I came to find myself in need of some small stencils for a project I was working on. I checked with all the family scrapbooking girls (are there any scrapbooking guys?), but no one could hook me up. However, everyone did agree that I could find what I was looking for at a scrapbooking store. So with trepidation I headed off on Saturday morning to the local estrogen dominion known as the Paper Garden.

I entered and immediately noticed a very long table chock full of nattering women. They were ostensibly scrapbooking, but I used to work in an auto garage, and all the guys gathered there on a Saturday morning were not working on cars. This was no different – except there was less swearing. I was the only guy in the place. And from the surprised look on the sales girl’s face, I may have been the only guy ever in there. I was half expecting a klaxon to sound.

But the girl was friendly and helpful nonetheless. I told her what I wanted and she quickly admitted they didn’t have any stencils. However, she did offer that she had a machine that could cut letters. She wondered if maybe I could trace around the letters if she cut them out of heavy card stock. I asked if instead, could I have the negatives from the cutouts? She thought for a moment? Then said they usually just throw them out, so sure, I could have those.

She then proudly led me to a rack of card stock and began to explain the huge variety of colors in which I could get my letters. I stopped her short, reminding her that since I was just using it as a stencil, the color didn’t matter. She seemed disappointed, and selected a sheet of white for me. She then led me to the machine which was located inside the pen where they had the nattering women corralled. I followed, but the women in the pen looked uneasy as if a trespasser was in their midst. I selected a jaunty little font and asked her to make me a full alphabet of upper and lower case letters. She cut my white sheet into four strips and made my stencils. And the whole room seemed grateful that I was finally headed to the cash register.

My long ordeal was nearly over. I asked the helpful girl what I owed her. She responded cheerfully, “35 cents.”

I asked if she was kidding, and she said that they only charged for the paper and I only used one sheet. I happily dug the change from my pocket, thanked her, and escaped to my truck.

I can only assume that it costs a small fortune to be put in the nattering women’s pen. There’s no other way I can see that this place stays in business. It makes me wonder if we should have charged all those guys for hanging at the garage those many years ago.