I'm a crafter wanna-be. I thought I'd kicked the habit by safely squirreling away my scrapbooking equipment and boycotting Michael's and Hobby Lobby; but alas, my recovery was short-lived. I discovered my good friend was quite the crafter. Filled once more with crafter's envy, I fell off the wagon. The lure of what might be once again drew me in like a Siren in a bad fantasy movie. With her encouragement (damn you Kurstin!) I decided to tackle the holiday wreath. Soon, I was high again on the sparkle and artistry of the wire mold. I was wrapping and tying netting in a blur. I don't even remember adding the pics. When I sobered up, I was forced to face the destruction I had left in my wake -- a pile of tattered ribbons and broken corn-cob. The dog was eating the other half. Unlike my friend's beautiful door-worthy creation, my wreath looked like something off the set of the Adam's Family. Perhaps in my craft-addled state, I had channeled the spirit of Morticia.
I have been down this road before. My last detour led me into the tawdry spectacle of scrapbook alley. The excited, sleep-deprived eyes of those who had gone before me should have served as a warning, but I was once again chasing the high of a possible completed project. Spurred on by the promise of social acceptance and an escape from the stress of everyday mom-hood, I was an easy target for the local supplier. "Come-on, Lori, everybody's doing it ..." was the popular refrain. I bought books, archival paper by the pound; and eventually, I had moved on to the hard-stuff -- stamps. I was drowning, often trying to work on three, four albums at a time and attending all-weekend binges under the cover of "scrapbook retreats." Then one day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Sitting in a pile of incomplete albums, hair askew with glitter and glue mixed in, eyes bugged and red, I couldn't remember the theme for the album I was attacking -- was it Disney Cruise or Birthday Party??? I had hit bottom. The next day, I packed it all up.
Like many addicts, I started in early adolescence. My mother had bought me a looming kit when I was eleven -- not just some cheap plastic loomery, no, these were wooden looms -- the good stuff. At one point, I was a four-pot-holder-a-day loomer. As in so many addictions, my family suffered the most. No one needs a blanket made from rainbow potholders.
I quickly moved on to harder crafts. I paint-penned anything acrylic or glass. The eighties were an especially dark period as I moved on to paper-mache. Then there was the bedazzle period and the splatter-paint T-shirts. My life had become a spiraling tumult of Rhinestones and hot glue. My turning point was the picture my then 82 year-old grandmother sent me of her wearing my latest creation -- a bedazzled puff-paint T-shirt. It was enought to make anyone go cold turkey.
I was clean for several years until the scrapbooking craze of 2006. And now, once again, I hear the Siren call. Maybe I can fix this wreath -- I'll just pull out my hot glue gun.
