While shopping at the grocery the other day, Steph was given a rude compliment by a smoker (grossish hair, pays more money on cigarettes than clothes, looks like she's from the mid-90's, wrinkles all over her face at the age of 35, scary-dark make-up that ages here twenty more years to 55) about her purse. It sparkles like a disco ball hanging around her arm. A little light goes a long way, and it looks like you're ready to booze it up at Studio 54.
We were looking at reduced-priced baked goods, deciding on what rolls to get when:
"I like your purse," flew out of the woman's mouth, along with a bitter wiff of stale smoke smell.
I heard her, but the compliment wasn't for my purse. Mine's an orange suede. I mean, it's likeable, but not totally compliment worthy.
Steph didn't hear the smoker's raspy compliment, so she stopped right in front of the cheese:
"Hey. Your purse. I like it," she said rudely. Steph smiled and thanked her for the compliment.
And then...the couple started to follow us.
We saw them in a couple other parts of the store, but the worst was when we were checking out. The Rude Complimentor was in the check-out right next to us and she asked the awkward question:
"Are you two related?"
"No," Steph said. "We're married."
"Oh, you look like brother and sister," and then, "I've heard when people are married for a while they begin to look alike."
"I've heard that," Steph said, being polite.
Then I said (in my head), "Are you a smoker? You're face is all wrinkley and old-looking, like you're a smoker!"
We walked away, carrying our groceries and muttering under our breath, "we do not look alike."
Once we finished packing the trunk with our goodies, the glaring January sun screaming into my pupils, I could've sworn I saw the same woman packing up her car right in front of us. What was the deal? Leave. Me. Alone.
Then we noticed, in a giant cloud of smoke, the actual couple leaving the store.
Whew. Although, it would've been funny if they had parked right in front of us.