Because I was already in the area and feeling masochisitic, I thought it would be fun to spend a few days at Bitterroot Flower Shop, punishing my body. And you know what? Sore back, pulled tendons, and scabby hands aside, it was fun. Just how I remembered it. Kinetic, exhausting, hilarious, chaotic. And girly. Look, Mantana if chocked full of dudes. I work and hang out with them constantly, sometimes exclusively, for long periods of time. That is great and all, but sometimes a lady needs to be around her own kind. In my experience, a flower shop is a good place to find them. We discussed the sad death of Whitney Houston and her legacy of sassyness. We talked about Beyonce while listening to the anti-love song station on Pandora. We planned Valentine outfits (which, incidentally, ranged from tranny red fishnets, to black skulls, to elbow-length formal gloves, to pink unitards). It was glorious.
|By any other name would smell as sweet|
Yeah, the Hallmarkian commercialization of Valentine's Day has gotten out of control, and yes, the origins of the day are dark and sordid, but screw it, I'll be a romantic until the day I die choking on cherub-shaped chocolates while taking a champagne bubble bath. Clocking out from a fifteen-hour day of standing on cement, elbow-deep in greenery, I was stupid-tired and communicating from the whimpering end of my whiny spectrum, but I fell asleep in the bathtub knowing I'd help set some hearts a-flutter. Not bad for a day's work.
|This showing is just the tip of the pink, heart-shaped iceberg.|