The Dress Barn Drama

This week I visited my lovely friend, Josie, and her family at their home in the burbs of Cleveland. We, as always, had a fantastic time together, which especially impressive to me because Josie has two children, aged 3 and 15 months. It takes a special friend to be as much fun as mom of two pre-schoolers as she was married without kids and even single.

In any case, Josie is always gracious to take me around to all the stores that they have in the burbs but not in Ada. My favorite is Lane Bryant, and at the LB near Josie there's a Dress Barn next door.

If there is a Dress Barn in the greater Lima region, I am unaware of it, but in any case my first impression when I saw this store was incredulity.

[editor's note: Leslie would like all her readers to know that she spelled "incredulity" correctly the first time. Feel free to be impressed.]

What marketing genius decided to name a womens clothing store "Dress Barn"? It's like naming a sandwich place "Roly Poly". There are some images that shouldn't come to mind when a potential customer looks at your company's name. One of those things would be barns.

Thoughts of "big as a barn" and "broad side of a barn" come to mind; not exactly complimentary. But whatever; last summer I had good luck at a Dress Barn in Minnesota; I'll give it a whirl (my trip to Lane Bryant having been a big disappointment, I was eager to redeem the shopping trip). Among other potential purchases, I grabbed three jackets off the clearance rack [GOD BLESS AMERICA'S OBSESSION WITH SALES!] and headed for the dressing room.

Thirty minutes later, Josie patiently and dutifully giving her opinion on each item, I had narrowed it down to two dress shirts and two jackets, from which I needed to choose one. I've been wearing the same black jacket for the past...maybe 8 years? So a jacket decision seemed important at the time.

One jacket was a short, khaki-colored trench coat. The other was black pleather. Neither coat was a normal style for me, but I liked both of them. Then we noticed some black gunk on the trench coat. We debated whether the marks would come out. Then we contemplated the potential difficultly of keeping the light-colored coat clean.

[note: I bet if you're a man, you're really glad you weren't present at this shopping trip about now]

Finally I decided against the trench coat. This left me with the decision of whether or not I was going to dive into the world of pleather clothing. Perhaps I was a bit low on protein, because the decision seemed pretty significant at the time.

In the midst of the dilemma, Josie and I had moved back to the clearance rack and there we loitered as I struggled to be decisive.

Enter Crazy Pushy Lady. She, too, was looking through the clearance rack. About 60, with gray-colored-blond hair, she pawed through the options, chatting with us as if she knew us.

[note: I keep being surprised at how often that happens here. Complete strangers will talk to each other in stores sometimes. That NEVER happens to me in Quito]

After a bit of looking, she focuses in on the pleather coat section. She tries on a couple, and remarks that the one I have must be the last one in our size, and that the other, similar black pleather jacket offered doesn't fit her as well. Josie and I are polite and say something non-committal, like, "Oh, yeah?" and go back to our own decision. A minute or so later, the woman points out another rack with more black pleather jackets. At this point Josie looks at me significantly, saying with her eyes, "Wow, this woman's a bit pushy, no?" I smile; we obligingly look at the other jackets, which I do not like. We come back and the woman asks about what we found. I say they're different and I don't really like them. She finally just comes out and says it: "I want that jacket!" She's pretending she's joking, but we all know she's not joking; she is, rather, trying to do this impolite thing politely.

I finally decide to buy the jacket I have. I'm not gonna lie: this woman's pushiness may....possibly...have influenced my decision. A skoshe. Maybe.

We head up to the cashier (Josie, not doubt breathing a discreet sigh of relief) and get up there in time to hear Crazy Pushy Lady loudly telling the cashier that she wants them to call the other Dress Barns in the area to ask them to send another of the jackets to this store. She reiterates for all of us to hear, "This one doesn't fit the same. The other one is better. It's just too bad; if I'd have come in just ONE MINUTE earlier!" blah, blah, blah. The cashiers inform her that another store can't send one because it's clearance. Crazy Pushy Lady retorts emphatically that she's drive to the other store!! It's THAT important!

I put my purchases on the counter to be rung up and Crazy Pushy Lady asks if she can just try on the jacket, just to make sure. At this point, I'm starting to get a little perturbed. I want to say, "Woman, get over yourself." Instead, I hand over the jacket.

I sneak a peek at Josie, on my other side. By now, she's rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief. My sentiments exactly. We finally pay and escape Crazy Pushy Lady and flee into the cool darkness of the Cleveland-suburb night. As we walk back to the car, we discuss the obnoxiousness of Crazy Pushy Lady. Josie comments that she's glad I bought the jacket just because she didn't want Crazy Pushy Lady to get it. I laughed and said it reminded me of dealing with a student who's clearly always been able to get his way at home if he nags his parents enough. Welcome to your new reality, friends! I teach middle school. If I could be worn down by persistent whining, it would have happened by now.

Poor Crazy Pushy Lady. She didn't stand a chance. And besides, the jacket looked better on me anyway. :)

Unconditional Love

Wednesday night was the annual 8th Grade Blast-Off. Blast-off is a sort of un-official graduation ceremony, but instead of the school running it, the principal starts it, and the rest of the evening is spent watching parents go up on stage with their kids. They sit in the three chairs provided, and the child must listen without speaking, while the parents tell their kid whatever it is they want him or her to know. Mostly it's about why the child makes the parent proud; what the parent loves about the child; and what the parent hopes, dreams, wishes for the child's future.

