Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Where I prove that my identity, finances and general life choices are directly linked to Hobby Lobby.

We all know that I am a hoarder.  That my greatest fear, per the items in my basement, is that the world will come to an end and fabric stores will cease to exist.  I have PROBLEMS.  Because everyone with common sense knows that if the universe implodes, one would need an ample supply of People Magazine and Cadbury mini eggs.  Duh.

Mental note:  purchase additional copies of People Magazine and an instant-diabetes-sized bag (or 5) of Cadbury mini eggs from Sams Club. 

But seriously.  I have spent the good part of 2 days tackling the mess that is my basement.  And by basement, I mean the corner that has been overtaken by Hobby Lobby bags.  Never before OPENED or TOUCHED Hobby Lobby bags.  If my basement was a world map, the "Hobby Lobby" section would be Russia, after it ate all of Europe. 

I HONESTLY understand how people can live with 43 cats and 17 years worth of poop.  I. get. it.  Because it's like this:  every week or so, when we have company over, I take the 1-2 Hobby Lobby bags sitting on my dining room table, and walk them down to the basement.  Where, apparently, they tend to suffer from irritable bowl disease that results in the crapping of sewing supplies all over the freaking place.  My philosophies on not cleaning/organizing it include:  
  • It's only going to get worse, why waste the energy?
  • If it's ALL visible, I can manage it with my EYES.
  • Even spiders need homes made out of soft cotton.
  • Any second now, my Jedi-mind trick powers and going to activate.  And organize.
  • Messiness makes me vulnerable, and therefore, relate-able.  At the core, this is an IDENTITY issue, and a deep fear that people will not like me if I am *clean*.  Or something similarly WHACK. 
Well, as it turns out, I am going to pull a Charlie Sheen and heal myself with my MIND, or whatever, and this little fabric meth lab is being raided.  As in, separated into 30-or-so various categories, folded and STORED.  !Winning!


(Photo take 2 hours into the project.  As I wept.)

Let's do the math.  Nine years owning a sewing machine.  Five SOLID years of crafting obsession.  200+ trips to Hobby Lobby.  Average purchase $15.  Add, and multiply....


Yeah, well, gigantic Beverly Hills mansions don't keep you warm at night.  But the 93 quilts I am equipped to sew certainly do.  Suck on that, Spellings.

One final note of housekeeping:  I came across these little gems while cleaning.  Their intended recipients are now reciting their ABC's, so forcing them into these 3-6 month onesies would produce an effect very similar to the Borat genital sling.  Should any of you dear friends happen to know of children (ages 3-6 months) that go by these names, they are yours.  Provided that I can actually get to a post office, and then perhaps I will send along my river rat ponytail as well?  Just kidding.  I won't do that.  But leave a comment if you know of someone who might be able to use these!



If you don't hear from me in a few days, it is likely that the spiders and the laundry and the fabric have collectively teamed up to kick my ass.  That being the case, save yourselves.  And know that I would prefer to be buried in something polka-dotted. 

2 comments:

Greta said...

The only thing that has saved me from a similar crafting fate is the fact that my basement leaks:)

Jen @ Dear Mommy Brain said...

I have the same affliction. Bags upon bags of fabric that were bought with grandous plans and shoved in a closet to die a crafty death.