A few weeks ago I was besotted with all the pretty blogs I discovered, (which reminds me of Bowie, “Oh you pretty [things]blogs…don’t you know you’re driving your mamas and papas insane.”)
All the young, crafty, stay at home blogger moms have pretty pictures of all the cool antique stuff they find “thrifting” and of their adorably clean and perfect kids and the tiny sweaters they knit for their perfect kids and the precious cupcakes they make and the hip aprons they wear when they bake them. They write about fabric and yarn and their newly organized craft rooms which are probably larger than my house – and their gardens full of fresh beans and tomatoes.
I really do love looking at and reading these blogs. If it sounds like I’m jealous that’s just because I am.
When I craft it’s with a rabid, messy intensity. There is no “craft” room. There is an old enamel-top table in my bedroom or the dining room table or the sofa in front of something mindless like “What Not to Wear”.
When I bake and wear my hip vintage apron, I look like a tired single mother wearing an old apron who likes to bake. And when I bake, Zelda usually sits close by listening to my Radiohead or Gypsy Kings, glaring at me for no apparent reason, hoping that there might be some butter or cream involved in the process.
When I garden in Florida in the summer it’s ugly. There is a sweat worse than any sweat a northerner could imagine. I wear long pants to protect me from killer mosquitoes and ants that bite and leave angry welts that don’t go away for weeks. There are no dew drops collecting in the pleated leaves of Lady’s Mantle…It often smells like rotting vegetation.
In an attempt to prove to myself that I too am a homey (not a homie,dawg) I put up some pictures of some of my little crafty things and I made a banner from one of my collages. I liked looking at it. Look everyone! I’m on the interweb. I do things. I read books. I know stuff.
Today I had to take care of a client transaction at the bank. I took out my little notebook and pretended to write something important, so I wouldn’t look foolish just sitting there. The people in the bank all seemed to be skanky. Hmmm, Skank + Bank. A portmanteau was born.
I am taking credit for the word skankbank. I made it up today at around 3:03 pm. Skankbank – n. a cluster of skanks; a number of skanks in one place.
And this is why I can never be like the creative, pleasant, blogger moms…because I’m sarcastic, cynical and basically screwed up.
SKANKBANK. Use it, love it, and give me the credit.