Believing

The other day I was cleaning out some drawers, and I discovered a little stack of letters. They were the letters S had written to Santa when she believed he would really receive them. Transported, I studied the crooked handwriting of the little girl who once believed, and remembered how it changed.

The first time she asked me she was sitting at the kitchen counter and my back was turned to her. "Mom? Carmina told me that her mom is her Santa. Is that true?" Panicked, I began to beat the innocent eggs I had cracked for her omelet into submission, thankful she could not see my freaked-out face.

"Honey, let me finish this up; we're gonna be late!"

I felt like a big fraud, avoiding her pointed question that way. I just wasn't ready. She was 8, and I knew it was coming, the "talk", but I needed more time.

A couple of years before, S had encountered some Christmas wrapping paper I had stored away. She instantly recognized it, "Mommy! This is the same paper Santa uses! Why does he use our paper?"

Caught completely off-guard, I feigned surprise and acted as if I was trying to "recollect" that Santa had done that while my mind raced to find a plausible answer that she would buy. “Oh, well… Santa sometimes runs out of paper and he uses what he finds in the houses he visits!” She seemed satisfied with the answer – for the moment. But I knew, even though she didn’t yet realize, the beginning of the end had commenced.

Two weeks before last Christmas, we were watching a Christmas cartoon together in her bed. S was cuddled up against me, and I could feel her laughter through her back. Suddenly, she got quiet. I could tell she wasn’t really watching the show anymore, though she kept her eyes on the television the entire time. She seemed nervous. Finally, she spoke. “Mom? Are you my Santa?” She turned to me, her eyes pleading. I knew I had run out of time.

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

She nodded earnestly. I tried to shake away the tightness I felt in my chest; I knew my answer would close many doors, and it made me so sad.

“Yes, I am your Santa.”

I waited for her tears, for her to show me that she hated me for having lied to her all those years. Instead, she smiled slowly, as if relieved, and said, “I had a feeling.”

“Are you mad?” I felt myself wanting cry. I could see another page rip right off the calendar of her childhood in my head.

“No! I liked all the things you did to be Santa!”

I explained to her that although Santa was not a real person, he was a real spirit; that the magic of giving and joy and that bubbly feeling it all gave her in her tummy, it would all still live in her heart, and that nothing or nobody could ever take that away.

Grateful that she seemed to take it so well, I hugged her so tightly I could feel the little bones in her back, and then the next question came, all muffled by my smothering embrace. “Mom…. Does this mean there is no Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy, either? TELL ME THE TRUTH.”

I pulled away from her and decided to yank the band-aid off as swiftly as possible. One-by-one I took down all of the magical characters that had been part of her life since she could remember: Yes, it had been me that wrote all the letters from the Easter Bunny in that loopy, bunnyish handwriting. Yes, it had been me that snuck into her room at night to steal away the tooth under her pillow and replaced it with money and glittery hand-written “thank you” notes. (And yes, I had been careful to ensure that the Tooth Fairy’s handwriting was different from the Easter Bunny’s handwriting. I had mastered the art of magical deception!) Yes, it had been me that nibbled on the carrots and cookies in the dark and drank the milk and spread the crumbs, and left wrapping paper and scissors strewn about. It had all been me.

S smiled at all of the memories, and at how hard she had believed, and she made me promise I would still “do Santa gifts” and that I would still fill plastic eggs with candy and coins and send her on frenzied Easter morning treasure hunts, and that I would still pretend it was all real “just for fun.”

And I promised her with all my heart.

Just this morning, S was eating breakfast when she suddenly exclaimed, “Mom! It came out!” She held out her hand to me, and in it was one of the last few remaining baby teeth that have been clinging to dear life. She smiled widely at me, revealing the fresh new gap. “I’m going to put it under my pillow tonight!”

I smothered her cheek with kisses while she giggled, both of us knowing that it would be me stealing away that tooth tonight from under her pillow, both of us okay with it.

~Patti

T.M.I

My initial Hormone Highway post from a few days ago now merits its first follow-up.

I will be periodically (no pun intended) posting follow-ups as I make my way down this dark, desert highway, a cool drink in my hand, the warm smell of...wait a minute...sorry, couldn't help the reference.

What follows may be TMI for some of you, but when I speak of hormones, I get real. Just about as real as the Real Housewives of New York City's Ramona Singer did last week when she had her TMI moment on national television. As I settled into my couch to watch Part I of the RHONY Reunion, I almost dropped my wine glass at Ramona's prompt reply to the first question of the show directed at her: "So just to confirm," says Andy, the show's host, "You're not pregnant right now, right?"
"No. But I still get my period. I have it right now," says Romona bluntly, without missing a beat. "I get it every 30 days like clockwork, and that's why I look so great, so young! I don't need liquid facelifts," obviously a comment meant to hit Jill Zaran right between her injected brows.

