I got drunk on Friday and went to Michaels.
Let me try again with that statement so I don’t sound quite so white-wine drunk assbag. I did not start out the day thinking, “I’m gonna get super fucked up and then glitter some shit,” like a damn queen. I finally had a day off, so I went to lunch with Adrian. I found out that it was happy hour. I found out that the happy hour was ridiculously cheap. I found Gin and Jesus.
Half an hour later I was fu-cking soused.
I was giggling and joking and being a general embarrassment to society when Adrian finally saw fit to ask me, “Don’t you have errands to still do today?” Thanks, Señor Responsibility, for bringing the whiskey train to a shuddering halt.
He was right. I still did have errands to run, which is why we were out in the first place. He offered to drive me around to spend a little time together, and I got drunk. You know, like good wives do. And of course, I had backed myself into a corner by this point on the time constraints. This was the last possible day for me to get these particular errands done.
So, to Michael’s we went. He, being embarrassed enough of me at this point, made the potentially unwise decision to let me go it alone in a craft store, which is white lady heaven while sober, and is white lady ecstasy when drunk.
It’s a completely different world to shop at Michael’s while shithoused.
The bitch fog is thick and black, no longer invisibly ominous. From the minute you walk in to a craft store, you are being judged, but you never really notice it through your machete-driven journey through floral. Their boredom has driven them to judge anything that isn’t also covered in faux-alligator and Liz Claiborne, and I didn’t stand a chance standing there amongst the baskets, stumbling. Drunk, you are hyper-aware that everyone in the store is better than you–and they know it. Fuck your needlework, you’re not a real crafter until you scrapbook. Fuck your cake decorating, you’re not real until you sew. Fuck your hoodie and slight essence of joy, you’re not real until you’re in a twinset and caked with passive-aggression. If you’re not a minority and you want to feel what it’s like to be in a building where everyone fucking hates you for no real or discernible reason, get slammed and go to a craft store. You will come out a Democrat.
Drunk-bravery takes a great leap forward in a craft store as well. Drunk-brave and Pinterest-brave are frighteningly delusional in their own rights, but put those together, and then you know the predicament I was in. Not only was I crafty and Pinteresty enough to think I could craft many things, but I was drunk enough to know, for sure, that no matter what I wanted to make, it would be a masterpiece. Ball gown? You bet. Hand-painted dollhouse? Fuck off, I got this. Elaborate tapestry? LIGHT ME UP, BITCHES. I knew I was in trouble when I was mesmerized by a huge display of pipe cleaners for more than a couple of minutes. I knew it was a couple of minutes because I was on the phone with my sister at the time and had gone silent in awe like Jesus himself was shilling those fuzzy beacons of peace, and she had to shout at me to get me to realize that I had just decided to not speak in the face of joy.
I walked out with several yards of rhinestones, a 150-piece pack of embroidery floss, and many yards of needlework fabric–none of which were what I actually needed. I’m not sure, sober now, what I intended to do with this. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with pile of nonsense this now that this drunk crafting realness has presented itself to me. I made some poor decisions. I learned somethings about the world and myself. I came out of blackout in the checkout of a craft store, clutching a bundle of fake acorns–not my proudest moment.
Someone’s going to have a Merry Goddamn Christmas though, I can tell you that.
Ever seen a regular place through a new lens? Was that lens also Maker’s Mark? Or have you ever been drunk in a really, really odd place?– Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Jen: “Much like yourself, Noa, ‘Vanilla’ reminds me of myself 20 years ago. I AM YOUR CAUTIONARY TALE, BITCHES!!!”