The Perils of Nordstrom

I walked into Nordstom on a resolute quest for boots. I'm looking for something with a heel (at my man's request), but not too tall. Something I can wear with one kid on my hip, one kid holding my hand, and a bottomless Mary Poppins carpet bag on my shoulder. And something with a little flare, i.e. a buckle or two, but not too over the top. No fur, no fringe. Just a sexy but functional mid-heel boot. So basically something that doesn't exist.

But then I spotted them. Mid-heel. Two buckles. Interesting greyish color. Nice height. I must try them on and purchase them and snuggle with them under a blanket by a romantic fire. So I picked up the display boot to check the price on the bottom, but alas. The sticker was missing. I asked the closest salesperson if he knew the price of my new best friends. Without skipping a beat, he replied, "They're three-hundred and ninety-five dollars."

I snorted and almost said, "Pshyeah right!" Then I noticed that he wasn't smiling. "Oh." I said. "Really?"

"Yes," he said. "They're [some uber-fancy brand that I've never heard of]." (Did I imagine his almost pitying look of distain?)

I turned and almost crawled back to the table to replace the boot on its pedestal to await its true owner. Goodbye, fickle friend.