So Ramona kept going on and on about how she's 54 years old and still gets her period every 30 days no matter what and when she was a few days late, it prompted her to think she was pregnant. The more I am listening to her and begrudgingly agree with her, I scan the television and even pause it on her face to catch the slightest hint of a facial sag, and don't see it. But the bitch was right. It IS a big part of why she still looks so great and supple. And I totally hated her. Because that's the way it was supposed to go for me. But I, dear friends, have already spotted some jowl sagging, which I have pointed out to Patti on several occasions and to which she has always replied in two octaves too high "You're crazy!" (God bless her heart), but *I* see it and *I* know it's there!!!!

The good news is that after being on the pill after just one month, I finally got mine! Of course I was packing for a trip to Mexico and was totally unprepared as I hadn't shopped for tampons or pads in almost two years (yes, two YEARS), my sister swooped in and saved the day with my supply for that month. Of course, being super prepared and organized, she gave me a cleanly zipped baggie of every size out there - super, heavy, regular, light, drip, liners, with wings, without wings - literally, one for every single phase of your period. God bless her too.

So this second month, I made the long-awaited trip to Osco to buy some for myself. It felt good to linger there in the feminine hygiene aisle...it had been a while. So I took it all in - what was new? What was different? OOOohhh...now they have the Pearl Tampax in three different sizes ALL IN ONE BOX! Yippee! I was sold.

As I was being rung up, the twentysomething girl behind the register asks me, "Are these the ones with the cardboard? I hate those."
"Nooooo!" I replied. "These are the soft, rounded plastic applicators. They're awesome," I kept going, not missing a beat.

So she asks me if I don't mind opening up one of them so she can see them. So there I was, like an old pro once again, teaching the youngins about the ladythings. We were standing there, me holding the soft pearlized blue applicator explaining to her how the contour is more conducive to its purpose, just chatting away - a real life tutorial (short of a demonstration) at the Osco cash register about tampons, oblivious as to who was passing by.

Another Osco employee, a fiftysomething, decides to join in the conversation just as the twentysomething says, "Those don't look like they hold enough. I tend to be very heavy my first few days."

(Of course you are.)

So the fiftysomething lady says in her own TMI moment, "Well that ain't gonna cut it then. You need SUPER! That's why I always just back it up with a pad..." she continued, seemingly mumbling to herself as she was walking away. The last thing I heard her say was, "You see I just can't WAIT to just get rid o' mine! I'm ready to just get rid of it!" And off she went dragging her feet and flicking her wrist down into mid air.

I have a feeling she will one day remember that moment and realize that indeed, that was Too Much Information; information she wishes she hadn't shared, or even thought.

-Cathy

Eavesdropped: Failed Negotiations

(Scene: Parking lot, parked mini-van)

Mom: Hannah! Get in NOW!

Kid: Noooooo, I don’t wanna go!

Mom: Hannah! You are gonna get a time-out!

Kid: NOOOOO!

Mom: I’m gonna count to three! One...

Kid: ...

Mom: One...

Kid: ...

Mom: ONE...

Kid: ...

Mom: If you get in I will get you ice cream.

Kid: With sprinkles?


~Patti

She's Only Five

Tomorrow, my little one will be five years old. And I'm having a real hard time with that.

First thing this morning, I went right to her bed and found her laying there holding her little pillow and "Mo" (the little lamb stuffed animal she's been sleeping with since she was two) and I smothered her in kisses before I blurted out with a crack in my voice, "Happy Last Day of Four Years Old!"

She blinked the morning sleepiness out of her eyes and suddenly seemed a bit more awake. "Tomorrow is my whole birthday?" she said excitedly.
"Yes," I said with a half smile. "Tomorrow is your whole birthday."

Ever since I told her a week ago that her birthday was coming up she would ask me every day if it was time yet and I would say, "Four more days and THEN..." as we would count it out on her fingers to help her put it in a time perspective, as best as her little four-year old mind could.

"So," I continued, "I have a surprise for you tomorrow! We're gonna do something special!"
"Is it a palace?" she asked.
"Is it a princess?"

So throughout the day as I got her ready for gymnastics, the pool and her little impromptu party with a friend at our house at the end of the day, pink frosted cupcakes and all, I tried to take in every minute of every second. I asked her for the umpteenth time (as I had been doing the last several weeks as I started to realize her 5th birthday was looming): "How old are you?" just so I can hear her say 'FOUR' while she held up those four tiny fingers. I must have made her say that a hundred times but I never got sick of hearing it and she never got sick of saying it.
"I know you want me to stay little mommy, but I got to get big. Are you gonna cry?" she asked me today. [Insert knife in heart here.]

