Reinvention

I’m recreating myself.  In anticipation of the sixty-sixth birthday, I’m opening a new Etsy shop. My former Etsy store was named Beatrice Bee Vintage. It was fun, I sold a bunch of junk and shipped all over the planet.

Then it kinda’ dried up and the magic disappeared.

Recently I thought, “What do people spend stupid money on?” The answer, pets, and babies.

I considered doing custom pet portraits. Then, after Saturday’s meditation, it came to me to create whimsical artwork for nursery walls.

No need to inventory anything. I’ll just do the pictures, save on the computer and print on demand. I called my friend, Richie to discuss printing–what type of home printer does a decent job. The one we now own churns out anemic color copies. Richie owns a print business. His color printer cost over $800,000. I scratched my head, thought about it and decided not to get one of those.

Yesterday I colored my first baby animal. An elephant. I’ll post its picture with a cute girlie hat on her head and name her Emma. I’ll repost without the hat and Emma becomes Ethan. Print out at 8″ by 10″, slide into an 11″ by 14″ matte and mail it off. The purchaser can then buy a ready-made frame.

The competition on Etsy is stiff. One lady opened her shop in 2016 and has already had over 10,000 sales. It will be tricky to get my work noticed. I don’t plan to open until I have about twenty decent images.

The picture below I did some years back. The little pea in the pram was artwork for a baby shower invitation. The mother of that baby boy has since had two more boys. It was fun coloring and planning that party.

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Now, off to color a piglet. Penelope and Payton Pig. I’ll write a little back story for each image. Maybe include it with the purchase. This Etsy shop is an infant. Lots to think about.

 

Somewhat related blog posts:

What I Like About Me

It’s Never Too Late: 10 Writers & Artists That Were Late Bloomers

I used to ask, “Why me?” Now I say, “Why NOT me!”

 

My Baby Turned Thirty-Four today. (I’m still thirty-nine.)

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This was taken in first grade.  My father chose the outfit Mo has on as her fifth birthday gift. After third grade, she refused to wear anything but boy’s corduroy Levi’s.  By high school, she insisted on wearing pajama pants to school daily.  I was lazy enough to be fine with that.  No ironing.

Today my daughter, Maureen, turned thirty-four.  That kid has been a lifetime of delights.  Mo is smart, hilarious, wonderfully sarcastic, artistic, and athletic.  And no I’m not biased.

Thirty-four years ago today we were in the Wilmington Delaware maternity ward.  Mo’s scant hair was pulled up into a small ponytail on the top of her head, held in place with a bit of pale pink yarn.  She was swaddled as tight as a pea in a pod.

My parents brought Matt to visit.  Mom had made cupcakes.  We gave Mo her first birthday party.  She had gotten a gift for her brother, carried it with her right straight outta’ the womb.  A Fisher Price cop car, motor cycle, and policeman.

Mo went through a four-year-old phase where she refused to answer to anything but “Brucie.”  She sat at the top of a sliding board, screeching at her pre-school teacher “NO, I’M NOT MAUREEN!  My name is BRUCIE!”  We complied.

That teacher suggested to me we hope for a kindergarten teacher who was comfortable with a “creative” child.  I think she meant willful.

In first grade, she wouldn’t sit still.  Teacher Miss Evensen told her to pretend she was in a box.  Mo mimed being in a glass box, reaching out touching sides, ceiling, floor, and moving her mouth to pantomime speech.

By high school, all her buddies congregated at our house.  I remember one night sitting on my bed, reading when suddenly I was surrounded by about six sixteen-year-old boys.

Her senior year, Mo was planning to go to a Jimmy Buffet concert.  The day of the event our yard men came to mow and trim.  Suddenly there was a knock at the back door. The guys had something to show us in the garden.  Lo and behold, there under the evergreens were cases of beer and oceans of liquor bottles.  We gathered it all up, put it on the kitchen island and called Maureen down from her room.

Her eyes bugged out when she saw the booze. Busted. She was forbidden to go to the concert. Then we called our friends, invited them to party and drank up her goodies.

During her four years at Notre Dame Mo spent every summer as a counselor at Camp Sweeney, a Texas camp for diabetic kids.  She and I would drive from Chicago to Texas together.  I’d fly home, leaving her with the car.  I loved those road trips!  We rarely left Chicago before 3 in the afternoon.  We played great games in the car.  One of my personal favorites was trying to decide how we’d murder someone and where we’d hide the body.  We could play that for hours.

Hard to believe my baby now has a baby of her own, Tate.  He is now singing Mary had a Little Lamb.  Mo used to sing that.  She pronounced it Yittle Yamb.  A yittle yamb who yived down the yane.  I would tuck her in for a nap, then stand outside her door giggling as she sang to herself.

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Here he is in his crib. Could the kid be any cuter?

 

Now she’s is a critical care nurse.  I suggested she be an artist. But for some reason she feels being a nurse contributes more than a lifetime spent coloring.  Go figure.

Mo, happy birthday and thanks for thirty-four years of laughter. We can’t wait to see you next month!