Floral Arrangement Quotes

Congratulations, everyone," I announce as I open the door to Noam's study. "You've finally broken Meira, the crazy, orphaned soldier-girl. She's snapped, all thanks to the mention of floral arrangements.

Quaint and picturesque, though I didn't voice my opinion out loud. Keirran and Annwyl were faeries, and Kenzie was a girl, so it was okay for them to notice such things. as a card-carrying guy club, I wasn't going to comment on the floral arrangements.

One of the floral arrangements swayed like a drunken sailor, then toppled, clattering to the floor.

It’s that time of the month again… As we head into those dog days of July, Mike would like to thank those who helped him get the toys he needs to enjoy his summer. Thanks to you, he bought a new bass boat, which we don’t need; a condo in Florida, where we don’t spend any time; and a $2,000 set of golf clubs…which he had been using as an alibi to cover the fact that he has been remorselessly banging his secretary, Beebee, for the last six months. Tragically, I didn’t suspect a thing. Right up until the moment Cherry Glick inadvertently delivered a lovely floral arrangement to our house, apparently intended to celebrate the anniversary of the first time Beebee provided Mike with her special brand of administrative support. Sadly, even after this damning evidence-and seeing Mike ram his tongue down Beebee’s throat-I didn’t quite grasp the depth of his deception. It took reading the contents of his secret e-mail account before I was convinced. I learned that cheap motel rooms have been christened. Office equipment has been sullied. And you should think twice before calling Mike’s work number during his lunch hour, because there’s a good chance that Beebee will be under his desk “assisting” him. I must confess that I was disappointed by Mike’s over-wrought prose, but I now understand why he insisted that I write this newsletter every month. I would say this is a case of those who can write, do; and those who can’t do Taxes. And since seeing is believing, I could have included a Hustler-ready pictorial layout of the photos of Mike’s work wife. However, I believe distributing these photos would be a felony. The camera work isn’t half-bad, though. It’s good to see that Mike has some skill in the bedroom, even if it’s just photography. And what does Beebee have to say for herself? Not Much. In fact, attempts to interview her for this issue were met with spaced-out indifference. I’ve had a hard time not blaming the conniving, store-bought-cleavage-baring Oompa Loompa-skinned adulteress for her part in the destruction of my marriage. But considering what she’s getting, Beebee has my sympathies. I blame Mike. I blame Mike for not honoring the vows he made to me. I blame Mike for not being strong enough to pass up the temptation of readily available extramarital sex. And I blame Mike for not being enough of a man to tell me he was having an affair, instead letting me find out via a misdirected floral delivery. I hope you have enjoyed this new digital version of the Terwilliger and Associates Newsletter. Next month’s newsletter will not be written by me as I will be divorcing Mike’s cheating ass. As soon as I press send on this e-mail, I’m hiring Sammy “the Shark” Shackleton. I don’t know why they call him “the Shark” but I did hear about a case where Sammy got a woman her soon-to-be ex-husband’s house, his car, his boat and his manhood in a mayonnaise jar. And one last thing, believe me when I say I will not be letting Mike off with “irreconcilable differences” in divorce court. Mike Terwilliger will own up to being the faithless, loveless, spineless, useless, dickless wonder he is.

Alas, I fear that floral arrangement and playing the harpsichord are forever out of my grasp. As you can imagine, the knowledge of my deficiencies is crushing,

floral arrangements. The scent of lilies is stifling and when Celia can no longer tolerate it, she transforms all of the flowers into roses.

The food is presented on the finest compilation of their silver trays and bowls. It's as delicate as the floral arrangements and includes Kitty B.'s petits fours and lemon squares as well as Sis's shrimp salad and cucumber sandwiches and Ray's cheese straws, praline pecans, and fruit kebobs dipped in white and dark chocolate.

Let’s talk about ‘Coexist’ bumper stickers for a second. You’ve definitely seen them around. They’re those blue strips with white lettering that assemble a collection of religious icons and mystical symbols (e.g., an Islamic crescent, a Star of David, a Christian cross, a peace sign, a yin-yang) to spell out a simple message of inclusion and tolerance. Perhaps you instinctively roll your eyes at these advertisements of moral correctness. Perhaps you find the sentiment worthwhile, but you’re not a wear-your-politics-on-your-fender type of person. Or perhaps you actually have ‘Coexist’ bumper stickers affixed to both your Prius and your Beamer. Whatever floats your boat, man; far be it from us to cast stones. But we bring up these particular morality minibillboards to illustrate a bothersome dichotomy. If we were to draw a Venn diagram of (a) the people who flaunt their socially responsible “coexist” values for fellow motorists, and (b) the people who believe that, say, an evangelical Christian who owns a local flower shop ought to be sued and shamed for politely declining to provide floral arrangements for a same-sex wedding, the resulting circles would more or less overlap. The coexist message: You people (i.e., conservatives) need to get on board and start coexisting with groups that might make you uncomfortable. It says so right here on my highly enlightened bumper sticker. But don’t you dare ask me to tolerate the ‘intolerance’ of people with whom I disagree. Because that’s different.