Since this is my blog, and on it I'm in the habit of being honest, even when it makes me look bad, I will openly admit that I was NOT looking forward to this evening. I expected to spend a couple hours listening to proud parents gush about how wonderful their kids are, when I know very well that little Bobby is, in fact, NOT an angel, or little Susie has really got her parents fooled.

And to some extent, it was that. But mostly, it wasn't.

Several things really surprised me. The first is that several of our biggest behavioral problem-kids cried. In front of the whole 8th grade and their parents. When you're a 14-year-old boy, you'd rather have your eye gouged out than cry in front of your friends. But there they sat, many kids looking like they were braced for the electric chair, waiting to hear what their parents had to say, and as they heard it, many had tears rolling down their cheeks. Like me.

For some of the kids, it was like watching a miracle happen. Just the body language was astonishing. From stiff and cold, braced for this time of torture....a slow melting...postures relaxed, faces reddened, sometimes tears.

I found myself wondering what the kids were thinking. Many of them have very wealthy parents; they're basically raising themselves, monitored to some extent by a maid or housekeeper. When I ask for prayer requests in my classes, it's rare to have a day when someone doesn't ask for pray for a parent who's traveling internationally, often for weeks or even months at a time.

And even for the kids who have great parents, how often do they hear words like these? How often do any of us hear them? Precious, sincere expressions of love and thankfulness. Drops of honey, falling from parents' lips onto the starved lives of their children. Water in the desert.

We love you so much.

We are so thankful that God gave you to us.

We love your smile; your kind spirit; your hard work at school; your awesome talent for tennis, your unique sense of style; your dedication to skateboarding; your kindness toward your little sister; your innocence; your perseverance; your honesty; your humor.

Thank you for letting us be a part of your life.

We pray that you will keep fighting.

We hope that you will be successful.

We desire for you to be a strong man or woman of God.

We know we only have four more years with you, and we already mourn the day you'll leave.

I started thinking. Everyone needs this. Everyone needs someone who thinks you're better than you are. Everyone needs SOMEONE in their life who views them through such deep love that the realities get distorted. Such deep love that no matter what, you are the best to them. No one does THAT as well as you. No one thinks or sings or creates or writes or explains or plays or whatever....not as well as you.

You are the best to me. You couldn't possibly be more important to me. I couldn't possibly love you any more than I already do. No matter what. No matter when, or where. Or what you mess up. Or how many times you hurt me.

I. Love. You.

And as I sat there, working my way through several tissues, my butt and heart getting sore, my Father quietly whispered to my heart.

Leslie, I love you like that. Better than that, in fact. I love you the best. The most. No matter what. Even though you hurt me. Even though you're imperfect. I couldn't possibly love you more than I already do. You are my child. I made you like you are, on purpose. You're not too much. You're not not enough. You're exactly the way I want you to be. And I. Love. You.

Wow.

Cleaning Out the Fridge

Sunday night I sat down to watch a little tv, and realized that more than half of my cable stations were locked out. Weird. Sadly, I had left my cell phone with a friend the afternoon before, so I had no way to contact TV Cable and remedy the situation. Instead I watched a movie.

Monday morning during my first prep period, I spent about 3 minutes on my cell phone (just retrieved from said friend) figuring out (in Spanish) that I had to be sitting in front of my tv in order for the friendly TV Cable lady to determine whether my problemo was fixable over the phone or not.

This afternoon I plopped down on my couch with my twanger (aka, remote control for the less interesting folk out there), my cell phone, and my TV Cable bureaucratic nonsense papers and called again.

This time I spent about 10 minutes helping the friendly TV Cable lady determine that my problem was, in fact, not fixable over the phone. She assured me that someone will be at my house to figure it out tomorrow between 5:30 and 8pm. I am not holding my breath.

But this post is entitled "Cleaning Out the Fridge" and not on accident. Because of this newly freed-up evening time, I have changed the light bulb in my spare room, washed all the dishes, made a big pot of chili, and, perhaps most interestingly, cleaned out my refrigerator.

I live alone and have a rather small fridge. Usually I do a pretty good job of keeping it within what I consider reasonable bounds of cleanliness [editor's note: she means the fridge doesn't smell bad and there are still one or two empty Tupperware containers in the cabinet at any given time]. However, somehow things got a little out of hand this time around, and this evening I found myself cleaning out a few doosies in the realm of rotting food.

I hate cleaning out the fridge as much as the next guy, but tonight as I scraped and sloshed my sad little past-expiration cooking experiments into the trash bag, the humor of the situation struck me. I kept thinking funny things in my head. But it's no fun to think funny things alone. And Marsha (the resident hamster) is very non-responsive about this sort of thing. I was inspired to make a list.

And so, without further ado (as if ado could go much further than seven introductory paragraphs), here's a list of things you don't want to hear (or think) while cleaning out your fridge:

-Hmm, I don't remember making that...

