Not Everyone Wants a Dead Mouse in the Mail
OneFootballClub3 min read·Just now--
Not everyone wants a dead mouse in the mail. This is a lesson I learned the hard way; the lesson snuck in somewhere between building my floral design company, accidentally branding myself “the taxidermy lady,” and falling in love with a man who didn’t want mice or any other kind of preserved creature in his home.
The idea of gracing people I loved and appreciated with something I loved and appreciated made perfect sense (even if this sentence may not).
In 2013, I moved my floral studio out of my house and into my first of eventually three, design studios. Business was going well but I was struggling to define my “brand,” that purely internet era phenomenon that dictates your work and personality should collapse into something instantly recognizable. Then, and only then, could I “manifest” or “attract” my perfect client and live happily ever after on Instagram seeking approval from strangers forever, and ever, Amen.
When I first started in 2005, I took on any client I could. I didn’t worry about an identity as much as I worried about feeding my kids. But by the mid 2010s, I’d had enough success to realize that what really fueled my soul were unique clients who loved desert design as much as I did and who were willing to take risks with their floral designs. I wanted to attract more couples drawn to the desert and maybe even drawn to something weird like a cow skull centerpiece or antler handle bouquet. I needed the industry to know I was willing to design with just about anything organic and quirky.
Yearly I entered an industry tabletop design competition. I’d won a couple times, but this year I wanted to come out with a table that said “this is me!” I built a table around a set of antlers I’d inherited from my grandpa. They’d once been nailed to the back of his house in Globe, Arizona. Now they were centerpieces.
I paired them with champagne sequin linens and gold flatware. I found photos on Etsy of anthropomorphic portraits of deer wearing Victorian garb. I hung them above my table as if they were a bride and groom. I purchased vintage cake topper figurines and decapitated them (too morbid?) and replaced their heads with tiny plastic animals. I spray painted them gold and used them as place cards for my imaginary wedding guests.
After eight years in business, the Phoenix wedding industry had a new darling. Venues wanted to work with me, planners wanted my card. At another networking event one such planner approached and I could tell she couldn’t remember my name, “you’re the taxidermy lady!”
I guess the nickname isn’t too far from the truth. I grew up around it. My grandpa had a room filled with mounts. Some kids might have been afraid of the bear, or mountain lion — both mounted as rugs but hung on the wall — their plastic jaws agape, plaster tongue curled against fiercely carved teeth. I loved that room. I knew what it felt like to pet a brown bear, what quail feathers felt like between my fingers. It was a built-in fantasy world where I was a wood nymph surrounded by her forest friends.
As an adult I started collecting shabby old mounts from flea markets and antique malls. My mother and most of my female relatives thought it was bizarre yet my mother has purchased taxidermy for me for holidays and sent along photos of pubs adorned with mounts on a recent trip to Europe. My brothers appreciated it and would send me craigslist listings. My dad understood it. He too had collected skulls and once kept a dried horseshoe crab he’d found on a beach as a kid. He recognized a naturalist’s curiosity.
