It looks rather nice, huh? The faux finish doesn't make it look vintage. The faux finish just makes it look in need of a good wash and wax. But I like it. It's seldom this neat and tidy. I have to give it a lick and a promise every single day. That doesn't mean that I do. Stuff seems to gravitate to its surface and drawer minutes after clear space shows itself. No matter. It's a surface I can live with.
The best light in the room is the light that shines through yon window to the right. The view is stellar. I get to watch Alex at play in their backyard, and we wave and signal to each other. This is my favorite spot to watch the man who mows, without getting in the way, or acting as overseer. I live out loud, and am allowed to live large and in charge at my little desk. Only one other person gets to sit here in my chair, at my desk, in my space. She lives in another state. No one else is allowed to use it, view anything on top, or in the drawer. JC stares at it--in amazement or with mock horror writ all over his face as he pretends not to understand how I can work here, or find anything. I just grin with all the pride I can muster. His teasing is like the pot calling the kettle copper.
Minuet no longer sits on the ledge to enjoy the view. She cannot clear the top in a single bound. That's just an excuse. I think she's simply too old. She prefers the cat roost in the family room. JC opens the blinds for her to perch, bask, and gaze upon the great outdoors every morning. Some days, if I'm on the patio, and remember that she might be there, I'll look up, and there she she'll be. I want to believe she looks down on me with longing, yet truth is she's extremely afraid of the outdoors. She and Simon are/were house cats.
I like not having to put things away the second I stop using them. Some days, like this one, I simply enjoyed the colors, and left them for awhile. Then a funny thing happened. JC brought me the days mail and I'll be darned. The postcard on top fit right in. The fan took me back to my Grandma Annie's old fan. And just like that, I was back in the country on a hot summer day when fans whirred and cicadas made it feel hotter with their "infernal racket." I loved it then . . . and now.
Have you tried it yet?
The adhesive beads. The template warps, and is slow to recover. It tore.
A three page letter demanded a lovely home-made envelope. I delivered. It's not what you think either.
The very pretty paper is an 18 x 24 sheet from Texas Art Supply. I like how they hang it from the ceiling like flags in search of a breeze. Sometimes I walk into things when I walk and look at the sheets on display. Sometimes looking is a pain in my neck. On such days, I walk away in annoyance, without buying a thing. That's when the owner's son (?) tries to make me look by hawking the new items aloud, like a fish monger with a fresh catch. Then I feel bad. He's eccentric, and I like that in him. I still walk away though.
A template for a a fun envelope perks up any letter-writing doldrums that may find hover space above a desk. I forgot to pen the letter with sepia or brown ink! I know, shame on me me, huh? No matter. The leftover paper is earmarked for a journal cover. But. But, once I'd folded my lovely envelope, I found it difficult to cover the front--such pretty cascading flowers deserved their moment in the postal sun. So I used an extra large Avery address label and affixed it to the back--which made it look like a front. Aha! Dual purpose served! The folds would not/could not come undone, and the lovely back--as pretty as the exposed back in a backless evening gown--begs to be touched. The paper is so soft. It wants stroking.
Last night one good letter gave urgent birth to another. I blame the pretty stationery. Notecards need noting. Especially when the paper is perfect and pairs well with good ink. Good paper is like blank canvas to an artist.
This has to be one of the best . . . I'll tell you more some other time. This box deserves a post devoted to it and nothing else. We shall try.
Seems I cannot stop buying these pens! Impulse purchases are signs of weakness. Or else it's a sign that reveals my inability to find the others handily when in need. Shucks. See the split nib? Lindsey's potato tip works better than most. Hmm. Could I have split it when I stuck it into the potato? The revenge of the spud.
I have more than just a few irons in the fire. My love affair with pencils is as hot as ever. As you can see it is not without personal humor. Blame this little draw on one of the Minions pencils from Angela. No such bean exists. It's my personal brain bean. Pencils put up with all sorts of silliness. Seriously. Stay tuned for more if you're able to stand it. I have plans to devote hours and hours of spare time to works done by the lovely pencil.
I cannot tell you how much I've enjoyed this little postcard. I decided to finally part with it. Its new home was well chosen.
A single package. Prettified and ready to go. Giving is such sweet fun! What I wouldn't give to wrap up and ship ninety-eight percent of my stuff. The most fun would be in choosing what to keep.
One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes, four . . . No, it won't morph into a stamp. You'll never guess what it will eventually be. Become. No, not yum!
I am partial to magnolia trees. Leaves. Letters about magnolias. And the like.
And they're back. They want me to tell their story. I really must. I'll tell it in a letter. Why? A letter will be better. There's always something worth the telling and postage. Like the movie, "The Last Letter." Remember it?
. . . there's more to come.