So I stopped at the fabric store today for a $1 pattern sale with the intention of checking out if they had the latest Simplicity patterns (which they didn’t, but I wasn’t too crushed since I was only looking for one pattern anyway). At that point I would have left, but, since my mother was with me (and she is an enabler), she pointed out that red tag fabrics were half off, and they did have a nice, soft, brown pants-weight poly-rayon-lycra (photos to come). All of this shopping happened within a matter of less than ten minutes from entering the store, and there was no line to speak of at the cut counter. Excellent.
Except, when I get to the cut counter, an older gentleman in a wheelchair came up and asked the sales assistant for help looking for a fabric to cover his wheelchair seat. Clearly, he wasn’t a normal fabric store client and so I had no problem waiting while the sales lady helped him find an appropriate fabric and get it cut. He was there first, after all, and it isn’t like I haven’t ever waited my turn before. So I am standing, holding my fabric, and my mother wanders off due to boredom while I wait. In the meantime an older lady walks up, stands somewhat in front of me, and never makes eye contact. I had been standing back an appropriate distance to allow wheelchair man room to maneuver, but I was clearly waiting for the cut counter. Or so I thought. Apparently I just looked like I was holding a bolt of fabric to improve my arm strength, or something. Who knows.
Anyway, a few minutes later a second sales assistant comes over to the cut counter (the first is still pulling fabrics to help the man in the wheelchair), and the older lady marches right up to him without giving me a second glance. Now, I may have thought that a polite person would have acknowledged my existence, or made some excuse to go ahead of me, or explained that she had left and come back. Something. But no. In any case, three days of minimal sleep and a long morning of skating practices had left me in a somewhat exhausted state, so I wasn’t going to fight it. There was no throat clearing, no huffing, no petulant foot stomping, no exasperated sighs, no bitchtastic eye rolls on my part. No, I just stood my ground, and stoically held on to my bold of future-pants.
As the lady gets to the counter she whips out a scrap of fusible interfacing, explains that she bought a bolt of it a year ago, and would like more of the same. Cut-counter guy looked a bit overwhelmed, but examined the interfacing and started to lead her over to the shelf holding the fully packaged bolts. As she starts to follow him, she finally turns to me, gives me a really spiteful glare, and says “I was here first.”
Now, I know that this might not be exactly an appropriate metal response, but What. The. Fuck. I know I was tired. Maybe I look pissed off when I am tired? But I’ll be damned if I deserve to be treated like a bratty child for standing in line holding a bolt of fabric. Of course, being me, I didn’t yell, scream, or defend my rights to stand there. I think I may have twitched an eyebrow in a somewhat questioning manner. But on the inside I was seething.
In the end I got the first cut counter lady, so I waited as long as if the second sales guy and Quilt Bitch hadn’t even existed. But I did get to listen to a snippet of their conversation wherein she was lecturing him about how terrible some interfacings were and how they pull on the fabrics or don’t hold well after fusing, which was why it was so important she get the exact same kind. Well, if it was that important maybe she should have written down the brand and type she had used before? Or maybe done a bit of reading to see that you are supposed to pre-shrink your interfacing? Or not bought crap interfacing from a craft store? (As an aside – for good interfacing it is all about Fashion Sewing Supply – heart them!) Ah well. My momentary feelings of superiority didn’t really surpress my cool anger at being yelled at due to my mere existence, but it did help, somewhat. A little. Kinda.
Hmmm… Maybe I am not a very nice person. But at least I am not a Quilt Bitch.