"A little bit," I responded as I caught her reaction. She truly looked sad for me, so I changed the subject and choked back the tears.

So tonight, as I kissed her goodnight and whispered, "Happy last day of four years old" in her ear, I gazed over her little features while she was falling asleep, running her fingers across the corner tip of her pillow. Part of me didn't want her to fall asleep because I knew she would wake up as a five-year old, no longer the cute age of four. Then she turned her back to me and almost instantly fell asleep.

That's when I noticed her body. Suddenly, she seemed instantly longer, taller to me. Already grown up. That was evident today when she demanded of her sister, "Can you please close the bathroom door? I need my privaseat."

My eyes welled up as I reached over to kiss her face. That's when I saw it: her little arm, outstretched across the mattress, half falling over the edge, with her fist almost tightly clutched closed, like that of a sleeping baby. I smiled widely to myself in the dark as I said, "Part of her is still a baby." That image strangely comforted me.

Patti has succinctly pointed out on several occasions to me that, "five is still little" even though I refused to believe her. But now I know, like any age, it's just a number. Tomorrow she will wake up and still be the little Ari she was today. What's scary is that she will grow up right before my eyes, when I'm not looking. But in the meantime, I can still shop for her in the toddler section (there IS such a size as 5T, right?) and she will still want me to scoop her up every morning and cuddle on the kitchen chair or read her books while she uses the potty. I mean, she's only FIVE, right?

-Cathy

Highway to Hormone Hell

Since my first pregnancy, I have always been known to say “Hormones are the worst things EVER.” If you’ve been through a pregnancy, you know the physical and emotional changes your body experiences from the minute that sperm implants itself into that unassuming little egg, to the post-birth months. Just like any other part of your body, when hormones are working properly, it’s fantastic: voluptuous boobs, silky, bountiful hair, a sexual appetite that can’t be satisfied. When they’re not, you’re pretty much screwed (and dry as a bone to boot). There’s no replacement for the real thing…for anything.

After the birth of my second child a few years ago, and as the result of some unexpected, fall-from-the-sky, ridiculous, auto-immune shift in my body, I have been told that my hormones are starting to pack up and leave en masse from the comfy home I have provided them for 40 years. Apparently, they have found somewhere more accommodating they need to be, waaaaaay before their lease was up. We had an agreement, these hormones and me. They were supposed to stick around AT LEAST until I was 50, just like they did for my mother and her mother before her. But they have cheated on me and found a new love. FAR away from me.

So let me tell you the lurch this has left me in. Aside from the research, doctor hunting, book reading, Googling, testing, blood draws, doctor visits, vitamins, supplements, supposed natural hormone replacement therapy, tooth sensitivity, bone and joint pain, psychotic mood swings, hay hair, facial skin sagging, uncontrollable fits of rage/sobbing/laughter (sometimes all in the same hour), itchiness, bitchiness, zombie sleep, memory loss, no monthly periods (never thought I would miss that) and just plain irritation, I (and my doctor) have concluded that I should go back on the birth control pill. At 40 years old. I am back on the pill. Yes I am.

Since I have been told that I am way too young to be almost depleted of hormones, after much soul searching and advice seeking, the pill is the much-needed, short-term answer for me at the moment. As I deal with all of the changes in my body and what my next, long-term step will be, I have to maintain some humor about it all; it helps me cope and make heads or tails of how my body has let me down.

As such, I’ve come up with some terms to help explain to you, the Period Pollys out there with your loyal hormones still settled comfortably in your body, what it will be like when you, yes YOU, will inevitably be in the same boat. Brace yourself. It’s not pretty.

Hormone Hair – the bone dry, crackling, bushy stiffness of a head of hair that despite how much Moroccan Oil, Argan Oil, Olive Oil, leave-in conditioner, pomades, goopy conditioners or shine serums you fruitlessly slather on, will NOT help. Your hair decides to declare independence from you, and do what it damn well pleases. NO. MATTER. WHAT.


Hormone Hysterics – the erratic mood swings that can come fast and furious, like you’re in a video game swerving desperately to avoid being hit by asteroids but never stand a chance in hell. This can range from exorcist mode to laughing fits about nothing. All within an hour. And continue like this for days and days and….


Hormone Hole – the black void that is now your brain because you can’t remember jack shit if your life depended on it. You can’t even form a sentence sometimes and just mumble and fumble your way through a conversation.


Hormone Haze – the fog you walk around in day after day because your body is electrically alive at night when it should be sleeping its way into much needed oblivion. Sometimes, you are lucky if you get four or five hours of sleep per night.


