I stood in the cotton ball aisle and debated the merits of name brand and store brand products. If both were 100% cotton, did it really matter?

In the midst of my analysis, I became aware of the second calling of "Ma'am!"

Ma'am?

Black leather jacket, black purse, black dress pants and black dress shoes...but ma'am?

I turned to her.

"What kind of make-up would you recommend?"

Say what? She was, ironically, standing in front of my favorite brand. I pointed to what I use and said I mostly like it.

"Does it look good?" she asked.

You tell me; you're a foot away from my face!

I told her I plan to get more of the same when it comes time to reload. I pointed out the powder I use. She then asked how to match skin tones.

Are you serious? I'm the one who's done this to other strangers in store aisles. What made her think I had any credentials? We matched the tube to the back of her hand, but she didn't seem eager to leave.

Ask her to church.

Don't want to!

Ask her to church.

She'll think I'm a freak! Somebody who's accosted her in a public discount center...

She talked to you...

And we have this Easter production coming up...perfect, less-threatening intro... But I couldn't just launch in.

"Are you from around here?" I asked.

She nodded and told me about a little town down the road. "But I work here."

"Where do you work?" Seemed like a logical question, though possibly a bit forward for two strangers.

She told me, and I smiled. "Do you know B?" I asked. He's a friend, the husband of one of my most trusted friends, and my boss as well through a freelance web design project that supports the business my new stranger-friend works at. B and I also go to the same church.

She said she hadn't met him yet, but that gave me the "church" connection. I blathered on about how if she didn't have a church, she should check out this Easter thing we're having. It's a good way to get your foot in the door without necessarily getting committed to something until you're sure about it.

And she didn't walk away.

Didn't make up an excuse and run. Even when her five-year-old son threw the container of makeup out of her cart, she stayed engaged.

"I haven't been going much lately, and I need to. I went all the time when I was pregnant, but now my boyfriend doesn't go, and... I've gone to this other church a few times, but it's all old people, and they look at me like, 'Why doesn't she raise her kid better?' I'm a single mom, and I just need to get to church..."

I'm really protective of my time and my phone number, but I asked if she had a cell phone and I gave her my number. "Call me," I said, "if you're interested in going some morning. And they've got lots of stuff for little people."

My time... My phone number...

I've been reading in Second Peter lately, and my M.O. is to read the same passages until I "get" something. I read the same passage a lot of mornings in a row.

II Peter 1: 6-8
"Next, learn to put aside your own desires so that you will become patient and godly, gladly letting God have his way with you. This will make possible the next step, which is for you to enjoy other people and to like them, and finally you will grow to love them deeply. The more you go on in this way, the more you will grow strong spiritually and become fruitful and useful to our Lord Jesus Christ."

I think I can go on to verse nine tomorrow morning.

Drifting Along

In these days of -40 windchills and such, it's nice to daydream in thaw-time.

I'm in my kayak and floating, being pushed along by the current. It's dusk. Stars are out and reflecting on the water. Sunset's on the other side of the sky, and the shore slides past beside me. The only thing marring the perfection is wondering if I'll have to paddle my way back.

But while I float, oh my, is it nice...

I'm 5'1", and she's a head shorter than I am. Little, spunky sixth grader with long lashes that radiate from eyes of vivid blue. "I hate my eyes," she pouts, but she's adorable.

Each time my back is turned, she writes on my whiteboard. One day, it was "Dear Ms. [Goalie], you are the BEST teacher eva! That's why I love you!" This week, she just hung by my desk whenever there was free time in class.

I stayed late after work today, and she came bursting in my door with a friend. They wrote on my board and acted like children...until she perched on a table and looked at me intently.

"Can I ask you a question? I need your advice on something. My mom goes to the bars, and I don't like that. So we made this deal--that she'd only go one night a week. But when I'm gone, I know she goes then. So how do I get her to stop going? I've told her I don't like it, and I've written her notes. I tell her good things, but then when she reads 'bar,' she rips it up and throws it away. She spends all this time with her boyfriend and puts him on her calendar, but she never has time for us."

How, child, do I tell you how angry I am toward this woman you love? How do I tell you you're right without spitting out how wrong she is?

"I gave her a Valentine's present, and she didn't even say 'Thank you.' It was this fluffy white dog with a red collar that said 'I love you,' and she just took it and nodded and put it in her room. She didn't even say 'Thank you...'"

