Exceeding my lowest expectations.

Oh man. You want to know how bad it was? I actually took NOTES, that's how bad it was. Seriously, I didn't want to forget one torturous detail because that's no fun for you. The things I do for you guys, I swear.

So, Friday night Kate and I went to the 2nd Friday thing and set up our little table along with a few other artists. Clearly, the rest of the gallery participants didn't get the memo because I think we were 2nd Friday. We had a few vague people wander in accidentally, but that's it, folks. Pretty much what we expected but hey, there was wine.

Oh, but Saturday. We got up at 5am to drive up north to the 1st Annual We Don't Know What The Hell We're Doing Craft Festival in historic Who Damn Cares park. We got there in good time and I immediately got the mother of all allergy attacks. I think I'm allergic to northern Virginia, which is understandable.

We get set up next to a nice lady selling fake primitive folk art and had an empty space on the other side. In the row behind us is a hippie family selling beeswax candles and honey. The hippie mom has a lump of a baby strapped to her and looks perpetually tired.

The festival starts with a fizzle. The crowds are dismally small but we're pleased that the space to our left remains empty because it means less intrusion of other vendors. Oh, if only that remained so. An hour later, a frazzled elderly woman wearing what appeared to be an orange and white patterned bed sheet showed up out of nowhere and, after introducing herself to everyone and shaking hands, set out a tv tray and starts unloading piles of...God, I don't really know. They were knitted from ribbon and yarn and could maybe have been necklaces? Belts? We weren't sure. She herself had completely the bed sheet ensemble with a belt and necklace made from what appeared to be strips of white cotton.

You see? The crazy, it finds us, even when it's running late.

Once she was settled she felt freed up to tell us her fucking life story. She. Wouldn't. Shut. Up. She went on and on about how craft is her passion and her heart and how she would never give up! Right? You must keep at it, yes? She seemed to need constant reinforcement and everything she said ended in a question mark, so you weren't allowed to not respond.

Every time she got up to walk around she made sure we knew she'd be right back, even if it meant interrupting a conversation. I'll be right back okay? I'll be right back? OKAY? She told us all about her nine year old son. We knew he was nine because she never called him anything else. She was late because of her nine year old son. Should she buy a candy apple for her nine year old son? She might have to leave early to pick up her nine year old son. Now, this woman looked like she was nearing seventy. How the hell she had a nine year old son is a mystery to me. Did she adopt him? Steal him? Make him up? We were scared to ask but she was talking about him like he was some new novelty. A nine year old son! Imagine!

During all this I was floating on a cloud of Sudafed and was unable to play along. Poor Kate was much, much, nicer to the crazy lady than I would ever have been capable of, pharmaceuticals or no. Kate is a saint. During all of this insanity, there was a notable lack of customers. Those few misled folks who did show up didn't really look like our crowd - It was all ill-fitting jean shorts and fannypacks, which didn't bode well.

The fake primitive folk art lady, who looked like a women's volleyball coach, was doing a brisk business. She was selling windowpanes on the back of which she'd taped fabric and whatnot. Awful, I know. She had one window that had a Norman Rockwell jigsaw puzzle attached to the back. Crazy lady saw it and commented "I don't think that can be an original - Norman Rockwell didn't do puzzles, I don't think." Well, that's a big old DUH. The fake primitive art lady had to rearrange her face right fast to keep from cracking up. I liked her, despite her fake art.

We suffered along and just when I thought it couldn't possibly get worse, the band started. Oh, the band. It was two girls who desperately wanted to be the Indigo Girls and one stringy-haired young man with a guitar who apparently wanted to be Dave Matthews, Eric Clapton and Bob Marley. Oh, yes, to the last. He sang "No Woman, No Cry" complete with a fake Jamaican accent, mon. I was keening and banging my head against Kate at this point. (Please keep in mind, the band playing right behind us did not stop the crazy lady from talking, it just made her talk louder. Le Sob.)

Eventually, after discussing it for an hour by asking a series of unanswerable questions (Do you think the crowd will pick up? Will I sell anything? Do you think I will sell anything? I am very discouraged, aren't you?), the crazy lady gave up and went home. Then the band stopped and all we could hear was crickets. It would have been funny if it didn't suck so much.

As the afternoon wore on and we continued to sell NOTHING and the few people who did bother to look commented on our mirror, our cigar box display and, of course, the Goddamn beans. Very little was said about the actual jewelry, as if by complimenting it they'd be forced to PURCHASE. Our smiles got grimmer and the the desperation in our eyes chased away any remaining chance we might have had. Yes, we sold exactly nothing. Not one thing.

We found out by eavesdropping that there was another huge and established craft show in the DC area that same day, which makes me want to kill the organizers of the 1st Annual We Don't Know What The Hell We're Doing Craft Festival. They couldn't have picked another weekend? Or, I don't know, ADVERTISE? Yeah, they apparently didn't do that either. I made sure to include this information on the helpful survey they passed out. Great show, assholes.

Kate and I packed it up early and drove back to town, calling the husbands along the way to inform them that we needed to be taken out for margaritas and fried Mexican delicacies immediately. And so it was.

12 chatty monkeys