Betty Basement and the Flower Designer

The flower industry is bereft with irony. Flowers are symbols of Nature. We bring them inside to remind us of beauty, of simplicity and complexity, of our connection to nature. Yet the flower industry is a giant petroleum burn that comes out smelling like roses. Starting, often in the laboratory with some genetic manipulations, most commercial flowers are grown in the slave labour greenhouses of South America. They heavily douse the product with pesticides and fungicides, fertilzers and growth hormones, most of which are petroleum based. Once cut, the flowers are treated, packaged in disposable plastic, stored in massive cooler systems, then sent on the private commercial cargo flights to the North American auction sites. Trucks and coolers support and transport these precious cargo, guzzling the hydrocarbons, until the flower arrangers and designers set their minions to treating them again for retail.
The flower shop. I have worked in a few now. The first one I worked for here in Ontario was The Flower Basket up in the strip mall. A bunch of clucking old birds doing funeral wreaths with babys breath and carnations gives you a bit of a picture. One day I was asked to make up a planter in a lovely zen-style basket. When I finished, the proprietor asked me to give it a little spray with Floralife Leafshine. I read the contents: propane, butane, heptane, propranol, isopropranol. So I went outside to spray. Around this time I was studying the Holocaust. Suddenly I could understand part of how the atrocities happen: there I was spraying petroleum on a living creature because I was told to, and with an attitude that it is a small and necessary compromise.
A few days later while working there, I witnessed the owner make one of the most cliche racist statements I have ever heard. An Indian lady came into the store and was asking some prices. She left without buying anything. Once gone, Julia said, "Just like that other Indian lady that goes to Janice's church... It is something in their very ethnicity that makes them want everything for nothing. Always." Well I didn't quit on the spot, I am ashamed to say. I waited until I cooled down, and then spoke to her the next day. She was as defensive as you can imagine, and so I wrote her a two page letter on how I want to approach all things from a place of compassion and integrity. I dont make beauty for people who speak hateful ignorance.

Okay, so the po-dunk flower shop was not a nice place. So off I go, seeking another lovely flower shop where I can play amidst the beauty and life. I want to twist up life and symbology, medicine and antiquity into art that makes you smile when you enter the bathroom....
And there is another flower shop near by that feels young and funky, more of the west coast style that I am used to. I checked back in with them, they called me in right away to work a day so we could all get the feel for each other.
It is a friday, one month before Christmas. The shop is busy like Granville Island flower shop on a Saturday. There are three ladies and the big handsome gay newfie owner. There is playful banter, but no asks me anything about myself. Until the big guy asks,
" So, are you a flower *arranger* or flower *designer*? Because there is a difference."
"Oh? What is it?" I ask.
" Well, a flower *arranger* just does it recipe style, you know. I think of Betty Basements. Flower *designers* are artistic and creative, they are creating art in their designs. When I hear flower arrangers I just think of Betty Basement."
I am thinking of the picnic table beneath the apple tree in the Hollyhock garden, and asking Pam, Denise and Nori which they are. I imagine this man saying he is a "flower designer" to them, and the slight raise of Nori's eyebrows. This haughty snob at the end of the life line, who deals in death to feed his ego and thinks it is beyond both.
When he calls me back to offer me work, I hope I have the wherewithall it tell him to take his whole teeny little ego trip of a world and shove it up his fat designer ass. I should phone him first and tell him not to waste his time thinking about me, because I couldn't fit into his world so small anyway.
Bah!

To all the Betty Basements out there, keep puking on their shoes, and keep your shit tight. We will usurp them without them even noticing, their heads are so fat and that world so small. To all the people still alive, praise be. The goddess is listening.