on fire with fireflies

WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?

2010-02-20T09:56:00.001-08:00

Oh you sweet sweet people. I don't know why you put up with me.

Truth be told, I had resolved to give up fireflies (just too busy) in spite of the constant pestering of my mom, who is my biggest fan. Every time I do or say anything that is even remotely witty or interesting she says "YOU SHOULD BLOG THAT!!!" It's cute actually. Which doesn't mean I'm not going to continue to roll my eyes every time she says it. It's daughterly duty.

So this post is about nothing. Yet another reason why you should not still be here. I popped by the ol' blog to delete a spam comment and here I am posting with no plan and nothing to say.

Yes, I know I never gave you part 3 of our Salton Sea travelogue. About a month ago, I told Matthew that it had been so long that I was going to need something over the top good for part 3. Something on the level of dragons or gypsy curses or a pack of wild angry midget men would do nicely. I commissioned him to write it (I don't do fiction) and he never did. So blame him, not me. Really.

Actually, part 3 is pretty boring.... Slab City blah blahh devastation blah blah destitute half abandoned town the end. There you go. It's been so long that you probably don't even remember that I was in the middle of a Salton Sea travelogue. Here's a picture to round it out:

Oh wait, picture fail, that was from an entirely different adventure that I failed to blog about.

That's the one. Devastation. Yup. Okay, Salton Sea wrapped. I should have done that months ago.

I would say more, but I have a cup of coffee and a new episode of Project Runway calling me away. You know how it is. But one more exciting thing - Matthew quit his job to work with me full time. Today is his last day. So so so so wonderful. Maybe, just maybe, I will even have more time to write. Thanks for reading, you guys. You're the best.

The Salton Sea Part 2: In which we find religious fervor moving yet freaky

2009-12-11T16:11:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I think I'm getting out of hand with all of these "in which" titles. Meh. I enjoy them. They're jokes for readers.

So part two, a day late.

We finished up our lunch and were excited to find that we were less than ten minutes from Salvation Mountain. What's Salvation Mountain, you're asking? Well friends, it is this:

and let me tell you, it is amazing. All of that rain and traffic and horrible z-grade diner food and when we first caught glimpse of this, it was all worth it.

Salvation Mountain is an enormous sculpture made by one old man who lives on the property and has been building it for years and years. It appears to be made almost entirely out of bales of hay, mud, and paint, with a few found junkyard objects thrown in. When you first drive up to it, you see the mountain itself

The mountain is climbable, but on the day we were there it wouldn't have been safe. We could barely walk on level ground in boots without falling. Adjacent to the mountain is another smaller mountain (of sorts) that you can enter. It is composed of several caves

along with walkways and courtyards and just general random mini structures.

It seems that Leonard Knight, the artist behind this work, just built and built and built. There is even a replica in front of the mountain of the mountain itself:

Surrounding Salvation Mountain is a circle of cars. Those are painted too:

One might be tempted to write this off as outsider art kitsch, but that is not the experience of actually seeing it in person. When you see it and climb it and interact with it, its message of sheer joy is absolutely overwhelming. I asked Matthew what he thought it would be like to love anything as much as Leonard Knight loves God and his sculpture and he said "terrifying. And amazing."

Agreed. It was beautiful.

And I still owe you guys part 3: Slab City, Niland, and Bombay Beach.

The Salton Sea Part 1: In which water from the sky attempts to keep us away from water in the earth.

2009-12-09T02:08:00.000-08:00

So we never got to see the Salton Sea up close. Remember how I said it was an ecological disaster area? The beaches are also closed. There are no fences keeping you out, just periodic signs posted saying to keep out.

That's not what kept us out. Why would it? A sign? Are you kidding me?

When we woke up on Monday morning, it was raining. Hard. We had set the alarm for 7:30 but somehow managed to hit snooze until after 9. We were wrapped up in a big tangle of cuddling and blankets and the cat, and that combined with the peaceful sound of rain outside was just too much to resist. Once we did drag ourselves out of bed, I went to check the weather report.

Rain all day long.

Our destination was nearly 200 miles away and in the desert. There couldn't be rain there too, right?

There was. In fact, this storm stretched all the way to Phoenix - some 8 hours away.

We decided to go anyway. We just packed our boots. In accordance with Murphy's Law, all of the umbrellas had vanished, save one flimsy little vintage parasol still sitting in the car from a photo shoot the day before.

We finally got on the road at 10 am and were met with a sea of red brake lights and incredibly heavy rain. We decided that we were crazy but to go through with it anyway. About 3/4 of the way there (once we were fully out of easy access to mechanics), the rain was pelting so hard that it actually broke one of our windshield wipers. The left wiper became half metal and little strips of rubber flew around in the wind. It made an unbearable squealing skritching noise as it futilely tried to wipe away the water. Matthew patiently got out in the rain, did his best to put the wiper back together while getting soaked, and finished the job off with a couple of scraps of twine we had in the car. We kept going.

To get to the Salton Sea, you pass through LA and into the Inland Empire - a sort of suburb county to LA county infamous for its meth labs and white trash culture. You then pass through Imperial County, which is sort of a suburb to the Inland Empire and therefore one level trashier. You then get off the main interstate and drive for 50 more miles along the backroad.

We were on this last stretch, with the Salton Sea finally just to our right, when a cop decided to follow us. Mile after mile passed. He wasn't budging. I stared longingly at the Sea flying by next to us. Stormy and angry and black and filled with flocks of giant sea birds. I wanted to go so desperately, but every time we saw a good spot to pull over, there were those damn keep out signs. And that damn cop behind us. And after about 10 miles of following us, another cop pulled behind him and followed us too. We were a freaking convoy. I guess there's nothing better for them to do in the desert in a downpour.

We resigned ourselves to not shaking the cops any time soon and instead stopped for lunch at an unfortunate little hick pizzeria where the locals gaped at us and there was no soap in the bathroom.

And after that we gave up on the Sea for a bit and instead drove on an even smaller road to get to the thing we had most wanted to see on our adventure: Salvation Mountain.

Which I will tell you about tomorrow.

Dateaversary 9.0

2009-12-07T06:00:00.000-08:00

Today is the 9th anniversary of my first date with Matthew. To commemorate our dateaversary (as we like to call it), I thought I'd mention three things that happened on this weekend that reaffirmed that Matthew is indeed perfect for me.

-One-

Matthew said "We should do something really fun and romantic on Monday. Like maybe take a little road trip. What do you think - do you have any ideas?"

I replied with the first thing that popped into my mind: "How about the Salton Sea?"*

"That's perfect!" he exclaimed. Then he came over and kissed me on the cheek in honor of my awesome idea.

* the perversity of this is only clear when you know what the Salton Sea is. It is an ecological disaster - a lake so polluted its fish die en masse, filled with abandoned houses and shantytowns. It should be eerie and grim and it's 4 hours away. Super romantic.

-Two-

I was driving and slowed to let jaywalkers cross the street. Said jaywalkers were a youngish couple and a dog. The dog was very small and fluffy and prissy looking and was prancing slowly and indirectly across the street while its mistress coddled it like it was her baby. After a few seconds of this, I yelled "GET YOUR PET RAT OUT OF THE STREET MOTHERFU*KER!!!!"

