The Beginning of the End

We are hiring a new seamstress at work. The idea is to get someone now and I will train the new person until I leave (right now we're thinking we will probably be moving in late August, some time after Eric graduates) and then that person will take over my job. At the end of this month I will have been at my job for five years. Even when I was teaching school I still worked there. I know that the time has come and that it really is time to move on, but I still feel very protective of my job. I feel almost as if I'm being put out to pasture. Really, I know we're just being prepared in case I need to quit on short notice. Actually, if the pay thing keeps up how it is I may need to quit so I have time to do my side alterations, which make me more money in less time. There would be another plus to no longer working there, but I probably shouldn't get into it until I really am no longer working there.

The process of finding new people is always a little stressful for me. When I interview I try to find someone who has a personality I can work closely with and who I think will do a quality job. So far we've had nine applicants, which is about nine times as many applicants as we've ever had when there's an opening. This breadth of choice will be something new for me. We conducted one interview last week and we will be doing two group interviews on Wednesday to cull the herd and then I'll run second interviews in the next week or so after that where I see how well they work on the machines. I'm hoping I can come away with a couple of good stories from the interviews, as well as someone that I can feel confident handing the reins to in a few months.

You Can't Get There From Here

I knew it would happen someday soon. There are five entrances to the shopping plaza I work in: one on the north, one on the east, one on the south (well-hidden), and two on the west. The two on the west have been closed for the past few weeks while they repave the road. I think that's happening today. The one on the north is newly opened from the last bit of construction, so it only makes sense that they periodically close it off again, just to be nostalgic. They did that today. Part of that closure included blocking off the access to the plaza from the east. Grumble. I use the southern entrance so infrequently that I almost forgot about it entirely. Before I remembered it I started concocting a plan to get me to work.

1. Park behind the other store in the plaza for which I have a key and security code (I work there every now and again, so they let me keep my access).
2. Let myself in and relock the door.
3. Turn off the alarm, wait 30 seconds, reset the alarm.
4. Run like heck for the front door before the alarm thinks I'm an intruder.
5. Unlock the front door, let myself out, and lock it back up.
6. Walk across the parking lot to get to the building I wanted to park at.
7. Curse the fates.

Luckily, I remembered the southern entrance. At least now I have a plan B for when they actually do forget to leave a business access. And I got there before the evil white truck.

The Hokey-Pokey Method

Some days are harder than others to be at work. Today is just such a day. The situation is always compounded when a customer wants me to come out from behind my wall to "fit" a suit to them. About 70% of the time I emerge from my Sewing Fortress of Solitude, take a quick look at the suit jacket, and declare it to be too big. At this point the 19-year-old young man looks at me blankly, apparently unsure of what the suggestion "try a size down" implies. Rather than wait for a coherent response, the boy's mother (or the salesman) helpfully tells me that the boy already tried on a size down, but it was too tight. Using the word "tight" informs me that the boy and mother were simply using the wrong method to find the necessary jacket size. Rather than using the correct method (find a jacket that 1. fits well in the shoulders, 2. has sleeves and body long or short enough, and 3. fits well in the body), these customers are using what I call The Hokey-Pokey Method.

Before I explain the Hokey-Pokey Method in all its glory, I feel the need to explain what one should and should not do in a properly-fitting suit jacket. The wearer should looked polished and professional. He should not look like a slope-shouldered Neanderthal. The wearer should be able to bend his arms at the elbow if he needs to gesture. He should not be able to achieve advanced yoga positions. Certain laws of physics prevent these things from being possible. The Hokey-Pokey method takes none of this into consideration. It involves (as its name suggests) a lot of arms going in and out, as well as much flailing of limbs and inhuman contortions.

After the smaller suit jacket is retrieved, the young man puts the jacket on and is given instruction from the mother.

"Stretch your arms out straight in front of you and cross your elbows. Well...that's not too bad. Bend over and touch your toes...No, no. I meant bend backwards and touch your toes. See? It just seems really tight."

It takes a bit of persuasion in my smartest Goddess of Sewing terms, but I can usually get the customer to abandon the Hokey-Pokey method and get a suit that actually fits. All in day's work.

What's in a Name?

Several months ago we got a pet for the store. We didn't do it on purpose. It was a gift. Sort of. A customer in Texas did something to ruin his suit and sent it back to us for replacement (we have a wear-proof guarantee, so he was allowed to do that). What really surprised the person who opened the box was that, along with the suit, there was a small, live scorpion. Nobody wanted to kill the thing, so our shipping guy picked up a plastic cage, sand, a water dish, and a rock to make a new home (pictured above) for our little scorpion . I left work while all the salesmen were discussing how to feed it.

When I got to work the next morning I found that the scorpion cage had been adorned with its own label. I was, however, a little confused by what it said. "PAT THE [STORE NAME] SCORPION" was emblazoned on the front. Why on earth would we encourage our customers to touch a poisonous creature that holds its stinger above its head? When the salesmen came in for work I asked what had possessed them to put that on the cage. Turns out they decided the scorpion needed a name. To make it easy they chose the first name of the person who sent us the box. Pat. I smiled and told them where a comma would be prudent. The label now says, "PAT, THE [STORE NAME] SCORPION" and we've had no fatalities.

It's All About the Music

I love my job. I really do. I love every single person there. That wasn't true before we got our new manager, but tht is not the story. The only thing I don't like (aside from stupid customers) is the repetitive music we hear. Every day for 8 hours I am treated to the lovely sounds of church music. Most of it is fine, the rest of it is LDS pop. I never did like religious pop music, but I was completely cured of it on my mission when that was about all we were allowed to listen to besides Mo Tab.

For those of you who love LDS pop, sorry. I don't. I think they all sound the same. Three of the songs I hear every day do, however, stick out to me more than the others: His Hands, Wings, and The One I Don't Know the Name Of.

The One I Don't Know the Name Of is the least annoying of the three. It actually kind of amuses me. It's about Christ (not the reason it's amusing) and the voice of the singer sounds so familiar. Like something from the past... If I had to choose a name for it, the name would be The Carpenters Sing the Bible.

His Hands is a song that I was once indifferent to, and now hate with a burning fiery passion. Why? There were too many weeks in a row that I heard it at least four times every day. In English and in Portuguese. The English singer intrigues me. Never before have I heard singing made to sound like vomiting. It's an entirely new experience. In good news, I have discovered that it comes on 3 hours and 50 minutes after the playlist is started. Then I can make sure I have other music playing in my sewing corner.

Wings (I think that's the name) is song I have most recently taken notice of. It is sung by my very least favorite LDS singer and there are only two lines that I can make out while I'm at work. What are these things that look like wings?/What are they doing on me? Because I can only hear those two lines, I am left to draw my own conclusions about the meaning of the song. I have decided that she is lamenting the condition that afflicts so many women. Relief Society arms. Oh, the pain.

What I Say vs. What They Hear

I think we all have times when the things we say end up meaning different things than what we intended. Lately that's been happening to me more than usual. People hear things differently than how I said them. What I say is in red, what they hear is in blue.

I'm late, I need to go. She would love to hem three more pants before she leaves.

Hand over the (cell phone, iPod, etc.). It's against school rules. If I whine and call her mean she'll let me keep it.

I'm afraid of spiders. I should dangle one by her nose.

I don't feel so well. Want a piece of cake loaded with frosting roses?

I'm too busy to take on another project right now. Her life is mine.

Maybe I should hire an interpreter to flick people's noses when they miss the translation.