Hello, gentle reader. I am here to tell you a cautionary tale about being a person who loves puns, lacks direction, and appreciates handmade things.
I left my job at the Quilt Festival and moved to Minneapolis only a few months ago, but it feels like ages since the last time I worked at a Quilt Show, bored stiff in whatever city's convention center by day, belly up at the gay bar by night. It was a gorgeous sunny day in Salt Lake City as I said goodbye to my boss, a generous 70 year old mustachioed Argentine gentleman with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He said I had been a terrific employee, that it had been wonderful working together, and that I could always come back. Grinning, he reached for my face and kissed me square on the mouth in two fast, hard pecks accentuated by loud “mwaaaaah” noises that changed the whole tenor of the gesture from creepily romantic to Mafioso fatherly. His whole body quivered with pride at his own hilariously inappropriate joke and his eyes twinkled at me as I turned, dazed, and left the convention center. When the door closed behind me, I looked out over the horizon to the Mountains and let the tears that had welled up in my eyes finally fall.
I felt terrifyingly light as I crossed the street in my prim little ankle boots and pencil skirt. Though I generally showed up to work in cutoffs and tank tops, I liked to choose outfits that the quilters would notice and compliment me on when I worked at the shows themselves. I wore a lot of overly precious peter pan collars and ballet flats. I liked wearing these sweet wholesome girl clothes and underneath being a dirty, hairy queer. I would sometimes wear these clothes to the seedy gay bars my coworker, C, and I would frequent in the cities we visited, our refuge from the sea of middle aged white women in Capri pants and sensible shoes that filled our daytimes. One Halloween, I went to a leather bar directly from work in my tweed pants and button down shirt with a fussy Airline stewardess tie at the top. I happily took on the role of misidentified voyeur, sipping bourbon and making near continuous eye contact with the receiver of a noisy blowjob.
I'll always miss the Quilt Festival, that is for certain. But fortunately, people who are willing to take jobs that involve dealing with fanatic and compulsive crafters must be fewer than you'd think. I was a shoe-in as the part time receptionist over at the Weaver's Guild of Minnesota. This is the story of my unbeweavable journey.
