I love making homemade décor items, especially Christmas ones, how about you?
This time of year, I’m usually so busy making things for everyone else, that I rarely ever follow through on making things for me. I always have good intentions and collect the necessary supplies, but many times, it just falls by the wayside. This year, however, things are very different and I have been making a few things to put the merry into merry Christmas.
I can’t say that everything I’ve made has turned out to be the way that I wanted it, but that’s just the nature of the beast. I’ve come a long way in the realm of crapmanship, and I don’t doubt that I’ll create many more epic fails as the years go on. In fact, some of my many epic fails have taught me many valuable lessons.
In all honesty, I wish I could say that the epic fails don’t roll outta here like seamless ocean waves, but that’d be a lie. Can you feel the failure now? I certainly can.
I don’t possess home décor making genes
Let’s just say, I wasn’t meant to be a maker of home décor of any kind in this lifetime. Actually, not in any lifetime at all. I try, I really do, but the way I go about doing things sometimes screws me over royally.
I am defiant, yes I am. I was one of those people who often didn’t heed any warning…a little self-confession there, and I can tell ya that sometimes, not taking heed really bites you in the ass. Hard.
I would know, hence all the bite marks and chunks that have been chewed from my ass. It’s ugly, very ugly indeed. All of those reminders of past lessons, just conveniently displayed right there on my ass, waiting to be noticed…I usually ignore them, which is also a really bad idea.
Crafty Cowboys and high horses
The warning not heeded that I am referring to often pertains to not tackling projects with prior research, consideration, thought, and mostly, instruction. Yup, I’m a fucking cowboy…and a crafty one to boot. And do you know what happens to Crafty Cowboys? Well, I’m gonna tell ya.
When someone tells you to tuck and roll, well by golly you’d better damn well tuck and roll. Falling off a high horse hurts…bad, and in more ways than one. And do you know what part hurts the most after a fall from that high? The ego…yeah, that one smarts.
So, if you’re like me, you’d better learn to tuck and roll. Why you ask? Because Crafty Cowboys can sometimes fall off of some seriously high horses.
The one instance that sticks out in my mind that finally smartened my dumb ass up (slightly…hey, we’re not all Marthas!), happened to be a Christmas décor piece that of course, my mother talked me into making. My bloody mother. If anyone has any power of persuasion over me, my mother would be one of the very few who has it. Oh, the agony!
We make all kinds of shit
My mother and I love to make shit. We make pretty shit, useless shit, shit that collects dust, and shit that no one knows just what the fuck it is kind of shit. We’ve even made shit that people eventually go nuts for on Pinterest BEFORE it becomes popular. How about that for the kinds of shit we make!
All that said, sometimes, my mother sends me Pins of shit I’d never make and for some stupid reason, I end up eventually making it. Now tell me why that is? Oh yeah, right…let me explain this ridiculous concept and you can see exactly why it’s absurd and makes zero sense at all.
You know that girl code thing where if one girl goes to the ladies’ room, the whole group goes? Yeah, that’s why. There’s apparently a girl code in crafting that mandates the same thing. When one crafter makes an item, we all have to make it too. No crafter left behind, got it?
Questionable crafting projects
I think I’m just a glutton for punishment because when my mother sends me those pictures or Pins of the things that makes my toes curl so bad from it being so gawd-awful ugly, I feel bad that she has to make it alone. WTF? I am a dumbass. I’ve admitted it before and I’ll do it again, I am a dumbass.
So, I don’t often like to let my mother craft alone, but I’ve been talked into making some of the most horribly ugly and completely useless shit over the years, that I just wanna kick myself in my own ass. Did I forget to list that category earlier about the different kinds of shit we make? Well if not, we’ve made a lot of this kind of shit as well, and often.
The particular item that changed many things for me, was just starting to gain attention from crafters all over the world and I’m sure you’ve either seen them or heard of them, they’re called deco mesh wreaths. Did I just hear a collective groan? Yeah, so it wasn’t just me then?
