings looked great when I cut them out. I followed the dotted cutting lines. Perfect. I missed the part about notching. The part that makes the armholes match the openings in the jumper. I did not make armholes. I created phalanges. Wings, if you will. I thought the ruffles looked kind of cool, but my teacher felt otherwise and took it upon herself to teach me by doing it herself. All that remained, two side seams. ---------one and ---------two. Then I could hem and be finished. Two straight seams. However, having limited proficiency on the sewing machine itself, I was unaware of the "speed" factor. The delicacy of managing the pedal to control the MPH. We didn't have a car. I only had a bicycle. I knew one simple law of physics, put your foot on the pedal means go. Take your foot off the pedal equals stop. I like riding fast. I floored it. The result? I sewed a perfectly straight seam. I sewed TWO perfectly straight seams, the full length of the fabric. I clipped the trailing threads and slid the jumper over my head and down down down my body. I was encased like a sausage, from my chin to my ankles in perfectly seamed gray wool. I could not walk. I had to hobble to a table, where three friends helped me slide on and lie down, red-faced, while my Home Ec teacher performed an emergency fabricotomy. Once my knees came into view, I inched off the table and back to my sewing station. I recall her encouraging words. Perhaps I could make a matching cape for my woolen ensemble with the excised material. Great. Cape and phalanges. A gray woolen flying sausage.
Next up...Shop. A Short story. Our assignment. Make a box. With a lid. A lid that fit. Both ways. Using a jigsaw with delicate blades and a racing motor. I broke three blades. Pulled out splinters for a week. Glued my wood pieces into a box. The lid did not fit. Either way. I gave it to my father for Christmas. He kept a picture of me in it.
Finally. Art Class. A special and remarkable day. We could draw or paint anything we wanted. I was reading Black Beauty at the time, and had an extraordinary film loop in my head, of a stallion flying across the grass, back lit by sun kissed mountaintops. I could see, in my mind's eye, the muscles and sinew, the flare of nostrils, the pure abandon of running free. I put my brush to paper. Stepped back. A miracle. A horse. A wild running beauty of a horse. It took my breath away, as I have never been able to draw the beauty I see around me. Maybe, this was one of those rare moments, when what you imagine comes to life. One of those I can't moments morphing into I can, fueled by the fire of imagination. If it was, it lasted mere seconds. My teacher strode over, glanced down at my work, and reached for a brush. She said, "It needs...it needs...", then dipped her brush into bright orange paint and outlined my horse in a neon glow and set fire to the mountaintops. She turned to me and said "There, now your painting is finished." I replied, "No, now YOUR painting is." The principal let me off easy for sassing. My teacher got even with me by displaying my Orange Beauty in the hallway with my name on it, even though we both knew who the artist really was.
I don't bite my fingernails anymore. A different teacher helped me break the habit. She brought in nail polish and buffed one little nail. She told me I could nibble on the other nine, but to give just one a chance to grow. Over the months, I added one at a time to admire, until I had a full set.
The teacher, my manicurist, was also my English teacher.
She introduced me to the wonder of words,
and when I began writing, kept her red pen to herself.
...who must have seen the words waiting,
right at the end of my fingertips
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