Okay. So for the last two weeks I've been on a *crafting* marathon. I don't know why because:
A) I hate crafts
B) Crafts hate me
Furthermore, I am dexterously challenged. No, really. Earlier this year I snapped a tendon in my left ring finger, which seemed to confuse the rest of the hand as now the other fingers try really hard to pick up the slack but nobody knows what they're supposed to be doing - it's like watching an inebriated octo-palegic arachnid trying to roller skate on ice. Sometimes I feel so embarrassed for my left hand that I'll look the other way to pretend I don't see its pathetic struggles.
And maybe a year before that fiasco, - my entire right arm just up and decided to not work. Yeah. Every part of my body woke up one morning, all except the right arm, which had apparently decided to go on strike or something. I guess it just got tired of life, or developed a bad attitude, or couldn't stomach one more fun-filled-fiesta of scrubbing, lifting, writing, typing, reaching, sweeping, hauling, scratching, dusting, washing, folding, etc that was its daily dose of hell.
So for several weeks it just kinda flopped around like one of those pale, freckled flounders you see dangling at the fish market. So I had to do everything with my left arm, which means that I didn't do very much, very often or very well.
I've noticed whenever any of my body parts get uppity and decides to *rebel*, I'm the one who has to suffer for it. I hate this physical crap (I am more the lofty, cerebral type - in case you couldn't tell), and if reincarnation is real I am never, EVER in a gazillionjillion years coming back to this ape infested mosh pit of a planet. :O
Okay, so whatever. My whole point - if I had one - is that I lack the necessary *delicacy/coordination/dexterity* so vital in the wildly exciting field of home-craft-projects.
And per the sarcasm above, I obviously lack the *temperament* of a home artisan craft-type person. Little, itty bitty doodads and strings, yarn, threads, needles, pins, glue, HOT glue, scissors, are all annoying, irritating instruments of torture when your body parts don't want to play along. Plus I have to wear cheaters (reading glasses) to see anything smaller than a Volvo.
I do seem to suffer from a surfeit of estrogen, which means that my brain will instantly SPOT anything cute, glittery, adorable, colorful, shiny (like a Magpie) - and con me into believing that I could make that!
Stupid brain. [To all the women reading this: it is NOT your fault when you eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's while staring into the freezer wondering what to thaw out to feed your ungrateful family. Nor is it your fault when you can smell the latest limited edition Yankee Candle clear across the mall. It is ALSO not your fault if you actually CARED whether Bella chose Edward over Jacob, because they both had unique *howt* points that your husband/boyfriend/UPS Guy would never grasp nor care to *explore* with you no matter how hard you tried to get your *interest* across. And lastly, it is most CERTAINLY not your fault if you experience the sudden, urgent/immediate desire to analyze down to the last minutia where your love relationship is heading, even if you and He are in the middle of rush hour traffic on the N.J. turnpike. It is your BRAIN responsible for the above. You are just an innocent victim of it all.]
So my brain made me think I ought to make some pretty yarn wreaths, like the kind you see on Etsy, for the holidays.
Being easily fooled - nay, gullible - I rolled with the stupid idea. For two weeks I've holed up in my large, walk-in closet which actually serves as a dandy place to do stupid projects that I'm too fastidious/humiliated to have scattered all over the house. I swear to God, by the end of last night, when all 15 wreaths had been completed and packaged up for a vendor's show, my humble closet looked like Hobby Lobby had barfed.
No lie. Seriously. This would probably be funny if I were on stronger meds, but I'd picked up, at a rummage sale for a quarter, a large container of thousands of microscopic beads and sequins - in about a thousand different shades/colors/hues. And here's the important thing: none of them were separated, it was just one big bowl of craft soup. And that is when I discovered that the great deal I got was going to cost me dozens of man-hours sorting all that crap. So naturally I didn't separate a darn thing, instead I just picked out what I needed as I needed it - thereby creating a process SO slow and ungainly that it made evolution look like an impromptu date.
And not to be a whiner, but my GAWD when they say *HOT* glue gun what they really mean is "hot enough to melt small rocks or ignite distant suns*. Oh. And bare in mind you are supposed to keep the glue gun, when in operation (fancy talk for 'plugged in'), in the upright position and not to let it rest on its side. So right there not only did I need 7 or 8 pairs of hands to hold the wreath, position the yarn, place the sequin AND make sure the damn glue gun didn't tip over because the stupid stand they give you to rest it on has all the tensile strength of a snowflake in hell.
Did I mention I'm still sick? Well, if not, let me impart a pearl of wisdom here. Don't try to blow your nose while using a glue gun. I don't care HOW much you're sniffling. Just swallow the sinus and try not to reflect on what a disgusting, oozing blob of carbon you really are. Trust me on this one and just go with it.
Also. If you are sick while crafting: Don't sneeze within a five mile radius of all those sequins/beads. You'll send those babies flying so far you'll be picking them out of the carpeting come Easter. IF the cat/dog/kid doesn't find them and eat them first. Unless they need more *fiber* in their diet, that is.
But do make sure you KEEP TRACK of each and every single straight pin. Even if it means renting one of those super-duper microscopes like the kind they use at NASA, or swathing your entire body with scotch tape and rolling around on the floor like a goober. Do whatever it takes to insure you have left no straight pin unturned. Unless you happen to enjoy midnight runs to the emergency room because you stepped on one of the tiny bastards, got it embedded into the flesh of your foot, where it immediately went septic, and is threatening to turn your entire foot, calf, thigh, trunk, etc into a hideous puddle of gangrene so awful that doctors are going to want to amputate everything south of your eyeballs.
Speaking of eyeballs.
That's another thing. If you are slothful, like me, and don't see the point in getting all dressed up just to sit around in your closet crafting for hours on end, so you get all comfy in your jammies instead, because it's not like company's gonna drop by and sip Earl Grey with you anyway. So if you do this kind of craft crapping in your PJ's, you especially want to make sure not to accidentally *carry* any straight pins with you when you finally decide to call it quits and go to bed.
Because, and maybe I'm just a pessimist here, but next to a spinal tap, the last thing you want is to wake up with one eyeball pierced to the pillow because by some nefarious machinations known only to Murphy's Law, the stupid pin worked its way out of your jammies and made its slow, stealthy path to your pillow where it became stuck in the drool and waited there - biding its time - until your one good eye came in contact with the pin whereby it suddenly sprang to life and launched itself straight into the retina and is making a beeline for your brain, even as we speak.
But your brain deserves it. Because IT is what gave you/me/us the stupid idea in the first place.
Remember, we're all just innocent victims of whatever neural synapses happen to (mis)fire at any given moment.
And I really think Bella should've picked Jacob.