It’s that time of year again when I once again spend $300 at a craft store, waste countless hours and come to the oft-proven conclusion that crafting and I are not meant to be.
There was the time I was convinced by a friend whose name I won’t mention (RaeAnne Thayne) that I could make a wreath out of pages of a foreign edition of one of my books. Just fold and glue and stick and voila! Wrong, RaeAnne. Wrong. Fold and burn and stick and burn and spend an hour scraping glue off the table and googling “when does a burn need a skin graft?”
The time the kids and I made a gingerbread house with Santa on the roof, only to have the roof collapse and Santa break his back and a cookie reindeer lap up his blood. I still carry those emotional wounds.
The time I drew snowmen on a plate with special markers and my mother asked me if my three-year-old neighbor was the artist.
The time I bought cylindrical cones I was going to spray with glittery green paint and spray-painted my face and half the cellar instead.
That year with the popsicle sticks and glass beads, when we made a Christmas ornament so heavy it snapped a tree branch.
So. I’ll stick to baking. And making seasonal martinis. We all have our strengths.