This post is not about that mediocre Jake Gyllenhaal movie of the same name. Remember that movie? It had Jamie Foxx, too. I think. They were marines. I think. The only memorable thing about that movie was Jake Gyllenhaal dancing naked with a precariously perched Santa hat.
Anyway, this Saturday is the Firefly kickoff party. I'm pseudo-excited about it. I'd be more excited, though undeniably more exhausted, if I'd just agreed to run the whole thing myself. I'm a control freak, and I'm catching onto the fact that I'm not the only one involved in this process. It's a bit of a mess. However, I have decided that I am officially going to take over decor. I feel, ahem, I know I am the most qualified person to do the job, and I won't be satisfied unless I do it myself. And it's not fair for me to be so hard on people when the simple truth is that we're wired differently. Details are a big deal to me.
So, I spent awhile in my aunt Mel's basement while Feather Nester watched L and S refuse to eat their PRINCESS SPAGHETTI-O'S (I did not purchase those nasty things). I was digging out jars. Lots and lots of jars. Fifty-one jars to be precise. When my aunt bought her house, she inherited the contents of the basement. One of the best things down there was a collection of old glass jars. Lots of canning jars...but also some old peanut butter jars. Pickle jars. Jelly jars. Apparently, Mr. Jack Daniels (the honest-to-God previous owner) never met a glass jar he didn't keep. It's going to come in handy for Saturday. You see, I'm filling those suckers with candles...(remember the burning of Atlanta recreation that was my wedding reception? It will be like that. Sort of.)...I'll put some on the tables, but I'm also going to wire some and suspend them from the trees around the tent. It's supposed to be sort of like fireflies captured in a jar. Get it? Fireflies? Firefly Fine Arts Festival?
Sigh. I think it's good stuff.
I'll let you know on Sunday how it turned out. Until then, I'll be washing jars.