Freedom is Exhausting and Expensive

In a strange, earth-off-its-axis twist of fate, Patti and I both remain "family-less" this week. BOTH of our Latino husbands, took our kids to their homeland to visit family, while BOTH of us remain alone...and free!!!!

This is, you should know, the first time we have BOTH lived alone, ever. We've always lived with parents/roommates/friends/husbands/kids at every point in our lives. SO as you can imagine, it has been quite the experience thus far.

Granted, for me, it's only been two whole days. I woke my weary ass up at 3:30am to drive my family to the airport on Sunday, dropped them off, waved goodbye to ALL of them at once, drove back in a delirious sleep-deprived ugly cry the whole way home, and went back to sleep at 6am clutching an ugly ass doll that my little one handed to me before she left and told me to "Keep her in a safe place." I didn't care what the doll looked like at that point, I just knew what it represented.

But when I awoke from my second sleep cycle in the same night/morning, I had a strange feeling of calm. I tried to feel sad but didn't really. I was actually starting to get excited. I had a busy day planned (I'm sure this had everything to do with my mood) and it was a beautiful day outside (ditto).

Fast forward to today. I am still trying to sort out my feelings. Shouldn't I feel more sad than this? Shouldn't I go sniff the pillows on their bed or the clothes in their drawers to feel closer to them? Shouldn't i sleep on their beds at night? Shouldn't I miss them more? Even now, all alone, the innate motherly guilt finds a way to rear its ugly head into my life. Of course, it's only been two days. I know I would never want to handle something like this for a long period of time. I thought back to how my dad did it when we were little and my mom used to take us to Greece for MONTHS at a time.

But...I am trying to make the most of my selfish, all-about-me, lack of responsibility to others freedom ride I am on right now. How, you ask? By booking as much stuff into these days as possible to keep me occupied. Things I've been wanting to do, (shopping, working out, catching up with friends, random errands), watching shows and movies I've been wanting to watch, redecorating and cleaning out the house without any "WHY are you throwing my (enter meaningless chachki item name here) away???"

However, I am finding that all of this newfound freedom comes with a cost.
Want to go out and shop? Need money. Want to go see a movie? Money. Want to go out for dinner? Money. Want to redecorate the house? Money. Want to meet a friend for drinks? Money. Anything worth doing when you have the chance to do it takes money. OF COURSE i can have friends over or I can go to their house, but that is what we always have to end up doing when we have our kids with us. This is our chance to go OUT, dammit! To dust off our cobwebbed "going out" clothes, strap on our high heels and go OUT in style!

Not to mention, in our heads, the booked itineraries sound completely doable. "Let's do something EVERY night/minute of the day!" Sounds good in theory, but not realistic in practicality. We are just bone tired: from working, working out, assembling beds from IKEA, dinners, shopping, drinks. The good life is EXHAUSTING and EXPENSIVE.

Nonetheless, for now, we are totally enjoying replacing our motherly/spousal chores with ME chores. It's so much more fun being tired and broke putting yourself first than tired and broke putting yourself last.

-Cathy

Everything...And Nothing

It had been a while since YoYo and I had seen our other bestie, Miche (a little nickname we baptized her with.)
We FINALLY got together the other night and proceeded to catch up.
"So, Miche, what have you been up to since we last saw you almost a ridiculous THREE months ago?"
Her response, while rubbing her head: "Oh, let's see. Everything, and nothing."

Which lead me to think about life and what we DO in life. The only thing I could liken it to was the following:

Have you ever observed a swarm of ants attempting to build their anthole?

There are virtually thousands of them, constantly moving, carrying specs of rocks or grains of dirt or sand, back and forth, bumping into each other, going around blockades, all in a seemingly never-ending process. And in the end, they have a nice pile of dirt with a hole in the middle to show, for what I'm sure, to them, feels like years of work.

And that's what we do everyday, folks. Granted our hustling and bustling seems more grandiose and self-important, but when viewed from far away, we are all really going about our constant routines, carrying physical or emotional specs or chunks of something, just trying to get ahead, move on and complete the otherwise minute string of chores that make up our lives. But hopefully, we can learn to take pleasure in the little moments, and more importantly, take pride and satisfaction in the end result.

-Cathy

Cleavage Construction

Saturday I hugged my kid goodbye and put her on a plane with M so they could jet off to Argentina to visit his family.

I felt, I don’t know, empty. I’m used to waving goodbye to M, but to my kid? It was the strangest feeling. It didn’t help that she was sobbing her little heart out, her eyes all puffy and misery-ringed, her little arms wrapped tightly around me, not wanting to let go.

But she let go, and they made it safely across the ocean, leaving me here alone FOR TEN DAYS, TEN WHOLE DAYS.

