Flower Power "Till Death do us Part"

I, Constance, have now graduated also.  The End.

Now, to something more important and assorted. With the wedding only 4 weeks away I, Constance, thought it a good idea to purchase the very thing that defines wedding ceremonies other than: the ring, people, white dress, and wedding hair... the plant life. Walking into hobby lobby was like walking into no-man's-land. Everything seemed as though it was ours, and ours for the taking. We teetered in the multicolored isles intoxicated with power and the fragrance of plastic wilted flower petals, like a sailor on raisin rum ice cream (not rum-raisin).  After hacking down the aisles with our metaphorical machetes we decided upon the ever popular Vanilla Rose of Power with the Pink yet Chic filling flower of Elegance and Pride. NOTICE: The upcoming text may not be suitable for children and botanist alike.  We then decided on the ever popular and accenting Yellow Monroe as the visual lure of our pleasant wedding thoughts. We could not have been more wrong. The oh so pleasant Fiance demurred at the thought of the mutinous color yellow in the glorious nuptials of the indelible love-birds. "Yellow... As in bile? As in coward? As in bananas? Never, never I say! Never shalt the lackadaisical and insolent color yellow mark the treaty of our eternal love," so proclaimed he, this year of our Lord, 2010.  So saved he the wedding day... and thus, our lives. 

Graduation and beyond.... the early years

I, Genevieve, having essentially ended my higher education in a most felicitous manner, now begin my journey, predisposed to the makings of a classical adventure. The ceremonious rite of hats and gowns, I feel, have prepared me to take on a world, where the majority of difficult people will perhaps be wearing hats or gowns. However dubious this supposition, I must confess that the impeding future weighs on my mind like a mole of honey combs; potentially delicious but assuredly messy and fraught with annoyed annelids. Alas, Constance is little help, having once again turned back to her life as a gypsy accountant.  So I go alone into the inky dark espresso of time.... to be hosted by the fickle, Mrs. Cleaver like, domesticity of fate.