Hormone Hold-out - this is what you put your poor husband through – the one who has been given a back seat to your non-existent sex drive. You never want to have sex because you never get the URGE – or even THINK about it. It’s the absolute LAST thing on your mind. And when you force yourself because you know you should – for many reasons that you’re just too young to ignore – it’s just not the same. It doesn’t feel the same; it doesn’t have the same life. It’s just an arid desert with tumbleweed rolling by; an environment not equipped to support anything that comes its way (no pun intended).

Well, you get the idea.

So come with me on this ride down Hormone Highway as I maneuver my way.
Next exit: 7,224,856 miles.

-Cathy

Unidentified Flying Objects

by Patti

When I was a kid, I went through a period where I was pretty sure I was going to get sucked up by a U.F.O. I didn’t fear the “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” kind of encounter where these adorable little aliens would waddle down a ramp and shyly shake my hand upon meeting me; I was more concerned about the type of encounter where I would be walking down the street, minding my own business, and then suddenly get zapped up into a flying saucer without warning and find myself lying on a table with 3-foot needles in my body and creepy, hollow-eyed aliens hovering over me. Because of this, I will admit I didn’t ride my bike outside by myself for, oh, at least a year. Somehow I felt that if I was with somebody else, the aliens might feel outnumbered and leave me alone.

The other night, those feelings all came back to me. I was on my back deck folding some pool towels and emptying out the recycling bin when suddenly, something caught my eye. I looked toward the sky and saw this amazing glowing, flame-like light floating by. It was unmistakably ethereal; it looked like a fireball with angel wings. I can’t even begin to describe it; I only know that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It was pretty high up in the sky, as high as a plane might be, but it was very obviously NOT a plane. In the back of my mind I heard the voices of countless farmers-gone-by, “It was this big, I swear! And it just floated there, I tell ya, it did! And then, dag-nabbit, if it didn’t just land right thar in front of me!”

I felt myself wanting to call M out onto the porch, but I was sort of just stuck there, unable to move, unable to form words. I just knew I was about to finally get zapped up, those long-ago childhood fears finally confirmed. Yet, I couldn’t save my own life. I watched it float over the neighbor’s house and behind a tree, and I finally realized I had to have M see this, too. I snapped awake and flung open the sliding glass door to call him off of the couch. “Come! Hurry! You HAVE to see this!” He must have sensed the urgency in my voice, because rather than continue to wallow in his ManCold, he jumped off the couch and ran outside. By the time he got there, I was already around to the front of the house, chasing the floating flame-light. He caught up to me and saw it just in time. The light seemed to hover for a moment, as if to give both of us the opportunity to take it in, to believe it was real. And then it started moving again, away from us.

At that moment, I heard M exclaim, “Look! There are two more!” and sure enough, coming from the same direction as the first flame-light had come, two more were indeed floating our way. The first one has been a fiery red-orange; these were white and pure red. They both danced the same way as the first, and had that ethereal appearance. “What IS that?” I wondered out loud to M, full-well knowing what they were. “They have to be balloons or something,” he said, satisfied with that reasoning.

But I knew: They weren’t balloons. Or airplanes. Or anything else that could be reasonably explained. We stood there for a while, watching the lights flicker and float and dance, until they finally drifted out of sight. As we walked back into the house, I looked back up to the sky and silently thanked the aliens for sparing me yet again.

(Super) Women

by Patti

It’s a thing, I know this. A man gets sick and the universe collapses all around him. Cars screech to a halt, trees stop swaying, babies stop crying, dogs stop peeing, their collective legs frozen mid-air, the EARTH STOPS SPINNING. Stop the freakin’ presses everybody, he’s got a cold! And while we are left standing there, blinking, wondering what happened, the man dramatically sneezes into the silence and retreats to his bed.

We, on the other hand? Will eventually come down with this cold. And when we do? Retreat to the bed, my ass. We will most certainly still have to make sure dinneriscooked, thehomeworkisdone, the laundryisfolded, the playdatesareplayed, the kidsaretuckedin, the dishesaredone, all while trying to breathe, stifling a sneeze, and catching a wheeze.

WHY IS THIS?

I hate to be all stereotypical 1992 Mars vs Venus about this, it does seem so trite, this observation, but from my informal completely and totally official survey of all my girlfriends, female co-workers and that random lady at Walgreens, the trite seems to be TRUE in this case.

How is it that we can multi-task not only family/friends/job, but even our health? Simple: We are built for speed, bitches. And that is our downfall.

I say we stop being able to do it all and just don’t do it at all.

In fact, right this very moment I feel a strange twinge between my eyes and a threatening little itch in my throat. I think I may be getting sick!

Oh wait. I can’t. S is having a sleepover tonite, which means the making of snacks and building of forts and general ensuring of survival.

Maybe tomorrow.