My mother, the crafty witch
My mother decided that she was going to attempt to make one of these bad boys, and managed to rope me into the stupidity as well. I’m admitting that I was an accomplice to this because we both hit our usual craft hoarding retail spaces to attain the necessary tools in order to execute this ridiculous folly, and people witnessed it. I mean, I did try to revolt, but my mother used her persuasive powers on me, which usually goes a little something like this…
C’mon! It’ll be fun! We can both make one!
In saying this, she managed to override my sane and rational thought process. Shazam! She either has a gift, or she’s an exceptionally talented and powerful witch. If you’d have asked me when I was younger and dumber, I would’ve said a witch.
Now, at this age and stage, I’d say she’s pretty fucking gifted. I shudder to hear those words tumble out of her mouth, especially in the middle of Michaels. Oh, come on Mom! Just twist my arm a little harder would ya?
Being worked over and brainwashed by my mother
And, she usually does, with the clever use of goading and begging intertwined. She’s even resorted to the lowest of low to get me to join along, by calling me names. Bad ones. She’s mean.
I swear she likes to make me feel guilty. And once the guilt sets in, the stupidity follows, and for some dumb reason I start to convince myself that it’s not an entirely horrendous idea after all. Sad, isn’t it?
So, I remember the day I followed along behind her like a little lost puppy, while she buried her face in an actual book with instructions (what’s that?) and gathered the necessary tools. As she excitedly blabbed on about making her new wreath, I just trudged along behind her sulking (like the pouty 2-year old I can be when I’m told no). She really shouldn’t walk and read, especially when she’s serious and actually employs the use of her reading glasses. She only took out 4 displays and about 10 people that day.
Anyway, and I don’t want to admit this, but my sulking immediately ceased once we finally came upon…the deco mesh display. Ermagerd, I have a problem. This is hideously embarrassing to admit.
Who doesn’t like pretty colors?
Besides my mother and her gift of guilt, I am ashamed to say, that I was immediately hooked by all the pretty colors of deco mesh I saw. Yes, I am admitting that I basically got excited like a sugar-fueled 5 year old due to the assortment of colors. Honestly, there wasn’t much to choose from back then, but I’ve got a thing for bright, cheery colors and they had blue! BLUE!!
All of the deco mesh wreath photos that my mother had shown me, were all green and red, which wasn’t thrilling for me. But, once I’d seen that they’d had blue and pink and other pretty colors of deco mesh, Bob was my uncle man! And this was when my transformation to crazy crafter lady began.
Once I saw those beautifully wrapped rolls of deco mesh happiness, I was obsessed. I pushed my damn mother outta the way and told her to get her amateur ass off the road and let the pro take over. Oh yeah, I totally had her convinced that I wasn’t making one of these ugly fucking wreaths, like the professional actress that I am. Yup, I’m that convincing, all the way down to the sulking and feet dragging.
I am a pushover
What I should’ve done was, given myself a boot to the ass, stuck to my guns, and held fast on the feet dragging and sulking. It’s only after the fact that the lesson was learned, and I should’ve stood my ground. Wisdom they call this. Wisdom.
At first glance, I only saw the blue. It was a sky blue color, something you’d find mixed and matched with a bubble gum pink color in some little girl’s bedroom that’s decorated in Skittle euphoria. It screams Christmas, doesn’t it? Yeah, I knew you were gonna say that, but at that moment, all I saw were possibilities.
After I’d lovingly shoved (gently) my beautiful momma outta the way like a star crazed teenager and sent the cart flying into some other Christmas display, I dove headfirst into the large boxes containing the deco mesh. I’m sure there’s a security camera video floating around out there somewhere that caught my crafty frolic in the hay moment so to speak. I was in crafter’s paradise.
Swimming with the deco mesh…do they charge extra for that?
I eagerly dove under, around, and in the display like I was having the time of my life at a tropical beach in the Caribbean. I found a roll of the pretty blue mesh and began to rummage around to find myself another, and in the process, I also found and secured a roll of pink, white, and sparkling silver. I just couldn’t get enough.
