The cost of wood has affected my mental stability, and other tales from the brink of sanity.

Today,  I was elbow deep in fabric starch and hollering the twins through the process of wrapping wet yarn around a balloon.  This was WAY more complicated than one might imagine, and I was seconds away from losing it when Mike walked in the door.   


He was home to HELP me.  And also to bring by a project he is working on, on my behalf, for Art Fest.  Weeks ago, when I had what can only be described as the kind of dreams of grandeur one might have while high on acid, I asked my husband to build this three-stepped, wood structure for a paint pouring project, that I saw on Pinterest or You Tube or who knows where.  He agreed, but I have come to believe he did so with a small amount of loathing, regarding me and my ability to fixate on art projects that are three-dimensional and involve woodworking.


Which is precisely how we found ourselves in the middle of a passive-agressive war over ART SUPPLIES.   Because when Mike came home with the fresh cut wood and told me it cost $30, I FREAKED OUT.    And he was all, "WTH, I am about to build you a structure out of wood for the purposes of CRAFTING, how am I the bad guy here?"  I mean, he didn't actually say that, but it was implied with that confused look and furrowed brow.


At this point in the Art Fest planning process, my self esteem and emotional stability are TIED to my ability to replicate tye-dye with heavy-duty paper towels.  And to provide a night of fun and creativity with a small budget, that I am DETERMINED not to use.   It's like this fun game, to see how much I can get done without spending money.  Only, it's probably become less like a fun game, and more like something that would drive me to boil a rabbit on a stove.  


Because here's the thing.  I've spent the last two months asking for donations and pimping myself all over town and pinching pennies--and paying for $30 worth of wood is like stealing my soul as it relates to Art Fest, which has *accidentally* become the purpose of my entire life, I think.   Only now, Mike is ACTUALLY terrified, because I am crying over the cost of wood and how it devalues me as a person, and he's not quite following, but he knows it's a big deal.  In his defense, he argues that it's the week of Art Fest and there probably isn't time to search dumpsters for free wood scraps?  And that's when it takes a huge, GIGANTIC wrong turn, because somehow it's communicated that I/ Art Fest is not worth hours of searching dumpsters for free wood--and never in a million years did he figure that would EVER be a standard by which I measure my self worth.  But to be fair, I would have felt abundantly loved if he had called around to various carpentry shops and collected their free scraps, OR if he had convinced them to build a nine-foot structure, OR if he had just chopped down a fresh tree and started from scratch.  I mean, I'm not THAT hard to please, really.  We went at this issue from more sides than is REALLY possible, examining it from the standpoints of hormonal humans and muppets and whatnot, and it all ended with Mike saying that we would pay for the wood, so it was no big deal because it wouldn't eat into the budget--but that's like stealing from my Target clearance rack allowance, which is really how you kick a psychotic animal when she's down.


Instead, he *quickly* ushered the children from the house, in fear that I was gonna BLOW; which is like saying I am CRAZY, and that never ends well-- but the chances of him surviving Art Fest with all of his fingers in tact was like, less than 2% anyway, because anyone could see this melt down coming.  I mean, we are 3 days before the blessed event, which is EXACTLY the moment that my schizophrenia rears it's many heads.  


{Art Fest is THREE days away, and today I cried over the cost of wood, and made fabric buntings out of felt.}