Diving In

S began walking at 18 months. Because she waited so long, she never had that adorable drunken sailor weave that many toddlers have when they take those first steps. Instead, she simply got up and, well, went. Regardless, in some people’s eyes, that was scary-late, but I knew that the only reason she waited so long was because she wanted to be absolutely sure she could do it before she actually did it. She was afraid: afraid of falling, afraid of failing, afraid of not doing it “just right”……

Even after she found that delicious new freedom with her steps, S was never the type of kid to break free from me at the playground and gleefully fling herself across the jungle gym or throw herself down the slide. Instead, she stood neatly by me, her hand safely tucked in mine, where she could first scope out the scene, observe the other kids in action, and only when she felt ready did she let me lead her to the swings or slide or monkey bars. Even then, she always kept her eyes on me to be sure my eyes stayed on her.

As S has grown into the loud-laughed, long-limbed kid that she is today, she has experienced and conquered many fears along the way. Shadows? Check. Flies? Check. Sleeping in her own bed by herself? Check. Water? Check. Sand? Check.

But it seems like with every fear she has conquered, she has managed to find another one to replace it with. Today’s fears range from moths to thunder to railroad tracks. And darkness is still way up there on the list. Do you KNOW how many things hide in the dark? Lots!

I can see S visibly struggle to overcome her fears, the way she wrings her hands together, or zips hastily through a dark room before whatever-is-lurking-there comes to get her; it all kind of breaks my heart a little. I did it, too, and I remember it: Growing up is HARD.

But I’ll admit it: I lose my patience from time to time. I mean, seriously? You need me to walk you to the bathroom in your own house? Yes, she does. And I have to remind myself that she isn’t just looking for a free escort; she is truly afraid. And just because I don’t see it or feel it doesn’t make it any less real for her.

Yesterday S and I met up with a friend and her two fearless kids at the pool. Her kids are cannon-ballin', lap-swimmin', bike-ridin' daredevils, and I can’t help but clutch my heart just a little at how crazy-brave they seem to be. While I want S to try things, I also find just a bit of selfish comfort in knowing she won’t, because knowing she won’t means she can’t get hurt. But then I realize while she won’t break her leg for not trying, she may break her spirit. And that somehow seems worse. So when S climbed up onto the diving board yesterday, the one that jutted out over 12 feet of water, and stood at edge, I marveled at how small she looked. I also marveled at how big she looked. Because there she was, my daughter, the one who just last summer could not even put her head in the water, now willing to have her entire being swallowed up by it.

I watched her face, and could see the thought process. She inched closer to the edge, and then, just like that, she jumped. And so did my heart. She cheated a little, made sure she jumped sideways so that she landed as close to the edge as possible. But she jumped. And as she swam up to the surface, I could see the smile on her face – that precious childhood “I did it!” smile. I clapped and cheered wildly for her. She hadn’t done anything fancy, really – it was just a simple little jump. And honestly, there were kids smaller than her making that same leap. But I knew what it meant for her to make that jump, and in my mind, it was worth 10,000 backflips.

~Patti

Rain, Thunder Go Away, Come Again Another...DAY!

So last night marks the fourth (or fifth; I can't think straight anymore because I am so sleep deprived) night this week that we were lulled to/rocked out of bed.

If you live in Chicago, you know what I'm talking about.

Last night was probably the worst of the week. While the hubby was out at a birthday dinner for his good friend, I settled in to get a much needed night's sleep after all the lightning storms, thunder and downpours we've had almost every single night this week like clockwork around bedtime.

My stomach sank as soon as I started hearing raindrops on my window sill, but chalked it off to 'just rain' since we already had a Wizard of Oz episode earlier that morning - complete with rolling black clouds, winds and the Niagara Falls of downpours, coming down so fast and furious, I thought my windshield wipers were going to helicopter right off my car.

I forced myself to try and sleep, and RIGHT when I was starting to doze, it happened yet again. A clap of thunder so loud, it reverberated in my chest and forced my eyes to pop open like a champagne cork. I braced myself for the pitter-patter of feet from the girls' room, but nothing. So I grabbed my eye mask to shield my eyes from the lighting show that turned night into day. Two minutes later, a clap of thunder, even louder than the first, struck yet again. Now my nerves were jangled. 'Turn over and try to sleep' I told myself. But no use. I tossed and turned. About 10 minutes later, I felt the power go off. A minute after that, I heard something drag across the lawn outside by the wind, perhaps a chair or something.

I got up and grabbed a flashlight. Checked things outside, checked on the girls, checked for signs that the hubby might be coming home, searched the medicine cabinet for the Nyquil and down half a dose. I knew I was not going to get any sleep tonight AGAIN, otherwise.

