Welcome to Alice Column, in which Alice Laussade writes stories about things on (roughly) the same day of (roughly) every week, making it (roughly) a column. Got an idea for a column? Start your own blog and write it up, you lazy shit.
As you walk up to the magic sliding doors of Michaels, you wonder two things: 1) Why is there no apostrophe in the name of this store? Is this dude's name plural? Or is this a store that only sells Michaels? and 2) FOAM BEER COOZIES FOR A DOLLAR?!?!?
You then grab 800 beer coozies, which you plan to decorate with Sharpie markers. Michaels has already taken your sanity, and you're not even in the front door yet. Turn back? It's already much too late for that.
A minute ago, you would have thought a wreath of plastic baby doll baby faces was a weird idea for a baby shower gift. But after three minutes in Michaels, your brain starts telling you it might make sense to buy the $400 worth of supplies to DIY the shit out of that baby-head welcome wreath. "I'm definitely gonna need more heads. And No. 18 green floral wire." Dammit, you love Michaels.
You came here searching for poster board, a hot glue gun, six feather boas and glitter. Who knows what it's for. Doesn't matter. You're not leaving the store with half of that stuff anyway. You will either get too distracted by the aisle of glitter stickers that exists solely because glitter stickers are soccer-mom cocaine ("I need my fucking unicorn starship stickers!") or you'll never be able to find what you're looking for because the store's layout was designed by a 2-year-old.
A sales associate will now approach you and tell you a too-personal story about tuna fish.
Michaels is the worst hoarder you know. Even worse than that lady with more than 90 cats from that one episode of Hoarders.
Oh, you're in the yarn aisle. Why are you staring at yarn? What did you need again? Was it yarn? Crap, what time is it?
You need to pee. Better to hold it because you absolutely must avoid the Michaels bathroom: a black hole of fear where all the scrapbookers go to dump. Always smells like Tinkerbell shits, regret and Modge Podge.
Tell you one thing you're definitely leaving Michaels with: a piece of shit that was on clearance. "It was on clearance," you'll explain to your disgusted friends. Out of its natural habitat and in your own home, the piece of shit reveals itself as being much shittier than you remembered it. "I'll just spray paint it," you'll say, pretending that will make it better. Now you need spray paint. And the poster board you forgot. Gotta go back. Shit.