on quilts and such and such

On a recent Saturday I paid my dear friend Filomena a visit in her kick-ass quilt shop in Lyndhurst, NJ (Quilts and Such -- conveniently located right off Route 3 and along major NJ Transit bus routes! Go there! Buy stuff! She's a cool chick! She's down with the gays! You'll love her and her shoppe!)

Years ago Filomena told me of her dream of opening a space where people could come together, be creative and drink tea. I often found myself inserting myself in her vision because what she spoke of was so cozy and inviting and totally inspiring. I wanted to be there. And so do many others, judging by the swelling numbers of devotees filling her creative space.

To raise funds, Filomena toiled away in fields ranging from dry cleaning to investment banking and everything in between. While busting her hump, she followed Suze Orman's advice and socked away some of the cash and paid down the debt she had accumulated over the years.

Unlike me, Filo's financial burden wasn't courtesy of J. Crew catalog binges and boredom-fueled shopping sprees at the Willowbrook Mall. Filo had "grown up" bills to pay -- rent, utilities, car insurance, etc. Which is not to say I was spoiled. My family certainly wasn't rich and I paid my way through school working various odd jobs. I bought my own car and paid the exorbitant NJ insurance rates but I still lived at home and had a much cushier and easier time of things.

But while I was blowing through my limited funds and changing my dreams as often as I changed my underwear (which was A LOT, smart asses), Filomena's vision was steadfast and determined. That girls had goals, dammit, and she wasn't go to stray from them. I admired her and never once doubted her. It was just too damn bad that I couldn't quite emulate her.

I met Filomena in 1987, our freshman year in high school. We endured French class together. And I do mean endured. See, we weren't really all that gifted in this realm. We were artistic and could draw, sculpt and photograph circles around most people but conjugating verbs en Francaise was a bit of a challenge. We, in a word, sucked.

If there was a class in fake Scottish accents, I would have excelled. Filomena would have kicked ass and taken names in a course on rapid-fire quips and comebacks. That girl was fast on her feet. Filomena was unique in all aspects -- personal style and overall outlook -- and as is always the case, some of the sheep in our school were quite vocal in their disapproval of anyone who defied convention. We all had to endure assholes in high school, of course, but Filomena cut them down with patented flair.

And really, she had the last laugh because a couple of months back, I had to scan photos from our yearbook to help with the preparations for our high school reunion and Filomena was the only one who didn't look like a big ol' asshole. Back in high school, I knew Filomena was ahead of the curve but revisiting our adolescent selves 15 years later proved just how fashion forward she really was. As I cringed at photos of my pegged jeans and turtleneck/Gap V-neck sweater combos, I sat in admiration of Filomena's timeless styling choices.

Meeting someone like Filomena in high school was a godsend. I was good at sports and not a complete social pariah but at the same time, I was sensitive, bookish and artistic. My points of reference were vastly different from the rest of my peer group, with the exception of Filomena and a few select others. To this day, I am prone to spouting out random references and non sequiturs on occasion. Whereas some look at me quizzically and others either ignore what I say or roll their eyes, Filomena absorbs my quirks. She also reflects them with her own brand of oddity. We, how you say, "get" each other.

(Stop crying, Filo.)

She's also a crier, you see...

We've cried and giggled together plenty over the years. We've witnessed and weathered weddings, deaths and broken hearts together. Our friendship is like my security blanket -- well worn and comforting. And I don't mean a figurative security blanket. I really do still have a woobie that I sleep with every night. That thing will be buried with me. I am selectively sentimental about certain things in life, people included. Filomena is the human equivalent of that treasured, ratty blanket of mine.

So, after THE EX gave me the old heave-ho, Filomena's was the first number I dialed. Up until this point, no one even knew I had a girlfriend. So I had the task of telling my friend that I not only had been dumped for the first time in life, but it was a girl who did it to me. I didn't quite know what I was going to say to her as I waited for her to answer. She picked up on the third or fourth ring. The first two rings were interminable. I prayed and pleaded quietly for her to be there. I never needed a person to be on the other end of a phone so desperately in all of my life.

