30 April 2009

Lavender Farm

We went to the Lavender Farm yesterday and found that it was a very large house sitting on an acre or two that was planted with two different kinds of lavender, neither of which were in bloom.
I made the best of it and took some pictures. They look better on Flickr. I wanted to reduce the size of the photo space so I made this composite for this blog, and I just noticed The Mister's hand looks kind of weird on the cat's head.
I was hoping to buy some plants. For some reason I thought this was a nursery that carried different types of lavender. Oh that's right. I was told that by that earth mother who works at the in-town nursery. 
The Lavender Farm had lots a lavender-derived products for sale, but I didn't see one plant. Oh well.
I got off on the hippy nature of the greenhouse and trailer with a little garden. I was transported back in time when I wanted to be the master gardener of an organic winery and restaurant in Hopland. I like to change my careers every once in awhile. Sometimes really quickly if I figure out after a year or two that I hate what I'm doing. That's what happened with the theatre.  
I love all things about the theatre, the performing, the creative arc one must endeavor to get from point A to point B, the make-up, the costumes, the front of the house, even building the scenery. What I could not stand - maybe I would feel differently now but I doubt it - were the people. All those would-be stars. The most annoying people e-v-e-r!
Boy, that was aside. 

But to run with it, I will continue. Not in any particular order. I've been a university research specialist. I've been (and still am some days) an independent research specialist. I was a newspaper columnist for seven (or was it eight, I can't remember) years. I was the editor-in-chief of a newspaper, a college newspaper, that is. A dance teacher. A movie theater manager. A toy store clerk (but that was a job not a career). Another job I had was behind the cosmetics counter in a major department store. That was a trippy job. Women would come in starting at about age 35 with a very scared look in their eyes asking for wrinkle cream (you know the kind that really works, they would say in hushed tones). Like there is such a thing. 

I wonder why agism is so prevalent in this country. It's tolerated, even encouraged. You want to see "just plain mean" in action, visit your Hallmark store. Birthdays are all about rubbing it in. You're old! HAHAHAHAHA. And by being old you are automatically: A. Senile, B. Hard of Hearing, and C. Saggy
Wow, I'm all over the place today. Better go make a wish and eat some cake.

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Thanks for sharing!