I hollered to my mother to get her ass over to me with the cart so we could load up. I was going to make so many deco mesh wreaths in so many colors, that my house was gonna sparkle like no other. My neighbors were gonna be green with envy, and I’d envisioned needing extra security, just to be sure that no one would steal my magnificent creations. Operation Protection of the Pretties was about to commence.
In hindsight, I am thankful that I wasn’t kicked out of Michaels because of the bizarre mesh hoarding I’d displayed. Let’s just say that I became a little possessive and lashed out a few times at anyone trying to take my mesh rolls from me. I am passionate, yes I am.
The beginning of a big mistake
Once my mom and I finished picking out our mesh (I believe we really only needed 3 rolls each, but I managed to get about 15 into the cart for myself), we went over to the section of the store that had the wire wreath forms. Now, my mom was smart, in that she had a book with instructions in it, so she could pick up the appropriate supplies. I, on the other hand, had abandoned any planning process and decided that whatever mom was doing, I was going to do better and it didn’t require a book with instructions…lame.
She’d read the size of form we needed, but the store didn’t have that exact size. So, in the club that my mom and I belong to, The Fuck It and Done Club, we deferred to our usual policy of, the bigger the better. That meant, that instead of getting the 16-inch form (we needed a 14), we ended up with a much bigger one, somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 or so inches I believe. I think I may have purchased the biggest one, measuring in at about 26 inches…go big or go home dammit.
Now, I know you’re thinking, it’s only 6 inches bigger than required (mine was 10) which really isn’t that much bigger (ugh, we’re dumb), which is exactly what my mother and I thought as well. It’s only 6 (10) inches, what’s the big deal, we can make it work. So, we ended up with those.
Squealing at the price on the price tags is genetic
Remember my delusional thoughts of grandeur earlier…how I was gonna be cranking out these damn wreaths like a chocolate factory running full force…remember that? Well, that factory dream shut down pretty quickly when I saw the bloody price tag for one of those wreath forms! Back then, I think they were around the $20 plus mark! It wasn’t cheap, that was for certain.
I think I’ve mentioned this squeal before, but my father, when you’ve got him by the wallet, makes this high pitch squealing noise when he has to open it and pay the piper. It’s a very unique and high pitched sound that only my mother and I can identify. He specifically elicits this during the holiday season, especially when he employs me to do his shopping for my mom, and I have to call him because I require more money than he’s willing to fork out. It’s so much fun (when he does it)!
Anyway, I remember that exact moment in the wreath forms aisle in Michaels, and I believe I emitted much the same squeal when I saw that price tag. Holy shitballs. Since then, I believe the prices have dropped, exponentially…but I actually wouldn’t know…because I haven’t bought another one since!
I was born ready
I’m sad to say, that if reason had prevailed that day, I never would’ve purchased that wreath form, and I wouldn’t be here today indulging you in my Christmas décor sorrows. I still can’t believe I bit the bullet and bought the damn thing. Damn you, Mother!!
Needless to say, I brought all of that pretty deco mesh home with all of the other fixings, and I couldn’t wait to dive headfirst into the realm of deco mesh wreath making. I was sick people, real sick. All I could do was fantasize about how amazing this creation was going to be and how it was going to go off without a hitch. I was fucking delusional.
I still remember the day that I made this fucking thing like it was yesterday. My mom had gone back home and I had glanced over her book and took note of the instructions before she left, meaning I glanced, had an idea, and thought…I got this. Who needs instructions? Easy peasy. Insert facepalm here.
I did everything I had to do that day with lightning speed so I could tear into that luscious deco mesh and make the sickest Christmas creation known to man. When the moment finally arrived, I was in crafter’s bliss. I’d gathered my pipe cleaners (I guess they’re also called chenille stems), scissors, and everything else needed and I was ready to work. I was determined to make my wreath before my mother had the chance to make hers…I love to make her jealous sometimes.
