The Fellowship of the Fling [9.12.08]

Of the 20 years I have resided on this earth, I have finally grasped a cause and affect of people-watching: the conduct of someone is a direct reflection of the company. From blue-collar businessmen to company presidents, from apprehensive students to polished professors, the ends must satisfy the means and the punishment must fit the crime. The entire weekend, I found myself encompassed on all sides by allies of the same trade. We saucily identify ourselves as "scrappers"; our events are "crops", and the verb "scrapping" would follow respectively. We roam the world in search of new mementos in the form of toddlers' quotes, invitations from family reunions, and recipe cards from granny's flawless strawberry fluff. Once the archaeological dig begins, the relics are uncovered without harm and preserved without inhibition. Similar to the extensive tool collection of the local dentist, the scrapper will implement the proper usage of liquid adhesive, glitter, chipboard, and the reliable yet underestimated tape runner. An observer that is not familiar with the art form of scrapbooking would presume they had made a wrong turn in the twilight zone and mistakenly entered another world; naught exists but our pictures and our fellow scrappers. The result is a room full of sweaty menopausal women asking for others' opinions on the selection of ribbon trim, cardstock color, and pigment ink. Since the setting is entirely deviant from the daily demands of real life, restraint is nonexistent: one might help themselves to a regular coke instead of a diet, while another could very well break into song, even though they would never shed their true colors at a nearby karaoke bar. Before I knew it, I had also done something inhibited. Taking a strip of red lace, I placed it atop my crown and assured myself of its tasteful style. Turning to my friend, she gave an affirming nod and drawled out "Very boho." I would have replied with the global thank you, but my manners were interrupted by someone else feeling gutsy enough to chime in and add "...or hobo." I can honestly say that weirder (or meaner) things have not happened. Did we not earn the same figurative scrapbooker stripes? What happened to the nature of the "crop"? Where was the safe zone of cordial niceties? The cesspool of overflowing feminine etiquette? And most importantly, was my homemade headband boho...or hobo?