…one hand/blow-job at a time.
I’m at work chatting up a mom who’s seriously contemplating buying a pair of shoes that I’d really like to get rid of. I’m in full suck up mode because nothing rules more than never having to see a certain pair of shoes again – because sometimes that last pair lingers forever.
I notice she’s wearing a rad pair of slips and I compliment her on them:
She finally decides to get the shoes (woot!) and I’m boxing them up/casually chatting still as I ring her through. She mentions that she’s a little disappointed that she wasn’t able to find what she’d been looking for (a replacement part for her kid’s shoe) but that at least she was able to get a new pair of shoes so the trip wasn’t a total loss.
I mention that she could probably find them online and give her a few hints where to look, noting that she’s pretty determined. I mention that because Christmas is coming up crazy parents are in full force and she regales me with an anecdote.
It seems her daughter is a HUGE fan of a certain country band (I honestly can’t remember which one but I remember being unimpressed) and that until I’m a parent, I won’t understand.
I nod sympathetically, but I’m unconvinced, and then she gives me a knowing stare and point blank says:
I wasn’t so much shocked by this admission as I was a tad startled that she’d divulge this in front of her young son, who was standing by her side (granted, he probably wasn’t paying attention, but still), and to a complete stranger no less.
But, you know, there’s that whole shop girl-customer confidentiality thing…