It is true…I am one of those gals. We know every square inch of a Michael’s floor plan, we print internet coupons and wait for the sales, we never walk into a JoAnns craft store without our flyer, we buy plastic bins by the truck load so we can store and stack our piles of treasures. We hoard fabric with no intention of ever cutting into its beauty. Somehow we are content to just know that we have several yards of organza that we will get to die with some day. We have bolts of ribbon neatly stacked just to admire it and at times we twitch when yet another paper punch comes out and the little voice in the back of our head say’s, “stop the madness…you have too many already”.  We have old fimo clay that dried in the 90’s but yet it seems criminal just to toss it. Surely something can be made out of it.

Marshmellow PopsI have an attic filled with glorious supplies. I treasure everything as if I am hoarding a king’s ransom of gold. It is all just stuff awaiting my hands and mind and the someday that may never come before I actually open the wood burning kit I bought when Loobelle was in diapers. I use to tell myself I did not have a problem. I grew up in Utah…women are very crafty there. Have you ever heard of Provo craft? Uh huh…I swear the Mecca lies in-between the Wasatch Mountains. I can trace it back to my mutha. She handed me quarters and told me to go get some lace and buttons in firm ages. It started when I was five? I am now forty five.  I can’t stop. I still squeal with glee when I find a craft store that I have not been to.

Hobby Lobby arrived in western Washington last fall. When I found out I nearly passed out. I waited and plotted my adventure carefully.  My boyfriend had given me a gift certificate for a hundred dollars and I felt like the grand dame of creation when my feet hit their floor and my eyes scoured the racks and racks of stacks.  Four hours later and one hundred dollar less I had made a dent with solemn vows to return.

It is my nirvana.

My crack.

My escape from reality.

Upon my arrival on the displaced homemakers bus {aka divorce} I knew I had to rein my addiction in with a reality check. My darling spawn could not eat tubes-o-tulle and it was probably not in my best interest to get the latest and greatest toy…the coveted Cricket cutter.  I had to deal with my addiction and fast.  So I went to medical assisting school. That pretty much sucked the creative soul right out of me and instead of buying felt and rubber stamps I was buying scrubs at Wal-Mart. The addiction cooled for the first time in years but I was not the same. I had lost a vital piece of myself until one day I found myself entertaining two small children a clinic. They were there to get immunizations and I was the big bad clinic nurse who was suppose to deliver the pain and dread. I thought fast. What in the world can I do for these kids? Did you know that tongue depressors make really handy puppets in a pinch with a few Band-Aids attached to them? Rubber cloves make grand chicken balloons when the doctor is not looking. One can actually create a tiny dolly with the right amount of gauze tied in knots.  My craft addiction found its way into the medical community. I would just use their supplies to create a bit of happiness for the patients I took care of.

There are ways around everything.

So now I have a few rules to help myself cope with all I want to buy and create. I never walk into a craft store without at least a 40% coupon in my hand. I never shop the after holiday sales at 75% off.  If I feel the urge to splurge I just take my daughter who has zero tolerance for craft stores and a five minute stop watch on me, short collar and leash. It is the only way.