Several of the many skills I do not possess
My sister made me this little guy for my birthday. Isn’t he adorable?
I come from a really creative family. My older and younger sisters both asked for (and got) sewing machines for Christmas before they had graduated from high school. They knit stuffed animals and crochet wristlets and hats and blankets (oh my). They’ve made counted cross-stitch place mats. My mom hand paints ceramic ornaments, figurines, and nightlights; her huge cross-stitches decorate her house. Me? I write about BOOBS and toilet sweaters.
Growing up, there was always someone we knew who was getting married, having a baby, or celebrating some other milestone, and Mom always had something in the works for them. My sisters learned from her. I’m not sure what I was doing while they were learning, but rest assured I was doing it with all of the sarcasm and contempt that any good middle child ought to wield.
My biggest contribution to the arts in my house, on the other hand, was accidentally spilling my stepfather’s coffee—perched on the arm of the couch—on to the shirt that Mom was making for my grandmother for Christmas. And then I cried and cried until I was nothing but a dessicated pile of skin cells on the carpet.
They tried to teach me to crochet, and that sort of worked, if you don’t mind blankets with the dimensions of a Barbie. What, you don’t like blankets that taper to 5% of the initial width in the center? Really, you don’t? Well, whatever. They tried to teach me how to cross stitch, but my language is really much more suited for hobbies that entail protective gear, play books, and roller derby franchises.
But, man, can I weave a tapestry of expletives the likes of which you’ll never see anywhere else. I wonder how much I can get for one on eBay…