So. I had an interesting extra-passive conversation this afternoon. My pitiful feet insisted on getting some much needed attention, who am I to refuse? Off to the nail salon.
Once I was settled and my tootsies submerged I realized I was stuck. There was no way my book was going to be read. I had been placed next to Chatty Mom 1 and 2. Sigh.
You know the ones, the ones that would talk to a barn door. About personal stuff. Loudly. Sigh.
They were engaged, loudly, in a discussion about their children, their husbands, their estranged, dysfunctional families. And they just met. Sigh.
One thread of their ranting was about what their young daughters wanted to wear out and about. How they argued with them about what was appropriate, etc. and on and on. I'll spare you the details. If I hadn't already made some assumptions about them, they would have been made anyway once Chatty Mom 1 and 2 got up to leave, you know after talking about what their daughters should and should not wear. Ahem.
Chatty Mom 1 left in her red miniskirt and white eyelet tank top. In October.
Chatty Mom 2 stood up to leave and I may have rolled my eyes, which may or may not have been discreet. You see, Chatty Mom 2 was wearing sweats with words across the behind. Yes. Not just any words either. Are you ready?