Instead of being annoyed or perplexed at my irrational anger, Matthew just looked at me and sweetly said "Don't talk about that man's girlfriend that way."

So not only does he tolerate my bitchiness, he ups the ante by saying even more evil things. YES!

-Three-

We were walking in a nature center and we passed a large pond with a single lonely duck in it. Matthew pointed at the duck and said "Awww, look at that duck. He's all alone. He got left behind."

And I said "Yeah, he got left behind in the Duck ---"

"----Rapture" Matthew finished.

This one really blew my mind. When your mate can finish your sentence and the sentence in question ended in Duck Rapture, you know you have it made.

Love that guy. So today we're off holding hands and skipping at the Salton Sea. Two evil little trolls who are actually good people.

in which my lifelong ambition to create a flowchart is finally realized

2009-12-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

Ahh..... can you tell that my procrastination has reached pornographic proportions today? I am ridiculous sometimes.

Bungalow 360 is an awesome little company that I admire very much. It's a line of sturdy, expertly constructed, absolutely adorable canvas bags that I have been a fan of for a few years now. And best of all, Bungalow started out as an all-handmade line. You can see how I would admire them, yes?

Susie, Bungalow's owner/designer asked me to model some of her bags for her website. They're up now, and yes, I did get paid to model but I am not getting paid to tell you to check out the site. You just should because it's a great product and a great company.

Ooh, also - housekeeping. I know most of you don't read my other blog. But I just wanted to mention that last week I gave it a major facelift and reformatted it to be for both ghost academy and my flower studio. I'm planning (notice I hedge with "planning" instead of just saying I will be) on posting 3x a week on the other blog and 2x a week on this one. If I can manage. I think I can. So if you like pretty things and silly things and inspiring things, go take a look: Ghosty Dreams and Flower Things Matthew told me that name was too precious and asked if I was a teenage goth girl. But he also told me that the name "on fire with fireflies" was pretentious, and the name is stolen from one of HIS songs. So pffffft.

Thanksgiving vs. Valentine's Day

2009-11-26T08:00:00.000-08:00

When Valentine's Day rolls around, I always hear a lot of grumbling and cynicism about how it's a manufactured holiday designed to sell goods and make people feel bad. This is actually untrue - Valentine's Day is a holiday with meaning and deep roots and has been celebrated since the Middle Age.

When Thanksgiving rolls around, I never hear any grumbling and in fact, people seem quite excited even though I am sure they end up spending considerably more on Thanksgiving than they do on Valentine's and Thanksgiving actually IS a manufactured holiday that has only been celebrated for 100 or so years and has only been an official holiday for half that time.

There is only one plausible explanation for this.

Americans really, really, really, really enjoy gorging themselves on massive amounts of food. So dig in, America! And lest you think I'm being too judgy, know that I'll be gorging with the best of them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Confessions of failure part two: to touch and be touched

2009-11-25T11:45:00.001-08:00

When I was 14 and a freshman in high school, I learned a very important thing:

If I signed up to take a series of aptitude tests in the career center, I would then be allowed to miss an ENTIRE AFTERNOON of classes while I took said aptitude tests. Being an enterprising young lady, I naturally signed up. I then spent the afternoon in a quiet sunny room by myself, cheerfully filling row after row of little bubbles in with my #2 pencil. I finished quickly and took full advantage of being in the room alone by rifling through files until I found my own and scanning thorough my secret administrative records.

A week or so later, I was called out of class with a slip of paper summoning me back to the career center to discuss my results. I got to miss more class! Bonus!

I can't recall the name of my small Catholic school's counselor, but I do recall much of what he said. And also, because I am a bit of a pack rat, I still have the folder he handed me on that day. I present his findings:

Then, as now, I found the results hilarious. The tests showed that I required a job in which I was intellectually and creatively stimulated. And it inferred that I may have a bit of a problem with authority, so I had best work alone. The test also pointed out my biggest failings:

Orderliness, Leadership, and Social. The next few pages go on to explain that under no circumstances should I have a career that requires me to be around other people or more importantly to HELP other people. There is a half page devoted to how little regard I have for altruism.

Even at 14, I was already an angry little misanthrope. Ahhhh.... it's almost like a handicap then, right? Like I can't help it?

That test for the most part knew what it was talking about. But the part about altruism is dead wrong. For all of my prickly, muttering-angry-old-man exterior, I actually have a giving soul and a heart so soft it has gone rather mushy. I enjoy doing kind and unexpected things for strangers, I give (well, occasionally at least) to charity, and I would do pretty much anything for the people I care about. Post-college, I even had a brief stint as a hostess/waitress at a restaurant frequented largely by old people and I actually really enjoyed serving.

On the flipside, one place where my misanthropy really does come in to play is in being touched by strangers. As in, if a cashier touches my hand while giving me change, I shudder just a bit.

Does this make me psycho? Was the test right? I was reflecting on all of this a couple of weeks ago when I went to get a manicure. I was going to a swanky networking party and I wanted my hands to look a bit less like the monkey paws they usually resemble. I had not gotten a manicure since my wedding 5 years ago.

I went into the salon and requested my manicure. I sat there struggling and failing to not to be freaked out while a small bitchy woman who spoke barely any English clipped away at my cuticles. Across from me were a mother and daughter getting simultaneous pedicures. They were sprawled out on reclining chairs, looking positively blissed out while three women crouched at their feet, scrubbing furiously. I calmed myself by reflecting on how much worse it would be if I was getting a pedicure and having my feet handled by a stranger instead of my hands. The very thought makes my skin crawl just to type.

And there you have it: I can help people. I will enjoy helping people. But I must never, under any circumstances, have to touch them.

Brothers are spectacularly awesome

2009-11-23T10:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was really really frustrated and depressed. I actually cried. Long story and not important.... something to do with a combination of css coding/technological retardation and having forgotten to take the pills that keep me from going insane.

That's not important. The important thing is that my brother found out how sad I was and sent me this video of my nephew to cheer me up:

Isn't it the best thing you've ever seen? He's 5 in case you were wondering. My nephew, not my brother.

P.S. I have posts planned for this week! Real live posts! Multiple!

P.P.S. It' my dad's birthday today. I'm not sure why I'm mentioning that since he doesn't read this, but Happy Birthday Pop! (Yes I call my dad Pop and I will kick your ass if you make fun of me)

Aimless..... (plus failings)

2009-11-18T23:24:00.000-08:00

So it's gotten to the point that even my mom is hassling me about not keeping up my blog. For example, this little snippet at the end of an email from earlier today. Hold that - I was going to put just the snippet but I think I'll actually cut and paste the whole damn email, as I tend to find my mother's emails both amusing and amazing:

did you happen to read small stump and studio choo today? OMG they had one of those 70's macrame owls i still have nightmares about. beverley used to macrame all kinds of weird stuff and if you can believe this, your dad had all kinds of macrame plant holders and terrariums in his shop when we met. youn won't even believe what i did this morning.....i went to bed last nite after setting my alarm for 2:00. it was about 11:30 , my usual bedtime. I woke up at 2:30 with the alarm blaring and me thinking WTF???? why is my alarm going off at this time? i did not even remember market!!! i have never, ever done that! then i woke up again at 4:45 and sat bolt upright and thought SHIT!!!! MARKET!!! oh, well. i get to go on friday now. are you planning on going to market with me for the wedding? you don't have to , just askin'. Why aren't you doing your blog anymore? bored, or just busy, or nothing to say? love you. mom

I get these stream of consciousness emails from her perhaps once a day and I'm never quite sure how to respond. My mother is 59 and just got her first email account a couple of months ago. Just thought I'd clear that up since from the email you might have thought she was my 15 year old summer camp buddy.