-Wow, I've never seen mold like that before!

-I wonder what THAT was?

-Look at all those pretty colors!!

-Do you think the dog will eat that?

-If I pass out from the fumes, I wonder if there'll be permanent brain damage?

-Whose tupperware is this? I don't remember it...?

-I think it was a different season when I made that.

-Hey, check out this mold! It's like little trees!

-Who knew that broccoli could be a solid OR a liquid?!

I hope the cable guy comes tomorrow.

I Don't Have Children

So last night I watched two little boys for some friends of mine. Anyone who has known me since mid-high school may remember that I don't particularly like to babysit. I make exception for infants. But they're so easy that I feel like they shouldn't count.

Anyway, Ben and Mari were going out of town for a Happy Mother's Day/Happy Birthday Ben/Happy Anniversary getaway and asked for people to tag-team babysit their two boys (Ethan, 6 years old and Aiden, 3). It seemed like a worthy cause, so my shift was Friday night from 7:30-Saturday morning at 8:30.

-7:30pm: Dave (he and Beth had the shift before me) picks me up with the boys and takes us to the boys' house. The car smells funny. I find out that Aiden has wet his pants. I consider how much easier it will be to clean up the child than the child's car seat, and feel moderately thankful to be me instead of Dave.

-8:00pm: Pj'd, potty'd, and tooth-brushed, the boys sit on either side of me on the bedroom floor. They've each chosen one book to read before bed. Ethan's book is about different kinds of trucks, and as we look at a page with a picture of a huge excavation truck, Aiden asks in his cute baby-voice, "Is that his mouf?" (in reference to the big scoop on the front of the truck, which, admittedly, looks like a mouth) Ethan informs him in an important, big-brother voice, "No, it's not a mouf, 'cause it's not an aminal. Only aminals have moufs."

-9:00pm: boys are sleeping and I pop some microwave popcorn and pour some Coke Zero to enjoy while I watch Pride and Prejudice (the new one, which is better than the BBC version no matter what you loyal BBC-ers say). "Home free!" I think. Note the title of the post. I didn't know any better at the time...

-10:00pm: Ethan gets up, goes to the bathroom, and returns to bed, all without talking to me. I am encouraged, having been warned by Ben that either or both of the boys could wet the bed.

-12:27am: I am awakened from a dead sleep by the sound of a child calling out my name. Sortof. ("Lezy") I grab my glasses and stumble into the boys' bedroom. "What's wrong, Ethan?" "I haf to go potty." I look askanced at this child. Did he really wake me up to inform me of a need which I had personally seen him take care of himself? Ethan looked innocently back at me with bleary eyes. Yes, it seemed he had. "Ok, get up and go," I calmly replied.

-2:02am: I am awakened from a dead sleep by the sound of a child crying right next to me. Aiden is standing next to the bed, crying, and saying, "Mommy!" in the most pitiful voice I've ever heard. In my half-alseep state, I pick him up and cuddle him next to me, where Aiden immediately stops crying and I immediately begin to fall back asleep. About 20 seconds later, I begin to feel something wet and warm soaking into my pj-sleeve. My eyes pop open and I glare accusingly at Aiden, who is almost asleep again. "Aiden," I ask in my nicest baby-sitter voice, "did you wet your bed?" "Uh-huh," responds the half-alseep three-year-old.

-2:04am: I reluctantly leave the warm bed, again, dig out clean jammy-bottoms and underwear for Aiden, and change him. Then I go to investigate the bed situation. Happily, the wet spot is all the way at the head of the bed (??), so I move the pillow and blanket to the foot of the bed and Aiden happily climbs in and falls asleep. I watch him for a moment, wondering if I've just broken some good parenting rule about not letting a kid sleep in a peed-in bed, even if there's no contact with the wet spot. Then I return to bed.

-4:09am: I am awakened from a dead sleep by the sound of a child calling out my name. Glasses; stumble; ask. "A noise woke me up," was the sleepy answers. Me, too, I thought. "I think it was you, yelling for me," I replied. "It's too early to be awake. Go back to sleep, ok? I'll see you in the morning." Ethan smiles, says ok, and promptly returns to sleep.

-6:28am: I am awakened from a light sleep by the sound of a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old "whispering quietly" to each other. I groan, roll over, and pretend not to think about all the possible mischief they could be getting into.

-6:45am: The whispering tapers off, setting off alarm bells in my mind. Must be some sort of instinctual reaction. I reach for my glasses and roll over to see two small boys in the doorway, looking at me expectantly. The day has begun.

-6:56am: Ethan and Aiden watch in silent awe as I show them my contact lenses. I finish getting ready and we strip the wet beds (including mine, since Aiden so kindly shared his pee), start a load of laundry, and go in search of breakfast.

-7:49am: Breakfast is finished and we've retired to the toy room, where Ethan is playing with his cars, and I am reading a book to Aiden, wondering how early of a morning nap I might be able to pull off. In the middle of Simba's adventures on the African savanah, Aiden turns to me and says, "I'm want to hug you," and proceeds to give me a precious little 3-year-old hug. I hug him back and decide that all in all, the babysitting wasn't so bad, after all.