Once in bed again, my eyes blinked wide open when I heard..."Beep"...30 seconds later..."Beep"...thirty seconds later..."Beep." I mumbled, 'You gotta be kidding me' as I whipped the quilt off me and got up. I pressed some numbers on our alarm key pad and waited. Silence. Ahhhh... I settled back in, eye mask in place and waited for the Nyquil to work its magic. Amazingly, the kids were sound asleep. I was so jealous.

While in bed, a mere two minutes later, I heard, "Drip...drip...drip...drip." My stomach sank for a second time that night. 'Oh no. Not the living room again.' So I grabbed my flashlight and set out to investigate. It was coming from our furnace room - you know, the one we keep open to mooch the A/C off the upstairs and downstairs units? I looked inside and I didn't SEE any water, just heard it. It sounded like it was dripping inside a pipe. 'As long as it's not dripping outside the pipe,' I said to my weary self, 'we're good.' So I tightly closed those doors (we had no power anyway, so no use in keeping them open) and half-stumbled back to the bedroom.

We may not have had power, but at this point, lying in bed, I could feel electricity running through my body; a combination of rattled nerves, lack of sleep and the effects of the Nyquil working its magic. Slowly...slowly...I felt my body succumbing to the magic sleeping potion and a smile crossed my face. Somewhere in the faint distance, I heard a door unlock and knew that the hubby had come home. But I was finally heading towards the land of nod. I only felt him climb into bed, feeling his way in because it was so dark, patting my butt because it was in his way, me scooching over to give him room, and I woke up at almost NOON the next morning.

Finally...a blissful night of sleep. So please dear rain, deafening claps of thunder, incessant lightning shows, please, if you want to visit us again, do it during the day when we are up. I can't take another night of this. Thank you.

-Cathy

Yes...about that A/C

Patti's latest blog post does not merely warrant a comment but a return post.

Because, you see, in another coincidental, parallel universe kind of way, my husband too (let's call him Old Man Joe for the sake of this posting) has the same kind of aversion to A/C as Patti's conga-fied husband. In fact, mine has maracas in hand and a fruit basket on his head, to boot.

So I bring this up because not only am I living the same humid reality as Patti, but a few nights ago, OMJ's actions took the cake.

You have to know that since we live in a multi-unit condo building, our unit is sandwiched between two other meat-locker units that run their A/C day and night. We really have no need to turn on the A/C. We simply swing open the furnace doors, and voila! The house is as cool as a cucumber. Yes at times we crank up the A/C, like when I have to turn the stove on or when the cool air simply isn't traveling as well as we'd like it to throughout the house because it's 1,462 degrees in the shade, but at night, we always leave it off.

The other night, OMJ comes home late and decides he wants to watch some television. So he proceeds to courteously shut our bedroom door so as not to disturb me while he watches TV in the living room.

At 5:45a.m., I wake up with my tongue literally glued to the roof of my mouth and my esophagus seemingly lit on fire from my chest up. I wondered why in the hell I felt this way, while tossing and turning trying to simultaneously jar myself out of a nightmare (there was a wild boar loose in our house), and forcing some much needed sleep time in. After much tossing and turning, I awoke to still find our bedroom door closed.

After I pried my tongue loose, had a pitcher of water and TURNED ON THE A/C, I too sunk back into my cool bed, determined to resume my sleep all while cursing OMJ's actions under my breath and laughing at the prospect of his shivering ass waking up to turn off the A/C, oh...in about...5...4...3...2...

-Cathy

Turn it Up / Turn it Down

Here’s the thing about air conditioning: I’m not normally a fan of A/C blowing my face into frozen oblivion, but when the thermometer outside goes over 80, I kind of need it on. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need it cranked to “Blizzard”. In fact, it annoys the hell out of me when I have to wear a sweater and a scarf in July at my desk because the building’s A/C is set to “Frozen Tundra”, and people are still fanning themselves. No, that actually really pisses me off. But I DO want to be comfortable and not feel the sweat trickle between by boobs.

M on the other hand has an almost exorcist-like aversion to A/C, no matter how close to the sun it feels. He is so tropical one might expect to hear congas when he walks by. He is not even a fan of… FANS. “My chest!” he wheezes, clutching said chest like a 90-year old. So although he graciously “allows” us the luxury of some A/C air during the day in the summer, at night, he prefers open windows and a thin sheet. Many a night I have tossed and turned, trying to find comfort somewhere inside the haze of heat hovering in our bedroom, MY chest wet from heatstroke. But he always wins out because we wouldn’t want him to catch cold now would we?

However.

It has been a billion degrees here every day for the past week. The bunnies in my backyard seem to have lost their spunk, weakly hopping by; their little cotton tails wilted and even a little charred.