Moving on. I have been quite busy, and not spending too much time online. On fire with fireflies has been at the back of my mind though. Last week I was mulling around the idea of themes. Adorable April from lost in the forest had just announced that she was going to start theming her blog and I find pretty much all of April's ideas worthy of stealing. The first theme that popped into my head was things that I am bad at. Really. I'm not sure what that says about me. I was plotting out a full week's worth of posts centered around my failings.

Now that I'm revisiting that, it's really not such a terrible idea. Failure can be amusing, no?

This idea came to me last week as I was leaving a Wal-Mart in disgrace and defeat.

I can't stand Wal-Mart. To a point where it's almost like a phobia. But I need a desk chair (I'm starting to get super achey from sitting in a normal chair all day), and my brother has one that he loves that he bought at Wal-Mart for $49. I had not been in one in at least a year. I'm a grown woman and quite capable (I thought). How bad could it really be?

I chose the Wal-Mart that is the newest, nicest, and least crowded in my town (there are three to choose from). My list was small and simple: a desk chair, light bulbs, a surge protector, condoms, and glue sticks. I was confident that I could be in and out in 20 minutes.

Over thirty minutes later, I had a headache, was hopelessly disoriented, and was so frustrated that I had nearly come to tears before I found my surge protector. My shopping list was only half completed and I was pushing my cart in an endless loop through and through and through the healthcare aisles in a fruitless search for condoms. And I knew, absolutely felt to my core that once I found them they would be locked up behind glass and I would have to hunt down a Wal-Mart employee (even scarcer than other mythical beasts like unicorns and minotaurs) to open up the glass case for me. I suddenly realized that I didn't have to do this. I left my cart where it was and fled the store. Forty minutes had passed. I bought nothing. I was defeated.

I immediately called my brother to congratulate him on his mad Wal-Mart skills. He rubbed in my failure by informing me that the location I had chosen was nicer and easier than the one he regularly shopped at.

I don't know what it is. I have a good sense of direction but I get hopelessly confused within seconds of walking in one of those Hell-holes. I am not a snob (honestly, I own things I rescued from dumpsters). I am good at many things. Fuck, I even have a 150+ IQ. I am also utterly incapable of successfully shopping at Wal-Mart, a.k.a. the most popular store in America. You can't be good at everything, I suppose.

postscript - a link to what I'm missing out on (click for lowbrow entertainment/allbrow horror):

The People of Walmart

Everything is coming up Megan

2009-10-29T10:56:00.000-07:00

The past couple of weeks I have spent virtually no time on the internet. Well, no time aside from checking my email, speedracing through google reader, and occasionally curling up with a blanket and a mug of coffee to watch episodes of Project Runway and America's Psychic Challenge on mylifetime.com (shut up, they're good. QUIT JUDGING ME). This is not intentional - me and internet are still bff4ever. It's because I've been spending my days away from home in a little pink schoolhouse that has no computer.

One of my big failings is that I have a ridiculously stubborn inability to ask for help or worse, to accept help when it is being offered to me and I quite clearly need it. I don't know why I'm like this, but I always have been, and no matter how much I try to work on it, I suspect I always will be. The worse thing about it is that occasionally I'll resent loved ones for not just jumping in to help in spite of my saying I don't need help. I know - I'm a monster. I'm going somewhere with these non sequiturs. Promise.

A few years ago, my brother and sister-in-law bought their first house, which is located in Willmore City. Willmore City is a small pocket of Long Beach that if properly rehabilitated could be a historical district the likes of which is virtually nonexistent in Southern California. It holds the oldest homes in Long Beach: gorgeous Victorians left to crumble for the last hundred years, most of which are now inhabited by people who have no feeling or respect for the gorgeous architecture they reside in. It's one of the most densely populated pockets of the city and ergo one of the poorest and most crime-riddled. I never drive through it without feeling my heart break a bit and wondering what would happen if the city council spent one quarter of the effort on preserving this area as they do trying to build up the nearby downtown for visiting conventioneers. Here I go again with my non sequiturs. This is what happens when I don't blog for two weeks - I'm cramming too much into this one entry. Let me back up.

A few years ago, my brother and sister-in-law bought their first house, which is located in Willmore City. It was the height of the real estate bubble, but because of the neighborhood and having an excellent real estate agent, they were able to secure a hundred year old Victorian mansion that even in its current state is absolutely delightful and with proper renovation could be a complete showstopper. Their home had long ago been carved up into a fourplex, where something like 25 people were living on one small piece of property. My brother and sister-in-law dreamed of opening a small school for young children, where they could spend as much time as possible with their own kids while also making an impact on other young children. And that is precisely what they did. They used the different parts of the house for their living quarters and the school. The downstairs bedrooms were nap central. Next to the house was a small detached building that had been a carriage house a hundred years ago and had since been turned into living quarters. They painted it pink and dubbed it the schoolhouse and taught lessons to toddlers there. Recess was held under an old juniper tree in front of the schoolhouse.

Which brings me back to the beginning. Almost a year ago, Sean and Cindy closed the school. They are both writing professionally now. And the schoolhouse had been unused save for a convenient bathroom when their kids were playing outside. The past few months, they have been offering the schoolhouse to me as a studio, and I have been resisting. Resisting because I have a hard time asking for help, because it was still filled with toys and teaching materials and that was my excuse as to why it wasn't really unused, but mostly resisting because I am stubborn to a degree that puzzles even me.

I moved in two weeks ago, and feel overwhelmingly grateful every day. I am so in love with my new studio. The space is perfect for me. The living room is where I print. There is a kitchen that will be my office once I move a computer over. And there is a bedroom that stays cold even in summer that will be the most perfect flower studio. There is a little yard out in front with a picnic table where I eat my lunches. My brother and sister-in-law stop by during the day for visits, and at night my niece and nephew come to visit and they're so adorable that they make my heart ache with happiness. At night when I go home, I really feel like I've left work behind me and I can relax and enjoy my leisure time. I think I may actually get to craft again - something that I have not had time to do since ghost academy started taking off over a year ago.

I'm staying home today to do laundry and house cleaning, and I am just itching to go in to my studio instead. I never thought it would be like this. And I am so grateful.

Just like Mom and apple pie

2009-10-13T23:05:00.000-07:00

Matthew is in Vermont right now, visiting his folks. I opted to stay home because Vermont is . . . well, let's just say that it's not all maple syrup and fall foliage.

Before I met Matthew, I had never known anyone from Vermont. Not surprising, since it's 3000 miles away and the entire state's population is roughly the same as just my home town. And so my impressions of Vermont were made up entirely of its reputation in popular culture: cozy ski lodges, hills dotted with sugaries and dairy farms, and other New England cliches in the key of Norman Rockwell and Grandma Moses. I joked to Matthew that Vermont was nothing more than America's Bed and Breakfast.

