Or, “How I Barely Survived a Trip to Michaels”
Being honest, I’ve never been an arts and crafts type person. I don’t have the patience, the hand-eye coordination, or the kind of creativity that manifests itself in Martha Stewart-esque fashion. And so, while I’ve always admired those women who can create decorative masterpieces out of scrap paper, glue, and ribbon, I’ve never existed among them; I have recognized how apeshit insane they are. Not “can be”. Are. And it seems like the more children or the more years an arts and crafts woman has in her possession, the crazier she is.
So I’m at Michaels today. I left Chris at home, knowing that our shopping styles are completely different and if I brought him with me, I’d probably end up punching him in the face. The reason I’ve entered into this sparkling chapel of the artsy is my daughter and the eight animal prints we bought to decorate her nursery; we decided to mount these prints on some heavy paper, then hang them from ribbons on her wall. I’m there to pick up all the necessary supplies for this. Now, not only did I leave the prints at home, but I forgot the wallpaper sample I wanted to bring as well. I am agonizing over the unbelievable array of card stock and other papers they have available, in every colour and pattern imaginable except for one that screams “BUY ME”.
The store is packed. It’s a Friday afternoon and I had thought it would be quiet, but no: the Elderly Association of Artsy Crafters is apparently holding a convention in Michaels today. Every one of them is armed with an alarmingly squeaky cart that she steers with the intense focus of a cat on the prowl — if that cat were apeshit insane. Now, call me snotty, but I feel like if I’m driving a cart and see a pregnant woman standing near the shelves examining the wares, I should push my cart AROUND her. And, you know, maybe I should give her some room, in case she makes any sudden movements. These bitches? If they even bothered to move around me (and one of them literally stood there giving me the evil eye, leaning on her cart and then leaning back so it squeaked in my ears, waiting for me to move), they did so begrudgingly, brushing so close that if I inhaled we would have had a collision.
Seriously, what is it with old arts and crafts women? When I finally made my decision and had gathered everything I needed, I stood in line; there were two open lanes, each with someone at them. An old woman with her two grandsons stood in front of me, gripping fake flowers in her hands as the boys whacked each other with styrofoam cones — but she stood between the two aisles, looking back and forth between them, refusing to commit to one. On our left hand side was a middle-aged woman arguing about how she wanted to return something without a receipt that she bought more than 60 days ago and why were they only going to give her a store credit for the sale price — on our right hand side was an old lady with ten thousand different pieces of scrapbooking things, moving with the slow precision that is so endearing WHEN THEY’RE NOT HOLDING UP THE IMPATIENT, UNCAFFEINATED PREGNANT WOMAN.
I am not going back to Michaels again until after Christmas, if ever. Crazy artsy people.