I have a bit of an obsession.
I will go so far to say that a room without a wreath is like a day without a sunrise. Chips without salsa. Sundays without Downton.
Clearly, I mean business.
When a room feels off, I add a wreath. It's what I do. Call me Aretha. :) My witty Preacher Man hubs does. When the wreath-making-mood strikes, Aretha doesn't fight it. She respects the hankering and gets to work. Heh.
Turning a blind eye to the laundry pile and crumbs on the kitchen floor, I fire up the glue gun and create the afternoon away. I hum and sing hymns while I work. Or country music songs. It's inevitable that my fingers get burned or poked and I'm well known for ripping the whole dang wreath apart because it doesn't look right.
But give a girl a discarded drop cloth and she'll cut and pin until there's a frayed beauty hanging on her kitchen door. Hymnal pages glued to a straw form can sing again. Cheesy novels beg to be ripped up and shaped into cones. Green sprays are unruly and hard to tame, but make for a wildly wonderful wreath on the coat closet.
Am I the only one with a wreath fetish? What has kept your hands and minds busy this long winter?
Don't let your doors go naked, friends.