And because I am alone for TEN DAYS, TEN WHOLE DAYS, I of course immediately raced out to Ikea and bought a bed. And even though we really only need 2 beds in our house, we now have 4. But Craigslist is my friend and I intend to recoup the cost of my apparent bed obsession, okay? So stop staring at me.

Anyway, my visit to Ikea was accompanied by Hoops, who coincidentally and quite gloriously conveniently is also single and kid-free this week, as her own husband and daughters jetted off to another country to see his family. PARALLEL LIVES!

After we got our Ikea sufficiently on, she not only transported the long-assed thousand pound box back to my house in her car, she also offered to help me assemble it. Who freakin’ does that? Only Friend of the Century types of friends that's who, and after last night, she is so totally the winner of that award, hands down.

Before coming back to my house, we made a pit-stop at Hoops’ house so she could unload her Ikea loot. She also changed her clothes and came out wearing saggy paint-stained shorts, but curiously left on her cute, low cut top, big blingy earrings, and was still carrying her snakeskin clutch. Total Polish Housekeeper Outfit.

We got back to my pad, and Hoops got to disassembling the kid’s current bed, while I slaved over opening a box of frozen pizza and pre-heating the oven. And, oh yeah, pouring glasses of wine. Once the bed was taken apart, we carried it out piece by piece to the garage, all the while cussing and stabbing ourselves a thousand times in the legs. The neighbor’s giant, grown son sat idly on the porch, watching us groan and sweat and drop F-bombs. He was really helpful with his watching.

After we snarfed the pizza and downed the wine, we got down to the business of building a bed.

Do you know what it takes to build a bed? DO YOU? Three and one half hours. That’s what.

Three and one half hours of lifting, and bending, and twisting and turning and leaning and holding and sweating.

And I was laughing my ass off the whole time because Hoop’s boobs were spilling out of her cute, low cut top, and Hoops was laughing at me because I was still wearing my tight mini-skirt with slits on each side, which kept riding up with every squat, and we were both wearing huge earrings and lip gloss. And as I watched us bring this bed to life, the idea came to me: Cleavage Construction! Beeyotch Builders! We will assemble your furniture in mini-skirts and heels and low cut shirts, and let you watch us bend and sweat as your furniture comes to life!

Tell me that’s not solid gold.

~Patti

I Might Take Up Hunting After All

The Pyschotic Birds from Hell began screeching at my window at 4 am this morning. What kind of bird finds it enjoyable to SING at 4 in the morning?!? The sun is even smart enough to be asleep at that hour. But these aptly named bird-brained freaks began their day with a quick crap on somebody’s car and a full-blown neurotic symphony at what seemed to be just my window. All 1,567,892 of them. And maybe it was just my sleep-deprived imaginings, but I could swear they were shrieking Katy Perry’s “Firework”.

~Patti

Plan B

Last summer I was self-employed and had lots of flexibility in my schedule, which meant long days by the pool with the kid and her friends, time at the gym when I wanted it, and spur-of-the-moment lunches with friends.

It also meant wondering where my next paycheck was going to come from, losing sleep over that bill I could barely pay, and a general burned-outty feeling I couldn’t shake.

So, after months of soul searching and then job hunting, I got a job. You, know, a “real job”? With a steady paycheck and paid holidays? The kind I always thumbed my nose at and pitied other “real job” holders for.

And it hasn’t been that bad. My hours still allow me to drop my kid off at school and pick her up after, and really? There is a kind of cool feeling in knowing that your bank tank is going to get refilled no matter what, and that there wouldn’t have to be any hustling to make it happen. The money would just get faithfully deposited every other Friday. How novel.

But now summer has come again. And the Working Mother Shuffle has begun. M and I worked out a summer schedule for S, most of which would require him to do the legwork in the mornings since he starts work later than I do, and wouldn’t you know it, the first week of summer and we are already off to a rocky start. He spent the morning bouncing around from Plan A to Plan B to Plan C – all the while knowing he had to get to work -- and thankfully was able to secure care for the kid.

Meanwhile, I was at work wondering what the hell we were going to do if one of those last-minute back-up plans didn’t pan out, and I found myself feeling nostalgic for those self-employed days. I began working up these elaborate fantasies in my head where OTHER mothers – the kind that stay home and revolve their days around their children – are calmly packing picnic lunches for a day at the beach, or hosting a giggly, educational play date at their cozy house where their lucky children don’t have to stress about being bounced around from Plan A to Plan B to Plan C, because they are safely ensconced in a consistent Plan A that never changes, and oh…. Was I really doing this to myself?

Yes, I was. And I do. And I think all mothers do. And I think even those OTHER mothers – the ones whose Plan A never has to move into a Plan B – I think that maybe even they sometimes wish there was a Plan B. Because in the end? We are all just doing the best we can.

