I admit it. I suffer from Pinterest Envy.
I’ve never been a crafty person, even when I had two working hands. It’s never been my thing.
See this? This was the last crafty attempt I made. It’s SUPPOSED to be a Christmas wreath. Pinterest inspired.
It looks like a hairball Oscar the Grouch coughed up. Needeless to say, it was never on display. Pretty sure Wolf buried it in a dumpster in the dark of night, so as to not have any of the neighbours witness my shame.
Which, unfortunately, meant poor Diva had to figure out the whole craft thing on her own, because I just was useless.
I can’t draw stick people. Seriously. There’s nothing like your kid asking you why your stick man has three legs, or a tail, to burn to death any hopes of creativity you might have harboured.
Then…there are recipes. Recipes are good, right?
But the dark side of Pinterest soon made itself known to me.
Crafts. Party planning. DIY home stuff.
I have to admit, I don’t get a lot of this stuff. I just don’t.
Colour coordinated, matchy matching everything for a first birthday party? Themes? Matching napkins, tablecloth, and even water bottle labels?
My eye started twitching.
The more I looked, the more I twitched.
The crafts, dear God, the crafts.
I developed serious angst. An inferiority complex. I was a bad Mom. I couldn’t take empty pop bottles and create sparkly nightlights. Or DIY a Princess Castle bed from some old lumber scraps and a tutu. How could Wolf and the children endure my failures to make everything colour coordinated and perfect from simple recycling and up cycling? I wasn’t fit for society, and should be banished to a dark cave with other Pinterest failures.
I’m thoroughly convinced that if I attempted some of the crafts on the site, I’d end up on the news. Either it would spontaneously combust, and burn the house down, or turn radioactive and I’d be investigated by Homeland Security.
And I’m not even American!
And that’s just the freaking paper/fabric crafts. Not in my insanest day dreams would I dare pick up a power tool. I’ve burned myself with glue guns enough to leave blisters. Cool glue gun my butt.
I live in awe, and envy of those that can take a few empty toilet paper rolls, a few snotty tissues, a used diaper, an old sleeper and a holey sock and turn it into an artistic centrepiece for the holidays.
I can hide behind my disability, and gladly do (hey, there’s got to be an upside to becoming one armed, right?), to get out of any artistic pursuits. You just can’t craft one-handed. But, in the dark of the night, I admit…I don’t have the ability. Doesn’t matter how many hands I have or not, I can’t craft.
I suspect that Martha Stewart is a harbinger of Doom, and may possibly be related to Lucifer. Or Voldemort.
I don’t have the talent, or the ability, to follow the simplest of directions. I completely lack whatever doughnut in my brain box of doughnuts that has anything to do with art. I don’t even arrange my own furniture, for crying out loud. The closest I come to home decorating is figuring out where I can put the computer desk so that the modem and plugs can reach. That’s about the extent of my interior decorating skills.
I ooh, and awwww over other people’s efforts. Diva’s got some mad drawing skills, and Princess is following in her footsteps. I’ll gladly buy art supplies for them. Not a problem.
Just please, for the love of holy old cheezits, don’t ask me how to do any of it.
I don’t want to be explaining to the fire department how paper mache turned the kitchen into an inferno.
The only thing that keeps me from crawling into the back of my (non organized, non Pinteresty) closet (that hasn’t been made into a book nook either) and scarfing down booze laced cheesecake is Wolf reminding me that I’m not good at the regular arts and crafts stuff, but I’ve made babies.
And so far, they’ve turned out pretty well. No spontaneous combustion at all.
I’m still keeping a wary eye on the Hospital Kid.