The first mistake I made, was not having instructions handy. Why? Because there were none to be found on Pinterest as of that time, or anywhere that I could find online. And, here comes that ego, I was not going back to my mother to get her assistance in making my pretty wreath, no way. Fucking cowboy…
That is usually the first thing that gets me into crafting trouble. I should never rely on photos and assume that I know what’s going on. Sometimes the written instructions tell me there are tips and tricks that the pictures don’t show, isn’t that genius?
I remembered that I needed to measure out my deco mesh and secure it to the wreath form with the pipe cleaners, continuing on until the wreath looked like a deco mesh wreath. Simple enough, and I managed to do it quite well at first, but the measurement that they’d given in the instructions, was for a smaller wire wreath form. When I started to make it, it didn’t have the same pouf, if you know what I mean.
That led me to dismantle the little bit that I’d done, which was no biggie, sometimes trial and error is just how I roll. I measured out even longer portions of my mesh and secured it until I finally dialed in on the sweet spot that gave me the right amount of pouf that I desperately desired. It all started out fine and dandy, but as my working area became cramped (meaning it took up the entire room) from all of the mesh, things seemed to take a turn for the worse.
Now, I don’t have slim and dainty ladyfingers and hands. I have man hands as I like to call them, with sausage fingers. No matter my weight, my sausage fingers remain sausage fingers. And sometimes, sausage fingers and crafts don’t go together well, like say chocolate and anchovies…ick.
For me, things that sometimes start off really well, are destined for major catastrophe later on. As they say, all good things must come to an end. And, come to an end it did. Abruptly.
After getting the wreath going, I was running out of places that allowed ample room for my sausage fingers to work and be able to see simultaneously. This type of situation usually triggers cussing, sweating, odd body positioning, self-deprecation, and eventually, self-consultation for expert advice. You know it gets bad when you start spewing hate for things that don’t deserve it. Innocent bystanders that have been subjected to my hateful spite, usually include things like furniture, scissors, and other craft items that I swear I’ll never use again.
Meet Helga, she’s scary
I suppose lying can also be thrown in as another thing I do because I always seem to go back to using those very same, difficult items for other projects, after the fact. I am such a liar liar pants on fire. I think you’re starting to see that crafting sometimes brings out the absolute best in me.
Admitting it is the first step…or so they say. So today, I am going to finally admit that I have an alter ego. Scary, right? Her name is Helga…Helga Hellfire and she’s one scary, mean bitch.
I’d say she swears like a sailor, but I’m going to be completely honest with you, her filthy potty mouth makes potty-mouthed sailors blush. She cannot be summoned willingly and the only time Helga makes an appearance, is when the shit hits the fan, otherwise, she usually remains firmly tucked in place. It’s gotta be pretty bad for Helga to make an appearance.
Crafting is fun, isn’t it? Sometimes it appears to be so Hallmark-esque, and I think that’s the allure. It appears that everything works out every single time, and it all turns out fabulous, does it not? Unfortunately, this is not the case for me.
Free shit should be included with every bag of pipe cleaners
I just wanna know, of the folks who appear to have this Hallmark-esque type of crafting experience, does anything ever go sideways on you, or are you on something that makes you oblivious to it all? If you’re on something, when does this shit come free with my package of pipe cleaners? Sign me up! I think the only thing I’d ever be offered is a straitjacket and some wicked and not so fun drugs for my alter ego when she pops up from the depths of the underworld.
That is exactly why I don’t YouTube orTik Tok or any of that shit. I can only imagine who’d be at my door after witnessing my productions. Ermagerd, I know I’d scare the ever-loving shit out of people if they ever witnessed Helga coming out to play. I’d ruin crafting entirely, in fact, I think it’d be outlawed if anyone witnessed my crafting experiences with Helga at the helm.
Anyway, I managed to put on my big boy panties and suck it up. Let’s just say that I put my head down, and got to work. That meant that there was plenty of hissing, cussing, sweating, tantrum-throwing, head swiveling, and pea soup spewing that went on in my basement that day.
