The only analogy I can come up with is that guy at the grocery store.
Now before my husband busts me for making such a sweeping generalization--he who buys 2 oz bottles of Coca-Cola in collector miniature bottles for $27 per 4-pack--not all men, just the one with that deer in the headlights look that accompanies a trip to Publix on Saturday afternoon when he's caught in the headlights of oncoming grocery carts filled with BOGO's driven by professional shoppers with photographic memories of Sunday circulars and unexpired coupons while all he wanted to pick up was a case of Miller Lite and toilet paper.
Dude, I've been there.
Today, at Michael's.
I know, I don't belong there, and I apologize right now for attempting to crash the club at 10 am on a Tuesday morning when that time slot is clearly reserved for the professional crafters among us--of which, I am not.
I think they set up that store to purposely confuse the uninvited. I don't understand the subtleties of paint--why can't all of the paint be in one aisle instead of divided into fabric paint, wood paint, craft paint, spray paint, kid paint, floral paint and really expensive, If-You-Have-To-Ask-What's-It-For-you- shouldn't-be-using-it-paint. I need to paint a pumpkin but I see no aisle designating that. Oh, and by the way, I need 23 more of those pumpkins in the exact same size and I can only fit 1 and half in this miniature cart you've supplied.
I manage to get 20 of the pumpkins in three carts, and a smattering of other supplies when I go to check out. The looks from the line--which is inexplicably long for a Tuesday morning--were sinister. Hatred spewing from their eyes as I wheeled my Jack o' lantern caravan through. The cashier has me bagging the pumpkins, which doesn't make it easier because less pumpkins can fit into the cheap plastic bags than the cart designed for hobbits.
But no one will help you.
And it's not like it's even the service hell that is Joanne's because at least they sell fabric that needs to be cut and so the bolts of seersucker and gingham get the lion's share of personnel.
But anyway, the old ladies behind me are guffawing, which flusters me to no end. Guffaws are my Achilles' heels. I don't know why, it's stupid and rather immature, but I really can't take guffaws from old women. Combine that horrendous chin music with the ridiculous awkwardness of 10 inch craft pumpkins precariously balanced and Jessie grabbing chocolate from the cash wrap, that needless to say, I forgot the tax exempt number I was supposed to use as well as the two coupons that I had managed to garner the foresight to cut on Sunday.
I'm sure you can't tell, but the whole experience--which isn't even over yet because in addition to having to get 4 more pumpkins, you know that the paint I bought is probably Vaseline-based and is going to right slide off of those suckers into a pool of black and orange despair--has me once again wondering why I do these things to myself.
And really, the paint will be the least of my problems because you know this pumpkin is never going to look as cute and clever as the one I've designed in my mind.
No, it's going to look like that guy at the grocery store tried to use a glue gun and popcicle sticks after that case of Miller Lite.