Wherein my name is Leslie

When The Banker and I returned to the middle of the country from the really big city, our house was still inhabited by a very nice couple and their new offspring. It would be several months before this lovely family's lease was up so we could kick them to the curb. Into the cold. With an infant.

So during this time, The Banker and I moved in with his parents. That's right--several months living in the moldy, windowless basement of my in-laws. Apparently in a past life I was a very, very naughty girl and was due some terrible comeuppance. Many things stress a marriage, and while I've been fortunate enough to have been spared many of these experiences, I would strongly argue living with your in-laws should be in the top ten somewhere.

My in-laws are really wonderful people. Really. We just fail to see eye-to-eye on almost any subject. Politics, sexual orientation, foreign countries, sexism, racism, a woman's role in the household, and religion are not safe subjects.

But I digress. There's plenty of time to tell those tales. Today's story is about my secret identity.

The Banker and I lacked a kitchen in this basement, so as we silently slipped out the door in the mornings to head off to work, we'd often stop by at the only local coffee shop--Starbucks. We would revel in a full five minutes of peace and caffeine, which was very often the only revelry taking place in that given 24-hour period.

Since we became almost-regulars, some of the staff would greet us by name, and in the case of my husband, with his order. The most astute staff member became very talented and this game of recall...with The Banker. I seemed more problematic to her. One day, she greeted me cheerfully, "Good morning, Leslie!" I smiled, quietly corrected her, she apologized, we laughed politely over the mistake, and moved on...to the next day, where she again called me Leslie.

This scenario repeated itself for several more days, but my corrections were to no avail. Clearly, to this girl I was Leslie, and nothing else would do. So to save us both embarrassment and exhaustion, I began to let her call me Leslie. The Banker would snigger into his steaming mocha, and I would respond that it's just easier this way. After all, in a matter of weeks--God praying--we'd be out of his parents' house and out of the vicinity of this Starbucks. Problem solved, no feelings hurt.

With painful, lurching crawls, time did pass, and we prepared to move into our newly vacant home. We went for one last stop at Starbucks, smiled warmly as The Banker and Leslie were welcomed, and said our farewells. I was content: My secret identity would now become a joke between the Banker and me. He'd travel to the new local coffee shop and have the staff write "Leslie" on my order. We'd laugh, sip our soothing warm salve, and enjoy our house.

It was three weeks later when I was at work, on deadline, and dragging. The three o'clock hour had come, and like clockwork, I'd hit a wall. It was time for a serious pick-me-up. So, a few of us editors drug ourselves to the new Starbucks down the street. And as I walk through the door I hear, "Oh my Gosh!! Hi Leslie!! You're my first regular I've seen since I was transferred up here a few weeks ago..."

Needless to say, I was thrilled this birthday to receive a cappuccino maker. Farewell my dear Leslie!