And there it was... Filo's ever-cheerful "Hello?!" greeting me. I was free-falling at that moment and that one simple word caught me and steadied me. I don't even remember how I told her. I do know that my words were jumbled, rushed and drenched in tears and misery. They tumbled out of my mouth helplessly. It was the first time I said, "I'm gay" out loud.

She didn't thrust any labels on me or the ex in that phone call. She didn't try to psychoanalyze us. She just listened and then when my rambling revelation was complete, she said, "I'm coming over!" In the days, weeks and months that followed, she was my support system – sympathetic, honest and awesome all in the right and proper measure. Everyone should have a Filomena.

(Can someone please get Filomena a tissue? Please get me one while you're at it. Thank you.)

When Filomena launched her business about five years ago, she asked for some help which I gladly provided. Together we publicized and promoted her fledgling quilt shop. We had slumber parties/business meetings where we discussed strategy and scope. She had big ideas and lots of ambition but the thrust of her business plan was as homespun and cozy as ever. Unlike chain craft stores, she refused to sell shoddy, mass-produced crap in her shop. With the exception of thread, buttons, notions and things of that nature, all of her inventory was to be hand-made, lovingly-crafted and completely unique created by either her or the local artisans she welcomed into her shop with open arms. Her stock was well-edited and carefully curated. She vowed "No mutant retail!" whenever some slimy salesperson darkened her doorstep with tchotkes and brick-a-brack that would compromise her and her beloved shop's integrity.

When she and I go shopping, we make a point of pointing out Mutant Retail. For example, there was a candy/ice cream store in our town that, at first, specialized in all that ten-cent candy like Jawbreakers and Lemonheads. Then they started selling cold cuts and sandwiches. Then things like aspirin and Peptol-Bismol started lining the shelves. Before long, two pairs of deep denim jeans were hung from plastic (no wire!) hangers next to the shelves containing all the cold remedies.

You could argue that the introduction of deli meat and pain killers wasn't a bad way to increase the profit margin but jeans?!?! The hell? Actually, they were more like dungarees. Normally, I hate that word but these were so unfashionable and functional looking that they more than earn the name. So jeans/dungarees being sold in a candy store, my friends, is an example of Mutant Retail. Or as I once forgetfully-yet-brilliantly-if-I-do-say-so-myself dubbed it: Rogue Merch. We use both terms interchangeably now.

Here it is five years later and Filo's business is growing by the day. She packed up and moved into a larger space in a more highly-trafficked area late last year. Her business has picked up considerably and she continues to elicit tears of joy from clients who commission her custom work. She's made memorial quilts for mourning families and baby quilts for overjoyed ones (mine included). She's taught hundreds of people how to quilt, sew, knit and crochet. Most importantly, she's provided a creative space -- just like she envisioned years back -- where people can congregate, get their craft on and nurse a cup of tea. As a result, deep friendships and social circles have formed as a result of her shop.

It's a bright and welcoming place and I love to visit her whenever I get the chance. The residents of Lyndhurst, NJ feel the same way. People frequently wander in just to say hello or visit the ever-growing collection of animals she's got including a guinea pig and a bunch of birds (with one on the way!)

During my recent visit, Filo and I sat on the couch in the front window chit-chatting and getting caught up. The chime on the front door rang and we looked up to see an elderly man with a cane walk in. He was wearing a baseball cap with the words "Korean War Veteran" emblazoned on the front in big block lettering.

Filomena greeted him with her usual warm hello and he replied in a gruff voice, "Aw, still blue?! I came in hoping you had changed it!"

The veteran was referring to Filomena's hair which currently is a bright, electric blue. At first I thought he disapproved of her rather unorthodox tresses but then he followed up with, "That's the color you had last week! I wanted to see a different one today. I'll come back next week to see what you've got."

He has no beef with bright hair dye, you see, he just expects variety.

For those of you in northern New Jersey (and beyond) who are looking for unique, personal gifts or want to learn a new skill and make some friends, go see Filomena and her ever-changing hair color at Quilts and Such. She'll amaze and inspire you and, of course, make you some tea.

Thanks for listening.