Hey guys, I’m squeezing in an unrelated post today because my favorite person on the internet invited me to a party and, well, pumpkins.
If you’re looking for the latest installment in the Catholics Do What? series scroll down to the post just before this one, and be sure to come back later this afterno…oh screw it, evening, and read today’s post. For now, sit back and enjoy the underwhelming domesticity that is my seasonal decor.
I want to tell you a little story. It begins, as these things often do, with a girl and her shopping cart, and a pumpkin display at the local Walmart.
Actually, I don’t believe any story worth telling has ever begun thus. But I will press on. Last month when Fall was still a dream in my heart and a smudgy, overly enthusiastic chalkboard advertisement in the Starbucks drive through, I happened upon the most perfectly curated collection of pumpkins and winter squashes the world has ever seen.
There were tiny white ones. Large, perfectly rounded fleshy ones. Weird little gourds with multiple color bands covered in warts and blemishes and looking so completely unlovable as to become intensely, intensely desirable. Screaming like a little girl in the Littlest Pet Shop aisle at Target, I started throwing pumpkins into my cart with reckless abandon, piling them around my astonished 2 year old and eventually evicting him from the body of the cart so as to claim his prime real estate for my newly adopted family of gourds.
Later that afternoon upon our return home, while the groceries languished in the mini van and the children milled about in a mild confusion, I raced to the front porch, my arms loaded down with autumn bounty which I lovingly arranged in a Pinteresting fall porchscape. Actually, I just grouped them in the corner with a decorative stump and then fist pumped the air while yelling “hell yes, first pumpkins on the block!”
I heard snickering and whirled around to see my still-unmet neighbors from across the street and one house over, disappearing into their garage from whence I suspect we shall never see their return. But that is one fewer loaf of pumpkin spice bread on my to do list, so win/win.
I’m totally kidding actually, I don’t really bake. But I did yell that about my pumpkins, and a neighbor did laugh, perhaps coincidentally.
When Bonnie asked me to participate in this little blog carnival I scanned the list of other names and said to myself, self, if you want to come to this party, you’re going to have to play to your strengths. Namely, hyperbole (see above), pumpkin arrangement, thrifting, and minimalism.
So I give to you bold new installation piece:
|My little apple sticks close to his tree.|
Basically I threw those pumpkins out there and just let the spirit move me. And oh how it moved.
|I love you, bumpy gourd.|
|Pinecones imported from the one and only Monument, Colorado.|
|Which cannot be microwaved or dishwashed. Causing me to question their overall safety…|