My mother keeps approximately eighteen unused Christmas wreaths in the attic at all times, and over the weekend when I was up there getting decorations down for her, she told me to take one — no, two! no, three! no, twelve! — home with me. So I did. Take one, that is.
I picked a plain one that just came with a big red bow, which I unceremoniously ripped off because it didn’t quite match the sparkly stuff I found in the Target dollar bin (container of sparkly pine cones and container of tiny sparkly balls, a dollar each). A little bit of hot glue later (okay, a lot) and there you go, a ghetto-fabulous wreath, which you might or might not secure to your front door with cat-chewed fishing line and packing tape.
A word of caution, thought: It is in your best interests to keep your long-ass hippie hair away from the hot glue gun.