I’m not even going to bother starting this off with “I don’t watch that much TV, but. . .” because I realized everytime I write that (which is frequently) I’m writing about something I saw on TV, so I guess I should just quit lying to myself.
Anyhoo, I left the TV on the other day while I was at work so the dogs would have something to do besides having a contest to see who can put the most fur on my pillow; and when I came home the program “Whatever, Martha” was on. I haven’t watched this show before - partially because it doesn’t really interest me, but also because I thought the premise was kind of mean. Martha Stewart’s ultra-skinny and mega-bitchy daughter and her girlfriend (nicer, and pudgy enough to set off La Stewart’s jutting collarbones nicely) sitting on a TV-studio couch, watching old episodes of The Martha Stewart show and ripping on everything Martha just seems unfair. Like a nasty and catty MST3K. 
I realize I’m talking about the tacky-glue obssessed day-trader (and apparently Stalinesque employer) who bilked a bunch of people out of their hard-earned dollars and spent a few months in an orange jumpsuit. But still, having your grown mean-girl daughter and her deadbeat friend watch 15-year old episodes of your admittedly boring TV show (on her own TV show) while airing all sorts of long-buried hostilities and animosity to a national audience would be a hard pill to swallow. Especially since that TV show probably paid for all the orthodontia, dermatology and Trim Spa that went into molding said daughter into the appropriately sleek, lacquered fembot she is today.
Then I found out that Martha herself launched the show idea. Of course she did. I’m such a naive putz.
Uhhh, that was totally not my point.
ANYWAY, when I sat down in front of the TV the other day (ostensibly to change it to the news but then I got sucked in) this pretend-mean show was featuring an episode with a guest who was showing Martha how to make completely hideous purses out of old cigar boxes. The girls were having a ball with this segment when one of them commented how the guest had a really irritatingly serene voice. The other one (I think it was spawn-of-Martha) said “that’s how all crafters talk, they’re so calm because they don’t worry about anything and they just craft all day long.”
Oh, reeeaally. . . ???
I found this very interesting. In mycurrent stage of development, which is somewhere between embarrassing midlife-crisis screwed-up, and starting to make sense of life, the universe and everything (the year I turned 42. . . ), I have been increasingly aware of my focus on work and my inability to “play.” Although I’m pretty darn creative and have a good artistic sense, I don’t ever do anything creative just because I enjoy it. I don’t craft just for the sake of crafting, or of making something nice, or even just for the sake of relaxing and enjoying myself.
Take my “Tile Period.” I’ve done some decent mosiacs in the past, but all my equipment and tiles are now gathering dust in the shed and making me feel guilty every time I go in there to do laundry. I did break out the tile nippers and grout gloves to tile the tub surround a couple of years ago, and I have plans to do the backsplash over the stove. . . . at some point. Oh, and I tiled all the window sills in the house last summer. Fun.
All the mosaic pieces I’ve done, with the exception of a big mirror and one artsy thing, have been wrapped up and pawned off on relatives, in-laws, and friends who smile politely and probably toss my endeavors into a closet along with the sequin-covered popsicle-stick ornaments their kids made for them. The rest of my tile artistry is limited to structural things like bath surrounds and window sills.
One piece, a terra-cotta-covered footstool with accents made from dark blue ceramic tile even sold for over $100 at a silent auction. Someone actually paid for my shit! However, instead of being pleased that my footstool made money for the library in my mom’s village, I felt that if it was REALLY good, someone would have paid much more for it. So I slowly stopped breaking plates and buying ceramic tile cast-offs and recently just pitched about 100 pounds of materials – almost destroyed our garbage bin. Despite the gushing compliments I got (and still get) for the pieces I made – my inner asshole told me none of the stuff was good enough for public consumption, so I should quit doing mosaics altogether. And I obeyed.
Last Christmas, completely out of the blue, I did a couple of collages that my mom raved about. Yeah, I know, she’s my mom – she’s supposed to do that. The one on the left she actually got framed. I’m not sure what happened to the one to the right. 
But since then, I haven’t defoliated even a single magazine with my Exacto knife. In a burst of creative inspiration, I did make up some file folders to hold a supply of interesting pictures I cut out of a bunch of magazines when I was at her house. Then I filed the folders in my GTD-inspired file cabinet and there they sit. Waiting.
My Exacto knife is lost amongst the clutter of pens and highlighters on my desk (in a pen caddy I covered with broken bits of Blue Willow china and glass beads). I’m sure it’s plotting my demise (or at least a serious finger-prick) for abandoning it in such an undiginified manner.
My quest for serenity is being seriously endangered by the horrible fact that, unlike Martha, her skinny-ass bitch of a daughter and her goofy guest – I don’t have a hobby. Or, more correctly: every hobby for which I demonstrate even a modicum of skill turns into a work project. I apparently will not allow myself the soothing luxury of making mosaics just because I like to do them. I must MAKE something of them and it must be something of value (real or percieved). I will not whip out the Exacto knife and the glue because even if I make another cool collage like the ones I did at Christmas, what will I do with them? How do I justify their existence if they aren’t covering a bad patch in the drywall or being given to some poor unsuspecting relative? By god, if I’m going to spend time and creative effort on something – it has to be something practical and serious. Like a window sill.
Even worse, there seems to be a little part of me that thinks that if I’m doing something artistic, I should be able to make money at it. If I can’t make any money with it, then I shouldn’t bother. When did I turn into freakin’ Gordon Gecko? or Martha Stewart without doilies or her right brain?? Somewhere along the way, I got it into my fuzzy head that anything I did that wasn’t making some kind of income (or doing something productive and tangible around the house) was a waste of time.
So on the weekends, when lots of my friends are at scrapbooking classes or knitting sweaters that will never be worn as long as they live in Arizona, I’m on the roof fixing the gable, or scouring the Internet for yet another productivity app. The irony that jailbird Martha Stewart is the one finding serenity through crafting and I, despite my unfettered freedom, have sentenced myself to unsatisfying (and certainly NOT calming) hard labor has not escaped me.
Thankfully, my made-up program to make me uncrazy and less embarrassingly in the throes of a mid-life crisis allows me at least a couple of do-overs. . .