"Well, it is pretty," Matthew corrected me. "It's beautiful. But my hometown is exactly like Gummo."

Gummo, in case you are unaware, was a mid-Nineties cinematic ode to White Trash culture, featuring glue huffing, cat killing, and, well, pretty much every other form of filth you can imagine. When I saw the movie I thought it was a farce, but Matthew insists that it could have been a documentary about Barre, VT, where he grew up.

I still did not quite believe him until the first time I visited, back in 2003. This was right after Vermont had become the first state in the U.S. to legalize gay civil unions. That alone seemed to call bullshit on everything Matthew had claimed. But then one of the first things I saw as we were driving around town was a huge homemade billboard outside of a farm that had been handpainted with the words "faggots go home!"

The thing that really struck me that first visit, even more than the homemade billboard, was the fact that everyone stared at me. Everywhere I went. Complete, undisguised, hostile gaping. And nobody was friendly - not even salesclerks or waitresses who were paid to be nice. They didn't even bother saying "hello" or "thank you."

"Why does everyone stare at me? Is it because I'm a girl and I have short hair? Is it because my skin is too dark? Is it that they don't know me?"

"They stare at me just as much," replied Matthew, "and this is my hometown. They stare at you because of the way you carry yourself. Because you have grace and class and care about the way you look. It makes them think less of you."

After that, we drove around rural dirt roads in pouring rain while listening to Joy Division really loud. Matthew said that was the best way to experience "his Vermont."

There must be something good about this state. Matthew does love it, but in that sort of way that you would still love a parent who abused you. Out of habit and obligation. He has only been there three days, and each day he has called me at least four times to tell me about some funny trashy thing that just happened and that he misses me.

ring (actually chirp - my cell phone ring is birds chirping):
"This morning for breakfast I had something called The Cockleberry."

"What was it?"

"Two eggs and toast."

"Why was it called The Cockleberry?"

"I have no idea. Also, it only cost a dollar."

rinnnng (chirp):
"I'm at a bonfire where people were reminicing about hanging out at the drug dealer's house when they were 12 years old and the dealer told them that there was a crazy woman who lived there and that she was always taking her clothes off. They were mad that that never happened while they were there."

rrring (chirp):
"My dad seems okay. He's worried though because my brother keeps burning up all of the furniture."

"WHAT?"

"Yeah, apparently he keeps taking our furniture down to the bonfires to use as fuel."

"What the hell! Hasn't he heard of firewood?!"

"Guess not. I try not to think about it."

rrrinng (chirp):
"Oh man. I just put more money in my parking meter and I was standing about a foot from two guys so I said hello. They just ignored me and then started making fun of me to each other."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think they thought it was faggy that I said 'hello'."

rrrinnnng (chirp):
"I'm sorry if I'm calling too much, but just promise me something. Promise me that we'll never live in a small town. I know we talk about it sometimes, but I want to stay in the city where people are nice."

And so on. And on. And on. It's Matthew's birthday today. He thought it would be special for his family if he spent his birthday in Vermont. But then tonight he said he was wrong and that he never realized that what made birthdays fun was spending them not in Vermont. I miss that guy like crazy. But at least Vermont, unlike its sister state Hell, is escapable. He will be home soon. I can't wait to see him.

Aaaaand.... we're back.

2009-10-06T19:59:00.001-07:00

So Catalina was pretty flipping fantastic. It was just two days but it was exactly the break I needed. Unfortunately now I'm home and my house looks like my mom has been living here. I realize that only my family will understand what that means, but trust me - it's pretty awful. Think chaos and piles everywhere.

I love to travel and don't have money, so necessity has turned me into quite a bargain hunter. I was able to find a deal that paid for our round-trip boat tickets over to the island, two nights at a hotel, and an unlimited entertainment package that included all of the tours, movies, and golf (or in our non-athletic case, mini-golf) we could manage. This set us back just under $300 total, taxes included. We don't usually do super-touristy things. If it costs extra and you have to wait in line, I'm generally not interested. So it was a big change to take a bunch of tours. And being compimentary and in the off-season, we actually had a blast taking them.

A bit more about the island - I sometimes forget that you guys hail from all over the world, and Catalina means nothing. So in the early 1900's, Catalina Island (a small volcanic Island 20ish miles off the shore of LA) was purchased sight unseen by William Wrigley (of the chewing gum/Wrigley field fame). Wrigley came to the island to check out his investment and fell in love. He made it his mission to preserve the island in its natural state, and his heirs have upheld this same goal. So instead of being built up with amusement parks or luxury hotels, the island remains largely wild, with the exception of two tiny towns.

We arrived Sunday morning after an hour-long boat ride on 10 foot swells that tossed our ferry around like it was a toy. We felt like we had had enough boating for the day, so we booked a four-hour bus tour of the interior of the island - where nobody is allowed to go without the permission of the Catalina Island Conservacy (founded by the Wrigley family). The tour was on a gorgeous 50's era bus and followed tiny winding precarious mountain roads that were originally constructed to hold stage coaches a hundred years before. We saw breathtaking views of mountains and the ocean, a horse ranch owned by the Wrigley family, a bald eagle whose wing was being mended, and a buffalo. A herd of about 150 buffalo roams the island - they were left behind by a movie crew in the 20's.

At night, we went to see a movie in Catalina's famous Casino building. It's not actually a casino - when it was built, "casino" was just an Italian word for place of entertainment. The Casino is possibly my favorite building I've ever been in. It's the most spectacular piece of art deco anything I've ever seen, and I love art deco. The outside is breathtaking, but it is nothing compared to the inside. The bottom of the Casino houses a huge movie theatre with a domed ceiling, which is plated entirely in sterling silver. And the walls are covered in a mural of a forest/greek mythology scene that takes my breath away every time I see it. We were really willing to go see any movie just to set foot in the building. And the only movie showing was. . . wait for it. . . All About Steve. Le sigh. We didn't mind though - the theatre was worth it.

The next morning we booked a tour in a boat that has a submerged bottom chamber made of glass. The boat cruised through kelp forests to Catalina's protected harbor and thousands of fish swam all around us. It was amazing. Here's a tiny video of what we saw (watch with the sound off - unless you want to hear the people (and children) in the boat).

We then went back to the Casino. Yeah, I love it that much. I made Matthew take the official tour with me. And we got to see the top-level ballroom where pretty much every Big Band ever played in the 30's. SO GORGEOUS.

It was too cold to go snorkeling (our plan), so instead we played mini golf. Catalina has my favorite mini golf course - instead of having a weird theme park-esque course, everything is all odd and old-timey and homemade seeming. It's so quaint. Like some physics-loving dad built it in the 40's.

And then we came home and snuggled with abigail and watched Spinal Tap. I got seasick on the ride back, but we won't talk about that.

Jonesing

2009-10-03T18:55:00.000-07:00

I have been insanely busy lately and missing on fire with fireflies somethin' fierce. "Somethin' fierce", by the way, is a colloquialism that my Dad and I like to use. We used to have little phrases that we tossed back and forth that we referred to as the "Okie-ism of the week."

Anyway.

I shipped out fifteen orders this week. 15. F i f t e e n. Craziness. And I had a wedding today. I am exhausted. . . bordering on delirious. Matthew and I were so tired that on the way home today we got in a fight about him calling my little brother (who just got home from Marines boot camp today).

