Henry appreciation post! (Sort of!)
Look at those nimble fingers. I wonder if his mommy knows she birthed one crafty motherfucker. And I mean crafty less in the “slipping rufies” sense, and more so in the “dude can go to town with some rubber cement and a sewing kit” sense. He’d fit right in at a stich n’ bitch party. He’d probably even bring the best baked goods. He also can do some car stuff, electrical work, and once he made us a screen for the door and I was like, “How did you do that?” and he was all, “I have screencutting tools,” like I’m some ignorant bitch for not asking him if he could make a screen before having sex with him for the first time.
Yes, he can do lots of things, but the challenge is GETTING HIM TO ACTUALLY DO IT.
I”m pretty sure he imagines my face when he gets all agile with his Exacto.
Now that I can’t justify going to a pretty salon and having sweet-smelling hair products massaged into my scalp, Henry has become my hair stylist and he actually does a pretty efficient job, considering my hair is two colors and he has to work with a comb puckered between his lips. (And the gloves that come with the box of dye, which are so clearly made for women.)
He doesn’t do all the work on my pendants though! Here is what I do:
- Pick out the prints that I want him to use.
- Order the pendants
- Whine every day the pendants don’t arrive
- Once they come in, etermine which ones go in which frames (we have gold, silver, and copper and not every print looks right)
- Hound him every fifteen minutes when he comes home to fucking start making them already
- Sometimes I cut the prints out for him
- Yell at him when 1 out of a batch of 10 doesn’t come out to my standards
But I’ve been making new pendants on my own now! They’re a much bigger size than the framed ones, so I’m able to use a lot of the prints that I couldn’t originally. I can do everything myself with these ones! Well, except for the part where I need a responsible adult to bake them in an oven.
I can’t remember the last time my dining room table was a dining room table. Between functioning as a serial killer card sweatshop, a dumping ground for paintings because there is little vacancy left on my walls, and now a jewelry factory, we never eat at the table. When (if) we ever leave this shit hole, I’m not signing for anything that doesn’t have an extra room we can designate as Crafter’s Hell, because I know for certain that I’m tired of painting at the kitchen sink. And that way, maybe if things get too crazy, I can shut the door real tight and go on an acrylic coating huffing spree. (I actually just sprayed some of that shit and am feeling pretty green in the face right now. And it sounds like sheet metal is shuttering next to my ears.)