Well, I should've known that bitch would publish a flier to cement her in posterity as the biggest, baddest bitch in the whole crafting world.
A friend alerted me to this flier, whose four photos highlight four acute personal failings--LITERALLY ALL of which I have blogged about previously: making crafts and memories; spending quality time with my kids; mothering newborns; and looking fashionable.
Not only that, but JoAnn had the unmitigated gall to profile in here all four of these not as failings--but as fucking NEW YEARS' RESOLUTIONS that we're all supposed to strive to achieve!
I've taken the liberty of re-posting each photo from this flier here, with a brief explanation of my plan to execute and/or address these JoAnn Fabrics fabricated resolutions:
1. CRAFTS & MEMORIES
Last weekend, I bought an age 5+ flower needlepoint for Paige to do, and neither one of us could figure it out. We both yelled and screamed at each other and at the stupid fucking ugly yarn and shitty plastic needle point pattern until we both hated it AND each other. How's that for a crafting memory?
And my "works of heart" are nothing my kids (or anyone else) would want to share, trust me. They also happen to be archived in scattered files maintained by a long string of therapists who may or may not even be in practice anymore. So apart from everything else, they are difficult to obtain and protected by HIPAA.
2. QUALITY TIME WITH KIDS
Also, Paige's room is Pepto Bismol Pink and Isaac's room reflects the personality of someone who will never do his own laundry. And both rooms are filled to the rafters with shit, commonly known as "fun." Consider this resolution achieved!
Listen, JoAnn: if I found out I was pregnant and about to start over with another newborn, I would probably systematically cut every piece of fabric and paper in my house AND in all of your stores into tiny little shreds, and you would find me in the bathroom maniancally applying lipstick to my face in an ever-widening circle, muttering over and over again to my reflection, "it's ok mommy it's ok mommy it's ok mommy" until someone called 911 and I was civilly committed to the mental health unit.
When I got off the ward six months later, I would resolve to put that baby in any available crevice in my house, since as cute as they are, a baby is born every two seconds on planet earth, and there's nothing particularly unique about that. "Room" my ass! That baby would get exactly three things: clean diapers, a titty, and a car seat. In other words, the minimum provisions required to keep the social workers at bay.
And you know what? It doesn't matter anyway. The only runway I'm hitting is the Tarmac at Juneau International Airport. The style I rock there is something I like to call "Zombie Mom Chic." It consists of size L black yoga pants with toothpaste stains on the thighs; a hoodie sweatshirt with extra long drawstrings on the hood for maximum facial burial; and of course, a spritz of eau-de-coffee-and-soggy-half-discarded-granola-bar.
So the two purple bridesmaids in this picture can keep their yards and yards of tacky lavender lace. No one needs you for Zombie Mom Chic, JoAnn.
In short: That bitch JoAnn can SUCK IT!