So we stopped by Hancock’s this morning before going to my grandmother’s, because mom needed another Santa I guess. I went over to the pattern books and was looking for a cloak pattern, just to see how much fabric they recommended for it. I was going back and forth between the books and the pattern drawers, because I kept forgetting the number.
As I ducked by 3 Spanish-speaking men on my way back to check the number yet again, one of them stopped me and asked me something in Spanish. I just gave one of those, “Durrrrrr huh what?” looks and he repeated himself, pointing at a sewing machine. I took a stab in the dark and said, “Ah, I don’t work here?” One of the others said something about “no trabajar,” and I actually remember that from Spanish! Trabajar is work right? Traba something. I don’t know. I failed Spanish.
Then I ran off and nearly had a heart attack when I found out the fabric I wanted was going to cost my $50 for 5 yards. I went with the cheaper stuff.
Anyway, the lesson is… uh… the lesson is I don’t work at Hancock’s, man.