The fight was like so: "You have to call Nick." "Well, I will." "NO. . .you HAVE to CALL HIM. Because he thinks we're COMING OVER." "WELL I WILL CALL HIM!" "just CALL HIM!" "YEAH, I'M GOING TO!!!! WHY ARE WE FIGHTING?" "I DON'T KNOW, OKAY? I JUST WANT YOU TO CALL NICK."

We both get pretty punchy when we're tired.

In spite of my exhaustion, We're getting up at 6:30 tomorrow morning and taking a boat over to Catalina Island. As a belated anniversary celebration (last Thursday was our 5th wedding anniversary). Here's a picture of Catalina:

That pic is kinda old, but I'm sure It's pretty close. Otherwise, I will be very disappointed.

I think I remember having a point when I started this post, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was. Something about missing this blog and you guys or some sappy crap. I can't remember. How I intend to post more etc. etc. and also lose 10 pounds and floss more often. Something like that. I need to go nap.

this is how we do it

2009-09-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

I have never understood people who hate birthdays. Or those birthday cards that feign shock and angst over the number of candles on one's cake. Granted, I am in the fortunate position of being a 31 year old who still gets carded, but I have always loved getting older. In fact, I love it so much that even though I normally cringe away from attention, I always make a big stinkin' deal out of my birthday.

My birthday was last Friday, and I managed to turn the one day holiday into an epic four day weekend celebration.

Friday morning, I got up early and met my mom, brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew for birthday donuts. Like starting the day with your birthday cake, only better.

Better because it came with coffee and better because there's no pick-me-up quite as satisfying as two adorable kids catching sight of you, screaming your name, and breaking into a full on sprint to get to you as fast as you can. My niece and nephew almost always do that, and it never gets old. Actually, I'm usually so excited to see them that I start running towards them too and then we end up in a big cuddly heap. My nephew presented me with a card that said "happy birthday megan lightsaber," which from what I understand is a compliment of the highest level.

Post donuts, we had an hour to kill before matthew worked. He bought me a birthday lottery ticket with Seal on it that won $4. I DOUBLED MY MONEY!!!! Awesome.

After dropping Matthew off, I had to go in to work myself. But it was okay, because I got to make really pretty wedding bouquets using autumn berries and dahlias and all kinds of things that make me super happy. And then my Dad gave me this cordless drill that I wanted super bad (mentioned way back in a post in March).

After work, I went to the airport to pick up my bestie Anna. Yep, my birthday is so epic that people actually fly in for it. We went out to dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant and stayed up late giggling. The next day, Anna worked as my assistant (she's a florist too) and we delivered another wedding. We love getting to work together, and it was kickass.

Sunday, other bestie Emily took the train down from Hollywood and we moseyed on South to go to the beach in San Clemente - like a little piece of Hawaii in Southern California. It was gorgeous and fun. The girls spent the night again and then on Monday we all went to Knott's and spent the day riding rollercoasters.

I learned two important lessons: 1) a Monday in school season in a recession is the best possible time to go to an amusement park. There were 5, maybe 6 people in the entire park. They kept letting us stay on rides so we could go on them multiple times without even getting off. And 2) doing mundane things (walking, driving) slowly while saying "chuggachuggachuggachugga" and then doing them fast while throwing your arms up and yelling "whoooo!" makes said mundane things super fun.

Emily and Anna went back home, and I'm in post-birthday-slumpville. I can't wait to get another year older. Again.

Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

2009-09-16T18:52:00.000-07:00

I finally got the website for my new flower business up, and I'm somewhere between insanely and unreasonably excited about it. So excited actually, that I haven't done anything productive today (well, other than go to the flower market in the wee hours of the morning), and yet I've been strutting around the house all day with a huge sense of accomplishment.

So please check it out!

Honey and Poppie s... click here to visit

Also, if anyone finds bugs, please let me know! I am still tweaking and debugging. I already know that it loads a bit slow on the font is hard to read on some screens, but anything else. Thank you!

Some more info for yous guys:

-I used WebPlus10 to build it (so far almost everyone I've shown it to has asked this). You don't need to write code with WebPlus - it's all drag and drop.

-This is the 3rd website I've made, and yes - you can do it too. It just takes patience. Lots and lots of patience. And about 40 hours.

-Honey and Poppies, while a bit cutesy sounding, is named after my grandparents, who both passed away in the last couple of years. They lived to be 95 and 99, were married for 71 years, and were pretty much the two best people I've ever met.

Breaking news story from the legitimate news media

2009-09-16T01:31:00.000-07:00

I know I have been M.I.A., but I have been busy at work on a top secret awesome project to be revealed later this week. Meanwhile, a quick anecdote:

So last Saturday night, the mister and I were in line at the grocery store to get foodstuffs to make grilled cheese and french fries (Saturday night begins our weekend, and we always mark the occasion by gorging on junk food). The lines were long and tedious. I was shifting my weight back and forth looking longingly at the 6 pack of Hornsby's crisp apple cider in my left hand and bag of delicious delicious frozen french fries in my right. When all of a sudden I saw something that made me burst out laughing. The kind of insane raucous cackle that makes people stare. "What?" asked Matthew, and all I could do was gesture with my chin. My hands were full and I was laughing way too hard to speak. The object of my derision was the following:

"OH. MY. GOD." Matthew started laughing too and then the girl in front of us in line turned away from her stack of frozen pizzas with a sparkle in her eye showing that she already knew what had caught our attention.

"Isn't it amazing?" Pizza girl sighed happily.

"It is! It is!" we both agreed. "I almost want to buy it," I added, "but that would be giving them my money, which just seems wrong."

"I know what you mean," said the girl. "I've been standing here debating about whether or not I should take a picture of it."

At that point the three of us flipped open the article so we could start scanning for information about the racist baby epidemic. We discerned the following:

1. Racist babies may be either Black or White (but not other races)
2. Racist babies are exceptionally cute with unusually large eyes
3. Racist babies have a tendency to look pensive (no wonder. . . so much on their precocious racist little minds).

The three of us made a pact that we would keep our eyes peeled for racist babies. You never know when they're going to strike. "If I see a racist baby in this grocery store, I'm gonna punch that asshole so hard," I threatened.

At this point we noticed that we were severely holding up the line. "Oooh, so sorry," I said to the androgynous shemale buying yogurt behind me. "I just got really excited about the racist babies." He/she stared at the Newsweek cover as I put it back and then stared at me, clearly unamused. I suppose some people just can't be bothered with current events.

Sometimes I have really bad taste

2009-08-31T00:17:00.000-07:00

Today I saw my first 3D movie since I was a kid. It wasn't something classy like Under the Sea or a kids' movie that I took my little sisters to like Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. No, my friends, I must report that it was Final Destination 4 and I was really flipping excited to see it.

I'd like to pretend that I'm always highbrow, but this would be denying the fact that I am a huge fan of schlock (especially of the gorey horror variety), and the Final Destination franchise has schlock to spare.

