I'd Gladly Trade You My Cow For Some Magic Jeans

I absolutely despise shopping for jeans for myself. It's a painstaking venture to say the least. I will literally spend hours upon hours of my time, drive to all surrounding malls, and try on hundreds of pair of jeans before I find just the right pair...and by right pair, I mean that they must be just the right color (dark but not too dark), they can't have blasted out color on the thighs or the bum, no weird whiskering, they need to have a long inseam, little to no stretch at all, and most importantly, they must must absolutely must have magical powers in the back pockets. So you can imagine that when I find that special pair, I buy several pairs at once because if you have ever found a pair of jeans that you loved the way you looked in them, you know all too well that you will not be able to find that exact pair next season.

As it turns out, I thought I would take advantage of the Tax Free Weekend and back to school sales and start my jean search early this year. I have noticed that there is a particular store that sells jeans that seem to look flattering on everyone and it just so happened that this particular store was having a huge sale on their denim. Once I got there, I grabbed 6 pairs all different cuts and headed to the fitting room. I'll confess that this is a store I don't frequent much simply because it has a high ma'am factor. Every employee, including the manager, appeared to be under the legal drinking age, and every single one of those precious tots referred to me as ma'am. "Can I help you ma'am?" "Pardon me, ma'am." Are you finding everything okay, MA'AM?" UGH!! Why don't they just call me "Old Lady" and offer me a wheel chair?! When exactly did I go from being a "Miss" to a "Ma'am?" Maybe that's why I like old men so much (and I don't mean that as creepy as it sounds). They just make me feel young and pretty. They never ever call me ma'am. It's always, "Hey there, kid" or "How are you sweetheart?" Would it really hurt these teenagers to call me sweetheart? I'm just sayin'.

When I got to the fitting room, I was greeted by quite possibly the friendliest 19-year old boy that I have ever met. I bet his official job title is something like Fitting Room Schmoozer, and let me just say, he was very good at his job. He managed to make everyone who crossed that threshold feel welcome and quite possibly even excited about trying on pants...and that's something I haven't felt since I, myself,  was 19. So there I was in my fitting stall eager to be able  to tell my beloved, George, that not only did I find my magic jeans at the first store but I bought 3 pair for the price I normally pay for one (after all, magic jeans don't come cheap in the postpartum years). My Personal Schmoozer had already informed me that these jeans stretch quite a bit so I may want to go down a size. Let me just say I abhor stretchy jeans. When you wear stretchy jeans, you inevitably look as though you need a diaper change and quite frankly, with all the ma'aming I get these days, I don't want sport that look. I tried on a second style that didn't seem as stretchy but alas, they were short, so My Personal Schmoozer found a pair with a longer inseam, and when he brought them to my stall, he said as he did to every other woman in the fitting room, "When you get those on, I'd love to see them on you. I'll give you my honest opinion." Well, the heck that was ever going to happen. I'm fairly certain that I laughed out loud when he said that. Did he really think that I was going to let him see if these jeans had magic in the back pockets?! Upon leaving the fitting room, he asked how I liked them and I told him quite honestly that I am not a fan of stretchy pants to which he replied, "Well, our jeggings don't have a lot of stretch." Jeggings. And so, the search continues.

Sweet Twee

With yet another school year lying in wait ready to ambush my summer and hold my children hostage to their schedules, I find myself reminiscing about my former school days. Oh those were simpler times. How we ever managed to survive without cell phones and thumb drives, I am sure my children will never know. Our  moms were not asked to contribute such luxury items as paper towels, Ziploc bags, Expo markers, hand sanitizer, and reams of copy paper to the classroom community pile. Yes, those were indeed simpler times, and just so you know, back then, 12x18 manila paper actually did grow on trees and was not the endangered species school supply poachers have caused it to become.

A few years ago, my oldest son, Jacob, a sage of a boy in his own right, said to my youngest son, Nathan, who was nervous about starting school, "Enjoy kindergarten! It's so fun! Just know that it's all downhill from there." I wouldn't say it's all downhill from there, but the road does get a little bumpier. I loved kindergarten. My teacher's name was Miss Smajstrla. No lie. I mean really, could she have had a more difficult name for a 5-year old to pronounce...or spell?! With a name like that, who needs vowels?! Impossible name aside, she was the quintessential kindergarten teacher. She was young, beautiful, engaging, and so nurturing. Circle time was magical with the letters of the alphabet coming to life before our very eyes. We all loved Miss Marshmallow, as we called her. She truly set the tone.

Then there was Twee, my first school friend. We always got in line together, ate lunch together, and placed our nap towels next to each other. During nap, we'd whisper secrets to each other while we peeled dried Elmer's glue from that day's craft off each other's fingers until Miss Marshmallow would tell us to be quiet and close our eyes. We were tight like that. One day at the end of lunch, Twee and I were standing in line just after we'd discarded the edible remains of our lunch into the slop can. Apparently, one of the cafeteria ladies was also a pig farmer so she collected all the food scraps to feed to her pigs. Before you ask...no, I did not grow up in the country, but now as I write this, I find myself wondering if the cafeteria lady was truly a pig farmer or if that was our kindergarten urban legend. Anyway, as Twee and I were standing in line patiently waiting for the rest of  our class to join us, Twee's face started to lose it's color and just as she opened her mouth to tell me what I can only assume is that she didn't feel well, her partially digested lunch was projected in my general direction. With lightening quick reflexes, I reacted as only a close friend would. I dropped my Bionic Woman lunch box to the floor and threw out my hands to catch...yes, you read it correctly...to catch Twee's vomit and then I proceeded to tell Miss Marshmallow...and I quote..."I caught most of it!" You can ask me why would I ever do such a vile thing, but I can only theorize, because all these years later (and trust me, I have racked my brain trying to figure this one out), I still am not 100% certain as to what I was thinking. 

Here's what I have decided:

1. I was afraid Twee would have been embarrassed to make such a mess all over the place so I tried to help contain it. 
2. I was concerned that Twee would get in trouble for making such a mess and I wanted to protect her. OR
3. I thought the cafeteria lady would make Twee clean up her mess and I wanted to help my friend, who obviously didn't feel well enough to clean such a big mess.

Regardless of the reason, what it boils down to is that I loved Twee and by golly, I wanted her to know that I had her back. Turns out, she had my back as well. Because she was sick and I had been such a good friend to catch her puke, we both got to go home early that day. 

As the new school year quickly approaches, it's my prayer that my children will not only have the kind of friends who are willing to go above and beyond to help them in their times of need, but that my children will be that kind of  friend as well.