My apologies! This week I was meant to be bringing you some Distress Stain tips, as suggested, and then promised by me on my
Facebook Page, but unfortunately I've been too busy this week!
To make it up to you, I'm re-posting an article written by John Gladden that a friend posted on her blog. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
A couch stamped with his name on it
By JOHN GLADDEN
I
am worried about my wife. More so than usual, I mean. Let me tell you,
spending a few cold nights on the couch gives a guy plenty of time to
think. It's during those times I've learned many valuable lessons about
life. For example, never, ever discuss your wife's hairstyle, cooking,
driving or housekeeping in the newspaper.
Sure,
it may seem hilarious at the time, but in the end, telling several
thousand readers about the time the pizza exploded on the kitchen
ceiling can be very bad for your back. Just a little hard-earned advice
for those of you considering starting a newspaper column of your own.
But
this time, it's a matter so serious I can remain silent no longer. I
think she may be involved in a cult. The clues are everywhere. Late at
night, when I'm lying half awake in bed and our children are snuffling
softly in their dreams down the hall, I can hear her downstairs,
engaged in some sort of peculiar ritual. "THUMP! Tap, tap, tap. THUMP!"
Over and over.
I
slip out of the covers and creep to the top of the stairs, expertly
avoiding the squeaky floorboards that comprise our home security
system. I used to do this when I was little, I think to myself, as I
sprawl on my belly on the landing and peer through the balusters. This
is how I used to watch "Saturday Night Live" when I was 10. And I see
her, hunched over her desk in the parlor of our old house.
The
room is dark, except for the blazing desk lamp. She takes a little
block of wood in one hand, taps it on some sort of ink pad, and thumps
it down on a piece of paper. "THUMP! Tap, tap, tap. THUMP!" Then she
holds up the paper, looks at it with an expression of satisfaction, and
pulls out a device I can only call a "chooker."
She
takes the paper, which is folded like a greeting card, slides it into
the chooker and squeezes hard. "Chooka, chooka, chooka." When she
removes the card from the jaws of the chooker, it leaves behind strange
and intricate symbols. I told you this was weird.
But
wait! There's more. On some evenings and Saturday mornings, she's been
going off to what she eagerly refers to as "Stamp Parties." She marks
them on the calendar far in advance.
As
near as I can figure, "stamp" stands for "Spending Time And Money
Prodigiously." She comes back all aglow -- and it's not from the
anticipation of arriving home to the waiting arms of her one true love
(that would be me) and her cherubic little children. No, no, no. She
comes waltzing into the house, flush with excitement, a stack of
greeting cards in her ink-stained hands and a yellow order form for
about $50 in new stamping merchandise.
"These
are beautiful, dear," I say, sincerely, as she shows me the cards.
"But you are aware we can buy greeting cards at the store for about
$2.95 each, $5.49 in Canada?" She looks at me sweetly but amusingly,
the way she looks at our 4-year-old when he dribbles purple Kool-Aid
down his chin.
Near
as I can tell, the members of the group -- which seems to be comprised
exclusively of women -- keep in close contact through an ingenious
network of postcards. These are mailed out every couple of weeks,
apprising each stamper of the time, date and location of the next
gathering.
They
take turns assembling in one another's homes, where they first listen
to some kind of stamping message. There is a great deal of praise,
testimony and evangelizing. Excitement builds. A sacred book, dog-eared
with study and hard use, is passed around the room. They are
mesmerized by its glossy pages.
When
the fervor has reached its climax, the leader takes up the collection.
Credit cards, cash and checkbooks are whipped out with a fury that
would make any man tremble in fear. Afterward, they linger a while,
chatting over cookies and coffee - so they could very well be
Methodists. I'm not sure. Always, they discuss how to reach potential
new members with the message of stamping.
Sure,
there have been other groups that have tempted my wife over the years
-- the Scrapbookers, the Kitchen Gadgeteers, the Basketites and the
Candleans -- but nothing like this. We go visit friends under the
pretense of having dinner and spending time together. As soon as the
children run off to play and the men get engrossed in a conversation
about "The Simpsons" or the benefits of double-insulated windows, the
woman of the house turns to my wife and says, "I have your stamp order
for you!" They exchange knowing smiles and slip quietly out of the
room.
This
"order" will become part of the steady array of hardware my wife keeps
hauling home and storing in the laundry room. She knows I never set
foot in there. Though some of it I've seen on her desk when I'm rifling
through it for coffee money in the morning before work. I've seen
sparkly stuff, cutters, rollers, punches, and, for the love of heaven, a
heat gun!
I
plan to keep this under investigation, for the good of my wife and
family. And I'm thinking from my vantage point on the couch tonight, I
should be able to get a really clear view of the chooker in action.
I'll let you know.