The park across the street has been a ghost town; the swings ominously empty and still, the slide too boiling burning blazing hot to even touch. The basketball court has that little wavy mirage thing happening over it, and there isn’t a single playah flinging his sweat across the court.

In short: It’s hot. Damn hot.

Because of this, I do feel it is a reasonable expectation to have the A/C on day AND night. I mean, is there anything worse than trying to sleep in wet sheets? Is there anything worse than feeling dehydrated in your dreams? Is there anything worse than waking up with heatstroke?

Because even the Scary News People have warned us that it is probably too hot to live, Mr. Tropical has caved, and the A/C has been blowin’ us to sleep every night this week. But he seems to have come down with some sort of strange ailment brought on by the continual hum of that A/C. He has an A/C-induced cough, and he feels weak and crabby, and he might even be close to collapse from some sort of undetected A/C pneumonia. I, on the other hand, have thoroughly enjoyed snuggling down into the comforter, feeling the cool fake breeze on my skin, waking up dry and rested.

Hey, it’s what marriage is all about! Compromise! Today his pneumonia, tomorrow my heatstroke!

~Patti

Tug O' War

The title of this blog post perfectly describes how I am feeling (and have been feeling for a couple of weeks now) regarding many aspects of my life. More about that later. But today, I want to express, and bring full circle, my thoughts on my kids and how this recent time alone has affected how I view my relationship with them.

To backtrack, the last time I blogged, I was living the temporary "single" life and preparing to fly out and meet up with my family for the continuation of our summer vacation. You might recall that I was grappling with my feelings, trying to come to terms with missing my children and reveling in the freedom.

So here I was, on the morning of my flight, preparing to travel solo for the first time in almost a decade. I woke up and felt strangely calm. I mean, sooooo strangely calm; like either there was something I am surely forgetting because I wasn't running around frantically packing last minute items or checking off lists, or someone had slipped me a tranquilizer. THAT kind of calm.

Throughout the course of the day (I had to take two flights with a stopover in Dallas) I found myself getting more and more giddy. Anxious. Even nervous. In fact I had such a myriad of thoughts and emotions running through me that I found myself journaling them frantically.

I witnessed other families with children, their interactions when they thought no one was observing them, and I compared them to how I would react in those situations. How much patience do they have? Do they make eye contact with them when they speak or just blurt out words without connecting? Did they laugh together? Were they frustrated or annoyed? Then I started thinking about my parents, my sister and her husband, my husband and myself. Needless to say, traveling solo resulted in tons of soul searching and discoveries for me, which I welcomed like a tall glass of cold, sweet lemonade on a hot summer day.

As a result of all of this, by the time I saw my kids, the anticipation was unbearable. I welcomed their little arms around my neck like lifesavers, holding on to them seemingly for dear life and seeing my relationship with them in a new light.

Fast forward, two weeks later, post vacation and currently in real life. I still make a conscious effort to be present with them, to observe them while they are doing little things and take in every facial expression and mannerism, to make note of every quirky comment, to laugh with them, to give them a break. OF COURSE I get all exorcist when they drive me crazy and OF COURSE I long for a break.

This is one tug o' war that will never end. But now I feel like I at least have a point of hindsight reference to keep me in check, so as not to take the rules of the game so seriously.

-Cathy

He Works Hard for the Muscle

Dear Gym Dude:

We get it. You have muscles. We can see them. And you can, too. It is easy to do when you keep staring at yourself in the mirror. And I know why you keep lifting your shirt. You want to make sure your 12-pack is still there, right? That it hasn’t somehow been horrifying reduced to a mere 6-pack in the past five seconds, or worse yet: a zilch-pack. Oh God, NO.

Gym Dude, I know you work hard. We all know, because we can hear your grunts and your loud, sweaty exhales as you do your millionth crunch. It is obvious you keep breaking your own personal records with that bench press, Gym Dude. Good for you. But is it really necessary to HACK WORK-OUT INDUCED PHLEGM INTO THE GARBAGE CAN? Gym Dude, that is just really unacceptable. I mean, once, okay. It happens. You get overworked, and it’s got to go somewhere, right? But Gym Dude, SIX TIMES?

And also, as you are admiring yourself once more in the mirror, can you please keep in mind that if you are going to keep lifting up your shirt we don’t want to see your treasure trail, Gym Dude. You might consider, I don’t know, waxing it or something because… just… no. I mean, I can see you’ve waxed your eyebrows so why not your treasure trail? Consider it, okay?

