how to sell jeans. . .eventually

So, I know I promised this a few, um, days weeks ago, so here goes for anyone still hanging around. . .

Background: Kevin was working in Shreveport. I went to visit, and Kev encouraged me to go shopping. . .My first stop was Cavendar's Western Wear, where I planned to purchase a pair of boots (I last purchased boots when I was 15. . .), a pair of jeans, and maybe a nice shirt to wear out that night.

The Cavendar's employee approached me just as I managed to knock over a display of boots. (Oh, yes I did!) The employee shall henceforth be referred to as CG (Cavendar's Girl). CG asked if I needed any help. Considering the last time I purchased boots and jeans, I was essentially a small person lighter, I thought another opinion might be helpful. After picking up the boot boxes and deciding on a pair to buy, CG asked what size jeans I wear. I answered xy.*

Her response?

"Oh, I don't think so. You don't look like an xy to me. You look smaller."

Although I appreciated her improvement as to my physical size and shape, I assured her I was, in fact, an xy. . .

so she brought me a size xu to try on. . .

and I couldn't get it past my knees.

She tried again with a size xx,

which was, of course, too small.

So, she finally returned with a size xy,

which was also too small. . .

To which she responded,

"OK, now you're my personal mission, and I will find you a pair of jeans that fits!"

And she did. . .

after approximately 45 minutes and untold pairs of jeans. I'm extremely satisfied with the fit of the jeans she sold me, and you can't argue with the personalized service; however, when a pleasantly plump woman announces she's a size xy, you should never, ever doubt that she's at least that size. . .

*and you're crazy if you think I would allow my size to be posted on the internet. . . : )

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Alternately Titled: A Day from H*LL OR The Worst Day Ever

The day before Valentine’s Day is rough if you’re single or, in my case, just unable to be with your spouse. I knew it would be emotionally challenging, but I was doing my best to make it a good day for the kids. I had already given them the small gifts from Kev and me. After surviving theblizzards that wouldn’t end, Kady’s plague of pneumonia, and several days at my parents’ house, we arrived home to bare cupboards—eating stale popcorn and scraping the sides of the peanut butter jar type of bare cupboards.

We took off to the “big city” of Fayetteville to get our groceries. The Fayetteville Wal-Mart ended up being our destination, despite some objections on my part (it’s right beside the mall and most restaurants—almost insuring traffic issues on the Saturday night before Valentine’s Day).

Sure enough, it was BUSY. The check-out lines were 5 deep when we walked through the door, but have you ever tried to drag children out of a Wal-Mart before they’ve had a chance to look? I’m sure it’s DHS-call worthy, or at least the sounds they would make would appear that way. We stayed. I decided to suck it up and bite the bullet and just do it and all those other cliché things people say when the situation pretty well stinks, but you don’t have a choice. . .

Almost immediately, Kady began cheering. Loudly.

“GO RAZORBACKS! I LOVE TO CHEER—GO RAZORBACKS!”

It was cute for a second. I mean, at least she wasn’t cheering “Roll Tide” or something truly embarrassing. However, I reminded her that she was inside, and she must use her inside voice. . .To which she replied. . .

“I IS A CHEERLEADER AND THIS IS HOW CHEERLEADERS TALK—GO RAZORBACKS!”

It’s amazing how quickly you can grocery shop that way.

As we were leaving, Kady apparently thought she saw her daddy, despite the fact that he’s 8 hours away. She was loudly yelling, “DADDY, DADDY WAIT! WAIT, DADDY!!!” I was never quite sure which one she thought looked like Kev, but I can say there were a few men I’d never seen before making a speedy get away. . .

After slowly (due to VDay traffic/auto accidents) making our way in the general direction of home, I called a single with no-children, teacher friend of mine, who is often intrigued/appalled at the misadventures my hooligans get me into. As I was talking to her, chaos suddenly ensued, and I found myself saying something I never dreamed I would say. . .

“I’M GOING TO HAVE TO CALL YOU BACK. I JUST GOT HIT BY A SWEET AND SOUR SOAKED CHICKEN NUGGET.”

My daughter had attempted to throw a chicken nugget at her brother and missed. The sticky, poultry ball had ricocheted off my jacket, rolled down the arm, and bounced in my lap.

I can assure you that we are not in the regular habit of throwing food. My theory? Apparently, when one recovers from pneumonia, one finds themselves with an overabundance of energy and the need to throw food towards one’s sibling. . .What can I say, it’s the best answer I’ve come up with.

Anyway, as you can imagine, we immediately began discussing disciplinary actions that would occur as soon as we were home. Kady began crying. She announced that if I tried to discipline her, she would throw me in with the frogs. Yep. I checked it twice, because I thought I might not have understood. If I tried to discipline her, SHE WOULD THROW ME IN WITH THE FROGS. . .I managed not to laugh, but it was one of those parenting moments when you can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, yell, or just give up and completely LOSE IT. . .

And, just when you thought I survived (without getting thrown to the frogs), I arrived home to find that I had washed a pull-up in the washing machine. . .So, how was your Valentine’s Day?

I tangled with the blue monster. . .

and the blue monster won.

I live smack dab in the middle of the land of the blue monster. When I say blue monster, I am referring to that great big discount store that ends in "mart" and does not begin with a K. I am not a big fan of the blue monster. He and I have tangled before. Unfortunately, this is THE land of the blue monster, and there are very few alternatives--especially if your two nearest towns have less than 3,000 people.

The blue monster was beckoning at lunch time. It was calling for me to get a loaf of bread (or maybe that part was my husband calling to ask me to pick up a loaf of bread. . .details, details. . .) Somehow my fall tote that usually contains all Halloween and fall decorations has went missing. It's purple. It has my name on it. If you see it, please call 1-800-RACH-NEEDSME. I halfway remember this conversation where Kevin asks to borrow it. . .He does not.

I detoured by the conveniently located storage bins at the blue monster. The blue monster knows that normal people are taking down Christmas decorations now and looking for a better way to stow everything, so he's relocated this part to the front of the store. (My Christmas decorations are still up and will be till well after the first--don't judge!!) It was so easy. I found the one I wanted.

Oh, wait--THIS one. It's clear. I could SO see what I've got in it. . .

I grabbed the matching lid. It was easy. The lid was right above the tote. My biggest dilemma was. . .red or green? Hmm.

I have a serious love of the self check-out. It's fast. It's easy. And I'm all about both. Oh, wait. That was not how that was supposed to come out. . . I used the self check-out, and as I bent down to get my purchases, I noticed the lid did not fit right.

Hmm, that's odd. I'll ask the customer service/check-out policewoman right there.

"Ma'am, it doesn't matter. You've already paid for it. It's yours. Besides, it wouldn't close if it wasn't the right one."

Well. That clears that up. And y'all know I have issues with confrontation. . . .so. . .is anyone interested in a $12.00 tote that has a slightly ill-fitting lid? I'll make you a good deal on it.

BEWARE! The blue monster is not about customer service. He does not tell you that you are entering into a binding commitment when you purchase a tote. He does not care, and he does not play nice.