At the door to the shop, a bell tinkled, and moments later they seemed to enter the very flowering of lavender. The scent was all around them; it curled and diffused in the air with a sweet warmth and subtlety, then burst with a peppery, musky intensity. The blind girls moved into another room. There they arranged themselves expectantly around a long wooden table, Mme Musset welcomed them, and a cork was pulled with a squeaky pop. "This is pure essence of lavender, grown on the Valensole plateau," said Madame. "It is in a glass bottle I am sending around to the right for you all to smell. Be patient, and you will get your turn." Other scents followed: rose and mimosa and oil of almond. Now that they felt more relaxed, some of the other girls started being silly, pretending to sniff too hard and claiming the liquid leapt up at them. Marthe remained silent and composed, concentrating hard. Then came the various blends: the lavender and rosemary antiseptic, the orange and clove scent for the house in winter, the liqueur with the tang of juniper that made Marthe unexpectedly homesick for her family's farming hamlet over the hills to the west, where as a child she had been able to see brightness and colors and precise shapes of faces and hills and fruits and flowers.

President Carter’s three adult sons spent plenty of time at the White House during his presidency. Florist Ronn Payne, who started at the White House during the Nixon administration and left under Clinton, said he had to do more than freshen the floral arrangements in the Carters’ sons’ rooms on the third floor. “I would regularly have to move bongs,” he said. (The unabashed pot-smoking in the president’s house was confirmed by another member of the household staff on the condition of anonymity.) If any of the Carter sons were found with the illegal drug on the street they would have been arrested, but they smoked inside the White House without fear of any repercussions. President

On Floriography This poem explores the ancient practice of floriography, the coded language of flowers, as a way to express human love through the use of fragrance, colors, and vivid symbolism. By elucidating the phenomenon of florescence alongside the art of floral arrangement, the poem encourages readers to extract poetry and beauty out of a dystopic world. If you often find yourself at a loss for words or don’t know what to say to those you love, just extract poetry out of poverty, this dystopia of civilization rendered fragrant, blossoming onto star-blue fields of loosestrife, heady spools of spike lavender, of edible clover beckoning to say without bruising a jot of dog’s tooth violet, a nib of larkspur notes, or the day’s perfumed reports of indigo in the gloaming— what to say to those whom you love in this world? Use floriography, or as the flower-sellers put it, Say it with flowers. —Indigo, larkspur, star-blue, my dear.

Quickly she shredded the cabbage on the chopping block and tossed it along with the onion and tomatoes in a blue Pyrex bowl. Then she slid the lamb chops, encrusted with fresh rosemary, into the oven. While the lamb baked, she brushed her hair in the washroom and pinned it back again. Then she zipped on a silk floral dress she'd purchased in Bristol and retrieved her grandmother's rhinestone necklace, one of the few family heirlooms her mother packed for her, to clasp around her neck. At the foot of the bed was the antique trunk she'd brought from her childhood home in Balham more than a decade ago. Opening the trunk, she removed her wedding album along with her treasured copy of 'The Secret Garden' and the tubes of watercolors her father had sent with her and her brother. Her father hoped she would spend time painting on the coast, but Maggie hadn't inherited his talent or passion for art. Sometimes she wondered if Edmund would have become an artist. Carefully she took out her newest treasures- pieces of crystal she and Walter hd received as wedding presents, protected by pages and pages of her husband's newspaper. She unwrapped the crystal and two silver candlesticks, then set them on the white-cloaked dining table. She arranged the candlesticks alongside a small silver bowl filled with mint jelly and a basket with sliced whole-meal bread from the bakery. After placing white, tapered candles into the candlesticks, she lit them and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Satisfied, she blew them out. Once she heard Walter at the door, she'd quickly relight the candles. When the timer chimed, she removed the lamb chops and turned off the oven, placing the pan on her stovetop and covering it with foil. She'd learned a lot about housekeeping in the past decade, and now she was determined to learn how to be the best wife to Walter. And a doting mother to their children. If only she could avoid the whispers from her aunt's friends.

