This one today was a bad one.
Actually, maybe a notorious one. Or I'm notorious; somewhere this evening, in some elegant Hamptons restaurant, a woman is telling her story about how she stopped in at this little craft show, tried on a woolly white shawl and it shed all over her silk black shirt:
"Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh my god," she'd chanted, and I thought she was going to go blue in the face as my son used to when he'd lapse into febrile seizures. "I have to go home. I have to go home and change."
Her dear friend, who had been trying on a less wooly shawl, tried to pacifiy her: "You're fine. You're ok. We just need some tape." She turned her freshly made-up flawless face to me: "Do you have any tape?"
I had masking tape, by golly, and with a big wad, I went to task, picking white lint off the front of her black blouse, so wrinkle-free, it must have come straight from the cleaners or straight off an East Hamptons boutique shop rack.
In the meantime, caught up in her own panic, I lost two other customers considering similar wooly shawls.
Nevermind. Being in the Hamptons, it was far more important that I didn't miss a single fuzzy white fuzz – though I didn't bother with her backside.
So over some candlelit dinner with similar sophisticated wrinkle-free chic friends, someone is gently asking whether some white cat hadn't taken a cat nap on her back, and she is able to launch into her wooly white shawl fuzzy story. Luckily, I don't think she'd thought to pick up a business card. I remain notorious in oblivion.
Beyond that, I didn't make much of a mark, except to a woman behind dark glasses who cooed to her little Pekingese dog about how "pretty" my scarves were. "So, pretttttty, aren't they my Peaches? I think she thinks they're pretty," she said, not turning to me, but to her dull-eyed husband who was checking his phone.
I did sell two shawls. Almost three, to ambivalent too-well dressed-wrinkle-free women who didn't know their own minds.
And I did manage to talk a little girl into blowing her mother's five dollars on one of my rope bracelets.
Truth is, I should have been selling felted hats. The fiber lady in the tent next to me was selling them as fast as fresh baked cakes at a church sale. Then her customers, with their felted-hat shopping bags would peruse my own fiber treasures, eyes glazed as they were already fully fiber satiated.
Then my tent broke:
Then it began to drizzle. Just a little.
And then I called it a day.