The FD movies are terribly entertaining - if you don't mind ridiculous plots and wooden acting. The premise is this: immediately before a disaster, someone has a premonition. This person awakes from their vision and realizes that everyone is going to die. They then throw a major hissy fit and in the process save a handful of people from death. The twist is that they were meant to die, and therefore death is still coming for them. The rest of the movie always plays out like a series of preposterous Rube Goldberg machines, all of which result in each character dying in a spectacularly brutal way. Basically, the FD movies are slasher flicks where the villain is death itself and the moral is that there are 50,000,000 ways to die around you all the time.

What I find hilarious about the series is that those cheeky bastards never bother adding to or changing the plot. Incidentally, this is precisely what the Mister finds intolerable about them.

The first in the series was only decent and not fantastic because it had. . . well, attempted to have plot and characters. Which clearly is NOT what you're getting into a movie like Final Destination for. By the second movie, they had learned their lesson - they disposed of any shred of character development and replaced it with more gore. And almost every single person died from their head exploding in some way. It was brilliant. The third movie was remarkable only for the fact that the DVD is choose-your-0wn adventure stylie, where you can pick when and how you want each character to die. And then this new movie carved a special place in my heart today. Because not only is it 3D, but many, many people die via some form of impalement. Impaled. In 3D. Ahhh.... happy sigh. I was glowing as the movie ended. Matthew was not impressed. But I think he was at least entertained by how happy I was.

This changes everything

2009-08-31T00:13:00.000-07:00

An addendum to the last post - I was whining to Anna about twitter and she sent me this link:

She said it made her kind of like twitter, and I have to agree. We got no mo' eggs - ayy let me twitter that. Genius I tell you.

Learning to poke

2009-08-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

It started, in a roundabout way, last Halloween. Instead of dressing up or passing out candy or going to a party, the mister and I went to see Roky Erickson at the El Rey. It was worth it - the show was wonderful, but after it got out, we were left a bit wanting. Halloween is our favorite holiday, and we didn't feel quite right about skipping costumes and candy completely.

So we indulged in our plan B - we headed for the nearby Silent Movie Theatre, where a wonderful organization called Cinefamily often shows obscure cult films and throws parties and barbeques. We knew that Cinefamily was throwing a Halloween party and moreover, we knew that my bestie Emily was attending. It was obvious within seconds of arriving at the theatre that the party was a bust. A few people in half-assed costumes looking bored and wasted trickled in and out of the front door. Admission was $7 each - not bad . . . for something fun. But this looked decidedly lame. Instead of going in, I texted Emily from the door asking her to come out and say hello.

When I saw Emily, everything changed. She stumbled out of the door with a cocktail in her hand. . . she was wearing her standard go-to Halloween costume, which is Carrie, and what can I say - my girl can rock a blood soaked wig/tiara/prom dress combo like nobody's business. "Oh my god, MAGOO! I'm so gladjyer hear I'm having the besttime buthollllycrap Igotin trubbble andj got kicked outta the projectshunn booth fer makinggg out in it." Alcohol sloshed all around and she leaned in for a hug. "You HAVE to commme in now... they have karrreeeokee? and I'm gonna sing Beyonce andjj get a free Cinefamily theng... membership.... thign.... COME IN." Then she daintily adjusted her tiara, lifted the hem of her blood soaked dress, and ran back in.

Matthew looked at me with all the patience and tolerance of the wonderful man he is and said "Megan? Would you like to pay $14 to see your smashed best friend get up on a movie theatre stage and sing Beyonce?"

"Yes," I replied, solemnly nodding, "yes I would."

I regret with every ounce of my being that I don't have video footage of that marvelous karaoke performance of drunken costumed Emily caterwauling through "Independent Woman." It was complete with impromptu dance moves and emphatic hand gestures and a third of the way through the song, about a dozen other drunken costumed girls climbed up on stage to sing backup. It was utterly amazing, and we left five minutes later feeling like we had done right by the holiday.

A few days later, Emily and Anna were over at my house and Emily was lamenting her Halloween foibles. "I can't believe I got kicked out of the projection booth for trying to make out in it. I can never show my face there again," she groaned. Em was so chagrined that when she found out that Cinefamily had posted tons of pictures from the night on their facebook, she signed up for a facebook account specifically for the purpose of making sure that there were no photos of her up that were too horribly embarrassing.

My close real-life friends tend to not really be into internet socializing. In fact, none of them even read this blog. So out of the three of us, although we knew plenty of people on facebook, none of us had seen it up close. "It's so weird," said Emily, showing us her account. "Everyone just updates their status all day long so you know everything about everyone." Anna and I thought it was silly and bullied Em into changing her status to "learning to poke." Then we were off to do something unrelated to computers.

*************************************************************

It seems weird to me now that that was less than a year ago. Because in the last year facebook and twitter have exploded and expanded almost beyond belief. My first exposure to this new super intense form of social networking was just last November but by December I had drawn a line in the sand. The idea of Twitter. . . of logging on to the internet to post something like "eating a sandwich... boy is it tasty" and expecting people to be engaged by that just makes my head spin. And of course (by the way, have I ever mentioned that I have a degree in Anthropology?) I cannot help but interpret and analyze the whole thing and note with disdain how people seem to feel a need to add legitimacy, importance, and celebrity to their real-world life by documenting it on the internet. But then I am a crank - a shy, private old crank who resisted getting a cell phone until just a couple of years ago because I don't like the idea that anyone can reach me at any time. I am not judgemental of other people wanting to do this and yet the idea of doing it myself makes me throw up a bit in my mouth. Truth be told, I'm still not fully comfortable with the idea of blogging and never tell people I know in life (as opposed to the internets) about this blog.

And yet.

Ahh, you knew that was coming, didn't you?

And yet.

Yesterday I was having lunch with my salesrep Carina - a woman who I not only personally adore but who I actually pay to make me money and know what's best for me business-wise. (Side note - Carina does read this blog - Hi, Carina!). "Megan," Carina began, giving me one of those well meaning "you're not going to like this" looks, "I know how you probably feel about this. But I really think you should think about joining Twitter. You don't have to do it all the time or be that active. But just think about it. Some really wonderful things have happened to me because of Twitter and I really, really think you should do it." I protested, but I was floundering. Because I know she's right. My biggest weakness professionally (yes, biggest) has always been my refusal to network. Sigh.

And so.

And so.

And so.

Sigh.

I haven't done it yet. I'm still working up the nerve. But one of these days, I'm gonna pour myself a stiff cocktail, sit down at the computer, and type it in: "eating a sandwich... boy is it tasty."

Juggling

2009-08-20T22:03:00.000-07:00

Back in March I was ready to give up on flowers altogether. No drama, no regrets - I was just ready for a change. For a full month, I took things easy and concentrated on ghost academy.

And then came my first wedding (booked back when my dad's shop was still open). When I went to the flower market after not having touched flowers for a month I freaked out. In a good way. I spent about $100 wholesale on flowers for my tiny apartment. (I suppose that's freaking out in kind of a bad way then, isn't it?). I had not (and still have not) missed the shop I had spent the last 28 years in, by good lord how I had missed the flowers.

It didn't take me too much longer to decide that I couldn't give up being a florist. And soon I found myself neglecting my plans to grow ghost academy and instead planning the birth of my own wedding flower business. The bottom of my purse was always filled with crumpled bits of paper covered in notes and plans jotted down when I had a spare moment. I began piecing together a portfolio and designing elements for a website.