Good luck. For most of my generation, it would just go to student debt and cocktails. If anything came to me (an impossibility), I would dump it into a poorly managed career in edgy luxury items. You can’t make opera money on perfume that smells like cunts and gasoline. At any rate, I didn’t usually make an appearance beyond the gala. Or, I hadn’t until recently. But Joseph Eisner had promised me a fortune, and now he wouldn’t take my calls. He did, however, like his chamber music. It had been an acquired taste for me. In my distant undergraduate past, when circumstance sat me in front of an ensemble, I spent the first five minutes of each concert deciding which musician I would fuck if I had the chance, and the rest shifting minutely in my seat. I still couldn’t stand Chanel. And while I had learned to appreciate—indeed, enjoy—chamber ensembles, orchestras, and on occasion even the opera, I retained my former habit as a dirty amusement to add some private savor to the proceedings. Tonight, it was the violist, weaving and bobbing his way through Dvořák’s Terzetto in C Major like a sinuous dancer. I prefer the romantics—fewer hair-raising harmonies than modern fare, and certainly more engaging than funereal baroque. The intriguing arrangement of the terzetto kept me engaged, in that slightly detached and floating manner engendered by instrumental performance. Moreover, the woman to my left, one row ahead, was wearing Salome by Papillon. The simple fact of anyone wearing such a scent in public pleased me. So few people dared wear anything at all these days, and when they did, it was inevitably staid: an inoffensive classic or antiseptic citrus-and-powder. But this perfume was one I might have worn myself. Jasmine, yes, but more indolic than your average floral. People sometimes say it smells like dirty panties. As the trio wrapped up for intermission, I took a steadying breath of musk and straightened my lapels. The music was only a means to an end, after all.

* * * In the afternoon, when Grace was just about to ruin her dinner with a big bowl of popcorn while looking through various online floral arrangements on her laptop, there was a light tapping at her back door. She pulled the curtain to peek out through the window in the door and was shocked to see Iris. She opened the door. “Don’t newlyweds lay around in bed for several days after the wedding?

eloped. Claire and Ramsey just did it in Acapulco, that was all. Anabel was the flower girl. Except that she ate all the flowers just before the ceremony. Then she broke the basket that was supposed to hold them. Then she knocked over the floral arrangements in the back of the church.

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So the smells I associate with the Elders are freshly cut garden flower arrangements- roses, lilac and endless sweet peas and the fougère hints of random greenery lavishly added to the vases, in the Constance Spry style. Also, modest shop-bought flowers, particularly daffodils, tulips and freesias, which are such an economical way to brighten a room for that thrifty generation. My scents for the elders are: Lavender by Yardley Blue Grass by Elizabeth Arden Rose in Wonderland by Atkinsons Femme by Rochas Ostara by Penhaligon's Tweed by Lenthéric (A mention of this elicited a big response at the event; it seemed all the women had worn it at some time and had happy associations with it. I do wish they would re-release it in the original tweed-fabric effect box.) The men in this age group are the last of the true British gentlemen, so especially for them: Old Spice St Johns Bay Rum by St Johns Fragrance Company Royal Mayfair by Creed

Elane Photography’s owners were fined more than $6,000 for declining on religious grounds to photograph a same-sex commitment ceremony. A small family bakery was fined $135,000 for refusing to bake the wedding cake for a same-sex wedding. And seventy-year-old Barronelle Stutzman was sued for declining to make floral arrangements for a same-sex wedding.8 Stutzman, who has employed gays and lesbians since opening her store, had for ten years designed arrangements for the couple that sued her. Her only objection was to lending her artistic talents to their wedding celebration. Here

I love to create vibrant, whimsical floral compositions that are either executed with one single hue or the opposite: a blend of multiple colors!

two people make goo-goo eyes at each other. He could stab himself in the eye with a steak knife. Or listen to his mother talk ad nauseam about the intricacies of the floral arrangements.

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It occurred to me that Kimmy’s litany of interior decorating facts was probably designed to distract me from what was really going on at the White House, although I didn’t read anything sinister into it; it was most likely standard White House tour procedure. Guests were led through the building all the time, and it made sense that they would be told things about paint color and floral arrangements rather than “In the room behind us, the president is currently meeting with military advisers about thwarting a top secret cabal that is plotting World War Three. . . .

