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Quilting Convention

It’s hot and sunny out.  It’s also the quilting convention.  So, the quilts will be judged on merit.  It’s really an art form, and those hanging quilts? Masterpieces.  They are not something you will want to wrap yourself up in, for they are too fancy.  You are not worth it, I’m sorry.  Here, let me give you this soiled rag for your comfort.  Wrap yourself up in that.  You deserve it.

So, all the old ladies, from all corners of the earth are here, and their fingers are itching for quilting.  They criticize each other on their quilting techniques.  They elbow each other in line.  “I was here first.”  “No, I was.”  And they all carry sewing needles, just in case.

They are neither humble nor proud, they just are.  They just do.

“I see you have tried doing the Faberge motif, Mavis.”

“It is all that I can do.”

“I see you have failed, Mavis.”

“At least I have tried.”

And the quilting judges are even worse.  They will not hesitate to slap you.

“You call that a box in a box motif!  I’ll box you’re ear drums in, Mrs.!”

And they do.

It is a wild, wild time.

Towards evening, with a couple drinks in them, they take their rabble to town, and it is all fabric-swear this and fabric-swear that.  Honestly, these people, can’t they just control themselves, or at least mind their manners?  No, they cannot.  Can a wild boar control it’s manners?  You would have more luck doing the lattice motif.

I have tried standing up to them, but it is like standing up to a pack of raving cacti.  Each cactus advancing, asking where she put her glasses.  Each one snarling, “You look thin. Eat.”
So I hide for a while, until the convention is over, until order is regained.  But I can still feel them leering at me, shooting needles from their eyes.  And no quilt, friends, can hide you from it.  Not even really fancy ones.  Not even bullet proof ones….

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