(How Crafting Ruined Christmas)
As Julie Andrews would sing, “Let’s start at the very beginning.” About a year ago, I discovered HGTV’s Fixer Upper. I was inspired by the decorations Jo Jo created with junk she’d found on the side of the road. So like any good woman who needed to clean the house, I decided to put that energy into making fabulous art out of trash. In my case, it involved hot-gluing funky letters on a termite-destroyed fence post. Because everyone knows it makes sense to hang such a carrier inside your home.
I liked it. My husband said he liked it. And just recently, my nephew and his new bride shared they liked it . . . without even being prompted. So of course, I’m going to make them one for Christmas.
Fortunately, I was smart enough to keep several of the termite-infested posts (leaning against my new cedar fence), so I just needed the letters. I stopped at the closest craft store for a quick excursion to the letter aisle. My estimated ten minutes became three hours. I had forgotten the intoxicating wonder of this magical land.
Cabinet knobs shaped like owls, yards of burlap with French script, shelves and mirrors in distressed, robin-egg blue paint. They even had a leather-engraving kit that tempted me until I remembered I hadn’t worn a belt since 2007. My heart raced with the need to create, and I had the perfect opportunity: Christmas gifts!!!!
Now that I’ve started and my kitchen and clothes are covered in craft paint and hot glue (btw, it should be called freakin’-hot glue), I’m remembering I’m more of a performing arts kind of gal. Not so much the visual arts. Case in point, Halloween 2002. In fairness, my kids wouldn’t commit to a costume until the night before. My daughter chose Aerial the Mermaid. I ingeniously stapled silk scarves to the calves of her aqua-green Lycra leggings. Son wanted to be a bat. I put him in his sister’s old dance tights and leotard and stapled Hefty trash bags to the arms. To be honest, I’m not sure which was worse: placing two plastic bags inches from a three-year-old’s head or putting my son in a velour leotard.