The difficulty with this is that I am not willing to give up ghost academy. I've only been doing it for a year, but I flipping love it. So now, at a time when I should ostensibly be taking it easy working from home, I'm actually working two full time jobs while trying to plan the birth of a third. And I'm exhausted. And worried that by not giving anything up, I will spread myself too thin and do everything merely adequately.

It's been months since I looked for new sales reps so that I can expand ghost academy into new territories. And it's also been months (well, definitely over a month) since I've made any progress on planning my new flower business. And meanwhile I've been swamped trying to send out five orders a week (out of my miniscule kitchen) and doing a wedding every weekend (out of my dad's garage).

********************************************************

And then yesterday I saw that a small storefront two blocks from my house that I have always loved is vacant again.

This spot has been many things in the five years I've lived next to it: last it was a kitchen tile shop that was janky and half-assed. Before that it was an occult shop called Magik which was especially hilarious because there is another occult shop a few blocks away. Before that it was an antique shop and before that a clothing/tchotchky store called The Evergreen Elephant. This spot would seem to be cursed and yet I have always been drawn to it. It's darling and not to be a hippie, but it just has good energy. And I desperately want it for my studio.

So what do I do? If you've made it this far and are still reading, I DEMAND an opinion [*stomping foot]. I know I have about 75 readers, and almost none of you comment, so I'm calling in favors. Help me decide my life, internet strangers (why does that sound absurd and creepy?). Do I a)make the leap and rent this space crossing my fingers that I can make it work even though I'm already feeling overtaxed? Or b) be sensible and continue trying to focus my energies on smaller projects and save the $950 extra a month in rent?

So what will it be?

And just so you know, if you guys don't give me advice, I am leaning towards a and I will then completely blame you when I fail. No pressure.

UPDATE:

The space was rented. Sigh. In this economy, it was only available for 2 weeks! The sign in the window says that it's going to be a dry cleaners, which seems insane to me because the space is waaaaaaay too small for clothes storage. I'm planning on thinking evil, petty thoughts directed at the cleaners when it opens.

Meanwhile, frustrations at work the last couple of weeks have made me want my own space even more desperately than before. I'm resolved to make it happen, but in the springtime - I am sure I will find a new, happy, adorable space by then.

Thank you everyone for your advice and support! I really appreciate all of your comments on this post.

Yes, please

2009-08-20T21:59:00.001-07:00

Cottage, originally uploaded by Rainbow Amour.

When my misanthropy is especially high, I sometimes mention giving up on society and becoming a crazy old hermit squatting in a trailer on government land in the desert and shooting scorpions for recreation.

Upon further reflection, I'd like to end up here instead. I'll need something besides scorpions to shoot though. Maybe old tin cans?
Yes, that will do nicely.

The Magoos are back in town

2009-08-15T06:32:00.000-07:00

I'm up regrettably early today. I'm exhausted but I can't sleep. Too much adrenaline, and I keep thinking over and over "The Magoos are here!" The Magoos are here!"

The Magoos are my two best friends Emily and Anna. Well, and me - I am also a magoo, but I am always here. Magoo is a sort of catchall term of endearment/insult that we have for each other. I'm not sure how it came about. . .I blame Anna, since most of our more esoteric slang comes from Anna. All I know is that one day I was just Megan and then a little bit later I was being paged to the front of a Rite Aid with the message "Megerson Magoo, please come to the front of the store. Your party is waiting" being blared over the store's loudspeaker.

Emily and Anna are sisters, and they refer to me as their sister as well (just to make things easier when talking to their friends - they both have other best friends, but I am something more - a sister). I even lived with them and their mom off and on as a young adult.

Emily is a hilarious but angsty painter with a mouth like a sailor, an ambition to become a gay icon, and a day job selling French Country furniture to rich old ladies. We met because we shared a locker in the 6th grade and we never looked back.

Anna is three years younger, and when I first met her, she was the bratty kid sister - always trying to get us in trouble, telling us that she hated us, and dominating the TV every afternoon by watching marathons of Who's The Boss and Full House in her underpants. She's 28 now and a musician (in a successful band in San Francisco) and a florist and an all around amazing human being, but Emily and I still like to remind her of her Who's The Boss past when the opportunity arises. Or when we MAKE the opportunity arise.

Last time the three of us were together, Emily was complaining of the difficulties of being 30 and trying to find people to date. "I only meet people who are really young and single or much older and divorced. Everyone our age is either in a relationship or, you know," grasping for the right words "pre-divorced."

Anna and I looked at each other in confusion. "Pre-divorce? What do you mean by pre-divorce?"

"Oh, you know. . . " Emily tried to explain. "Like X and Y [a couple we know]."

"Do you mean married?" asked Anna incredulously.

"Oh, yeah, married. That's what I meant. I just couldn't think of the right word for it."

Upon realizing that Emily was so jaded that in her mind marriages were just pre-divorces, we decided to omit the words "wedding" and "marriage" from our vocabulary when we talk to her. So Emily and Anna are spending the night at my house today because they are in town for Katie S's pre-divorce. I am spending the day doing the flowers for a pre-divorce of my own (you know, my couple is so lovely I really do feel guilty calling it that). I will return home tonight exhausted and achey with chapped, ragged florist monkey paws, but thoroughly ready for some Magoo time.

succulent - the noun, not the adjective

2009-08-08T16:01:00.000-07:00

All right, bitches, your prayers have been answered*.

*pathetic and naked attempt to make something that is tragically dorky and girly seem badass

I'm posting a tutorial on how to make a living succulent wreath, in spite of the fact that it's the weekend so this post won't get read anyway.

You will be needing:

-a wire wreath frame
-sheet moss
-florist wire
-scissors
-water

And of course succulents:

This is my succulent graveyard. Yes, I am so bad with plants that I am actually able to kill succulents. They're not quite dead... more like zombie mutant succulents, lying twitching and sickly in this massive pot, reminding me of my gardening inadequacies. You, most likely not having a succulent graveyard at your disposal, should probably buy a bunch of wee little baby succulents.

Step 1:

Moisten clumps of the sheet moss in the water and lay it underneath your wreath frame with the fugly brown side to the frame. Leave plenty of extra moss for overlap. Go all the way around the frame.

Step 2:

Sprinkle dirt (oops, I forgot to put dirt in the things you need section, didn't I?) around the frame in the middle of the moss. You don't really need too much. You also don't need particularly good soil - succulents prefer kinda crappy, sandy soil.

Step 3:

Fold the moss up and wrap it around the dirt and the frame. Holding it securely with one hand, use the other to wrap wire around the whole thing. The wire should be just barely tight enough to hold everything together. Make it as loose as you can.

Go all the way around the frame doing this. When you're done, you'll have a full mossy wreath, like so:\

Step 4:

Grab your succulents and gently knock the dirt away from the root balls. (For some reason that made me snicker).

I couldn't really get a picture of the next part of this since it's a two hand operation. What you're going to do is reach into your wreath and ease open a little space. With the other hand, gently wiggle the succulent's roots into the space until the bottom part is in the center dirt part of the wreath and just the little plant top is sticking out. Then secure it with a bit of floral wire.