I had nothing to say, and was struck by the realization that I had almost shooed the girls out because I had "work" to get done. A sigh of relief that I had not done so.

"I'll pray, okay?"

She looked at me in a confused sort of way as her friend pulled her out the door to their awaiting ride.

And I will. I don't know in what way, but I will.

She's an eighth grader; he's a high school junior. She rides piggyback through the gym; they kiss in the hall. Peer pressure is ineffective for him; he's never been liked anyway. Her friend's little sister tells me, "He only likes her 'cause she's got big...boobs!" Whisper and giggle. I grimace.

The principal's involved, the counselor too. High school and middle school teachers alike separate the duo in our K-12 school on the prairie.

I had bus duty last week and watched them walk out of the building together. Arms around each other, they stepped behind the last bus in line, embraced passionately, and engaged in a little liplock. They turned to look at me. "We're off school grounds!" she yelled. I shook my head. They kissed again, then parted--she to her bus and him to the high school parking lot.

On Wednesday came legal action of a sort. I'm not sure what brought it about, since the girl's mother had previously treated the boy like a member of the family.

I had bus duty again yesterday and saw the girl walk out of the building toward the big yellow lineup. She pulled out her phone and stopped.

"Where are you? ... In front of the busses. ... Yeah."

She turned to a little kid. "Tell the driver I'm not riding today."

A tinted-window, blue four-door with duct tape covering a rear window pulled up. She hopped into the backseat and slammed the door. Parked at the apex of a T-intersection in front of the elementary wing, the driver reversed into traffic and across the crosswalk, then drove the wrong way until he could merge back into the right lane. I assume it wasn't the girl's mother. I hope not.

I told the principal and the counselor and trust that things are in their capable hands. Then I sighed. It takes an entire school system to raise someone else's child.

Just a few pieces of white paper with Courier-style font. "Durable Power of Attorney..."

I'm an only child. I know that my parents will eventually be gone. And I joked with Dad through it as we talked about my responsibilities and benefits when my parents have both passed away. (He does not want balloons at his funeral. He said he wanted it to be a celebratory event, but...)

It was okay for a while. Then I had to get out of there.

When I was little, I panicked if I didn't say goodbye to my dad before he left for work. I ran to the bathroom window (open a crack even in the winter to let steam out--in the days before ceiling exhausts) and called out to him. If the old, wooden window frame was stuck, I banged on the glass until he turned. I signed out "I love you," and he nodded, waved, and continued on his way.

Always a fear of "what if." What if I didn't do it right? What if I didn't say goodbye? What if I disappointed him? What if...that was it?

Tonight, we made flippant comments about casket choices (not really going to care at that point!) and more pointed ones about my parents being buried in the cemetery where dad's parents are buried.

And that took me back to a tiny, two-stopsign town in Minnesota. A cemetery on a rise just a cornfield away from the church. Grandpa. Grandma.

Mom left Grandma's viewing before its official end, and Dad and I were the last ones left in the room. I'd avoided her until that point, but he was standing there. I slid my arm through his and he put his arm around me. And we stood there. Trying to be Norwegian about it, but running out of tissues anyway.

"You know, this is pretty special," Dad said, carefully controlling his voice. "Tomorrow, there will be people all around. This is pretty much the last time...the last time to say goodbye."

So maybe that's why I'm running out of tissues now? Wondering...who will be there with me?

Finding My Clownfish

Once I got over feeling like a prostitute, it started to be fun. After wading for years in kiddie pools, I set foot in the ocean and found [gasp] other fish!

While I'm pleased to report findings of perch, snappers and mackerel, there have also been a few carp. Here are my (least) favorites:

• A, who said he wants his woman to have long hair and no makeup, and wear skirts--because that's how he believes things originally were. In his leisure time, he likes to play Nintendo.
• B, who says he is not a virgin...but will not consider anyone who is not one.
• C, whose "Must Haves" included "I must have someone who is mature and experienced as a potential sexual partner and is able to express himself/herself freely."
• D, who had fantastic potential until I actually heard him on the phone. Think "Mr. Rogers trying to seduce you."

Still looking for Nemo.

PS: For those wondering, this is my version of Xeno's saga.