They had left the buckets of stemmed flowers and now found themselves in the center of the indoor succulent section, an array of miniature plants with whimsical names such as burro's tail and flaming katy. Olive slowed her pace, taking her time perusing metal racks of each variety. She stooped down and plucked a container of a sweet, blossom-shaped plant. "What's that one?" Julia asked. She liked the look of its pink-edged tips, whose color reminded her of a radish. "This guy here is called roseum. It likes the sun, so I'd have to think of a spot near a window. But it's a nice touch of color among all the green. At different times of year, it develops clusters of light-pink star-shaped flowers. I like it because it adds texture next to something like, say, that jade plant, which is more like a stocky little tree. If I place them together, it adds interest." "Wow. That sounds great." Olive brightened. "Thanks. And then, see these here?" She pointed to a miniature plant with chubby, rosette-style leaves. "Yes?" Julia leaned closer and squinted to read the sign. "The one that says 'Sedum Golden Glow'?" "Yes. That one. I'm thinking of getting a few of those guys and placing them on the dining table in these cool little glass-and-gold terrariums I found online. They have delicate little panes of glass set against metal frames that catch your eye, and they're fancy enough for Mom's taste. She's okay if I do rustic, but she always wants a touch of something expensive mixed in. The terrariums do the trick, I think.

I grabbed the closest caterer and sent him for a cup of boiling hot water from the kitchen. I pulled out the wilting hydrangeas one by one, recruit their stems, dipped them into the boiling water for about thirty seconds, and then placed them back into the arrangements. It took a few minutes, but this trick would perk the flowers right up, at least for the next hour or so. Didn't people know hydrangeas were the absolute most finicky flowers? I also grabbed some floral wire to prop up some of the worst offenders. At least they weren't dead. There was no resurrecting a bloom once it had completely wilted.

Why do I tolerate this place? I asked myself that question every time I clocked into work. Edgar Appleton, the flamboyant owner of the small-town floral shop Arrangements by Appleton, watched me through the window as I pulled into my parking space. I shut off the engine and gave a little wave and smile. Eddy shot me a dirty look and turned away. I could see the day taking a turn for the incredibly awful. Yay me.

Après le thé, les fleurs. Guidés aussi par l'optique zen, les maîtres japonais firent de l'arrangement floral (ikébana) une véritable communion entre l'âme humaine et le « cœur végétal ». Chaque fleur, nous dit l'Orient, possède des secrets merveilleux qu'elle dévoile à ceux qui peuvent établir avec elle un accord parfait, une profonde intimité… Une telle exigence nous étonne, hormis le Petit Prince de Saint-Exupéry [souvenez-vous : la toute petite planète sur laquelle il vivait seul à seul avec une rose…], car notre sens du beau se noie fréquemment dans la profusion. Les Japonais, à l'affût du secret des choses, recherchent au contraire le détail isolé de la masse. Pour eux, lignes et justes proportions l'emportent sur le volume ou la teinte. La limitation de la quantité permet de « faire parler un bouquet vivant », de donner au moindre bouton le droit d'exprimer un état d'un âme. Cette perception du langage floral nous ramène à la notion subtile de l'harmonie dans la sobriété, vertu cardinale de l'esthétique zen. (p. 260)

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and mostly empty, as we’re still thirty minutes from the ceremony. ‘First things first…’ I say. ‘Kevin is a real assjack. What d’you see in that guy?’ Why she would have ever dated him in high school is beyond me. He’s a far cry from her husband, Jake. Kevin is a narcissistic forty-something, white, balding man with a beer gut. Jake is a funny thirty-something black guy with a six-pack. They’re worlds apart. But Kevin, unfortunately, owns the building I want to lease. The building that once held my late father’s florist shop. I remember spending entire days in that shop helping my dad put together floral arrangements and going out on deliveries. I’d love to have my shop in a place filled with so many memories of him.

Apply your own uniqueness to everything you undertake. Whatever you feel compelled to do—be it write music, design software, do floral arrangements, clean teeth, or drive a taxi—do it with your unique flair.

I have nothing against flowers specifically, but once they've been plucked from the ground and clumped together in a grouping, I find them unnerving. Maybe even a smidge creepy. Nothing says "Please admire my beauty while I die a long, slow death" quite like the floral arrangement.

