Conversational

Kara took Ryan shopping for school clothes yesterday and he complained that she “talked too much” with store workers. Kara? C’mon. I know my frame of reference may be a little warped but Kara? Kara told me that all she said was “Do you have these loafers in a 10?” That is it.

OK, not a lot of sympathy here. Maybe he should spend an afternoon shopping with his paternal grandmother. It would be “Talking with Store Help Boot Camp.” Anyone that knows my mother has a knowing grin at this point. If you don’t know her, that’s too bad. She is a wonderful person. If you would like to meet her, just become a cashier somewhere in southern California. She’ll find you, especially if you wear an “I Love Simi” pin.

Shortly after returning from my two years in Argentina, Mom and I went to Ross for some much-needed clothes. (Bright orange Britannica shirts had gone out of style.) While we were shopping, we happened to pass by the underwear section. You know, I could probably use some briefs and given a choice, I would just as soon not discuss it with Mom. I grabbed a three-pack, quickly checked the waistband size and dropped them into the cart, unnoticed.

We were buying a lot of clothes and socks and everything. While waiting in line my “cute girl” alarm started sounding. The cashier was named Tiffany and she was beautiful. Granted, at this time in my life after not dating for two years the bar was pretty low (female, age 17-22, has hair) but still. Ross checker was cute! When we started unloading our things onto the counter I gave her a flirtatious look. Never mind that I was there clothes shopping with my mommy, I was 21 and on the prowl! Unfortunately, this prowl came to a screeching halt.

“What is this?!” Mom asked, holding up the Fruit-of-the Loom value pack. I told her it was underwear. Right answer, wrong question. She tried again, “Who put them in the cart?” OK, since it was just the two of us shopping, and it wasn't her, it was either me or the Ross Underwear Gnome. Please don’t make me say it. Apparently Mom doesn’t read body language well when a few dollars are at stake. “I put them in the cart Mom.” Tiffany was taking it all in.

But it got worse. “Who wears size 32? You’re not a 32 are you?” I gave a pleading look. Please don’t make me answer any more underwear questions. She stood there holding the underwear up. She was waiting. She wanted an answer. She appealed to Tiffany for help. “Do you think he’s a 32?” Surely all Ross cashiers are trained in visual waistband estimation.

Why, oh why didn’t I initiate this conversation back on aisle 4, instead of in front of this discount clothier vixen? Better yet, why didn’t I just play dumb from the start? “Wow, how did those get in there? They’re not even my size! You sure are a terrific elderly shopping assistant!” But I just said, “Yes, Mom, I am a 32.” Defeat. Hey, Tiff, never mind that look from a few minutes ago.

When we left the store like twenty minutes later, Mom had a new friend and name to add to the Christmas card list. I think she promised Tiffany annual updates on my waist size (which is back to 32" I might add.) and they may have even exchanged recipes.

Oh Ryan, you have no idea.