As crafters, my sister, Señor Frijoles and myself have been working for a solid month to get ready for a craft bazaar sponsored by the local domestic violence prevention agency. It’s a regular annual event, well attended and in a quasi-indoor space. I say “quasi” because our fine city doesn’t have a convention center, we have a venue called “Someone’s Surname Barn.” They try to call it “Someone’s Surname Event Center” but it’s not an event center, it’s a barn. A cold, dirty, poorly heated and leaky BARN. I made 34 bags and 24 checkbook covers/wallets for the event. My sister and Señor Frijoles made more nativities and nichos than a person could count. The event ran Friday through Sunday. We had high hopes, as we have a damn good and eye-catching set up (this is a detail from Day of the Dead, but you get the idea).
Friday I got up with a fever. Praying to the gods, I went to the doctor and negotiated a diagnosis of sinus infection. I got antibiotics and sucked it up. Friday night, as my sister and I toured the offerings of other vendors, we got a bad feeling. First of all, there was a lot of mechandise that was not hand crafted. This was explicity against the rules, which apparently the sponsoring organization had elected not to enforce. Secondly, the vast majority of hand crafted items that were offered were along the lines of Craptacular. Seriously, fake food? Explain to me why I need a fake cupcake. There was an ocean of hot glue and raffia and my own personal nemesis, The Ass Purse Lady.
[The Ass Purse Lady moved into a spot directly catty-corner from us at the Farmer's Market (our regular Saturday gig) a few months ago. She takes old jeans, cuts them off at the crotch line, sews that up and calls it a purse. She is leagues away from me, millions of crafting miles below the level I work at. She is also unbelievably unfriendly. She stands and stares at me during the market days. She's been busted twice for offering goods not hand made (at least the Farmer's Market enforces its rules) and, frankly, she can't sew to save her life. She sends her husband around to enquire, "So, how you doing?" To which I always say, "Best day EVER." She eavesdrops on conversations, but refuses to speak directly to me. Not even a "Hi, how are ya?" I trounced her at Day of the Dead, when her close friend dropped nearly $400 on my bags, right in front of her. I fantasize about going over to her booth, looking at her goods, then saying, "I was wondering, do you know how to sew?"]
But I digress.
Friday night the rains came, so we had to watch as awnings hung within the barn developed bubbles that would then spill over onto vendors. Betting pools were considered. Our sales were slow, but not devastating. We were told the big crowds would come Saturday. We slid through the mud parking lot that night and headed home.
Friday night I spent in a haze of fever, and was unable to even get out of bed for more than bathroom visits for the rest of the weekend. My sister gamely took on selling my goods as well as hers, except that this show doesn’t draw people who are interested in quality craft, and sales were dismal. Lots of fake cupcakes were sold. The barn, I am told, was cold, drafty and miserable. Many vendors were pissed about those peddling non-crafted goods. Some stupid woman who thinks she is a local notable kept pestering my sister about my bags, even as my sister explained that I wasn’t there, see how she’s not here? Is she hiding under a table? No? Goodness, SHE MUST NOT BE HERE.
At the end of it all on Sunday, we had barely made enough to cover the entry fee. My profit was no better than a regular day at the Farmer’s Market. Not that I noticed, because I was suffering from extreme nausea, high fevers that wouldn’t go down, and general misery. Yesterday a trip to the doctor, some blood work and a chest x-ray confirmed that I got pneumonia for Christmas. I haven’t had pneumonia since 1989, which for an asthmatic isn’t bad, but I must say that I was convinced I was dying this weekend. The only good news to come out of the craft bazaar is that I am not facing the problem of having to rebuild inventory for holiday sales at the Market.
Interestingly, the organizars of the Bazaar of Disaster asked, nay, begged that we return next year. Seriously? No thanks. We’ve had all the leaky, cold, dreary, craptacular fun we need for a bit.
