Sucker for Symbolism

I’m a sucker for symbolism.  If I could own a button that when pressed, would drench me in “Redemption Rain,” I would most assuredly use it.

Handmade 101

The concept of buying cards to give to people is foreign to me. I was taught homemade cards were the acceptable option, really, the only option. I made birthday cards for my siblings, Halloween cards for my neighbors, and Easter cards for my grandparents in Arkansas.

At the beginning, my cards were anything but pretty. My handwritten words sprawled across the page, the drawings crude and uneven, the coloring straying past the lines. But the message on the inside was always solid: I didn’t just write the typical celebratory message, but added my own. I shared a special moment we had or the reason they were so important to me. It just added another touch that you couldn’t really have with a Hallmark card.

As I got older, the card making continued and my skills advanced. I started playing around with layering paper, adding pictures, making drawings that looked presentable and professional, and playing with fonts. I had stepped up my game. A friend’s birthday present became not only a gift, but the card itself. I had found a way to tap into my creative energies, and I would craft a card that essentially represented the person who was receiving it. The card was a sign of my friendship with them; a “Hey I know you so well let me show you with paper and colors and a message.”

I am known for my cards. I now make them for basically any reason. Birthdays, graduations, holidays, thank yous, and just because I can make you card day (which is ANY day). My friends don’t throw my cards away; my cards end up on walls, boards, and in memory boxes.

I take pride in my cards. If you get a card from me, it means something. That you are an important person in my life. Because if I’m going to take time to make you card, a card that is made uniquely for you, then you mean something to me. You are a friend.

When I’m in my room making a card, it’s kind of an experience in itself. Kind of symbolic, starting with a blank card and adding to it. Cutting colored pieces to layer on top, adding meaning through the colors, letters, and pictures. Kind of the way friendships build. You start with a blank slate and build on top of it. Sure, making a card can be messy, the glue on my fingertips and the washable marker smudge on the side of my hand. But it’s all worth it in the end, when the card is done and I’m sealing it in an envelope.

But by far, the best part of making these cards is when I see a person open the card. The smile that spreads across their face as they look at the front and then their excitement to open it, to read what it says. In my head, they slow down when they read the inside, slowing down just enough to soak it in. It’s the power of the written word, to express exactly what I want to say. And their smile grows bigger until they get to the bottom. As they finish reading my signed name, a signature I’ve perfected over the years, they give me a hug or share a look. That feeling, that hug, and that look are why I make cards.

I’m sorry Hallmark, you just don’t have that power.

Better luck next time.

I’ve got game

Yesterday, my friends and I ventured to our local Applebee’s for half-price appetizers. That’s a thing. Every night. After nine. Who knew? We grabbed a big old booth for the seven of us and waited for the waiter.

The waiter was cute. Let’s just put it out there. He looked to be about our age (in his 20s) with brown hair and an adorable smile. And he was flirty. He got along well with us, taking our orders, dishing out the compliments, and handing out the jokes. Pure banter. I live for that stuff. Because it’s just fun.

Apparently I was really getting into it because at one point, he brought out another lemonade for me and one of my friends said,

“Oh Hailley, I saw what you did there. The whole look down and then look up at him coyly with a cute smile on your face.” I blushed, not realizing that yes, that was the move I had just pulled. Whoops.

After eating way too many tortilla chips (they give you so many), he brought out our checks. He handed out the black books and while distributing the pens, offhandedly mentioned we could write notes on our checks. Just for giggles. The idea was thrown around that I should include my number. We all laughed and I seriously considered it.

And then I wrote it. It felt almost like a movie moment; you know, the red pen in my hand scribbling out my name followed by the ten digit number. Smooth? I wasn’t sure, I was stepping into brand new territory. I didn’t do this often and if I did, it usually didn’t work. But hey, it’s summer and I decided to take a chance.

Fast forward to 1 AM. I’m not up to get it but when I finally pull myself out of bed at 7 AM, I have a text from a new number:

Haha. Wassup? 😀

Winning. Apparently I have more game than I thought.