First: had my last stint of being an anchor this week. (April 6). Not too bad of a show, and I got to experience my first riot AND do a story from the White House.

And now the goods…
Ok, so if you know me, you know that I have a little knowledge about shoes. Well, make that more than is practically necessary for a human being to function in everyday life. So when a customer begins to question whether I know what I’m doing, I get slightly peeved at that and wish I could go Jack Bauer on them and chokeslam them into the floor, followed by pressing a gun to their head and demanding to know where the nerve gas is….or something like that…

So on Saturday I’m helping this one woman with shoes. I’m in the middle of a conversation with her when an older gentleman walks up and just starts talking to me. He says he has “the New Balance, umm, 700 something” and wants a new pair. Normally, this is not a hard situation. A few questions from me and I can figure out which one of the 10 different “700 something” models they might have, and thus what has replaced it. (Since most often these are older people who keep the same shoes for 10 years and don’t understand that they change every year).

I ask him ONE question, the natural first one of “do you know what kind of shoe it is?” There are only so many answers to this question, and the answer is the easiest way to help him get what he wants–remember, he came into the store looking for help.

Not only does he refuse to answer my question, he immediately asks if I’m familiar with the numbers of the shoes. I can’t finish my reply to his question before he asks where the manager is. Knowing that he doesn’t like to listen to my responses, I simply point to the manager, who was sitting on the floor on the other side of the store helping a customer. The man looks at her, looks back at me, then walks out of the store.

Once I finish grad school and have some free time, I’m totally writing a book about my experience selling shoes. Too. Freaking. Bizarre.