The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...beauty and the other white meat.

To my sausage-arms bride, all my lady-friends out there and myself...we are all beautiful. 

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Zack and sausages.

In my new endeavor to take control of my life and better myself and all that jazz, I have not only joined a gym, but also hired a personal trainer.  His name is Zack and I pay him to yell at me to do stuff that's good for me.  Plus, he counts my reps and carries my book.  He has me running on the treadmill because it's harder than the eliptical machine or the bike. No easy street for me, no sir!  He checks my log/journal to see how far and how fast I ran and then eyes me up as if to say, "you're such a loser."  He may not think that I'm doing all that great, but I am r-u-n-n-i-n-g on the treadmill.  I haven't ran since my army ROTC days in college.  So despite twenty-two years later and forty(give or take) pounds heavier, I have hit a milestone in my quest for a better me.  Yeah me!

Zack says that I'm one of his favorite clients (yeah right) because I don't complain.  First of all, I'm just trying to catch my breath and not fart or vomit on the guy. Secondly, why complain when I can just talk about him in my blog!(shh...don't tell).  He tried to get me to buy these diet pills with caffeine in them that they sell at the gym, but I told him that I worked really hard to get myself this way and I'm willing to do the work to undo as much as I can...the hard way.  One time, when he had me doing core exercises, he told me that I'll have a six-pack in no time.  I told him that I'd be happy just to see my feet again.  He was not amused.  I usually end up quoting the frat pledge's line (after he just got whacked with a wooden paddle) from the infamous movie, "Animal House": "THANK YOU SIR MAY I HAVE ANOTHER?!

OK, so back to the bridal shop and sausages.  A couple of weeks ago, a middle-age bride-to-be (or just "bride" as we say in the business) came in for an appointment.  This was going to be her second wedding and she brought in a co-worker/best friend to help her find a dress. The bride was pretty; the dark hair, fair skinned and Irish-eyes pretty.  She was pear-shaped...very much so in the rear area.  She was thinner through the waist but very wide through the hips and butt.  She did comment on this fact to me several times throughout the appointment, but not as much as declare (with great disgust) how much she hated her flabby arms.  She called them "sausages" and jingled the flab with her fingers.  She really hated her arms.  She told me that no matter what dress she decided to buy, she was going to have sleeves made to hide her disgusting sausage-arms.  Oh, this was going to be a fun appointment. 

Her friend and I did our best to encourage her and to compliment her on how lovely she looked in the different dresses that she had selected, but all she saw were the "sausages."  I never thought much of them because I had my own bratwursts jing-janglin' off my shoulders.  It was my goal to help her find something that would make her forget about her arms...for a while. However, throughout the appointment, I was waiting for this debbie downer(whah-whuh) to literally start flogging herself out of deep disdain for her own body.  I felt sorry for her, truly sorry for her.  I mean, hey, we all have our own body image hang-ups, but this woman honestly loathed the body that she walked in.

Thank God that my thought "filter" was working that day because I wanted to tell her to quit whining or I'd have to call the "w-h-a-m-bulance."  Instead, I looked right at her and calmly told her that with each dress that she had tried on, I never once looked at her arms.  It never even crossed my mind to do so really, because I was too busy focusing on how beautiful she looked.  And she truly looked lovely in most of what she tried on.  She got quiet and I could tell that she wanted to believe in what I was telling her, but all she saw and smelled were those stupid so-called "sausages" that hung from her body.  She refused to allow herself to be beautiful for that moment.  I should have started to sing "You are beautiful...in every single way..." (Christina Aguliera), but that would have just ticked her off even more. Plus, I can't sing...shouldn't sing, really.

Of course, she wasn't happy with anything that she tried on because they didn't do anything to hide her dreaded sausages.  She left with her tormented soul in tow, never to return again.  Maybe she found a blazer or cardigan or parka to wear for the ceremony.  I should have given her Zack's number...a couple of weeks of Zack-attacks would melt the fat from those flabby pork-link arms like butter in a frying pan.  Maybe she could be happy then with leaner, turkey-sausage arms.  Or just switch to patties...I really don't know.  I bet Jimmy Dean would.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Promamania.