~Patti

It's All Been Taken Care Of

In the past two weeks, I have come to discover that the phrase 'It's All Been Taken Care Of' has to be one of the sweetest string of words to be put together and come out of anyone's mouth.

One of the perks of my job - ok, probably THE best perk - is when I am invited to attend media tours. An even perkier perk is when all the stars align (work, husband, school, kids, schedules, prior engagements, life) and I can actually attend.

I was fortunate enough to recently return from my second media tour in two weeks. I was discussing the easy-goingness of it all with Patti, when we agreed that we, as women, rarely EVER hear that phrase. When was the last time someone came up to you and said, "You're all set. IT'S ALL BEEN TAKEN CARE OF." Huh? WHEN? Never. That's when.

So when we first heard that phrase, we didn't know what to do with it. It sounded like a foreign language; something that we had an emotional double-take reaction to.
'What did she say?'
'Did I hear her right?'
'What?'
'ARE YOU SURE?'

Wouldn't it be nice if we could hear that phrase just once every now and then?
Grocery shopping? 'It's all been taken care of.'
Kids' bath time? 'It's all been taken care of.'
Laundry? Birthday parties? Dishes? Cleaning? Cooking? Bills? Travel plans? Meetings? Putting ourselves first?
It's ALL been taken care of.

-Cathy

Sole Mates

My kid took off her shoes, and in addition to the face-smackin’ stench that usually happens when she takes off her shoes, I was also surprised to find this:

Two totally different socks: the dirty, threadbare one - hers; the sagging one – the, in this case, ironically named “Tru Fit” - mine.

I have probably purchased a thousand pairs of socks since she started wearing socks, yet, YET, the ONLY “pair” of socks she can find are a dirty one dug out from the bottom or her laundry basket, and a 5x too big one dug out from my laundry basket.

Hey, points for considering that the fact they are both socks makes them a pair.

~Patti

The Finger is So 80's

So this morning I was pulling out of a parking lot into the street, and the nose of my car jutted a little farther out into the street than I guess noses of cars are supposed to jut, because this woman in a sweet little powder blue Mercedes acted as if she thought I was going to crash into her. I say “thought” because I totally saw her and had no intention of crashing into her at all. I was clearly stopped and politely waiting for her to pass by, but she felt like creating a movie in her mind, and had to throw in a dramatic swerve and a hysterical horn symphony accompaniment for full effect. And then, THEN, she had to do that thing that annoys the ever lovin’ crap out of me, and that is when offended drivers – often offended not because the perceived offender actually did anything truly offensive, but because the offended hadn’t gotten laid in too many days, or their husband is a jerk, or their kid had just made them go all exorcist 5 minutes before – anyway, the offended drivers sloooooow down their car, and, in some freakish mime-like way, begin to shout obscenities though the glass, their faces twisting up into a jacked-up Marcel Marceau frenzy, their fists wildly declaring war, all while continuing to drive in that scary, slow-mo, drive-by shooting kind of way, and you – the supposed offender –sit there and alternate between wondering if you should duck and wondering when the hell they are going to just GO already so you can get on with your day.

Meanwhile, the offended driver? Has created another offended driver. Because the person behind their slow-mo drive-by ass is now pissed that they have had to slam on their brakes so the driver in front can have his conniption fit over some imagined offense. And thus begins the whole domino effect of pissed off, offended drivers, and really? I was just minding my own business, sipping on my ‘bucks, waiting for my turn to go. IS THAT SO WRONG?

~Patti

Love Sick

by Patti


The first time I realized I didn’t like my daughter, I cried.

Up until that moment, I had been moon-eyed in love with her. Everything she did was magical! And perfect! And miraculous!

But then one day, it wasn’t magical. Or perfect. Or miraculous.

Instead, I found myself clutching my chest in horror at the realization that, at that moment, there was nothing I liked about my kid.

I felt horrified and guilty and like the Worst Mother on the Planet, how could I not like my own kid?

I threw myself on my bed to the lovely strains of her tantrum in the background – probably the 5th that day – and cried. I cried for the loss of that delicious, all-encompassing feeling I had known since she was born just under 2 years ago, I cried for my daughter, who was obviously being raised by a black-hearted serial killer, I cried for how hard it suddenly all was.

I let myself cry for a few minutes, and as the tantrum waned in the background, so did my tears. I wearily lifted myself off the bed and into my daughter’s room, gathered her sweaty-with-anger little body into my arms, and just hugged the crap out of her. "How could I not like this?" I thought to myself.

After I got her distracted with some toys, I called a veteran mother friend of mine. The second I heard her voice, I felt like I was in a musty confession box, and she was my understanding priest. I spilled my sin: “Something’s wrong with me, I think… I don’t like S right now. I mean, I really don’t like her, and it’s freaking me out!” I felt myself getting ready to cry again.