I’m certain that Helga’s demonic voice filled my house with threats of violence and death to many an item in the area and I wonder how many of my neighbors heard her. I was at the point of no return, so my only option was to go through hell and high water with the help of my demonic alter ego, or quit entirely…which, if you know me, isn’t an option. Mama didn’t raise no quitter. I didn’t look up until the wreath had pretty much taken full form…and that’s mistake number 2…
Pretty colors don’t always go together
Keep yer head up. I should’ve stopped to look and see just what the hell was going on. My bad.
When I excitedly clipped the deco mesh, signifying the end of the project, and secured it to the wreath (there was no going back, what was done, was done), I was a little shaken by what I saw. And this is really embarrassing, especially after rolling in the deco mesh box at Michaels and behaving like a deranged idiot, but the wreath looked nothing like I’d imagined. Yeah, of course it didn’t…it never does. And that leads me to mistake number 3…
Sometimes following a color scheme in a pattern for the first time, isn’t such a bad idea after all. Actually, maybe I should just follow a fucking pattern for once. Ugh, I remember this so vividly, it still brings me pain. When I finally stood up and really looked at it, all I could think was fuck me.
What the fuck is this?
In front of me lay this hideous, gawd-awful, ginormous wreath that didn’t have one single thing tying it to the Christmas season. It was sky fucking blue, with bubble gum pink wound all around it, with pops of white and silver intertwined at poorly coordinated intervals. I swear, it would perfectly portray the Mad Hatter, on shrooms, playing Candyland while smoking crack and flying high on crystal meth. Jeebus it was ugly. Not my proudest crafting moment.
I wanted to cry it was so fucking grotesque, but not only that, the bloody thing wasn’t going to fit on a single door within any normal household. Not even the ones with oversized doors. No kidding. It was HUGE.
Here I had rubbed it in, all over in my mother’s face how I was going to finish my wreath first and I’d promised such a funky and festive wreath. Ermagerd. What a travesty.
As I’d completely lost track of time, I heard Clem and the kids arrive home from school. Shit! He had fully committed to making time for me to complete the wreath that day and offered to pick the girls up so I could work on it, isn’t he awesome?! I had a moment of panic as he came through the door and happily exclaimed,
Honey, we’re home!
I kicked into survival mode and proceeded to figure out where the hell I was going to stash this monstrosity so no one could see it. Talk about panic! I was running like a wild woman, slamming the basement door as I went by and hollering for no one to enter.
It wouldn’t fit into the biggest Rubbermaid tub that I’d had, and I was in such hysterics that I couldn’t think straight to angle it properly to fit it through the unfinished door of my sewing room. I am not kidding when I say it wouldn’t fit through a door. It was so bloody big that the only thing I could do was grab the king-sized sheets I was about to wash, and throw them over top of it, fanning the sheets out to fully cover it.
I put on my best I’m so happy face before I threw the basement door open to declare that I’d had the best day ever. Ugh, I hate lying to my family when my crafting escapades go awry. I’m sorry guys, I just hate to disappoint.
Clem excitedly asked me how my day was and inquired as to how my beautiful work of perfection was going. I’m certain my face dropped a little, but I passionately filled him in about how awesome things were going and it was turning out to be better than I thought. Oh brother. If there’s a hell, I’m certainly going there.
My girls were so excited to see my new décor item, that I swear I died inside a little when I saw their enthusiasm. Once they saw my disturbing masterpiece of shit, I knew they’d lose all respect for me. I was about to ruin Christmas, and any future décor attempts, forever.
I quickly diverted and asked how everyone’s day was and herded them to the kitchen to fill their bellies with snacks and lend my motherly ear to be chewed. Thankfully, their excitement made them forget about my day and we all dove into the conversation with gusto. I knew I was on bought time, but how to explain this mess, was beyond me.