At the end of March, the money-man of the shop (the husband of one of the owners) made a decree that The Bridal Emporium would be open seven days a week during prom season.  He called it "promamania."  I kind of liked "promarama" better.  Because it rhymed with "drama."  And that's what you get when high school girls from all around central PA come to Etown to visit the store in hopes of finding that "a-ha" dress that will take the breath away from everyone who sees her on that special night.  Throw in a prom mom, and it's show time.
The Bridal Emporium carries higher-end brands of prom dresses and the owners keep a log of what school the girl goes to so that the same dress will not be sold to another girl from the same school. Apparently, that would be a terrible disaster.  No, the earthquake and subsequent tsunami in Japan is a terrible disaster, you and another girl having the same dress, not so much.  Nonetheless, the owners go to great lengths to insure that this horrible event does not happen.
Since the money-man announced that the store would be open every day for the month of April, I suggested that he stand outside in a bunny costume, telling people to "hop" on in to see our vast selection of prom dresses.  Or he could dress up in a burlap sack waving palm branches, shouting "He may have risen, but our prices haven't!", while riding on the back of a donkey.  Now that would be a crowd stopper, surely. Or, on even a grander scale, he could dress up as Rhett Butler, from "Gone with the Wind", and say to people on the street, "Now, I do declare, our dresses are mighty fine, mighty fine...why don't you waltz right in and take a gander at our grand attire."  I told him that if people said no or ignored him, then he could just say "frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****." 
Needless to say, our dogmatic money-guy was not impressed with my suggestions.  We stuck with a sales promotion of 15% off.  Being open on Sunday has been good for prom season.  Actually, I must say that most of the clients have been good to work with; no real problems.  Until the mother sees the price of the dress...let's use the term "sticker shock."  Here, the girl is in love with the dress, it fits almost perfectly, and then the mother almost has a coronary when she sees the price tag.  It's usually at this moment when I walk away.
I tell you something though, I know about the horror of seeing the price on the tag.  I had to look at it after sucking up the hem of a brand new white chiffon gown while vacuuming one evening.  You know that dreaded squeal of the vacuum when something gets wrapped around the bristled tubing and the motor stops.  Yep, that's what happened.  The owner yelled over to see if everything was ok, and I yelled back "yeah, it's all good, it's not like I just sucked up the hem of a prom gown, or anything."  Well ok, so I left out the details about the hem and the vacuum.  I did manage to free the hem and was completely dumbfounded to see that the fabric was not damaged.  Just a little wrinkled, but no black marks or tears or rips.  Oh, thank you sweet Jesus.  I said it again when I saw that the dress cost $522.  I think I said something more to the effect of  "shut the front door!"
Prom season is almost coming to an end.  The girls who come in now are ither desperate or picky.  We like that because time's a tickin' and they're usually not concerned about the price at this point in the game. We still have a great selection of dresses left and the owners want them gone.  Maybe if they try some of my marketing suggestions, they just may reach that goal.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Trial by Fire.

Trial by fire.  Simply put, that's how I learned on my first day on the job at The Bridal Emporium, a full-service bridal salon, found right along the main street in town. The owners of the shop are a mom and daughter team who I just love; they are truly beautiful women, inside and out.  Oh, and crazy to hire someone with no experience except being socially awkward.  That I know I do well.  Maybe I'm their community project for the year; you know, like the whole "My Fair Lady" thing.  They're going to take my awkwardness and lack of social graces and turn them into confidence and congeniality.  Good luck with that.
                                                            
Now, as to my first day as an employee, I didn't even know what my title was. I was hoping for a name tag that said "grunt" on it.  I'd be the one running around, doing this and that, doing whatever needed to be done to allow the owners to spend more time with their clients.   Little did I know that "this and that" meant working with brides my first day.  Say what?

I expected to be broken in slowly, you know, start with having me read the store's policy and procedure manual, followed by viewing the mandatory 3-minute OSHA dvd on safety in the workplace.  Then I would follow someone around all day, seeing how a real professional does her job.

Nope.  Didn't happen.  One minute I'm bringing dresses into a fitting room for a bride-to-be, and the next minute, my boss is asking me if I would feel comfortable working with her client...alone.  I knew that she was really telling me that I was going to work with this bride, because that's how you learn the job; by doing it.  Wait a minute, she is asking me, who used to zip her daughters' chins up in their coat zippers and accidentally poked them with safety pins when they were younger.  And now the owner of the store is asking me to zip, lace and pin clients into thousand dollar dresses?  You are one trusting individual, lady.  Or just insane.  Nonetheless, I found myself saying "sure, I don't mind" and off she went and left me to BS my way through my first bridal appointment.

I figured the best way to start out was to introduce myself and get some general background info from her.  She and her fiance met while they were in college.  She was from western PA, and very much an outdoorsy type of girl.  She didn't really know what kind of dress she wanted, but the owner had picked out some for her to start with.  One thing I didn't realize was that she had to strip down to her undies and bra in order to try on dresses...awkward. I just met this girl and she's now practically naked in front of me, patiently waiting while I figured out how to get the dress on her before she realized that I had no clue what I was doing.

I had her step into the dress, shimmied it up her body and zipped it without drawing any blood.  She looked absolutely beautiful.  She had the type of figure that would look good in any dress, but this one hugged her in all the right places and gave her an amazing silhouette. She couldn't hide her smile nor the fact that she loved the dress.

Her entourage consisted of her mother, her sister, and her best friend/matron of honor.  They stood out in the viewing area waiting for her to make her appearance in her first dress.  She came out beaming and confident; until she saw the faces of the women, causing her whole countenance to change.  I could have slapped them all.  Here was a beautiful girl in a gorgeous dress who just wanted some encouragement, some sign from them, especially her mother, that she approved.  Instead, her mother walked up to her, eyed the dress up and down and never said a word. None of them did. 

My poor bride.  She lost her confidence and started fidgeting with the dress.  She then began to talk herself out of liking it, so I got her off of the pedistal and back into the fitting room before she started to cry.  I knew her heart was crushed. The appointment dragged on with the same reaction from her family until the best friend snuck into the room to talk with me.  She said that the bride is waiting for approval from her mom, but the mom is waiting for her daughter to come out and say that a dress is "the" dress.  What?  Is that it?  Just a lack of communication?  Geez.  So much time and emotion wasted due to mixed signals and unspoken feelings. Today was a perfect example of just how deeply woven into the relationship between mother and daughter is the desire for acceptance and approval.

The bride didn't find "the" dress that day and I don't think she came back.  I did end up working with a seventeen year old girl later that day, who was two months pregnant. After trying on a couple of dresses, she decided on a gown from the discount rack. She told my boss that I was really nice and that she was going to get her bridemaids dresses from here.  I guess maybe I do have some customer service skills after all.