A long time ago, I was gluing something. I don't even remember what, I'm a serial crafter - you know, like a serial killer, only with more beads and paint and feathers and stuff?
Anyway, I was working on the kitchen counter and spilled some ferociously strong glue, leaned forward to stop the forward edge of the puddle, and then found out I had glued the stomach area of my pants to the edge of the counter. Stuck HARD, too!
They had an elastic waistband, so I dragged a chair over with my foot and used it as a stepstool to climb out of my pants.
*That* was a long cleanup.
Gluing my pants to the furniture is not the only thing I’ve done that was bad. I’ve run the sewing machine over my thumbnail, more than once. I’ve burned myself with more hot glue than you can imagine. I’ve dunked my paintbrush in my coffee cup and then taken a big swig of paint water. My husband doesn’t help matters. Last Christmas he bought me a very nice knife set (!) because I’d never had the chance to try carving. That’s probably gonna be a bloodbath.
I made myself some sweatpants last year, bright pink with big yellow duckies on them. I don’t’ wear them outside, except for dog walks. It’s pretty funny to watch your dog pretend he’s not with you. “Lady holding the leash? Never seen her before.” He’s colorblind, and he still thinks the pants are loud.
My point – and I do have one – is that you might end up seeing and/or hearing about me making a lot of stuff. Like Martha Stewart, but with no taste or money, and of course no prison record. Consider yourself warned.