After having a cup of coffee and sitting and listening to everyone, the focus again turned to me. Ugh, why, why did they even have to ask? I knew that Clem was most definitely not going to be fooled for long, but I stammered away anyway. It wasn’t from a lack of trying, that’s for sure, but after I attempted to cock block anyone from going down to see my macabre Christmas décor piece gone awry for the millionth time, I knew Clem was on to me.
He gave me the look. I knew my hiding, concealing, and stalling was futile. He was on to me.
We told the girls to go and play in their rooms and when it was time to unveil my project, we’d let them know. Clem steered me to a corner of the house where he thought the girls wouldn’t hear us and proceeded to interrogate. As I’ve said before, mama didn’t raise no quitter, and I voraciously feigned innocence that all was well and that Christmas magnificence was indeed happening in the basement. My pants must’ve been fully engulfed in flames from all the lying I was doing.
Clem didn’t buy it and insisted we head down to the basement with a huge smirk. He NEVER runs but decided to try and deke me out and get ahead of me. I, of course, continued to get in his way and insist that an artist needs to work without disruption until the completion of the work. I attempted to be civil.
He laughed and said he knew I fucked up. He wasn’t backing down and was going to see just how bad, come hell or high water. Yeah, we behave like children sometimes, even after 24 years. There was a lot of giggling, pushing, running, and shoving as we raced down the stairs. I got there first and stood in front of the door.
I’m stubborn and he was going to have to go through me first, which, is a challenge, because I grew up roughhousing my entire childhood and even gave my dad a run for his money. Clem was a worthy opponent, but I wasn’t going to go easy. It was game on.
I braced against the door frame and held my own for as long as I could. At that point, we were both laughing so bloody hard, that Clem easily picked me up after a few minutes and set me to the side of the door. I jumped on his back to slow him down, but he was already through the door by the time I made my attempt. The ruckus caused the girls to come out and see what the hell was going on and before we knew it, we had an audience.
Clem asked where this amazing wreath was hiding, and I refused to tell him. He finally looked over and saw our sheets thrown over the wreath, sitting at the far side of the room. You couldn’t miss it. I tried to stop him, but he ignored me and grabbed the edge of the sheets and pulled.
The painful moment of truth
I held my breath as the sheet revealed my unholy creation. I put my head in my hands and covered my eyes. There was a collective gasp as my family saw my shitty wreath for the first time. A gasp of utter disbelief and horror. All I could do was stand there and watch their faces fill with shock and repulse.
It was a shameful moment. A moment I will never forget. I destroyed Christmas.
Clem and the girls couldn’t peel their eyes away to look at me. Clem just stared and tried to tell me how much he liked it. The girls, well, they were young, so they basically told me everything I knew already, it was an abomination.
To confirm that, they asked if I had in fact, truly made it. Bless them for thinking Mommy could never make an atrocity such as this. I love them.
I had to fess up, so I figured I may as well start with how this whole steaming pile of shit came to be. I relayed the telling of how I had to revert and fly by the seat of my pants to make the necessary size adjustments in order to make this appear as a wreath. I think I won some forgiveness with my honesty, but my family had been permanently traumatized by my décor making faux pas forever. Ugh, how I live with myself, I just don’t know.
The only way to come back from something like this is to grovel. The kids accepted my profuse and sincerest apologies and finally went back up to play (they didn’t care, ha!). Clem on the other hand, well he was beyond damaged and basically asked just where the hell we were going to put this humongous shitty thing.
I said I’d dismantle it and then roll all the deco mesh back up and figure out what the hell I was going to do with the massive amount that I’d purchased during my lapsed moment of judgement and insanity at the craft store. More groveling. Boy, things like this take a lot of time and require a lot of begging for forgiveness.
Contemplation and moving forward
We decided that it would be best to just let it sit in the basement until I did what was necessary. Clem pulled me upstairs and tried to make me feel better by helping cook dinner. I stewed and vowed that I would never again be swayed by my mother’s witchy powers ever again. Her texts asking for a photo of the finished product, just made me feel even worse.