Please know that this all said with the utmost respect. After all, you are a manly, treasure-trailed Gym Dude God, WE ALL KNOW THIS, so why wouldn’t I respect you? You command it, damn it, you deserve it. You have worked hours upon hours upon hours on yourself, sculpting each muscle within an inch of its life, single-handedly creating mountains and valleys on your own body. Oh, you are so magical, Gym Dude, aren’t you? Because of this, why shouldn’t you get to hack your gold-flecked phlegm wherever you feel like it? Why shouldn’t you inspirationally grace us more flabby folks with your fur-trimmed rock-hard abs over and over again (we are so lucky!)? Why shouldn’t you get to hog the mirror for a full hour to ensure your precious 12-pack is still intact (even though I just need it for a few minutes to make sure I don’t have camel toe)?

What was I thinking, Gym Dude? Carry on. I will be the one with the camel toe, over here on the stair climber. Yes, you will see me shoving my earphones even further into my ears, to the point they might have to be surgically removed later, but I am having trouble hearing my music over the Hallelujah Chorus that plays in your head every time you look at yourself.

No offense, k?

~Patti

Nobody Goes Home Anymore

by Patti


I am still on this glorious stretch of freedom with the kid and M out of the country, so when a friend of mine invited me to join her and a few of her other friends at this supposedly totally hot and happening place in a hip part of town (is “hip” even a word anymore?) for after-work drinks, how could I not go? And when Cathy, who is beginning her descent into the end of her own Glory Days of Freedom, heard where we were going, she was all “I’m in like Flynn!” (And if you think I’m kidding that she actually said that you are wrong. She actually said that.)

So we met up at Cathy's house for a little strategic pre-champagne champagne. Cathy's sister, Sophia, also met us there, and as we sipped our pre-champagne champagne, she suggested we might want to hit the road, as it would probably be impossible to get a table.

I, in my charmingly innocent oblivion, reminded her that it was Wednesday night and nobody goes out on Wednesday nights, so we didn’t need to rush.

But Sophia, a semi-newlywed and kid-less, is still in that sweet spot where every day has the potential to be a total spur-of-the-moment “let’s go to ___________ (fill in the blank with whatever the hell you want because YOU CAN).” And because she is still in the sweet spot, her dates with her husband do not consist of $1 Redbox movie rentals and a trying-to-be-fancy frozen pizza. No, her dates are the real kind, the kind where you put on hooch heels and perfume and actually try new restaurants that don’t have the word “pancake” or “house” in its name. This means Sophia knows things I apparently no longer know.

“Nobody goes home anymore”, she told us. “The place will be packed!”

I still didn’t believe her, but since we were meeting people there, we took our Sex and the City’d asses off of the comfortable kitchen chairs and headed out.

Once there, we parked and started our 2 block walk to the restaurant. It was a beautiful evening, the kind that totally makes the 7 months of hell that is a Chicago winter totally worth sticking it out. Along the way, I realized I was all wide-eyed, my neck craning to take in the skyline and the buildings around me as if I had just stepped off my very first plane ride from my farm in Iowa, brushing hay off of my denim overalls. I had lived in the city for 15 years, WHY DID IT ALL LOOK SO NEW TO ME?

Because it was new. Seemingly overnight, a whole new slew of hot spots had sprung up from the concrete; the sidewalks were teeming with after-work evening revelers, club doors were crowded with people hoping to be lucky enough to be let in.

This is crazy, I thought, it’s Wednesday night!

We reached our destination, and I already knew we were in trouble, because there were zillions of people waiting outside the door for their turn at a table. We found our party inside, and as we shouted over the din to each other, I looked around. Oh, it was a scene alright, a total See and Be Seen scene, and I realized that Sophia was right: Nobody goes home anymore.

Cathy jabbed me in the ribs and asked me if I smelled the pee. The PEE? Yes, the PEE.
Sophia smelled it, too, and the slide from totally excited to completely and totally disillusioned began.

We decided to leave the restaurant, the one we had anticipated for days, and headed down the street to a quieter, less crowded spot.

And we had a great time, we did. We ate things like bacon-wrapped dates and fancy pizza that went by a different name, and drank crisp, bubbly Prosecco, and felt happy and blessed to be out on such a beautiful night in such a beautiful city.

And when the night ended, we considered cramming another hotspot into our night because, really, when would we get the chance again? After all, it was Wednesday night!

But you know what? We were tired. And suddenly Cathy’s back deck seemed like the place to see and be seen. The line to get in was short, there was no cover charge, and we didn’t have to yell over music or Happy Hour Drunks to be heard. And once we got there, as I sipped on a sweet glass of velvety red wine and breathed in the air and the stars and the night, I realized: Yeah I’m getting old and I’m married and I’m a mother, and I certainly don’t know what the hot spots are anymore, and I say words like “hip” and “happening”, and I had no idea that Wednesday was the new Saturday….. but I liked going home, and this, right here, is exactly where I wanted to be.