My friend – some priest she was – started to laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” I felt myself starting to get hysterical. “It’s NOT funny! This is bad!”

“Oh, Patti”, she teased, “Welcome to REAL motherhood, and to the first of THOUSANDS of time you will not like your kid.”

I felt a balloon softly lift out of my chest, making me suddenly feel weightless. “You mean, it’s NORMAL?”

“God, not only is it NORMAL, it’s INEVITABLE. You will not always like your kid, it’s just a fact that you need to accept right now. I mean, seriously? They can make it impossible to like them. Think about it: They whine, they cry, they demand, they’re messy, they smell, they interrupt your conversations, they don’t sleep, they get up when it’s still dark outside… how is that LIKEABLE?”

I thought about what she said, and it made perfect sense. In fact, I suddenly felt like a freak for having liked my kid without fail all this time. Either I was totally dumbstruck and blind with love, or she was a con artist in diapers. Which was it?

At that moment, S toddled into the room, her chubby, dimpled hands offering me her fake cell phone, her face lit up by a crooked grin. That’s when I realized: It was both.

Temporary Life

by Patti


Have you ever been so relaxed, but SO relaxed, even the drool sliding down the side of your face takes it time?

That was me this weekend.

Hoops and I took a little 3-day Girls’ Escape this weekend to a well-known, luxurious, out-of-this-world spa, and literally got buffed, scrubbed and rubbed from head to toe. The luxury and pampering were straight out of a movie. But it wasn’t a movie -- IT REALLY DOES HAPPEN AND HOW DID I NOT EVER KNOW THIS?

After all the Chardonnaying and Champagning, and gourmet food shoveling, and having doors opened and closed for us, and hearing “It’s all been taken care of” in soothing tones over and over again, the drive home was a bit of a letdown. It wasn’t that I didn’t miss my family, but honestly? I kind of didn’t.

I love them to death and God forbid anything should ever happen to them, but life? Can be stressful. And to have your only worry be choosing between a Lavender Rain Treatment or a Body Harmony Bath is intoxicating. So of course to go back to having your worries be your mortgage, your child’s grades, your husband’s needs, your job’s demands, your parents’ ailments, your neighbor’s dog, the clunking sound from your car’s front end whenever you hit a bump and wait – didn’t I just pay $1,000 to have that fixed? To have all of that be your worries is not nearly as intoxicating. Instead, it’s just, well, toxic-ating.

At the spa one morning we were enjoying breakfast, these crazy perma-grins covering our faces, and two women across from us were just finishing up their breakfast. As they rose to leave, one of the women began gathering the coffee cups while the other swiftly swept crumbs off the table, and the coffee cup gatherer stopped her gathering and said, “Wait a minute! What are we doing? We don’t have to clean anything!” The other laughed and said, “Oh my God, I know! I was ready to load the dishwasher!” They laughed at the sheer lunacy of not having to clean up, and as they turned to leave, the coffee cup gatherer looked at us, her hair disheveled and her face ruddy from probably never having had a facial in her life, and, as if offering an explanation, said, “It’s just that this is not my life.”

And although I chuckled, it also made me just a little sad. Here we were, Hoops and I, wrapped in fluffy 5 million thread count robes, feeling giddy and tingly from the anticipation of the full day of being totally spoiled that stretched before us, and it hit me: This is not my life. And it probably never will be.

And you know what? Because of that, I can honestly say that I think I appreciated and enjoyed and savored Every. Single. Moment. of our weekend even more. Every scrub, buff and rub, every morsel of every meal, every sip of every glass of lemony water, every hand smoothing of every crisp white sheet, every scent of every oil, cream, perfume, every drop of every warm water, every jet of every hot tub, every bubble of every glass of champagne, every stretch of every muscle of every yoga pose, every inhale of every lavender-scented air, every word of every menu, every melody of every song, just....everything.

And I realized: it is not the actual luxuries of life that make for a great life, it is simply appreciating them. For even in our real lives, and not in the magic bubble of a temporary life, there are luxuries. They may be little luxuries, but they are just as real.

Oh, Mother

by Patti

I grew up surrounded by accents.

I married an accent.

And Spanish still flies around me almost daily.

One day, I was lamenting to my mom how I feel like nobody in my family gets my humor. Spanish humor tends to be slapsticky and on the naughty side, at least the Spanish I grew up with and the Spanish I married, and I am a sucker for anything wry or dry.

My mom, always trying to "understand" her only daughter, said, "Das not true! Gib me an eh-sample!"

"Well..." I said, my mind reaching for the countless times my sides ached at the Woody Allen-ness of it all, "..for example, I love sarcasm!"

My mom put her hand on her chin and twisted her mouth in thought. "Hmmm," she said,clearly disappointed that she couldn't be more helpful, "I don't know that comedian."