Meet the team behind STUDIO B LABELS' fabulous work where our motto is 'Celebrate Everything!' We are serious about exceeding customer expectations, superior print quality and bringing smiles to faces.
So what are we not serious about? Bios.
Rachel, Creative Superhero | Creator of Happiness
Rachel was born at a very young age and is a self-made thousandaire. She comes from a Corporate American background (her previous name was 19056) and traded in her suits for yoga pants. She is excellent at dreaming big, parallel parking and is exceptionally gifted at opening wine bottles. Rachel loves cardio-shopping and hanging Post It notes--but not at the same time though. Rachel lives vicariously through herself and loves sweatshirt season, her son Crew and George Michael look-a-like husband, Ryan. She also has two furry Labrador children who are blissfully unaware they are, in fact, dogs. Rachel also speaks fluent sarcasm. One thing you should know about Rachel is that she literally smiles as she responds to customer emails--which is admittedly odd to watch. She LOVES her customers and often brags that she has some of the best in the lower 48.
Melody, Chief Everything Officer | Operations Rockstar
Melody has a BS in Biological Sciences, so naturally she spends her days in the creative land of label-making! She’s a rookie-level selfie taker who loves sleep, dreads small talk, and whose hair is full of secrets anytime it’s humid out. Melody is admittedly kinda weird, but it’s ok - her friends assure her it’s just a side effect of awesomeness. When she’s not busy making sure your labels are perfect, Melody enjoys singing show tunes, drinking wine, and watching Food Network with her husband Joel. Melody is perfectly happy to work quietly behind the scenes but knows that fabulous ends in “us.” Coincidence? Doubt it.
Shelby, Design Ninja
Shelby is busy being fabulous and seemingly detests bios more than her co-workers and has yet to submit hers. So 'The Utter Nonsense Generator' was enthusiastically up for the challenge to fill her space. Here goes:
A thug over a cigar gives a pink slip to a bicep, because a guardian angel from the mirror slyly sells the girl over the midwife to a chain reaction. Jespera and I took a toothache inside the boy (with the completely strawberry-blonde trombone, a strawberry-blonde ruffian, a few toothpicks, and a necromancer) to arrive at a state of intimacy where we can thoroughly trade baseball cards with our curse. Unlike so many clodhoppers who have made their secretly gingerly bubble bath abhorrent to us, hands remain ghastly.
Oh, and Rachel is awesome. She definitely didn't write this.