It’s going out:  remove everything except what is attached to the floor or imbedded in the wall.  Whatever can be washed outside or in the kitchen, do it now and leave it to dry.  We’re talking baskets, floral arrangement, shelves and stuff.  Everything else is set outside the room on the floor and this includes the roll of toilet paper that’s hanging off the side of the vanity.  “Everything else” = towels, rugs (maybe you want to wash them now) toothbrush, tissue box, make-up, hair brush, dryer, blah, blah, blah, get my drift?

Val found Ellen at midday, arranging a bouquet in what would likely be his bedroom. She’d chosen red roses and bright orange daylilies. “Interesting combination,” Val murmured, coming up behind her and inhaling her floral scent. “I like seeing you in this house, Ellen.” She went still, and Val knew a gnawing sense of stealing moments before time ran out. “Hold me.” She leaned back against him. “I shouldn’t like being here so much, but I do.” “Here in my arms”—Val tightened his embrace—“or here in my house?” “Both.” She turned and slipped her arms around his waist. “And you shouldn’t be sleeping with me, either.” “I’m protecting you.” Val dipped his head to kiss the side of her neck. Ellen angled her chin. “As if locks won’t do that job.” “They won’t, entirely.

Kane picked up the vase and brought the flowers to his nose, breathing them in. Most people said calla lilies had no fragrance. He always disagreed, picking up the faintest of clean, sweet, floral scents. Pain slashed again across his heart as he recalled sending a similar bouquet to Avery after his first dinner at La Bella Luna. The tears started to roll down his cheeks as he looked closer at the blooms. There was no way whoever sent them could have known this arrangement was his favorite or that it had been the one he'd chosen to use when he'd apologized to Avery all those years ago. The pain of Avery's loss rolled through him again, becoming too much. He closed the front door behind him and set the flowers on the nearest end table, grabbing a tissue from the box beside them. It was then he noticed a notecard hidden among the flowers, having missed it amid the beautiful blooms.

OBJECTIVELY SPEAKING, my wedding to Troy Brennan was a beautiful event. Obscenely lavish and obnoxiously wasteful. Brennan spared no expense when it came to what was his. Be it his penthouse, his cars, his women or his wedding. The candles, floral arrangements, aisle runner, soloist, organist, floral archways and extravagantly decorated pews were all impeccable and plush. In fact, I was surprised the altar wasn’t built exclusively from blood diamonds and rolled one-hundred-dollar bills. Nonetheless, to me, it was as pointless as Henry Cavill with a shirt on. So much detail and beauty shouldn’t be wasted on fraud. And that’s what Brennan and I were—a lie. A charade. Doomed people trapped in a marriage built on the ruins of extortion and lies. We

White contains a balance of all colors in the spectrum, representing both the positive and negative aspects of all colors. Given it’s properties and undeniable associations with purity, white tends to amplify and reflect other colors and textures in it’s path. This is probably why I’m often asked to design white on white florals for marketing initiatives. The blooms add a delicate and feminine touch to the brand message, while allowing the product or idea to stand tall and look high-end.

My love for paper floral design grew with each custom project and I’m now officially on a mission to embellished people’s lives, spaces and fabulous events!

I'm going to do table displays for them with passion flowers," he coos. "Circlets of convolvulus for the little girls. I'll use lots of jasmine, of course. I'll have to get used to making crystallized rose petals instead of the usual sugared almonds, they're so much more refined. For big venues I'll use vines and ivy dotted with big blousy roses. Lilies are very tough, very strong. I'll mix wild flowers like cow parsley and camomile with more sophisticated things. Lots of greenery, eucalyptus, ribes...

Vines and Tines carried such distinctive and whimsical merchandise that Sadie came close to forgetting the actual purpose of her visit. A sleek, teak table held a setting for an elegant, upscale dinner; a floral arrangement of ivory roses and bursts of dark red berries matched the silk placemats. An ornate silver wine holder encircled a bottle of Tremiato Pinot Noir, the rich color of the wine echoing the deep colors embedded in the centerpiece, almost as if the berries had been infused with the wine itself. Business cards from a local event planner formed a tiny fan on one corner of the table. Instinctively, Sadie leaned forward to smell the flowers, realizing halfway there that her nose was likely to run into silk. To her surprise, the roses were real.

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To be fair to Ox, both in terms of logos on gravestones and floral arrangements left in front of them, there was no shortage of City and United colours. This was Manchester, after all. While the cemetery was divided into Church of England, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim and non-denominational areas, it was really football that was the one true religion, and there were only two acceptable churches.