Make your way around the wreath, adding as many little plants as you want (or until you run out). It's best to put the larger-headed plants in first and then fill in the spaces with the smaller guys. At this point, your wreath will look like this:

Step 5:

Cut off a long piece of wire. Pick a spot on your wreath and start wrapping your wreath with wire one more time. While you wrap, check to make sure that all of the plants and moss and such are securely in. This is a good time to make sure the plants are all facing the way you want and following the shape of the wreath. Just hold the plant where you want it to go and gently secure it with the wire.

All secure and tidied up:

Ideally at this point, you'll leave your wreath horizontal for a few weeks so the plants can ease themselves into their new home and not go into shock.

I, on the other hand, hung mine up immediately:

Hey, I was excited.

To take care of your wreath, hang it in full sun and periodically take it down and set it in a shallow pan of water to rehydrate. Let it dry out thoroughly in between waterings.

Personally, I assume I'm going to kill mine in a month or so, so I'm just going to leave it on the door and mist it and hope for the best. But I thought I should let you know what you're supposed to do.

Now!
It's time for a poll. How long will it take Matthew to notice this wreath hanging on our front door? I made it yesterday while he was at work and so far he failed to notice it last night or this morning. Will he finally notice it

a) tonight
b) tomorrow
c) next week sometime

My guess is c.

2009-08-07T16:42:00.000-07:00

Now that my shop is a boutique-y floral design studio (fancy pants way of saying workin' out of the garage), I regularly have to go to the flower market in downtown LA in the middle of the night and all by myself.

It goes like this:

Every time I have a wedding, the Tuesday or Thursday before the event, I set my alarm to 2:40 a.m. Matthew never remembers which nights will be market nights. I always tell him in advance, but he hates it so much that he blocks it out of his mind. When I remind him as I set the alarm, he is always dismayed and grumbly and offers to go with me. He worries about me being out so late in a terrible neighborhood and he has trouble sleeping while I'm gone. His concerns are valid, and they make me feel bad - I always apologize and decline his offers to come with me.

I can never sleep on Market nights. I usually don't go to bed until 12 or 1 anyway, and on a market night I have so much nervous energy that instead of sleeping I lie awake in bed and think about what I'm going to buy and worry that I will sleep through the alarm.

I never do though. I usually drift off close to the time I'm supposed to get up. The alarm wakes me instantly and I get up and pull on clothes in the dark. I'm half asleep and horribly disoriented but it doesn't matter - I'm on autopilot. I find my keys and market list and badge and stumble off to the car. I'm usually behind the wheel within 10 minutes of waking up. So fast even that I shouldn't really be driving. My thinking and vision are still too foggy.

In order to wake up, I turn on the air conditioning and put in a tape. I used to listen to cd's but the cd player got taken when our car was stolen last month. I like to listen to something loud and fast and preferably punk to help me wake up. And then - and I'm only telling you this because I like you - I sing along to the music. Loudly. Nobody knows that. I NEVER sing in front of people because I have the kind of singing voice that would make a baby's ears bleed. But it really helps me to wake up, and by the time I've been on the road 15 minutes, I'm wide awake and alert.

Downtown LA in the middle of the night is a scary and surreal place. The flower market is adjacent to the garment district, about one block over from skid row - where the rescue mission is. During the day, the area is vibrant and packed with people. All of the shops are filled with discount fabric stores and counterfeit sneaker stores and wholesale clothing manufacturers, places like that. At night, every store has a corrugated metal door covering it and the streets look desolate and formidable.

Because the rescue mission is nearby, hundreds of homeless people camp out here. They line the streets with their tents and makeshift structures, creating a gigantic shanty town that will be gone by morning. Most of the homeless people will be asleep, but there are always some wandering around and/or looking for trouble. And they can be pretty aggressive - I've had people come right up to my car and grab the door (although not at the flower market).

So I pass through the shantytown and pull up to the flower market. It's about 3:15. The flower market consists of two huge warehouses that each take up a full block and are across the street from each other. Inside, the buildings are divided into stalls for each individual vendor. Most of the vendors are middle men and don't actually grow the flowers themselves.

The flower salesmen are a curious breed. For the most part, they're surly and unhelpful. They act like they don't want your business. Some of the smaller growers will even refuse to sell to you if they don't know you. Almost nothing is priced, and this is on purpose - the prices change according to who you are and how much they like you. The flowers are rarely displayed attractively. Instead, they're jammed into dirty old white plastic buckets that are clustered together on the floor. You pick out what you want and bring it to them to wrap. It often takes a few minutes to get someone to acknowledge you to wrap your items. They almost never say thank you and many act like you're an asshole if you want a receipt. I usually do all of my shopping and then go back to each stall to pick up my purchases, but you have to be careful - some vendors will switch your product out for old stuff when you're not looking. And of course, there is old stuff - tons of it. You have to be shrewd and alert to not get cheated. Of course, at three in the morning going on almost no sleep, you're apt to make mistakes.

It usually takes me about an hour and a half to do all of my shopping, and then I load all of my newspaper wrapped bundles into my car. I drive to my dad's house where everyone is still sleeping, and let myself into his garage as quietly as I can. I bring all of my flowers into the garage and take off the newspapers. I carefully clip each stem and put the bunches into buckets my dad has waiting for me. I throw away all of my trash and go back to my car to drive home.

By this time it's past dawn. People are going to work and the streets are filling up again. Working through the night like this gives me an odd, jet-laggy type feeling. It's usually just after 6 when I pull up to my door. I shed my clothes and crawl back into bed to grab a few hours of sleep before I have to get back up and start the day. Half-asleep, Matthew reaches out to grab me and murmurs that he missed me and that he hates market days. I apologize and he says "that's okay. I know you love the flower market."

And I do. Seeing the flowers - all the different flowers, everything that's in season all massed together - takes my breath away every time. And it makes it all worth it.

Random bits of late

2009-07-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

One

I've fallen behind on my orders because of the heat. When it's hotter than about 80, the ink melts too much and I can't print. Today it's a bit cooler, so I got up at the obscene hour of 8am to start printing. I printed for over four hours straight, trying to crank out as many orders as I could before it got hot.

When I finally took a break, instead of sitting down, I put together a bookcase that Matthew and I got at Ikea the other day. As a BREAK. Not because I was excited about the bookcase, but because I really really enjoy putting together furniture from Ikea. I don't know what's wrong with me. Clearly I'm a monster and need to be stopped.

Two

This book?

Is fucking smashing. I'm only a few chapters in and it's already the best book I've read in a very long time. It's brilliantly written and the subject matter is fascinating. Extra cool points because I bought it at the Museum of Jurassic Technology. Highly, highly recommended.

Three

Matthew is going back to school in the fall and has decided that he wants to be a cultural studies professor. Which means two very exciting things: I am a prophet, and more importantly, my life will soon be filled with lots and lots of bunny sightings. Long Beach City College has dozens upon dozens of bunnies living on campus (someone abandoned a couple many years ago and, well, you know what they say about bunnies). I counted nearly twenty the other day just on the two minute walk from my car to the bookstore to buy a catalog.

BUNNIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Do you like how I took Matthew's important life decision and flipped it around to be something trivial centered around me? Tricky, eh?)

Okay... I need to get back to printing. But you didn't think I'd leave you without showing off my new bookcase, did you?