I always get restless and sad when fall begins. Start to tally up the lists of things I didn’t do, garden plans that never came to be, places I didn’t manage to visit.
I know that it’s not rational- I know that on paper things are pretty dang peachy… but there it is, again.
probably time to get the old sun lamp out…
Why yes, I DID just request my Ontario NUANS conflicting-business-names report while wearing my bathrobe.
Because I am biz-lady like that.
I have purchased domain names and contacted potential wholesalers… I have a lead on fridges for sale at the BLOOD BANK!
My money and my mouth are currently in the same location!
Want to check out that wedding I did earlier this month? Want to know about everything I don’t know about flowers?
It’s just a placeholder for now, I’ll be migrating everything over and integrating wordrpess with my actual website pending acts of magic by graphic designer and online shopping cart expert-friends.
106 days until I open for business!
In more writing-reading related news, reread Room by Emma Donoghue, A Scientific Romance by Ronald Wright, and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by David Eggers. All hold up, all are still excellent, all are un-put-downable (I have yet to pick up Room and not read the whole thing in one go.) I can super-recommend all three, should you be on the lookout for something awesome to read. Currently midway through Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, which is much more my speed than Hawking’s Brief History of Time. I’m too dumb for dumbed-down Stephen Hawking, as it turns out. Bryson is as interested as I am in the 19thC paleontologist/geologist bickering and pranks, so far, so good.
I started talking to someone who reminded me of a character in my novel. My super unfinished going on two and a half years novel. So I decided I better not do it any more. Again.
What’s your best/worst excuse you’ve used to talk yourself out of something? (may not apply to anyone I interact with here, actually. What a bunch of stick with it finishers you all are.)
On a side note, I do some things that ARE awesome.
For example, I threw a pair of pants into my hotel trash can in Paris, because I wanted more room in my suitcase for wine, cheese, and foie gras.
For my sister.
I shall be maid of honouring and doing the flowers.
Near York in merry olde UK. IN A FUCKING CASTLE.
That is all!
I have one sad little sweetpea plant in bloom, and three anemic, very short larkspur. They are in a mason jar with queen anne’s lace, yarrow and anise hyssop which have taken over my garden. No picture- husband took the camera to the cabin in the woods and left it there. I left my seed-starting much too late this year, and my garden has reflected my job turmoil as I throw up my hands and wonder ‘what’s the point’? But do you know… those green tomatoes are looking pretty good, and they’ll be ripening soon. That single sweet pea flower has no right to be here in a drought and in this heat… and it smells gorgeous. Those too-tiny larkspur are an irredescent, almost purple blue. Beauty even in the failed experiments.
I went to a movie gala with my husband.
I wore weird mutant jelly fish silicone pasties on my tits.
Then I wore a dress on top of those, don’t worry.
A friend of mine started a new events and promotions company. She was organising the gala, and asked me to do tissue poppies for decor and bouttonieres for the guys in the film.
Total bouttoniere failure- the roses I used were too heavy and big. They would have been marvellous back in the 70s, when men had enormous lapels and moustaches to balance out such things. But in our day and age, these bad boys hung crooked, then they blew open and became even more comically large. The guys in the film all wore them with good humour. My husband chose the biggest, craziest one and wore it with genuine pride. It’s the stupid little things that remind you why you love someone.
Also felt better when I found out one of the theatre staff liked the paper flowers I made so much, she asked if she could have them for a party the next day.
Floral disasters aside, I can’t stop smiling. Can’t stop looking at everyone’s pictures. It was a magical evening, no hyperbole. Everyone in tuxes and evening gowns. We took a limo from the bar to the door, then there were pipers and a red carpet. Photographers. Tons of people. Felt so Hollywood.
At the after party, I drank a little too much celebratory champagne and demanded that a group of friends take me out for fucking hamburgers. We stumbled down the main street trying to find a place that was open, saluting other formally dressed wedding and bar mitzvah guests we passed. Found a place that was open and ate the best hamburger of my life.
Still on a high from the evening.
My friend who organised the event asked me to become a partner in her new events company.
I said YES. xoxoxoxoxoxoxox
Zero writing. Oh, my dears. Oh, my ducks.
But I am making hundreds of paper flowers for a movie premiere gala.
Then I am making 24 rose bouttonieres for gentlemen appearing in the movie at the gala.
There will be limos and photographers… which will come in handy for portfolio shots. I Maaaaaay be opening my own flower design shop in the next year. No, you know what? Fuck ‘may’. Am. Will. Shall. Plans underway. I need to do this. I need to try something, even if I fail the something. I’m going to be 35. Then I’m going to be 40. It’s how these things work, you see.
Also, attending said gala with husband. I wear sneakers and steel toes. I must purchase heels. I must purchase adhesive products and attach them to my boobs in such a way that said boobs will not spill out of dress.