I swear she has ESP and knew I’d fucked up bad and was just mocking me. Man, she fights dirty. Don’t fuck with my mom.
I had a moment where I considered letting Helga speak to her, but I managed to convince myself that that wouldn’t be a good thing. This is obviously genetic because my mother also has a scary as fuck alter ego as well and I was sure that that would’ve only conjured her. I’ve met her before, back in the days when my mother sewed our Halloween costumes on that horrible Baycrest sewing machine. Jeebus that was some scary shit.
Sleep evaded me that night and when I got up the next morning, I knew I needed to get out of the house to have some time away to get over it. I still had Christmas gifts to buy, so I poured myself into that. Clem offered to pick up the girls again (this time of year is usually his slow season) and told me to stay out as long as I needed. He knew how bad this crafting fiasco affected me.
I love him, but sometimes, I can’t trust him
As the day flew by and I regained some of my jingly sparkle back, I forgot about the stupid wreath and decided to move on. I wasn’t going to let that beat me. Stupid mom and her shitty ideas.
It was around 5 p.m. when I pulled into the neighborhood. I was tired and looking forward to dinner and a quiet evening. I was thinking about which bags I had to hide because they had gifts for the kids in them when I pulled up to my house and saw…the fucking wreath hanging on the front of my house.
The horror! ERMAGERD! How long had that been up and who’d seen it? Clem was in shit, big time.
I stopped my vehicle and went running to the wreath. Like a crazy woman, I jumped up to try and knock it off but I was too short. I jumped and I jumped but I was just too damn short and needed the bloody ladder.
Art has many meanings
The Christmas lights dancing across my Christmas abomination made it light up like a dazzling beacon in the night. You couldn’t miss it. It was so fucking ugly with the added multi-colored flashing lights that I could barely contain the vomit.
If anything, this perverse atrocity blared get your psychedelic mushrooms and a lap dance from a deranged clown here! Ugh, how embarrassing is that? That was a far cry from my intention of it meaning, hey, it’s Christmas, be merry!
I ran into the house hollering for Clem to get the damn ladder while chewing his ass out for hanging up my grievous mistake for all to see. He laughed and told me he wasn’t taking it down, and that he liked it. The front of the house was the only place big enough to display it because the double car garage door wouldn’t have been able to open if he’d hung it there. I may be an asshole, but this was certainly one of his most asshol-iest moments.
I scrambled to find the ladder, but to enhance his own pleasure, Clem had decided to cleverly hide it in the rafters of the garage roof where I couldn’t get it. Real slick, ain’t he? I wanted to have a breakdown, but I finally decided that if anyone asked, Clem made the wreath, color choice, and all.
I won’t forget this
It was out of my hands, so why not try and divert the blame. Checkmate. Before you ask, yes, Clem and I are very competitive with one another…sometimes it’s cute and sometimes it just gets damn ugly, ha!
Anyway, I hate to say this, but I suffered a couple of years with this wreath being prominently displayed on the front of my house during the holidays, and I’m surprised that the town didn’t issue a fine and order us to take it down. As of 2 years ago, Clem finally dismantled it and saved all of the materials, some of which you see in the photo at the very top of my post…don’t ask me why. Yes, I still have the overpriced wire wreath form as well but I haven’t summoned the courage to try again…in time perhaps.
I’d like to say that this experience made me reconsider my hobby choices, but it didn’t. It taught me some very valuable lessons about making shit that I probably never would’ve learned. My mother, on the other hand, won this round.
After wearing me down, I finally sent a photo of the hideous wreath, which I think made her reconsider her own crafting project. She did eventually make hers (2 Christmas seasons later…she’s a ‘procraftinator’), out of green and red like a good little follower, and decided to make hers a tad bit smaller. Well played Mother, well played indeed.
I’ve learned my lesson, the hard way…as usual…tuck and roll. Next time Mom (if there is one), I’ll choose the project and you go first…I’ll wait. I’ll definitely wait…even if it takes 2 years.