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 â no, two! no, three! no, twelve! â 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.
I love hot glue guns. There’s something very satisfying about going through a whole stick. And then another. And then another.
dude, seriously, why do cats insist on eating things that can’t be digested and when eaten linearly always exit the same way, usually not all at once…