About a month ago I walked in to a very creepy used bookstore. I was a little nervous because this store wasn't in the best part of town. There are only two windows, and they're covered with some weathered yellow cardboard, so if I died inside... no one would know. I figured the hardcore mobsters probably don't hang out in used bookstores, but what if this wasn't really a bookstore like the sign advertised?
Inhibitions aside, I trudged inside the small store. Books were everywhere, stacked in every which way. Normally I would love this, because I love to read ...but I was still a little paranoid that I was going to get jumped by the, ya know, mob.
Eventually I asked the large, frumpy man at the back for help. He had some severe pit stains from the lack of air conditioning.
"Sir, can you help me find some books with aged pages?" Mistake number one.
He muttered something under his breath and reluctantly got up from his cluttered desk. Organization, I gathered, was not his forte.
But what customer service!
"Thank you so much for your help! I figured you knew right where to go."
He picked a few random books of the shelf. "Will this work?"
"Umm...yes. That's good. Maybe a little more yellowed?"
After a few minutes of wandering the store, I guess his curiosity got the best of him because he eventually asked, "What are you planning do with these anyway?"
"I'm making a wreath! So I have to cut these all up," I said with a grin. Mistake number two.
His bushy eyebrows furrowed. Before I knew it, he had snatched the books out of my hand. "You're going to deeestrooooy these? I'm sorry then, I can't sell them to you."
“Oh, uhh…. I’m sorry?”
“I will only sell you books that are already falling apart.”
“Okay… well, can I see them first?” Mistake number three.
After a little bit of haggling, I had my worn books and I was still alive, the mob hadn't murdered me.... so I considered it a successful trip even if I had offended a disgruntled old man. I'm sorry but if you own a used bookstore, something tells me you aren't exactly in a position to be turning away business. Just sayin'. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'm a huge bookworm. I think that would have been rubbing salt into his weird wound.
This project is not the faint of heart. It took a while. A very long while. That feeling that you get when you touch something hot is completely gone from me now. My identity is probably also gone, because my fingerprints have been singed off by all the glue. I guess I'm an official crafter now, huh?
I just followed the tutorial I found on Pinterest.
My fingers hated me after hours of hot glueing these paper rosettes. And don't worry, yours will too. You have to make gobs and gobs of them.
I'm not sure if all that time was worth it.
I think when I'm old and gray and my hands are suffering from carpel tunnel,
I'll have the wreath to blame.
I hang in on the inside of our door because I spent too much time on it for wind or rain to tarnish it. This is horrible, because only Grahm and I get to admire it. He's super nice though and compliments all the time. ("Whoooa babe. This is so great! I can't believe you made this.")
I bet he's wondering when my crafting will carry over into the kitchen. Me too, hubs. Me too.