craft junkie

I feel the need to craft like some people feel the need to dance.  Or serial killers feel the need to kill.  Or jock itch.  It’s incessant!  It’s deep and unconscious and wild and uncontrollable.  I imagine that I was perhaps Amish in a previous life because absolutely nothing escape my “I could make that” thinking. 

Folding panties.  Mental thought: I could make these.

Search for a coffee table.  Mental thought: I could make one.

Need for bookcase.  Mental thought: I could build them.

Shopping for a dress to wear to a wedding.  Mental thought: Why don’t I sew one?

I even want to BUILD my own home.  BUILD it.  With these dainty doll hands.  I’d look damn good in a tool belt, and nothing’s sexier than a woman who can maneuver around table saw like a pro.  And I’m surprisingly strong from being so short and wide.

Nothing is exempt.  I get great sick pride from building/making/sewing things.  Whipping stuff up.  And I have the SKILLS to do it, so whenever I make a purchase, I feel like I’m not tapping into my limitless talent of making. 

It’s been suppressed lately.  The Rabid Beast, the Man, the Job.  But my plate ain’t as full as I think it is.  I’m spending more time watching boob tube than I ever have. 

I like new things.  Call me materialistic (You’re materialistic!).  But I do.  And I like to shop and I like to find things.  Not like, hey! a penny.  More like, HOT DAMN! that u-g-l-y thrift store chair from before I was born is hideous, and has uber-potential.  That’s right.  I’m not just a talented beauty, I can spot potential talent and beauty.  I am a thrift store scavenger.  I have the patience and I’m a tight wad without an aversion to the old, feeble or poor, so thrifting on the weekends is my idea of fun.  But when I can’t thrift, I (used to) revamp.  And the Man brought so many goodies when he moved that I have been eyeing.  Our condo could, perhaps, be used as the set for Another 70s Show.  Or 60s.  Heavy dark wood and out dated fabric couches.  Brass lamps, need I say more?

Have I mentioned that I’ve always wanted to re-upholster something?  Yep.  And I’m completely confident in my abilities despite never have upholstered or re-upholstered anything in my life.  Or even read a book, watched a tutorial or witnessed another person doing it.  Nope.  But, I think my Amish heritage would make me a natural.

I wouldn’t re-upholster the sofas ‘cause then the Man and I would either have no place to sit or only one couch; it gets crowded when dog, lady and Man sit in the same, not-so-wide lounging area.  And he would forbid me from doing it.  I would be FORBADED.

I HAVE refinished wood items though.  And have learned necessary things like, wiping down the finished stained product BEFORE varnishing so the dust isn’t trapped under your varnish driving you crazy and making you sand, re-stain and re-varnish.  And while the heavy, dark 1960s wood furniture the Man lugged across the US isn’t in the best shape, it is pretty neat.  And all I need to get started is sandpaper.  Then stain.  Then varnish.  But FIRST I have to sand, which is a decent weekend project that will set me on the path to pride in my work.  Without removing necessary seating area.

I couldn’t get a sewing machine.  BOO.  I’m totally heartbroken, although it’s temporary.  But I had thought up all the different projects I was going to do with it.  Hem skirts and re-construct sweatshirts and re-size some pants smaller.  But NOOoo.  Stupid adult bills and necessities.  Because I have mentally built myself up to anticipate occupied weekend moments, I’m really feeling let down.  And like a junkie in dire need of a hit.  A crafting hit. 

I think I’m gonna commit the 4 bucks to some sandpaper.