Do you remember the J. Crew catalogs of the mid ’90s? The ones showing the perfectly dressed, smiling and hugging families standing in the foyer of a large colonial, beautifully decorated for the holidays? The garland draped just so, the kissing ball dangling overhead, the lovingly bedecked sideboard holding a handmade cornucopia of individually be-glittered fruits?
I wanted to live in that catalog at holiday time. So as an adult, I set out to try my hand at artfully crafting my home into a version of the J.Crew house.
It did not work. At the age of 32, I have finally realized that I will never be good at crafts. Pinterest frightens me. Magazines exist to mock me. And at this point in my life, I have decided that I just don’t have any more fucks to give regarding my pitiful crafting abilities. Thus, here are the I’m not made for crafting…
1. Glitter, AKA the herpes of the craft world.
2. Hobby Lobby, Michael’s and all others of their ilk. The aisles are too narrow, the dried flowers make me itchy, the people are too slow, the checkout lines are akin to waiting in an thousand person line at the Pearly Gates (the Gates being the exit doors), and holy fuck I don’t know how four acrylic paints, some cardboard and some glitter stickers cost me $129.42. I’ve tried having a cocktail before heading to one of these places, but that just makes me more inclined to tell the lady blocking the ENTIRE assortment of wooden stamps to move her ass … in my outside voice.
3. Hot glue guns. No. Just so many no’s.
4. This sound familiar? “Ooh…I love that wreath! I could totally make that thing! I’m going to try it!” In my house, four shopping trips, $312.00 and a week later this turns into, “Dammit why would you let me try this??? The dog has a seashell glued to her ass, I sprayed shellac in my eyebrow, I have a rash from this Spanish moss and I’m SO TIRED!” This is usually directed loudly and tearfully at my husband, who didn’t want a damn wreath in the first place and had nothing to do with the hot mess I’ve made of the kitchen island.
5. Martha Stewart. I can’t stand her grinning face peering at me from the cover of the magazine, telling me how to make the aforementioned wreath. I know she’s superwoman and all, but I just hate her. Sorrynotsorry.
6. My kid wants to “help.” This is never a good idea. It ends with those tiny glass beads spilled all over the carpet, which the dog promptly hoovers up because she will eat ANYTHING, and my yelling at said dog while my beloved offspring drops hot glue on her bare foot.
7. Spray paint. I simply do not have the patience to cover everything within a 5 mile radius with plastic sheeting when I spray paint something. This is, in great part, why a sizeable portion of my balcony floor is now hot pink.
And this, my lovely reader, is why I have given up on my dream of the sparkling, gilded, be-fruited J.Crew house. My time, as it has been pointed out to me by my peerless husband, is perhaps better spent doing things I am good at and actually enjoy, which do not make a war zone out of the dining room table and don’t necessitate a trip to the vet for the dog. And finally, I’m OK with that … even though I’m sure Martha is not.
Related post: A Letter to My Children Concerning Their Artwork
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