Tube Top Mystery

by Patti


The other night, I finally decided to attempt to make sense of the embarrassing disaster that is currently my closet. I folded the bunches of clothes that had somehow snowballed into one giant lump of fabric, began separating out the winter and summer clothes, and took a depressing inventory of my shoes, which, at this point, looked like rejects in the Salvation Army bin. During this process, I found an old tube top -- are they even CALLED that anymore - and my mind wandered back to what feels like a thousand years ago......

My friend Janie and I had just finished a singing gig at a hotel, and we had plans to meet up with M at Crobar - yes, it was that long ago - to go dancing. We were still in our jobbing cocktail wear, and we definitely wanted to hoochify it up to the club-level, but we had left our change of clothes in the car. It was winter, and at least 938 degrees below zero, and it was kind of blizzarding, so there was no way in hell we were going to shlep to the car, grab the goods, shlep back into the hotel to change, and THEN shlep once again BACK to the car. So, once we got out to the car, we decided to just crank up the heat and change in the parking lot. We each wrestled ourselves out of our respective clothes and wriggled into the hooch-wear, and hit the road.

Once there, I had to make sure I had all of my things together since, after the club, I was going to go home with M and Janie was going to go her way. I packed the red sparkly skirt I had worn, my high heels, and... "Hey! I can't find my tube top!"I frantically lifted myself off the seat to see if I had somehow sat on it. Not there. Janie turned on the light in the car and we both searched the backseat, under our seats, INSIDE the seats. Janie checked her bag to see if she had accidentally packed it, but it wasn't there. "What the hell?"

In the distance, I could see that M was already standing in front waiting for us, looking a little purple. The wind was blowing and the snow was flying everywhere, and he was hopping from foot to foot trying to stay warm. Torn between my love for my tube top and saving my husband from frost bite, I reluctantly chose my husband and sadly decided to end the search. "When you find it, just bring it to the next gig," I sighed. We got out of the car, Janie in her super-short mini-skirt, and me in my tight pleather dress with a zipper up the front, and begged our way into the club.

Once inside, my chest immediately felt the vibration of the Saturday night bass. BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH-BOOM-CH. The 3 of us made our way up the long stairs that led up to the second floor, and as we climbed, I noticed that my dress felt kind of... tight. "Weird," I thought. "It fit last week..." I ran my hands over my hips to try and smooth it down, and immediately felt the tire around my torso. Had I gained 30 lbs in one hour? I kept running my hands over my waist and hips, alternately mystified and horrified. Finally, no longer able to take it, I stuck my hands up my dress and groped myself. Suddenly, I felt something squishy, something... fabric-like. I grabbed hold of it and yanked it down and out and, just like that, I GAVE BIRTH TO A TUBE TOP ON THE STAIRS AT CROBAR!

I immediately doubled over in laughter. Janie and M were ahead of me and turned around when they heard my hysterics. I couldn't even talk; I just held up the tube top in all its glory. M looked more stumped than usual, but Janie totally lost it.

And there we were, laughing our assess off, the bass thumping in our hearts, my recovered tube top dancing wildly in my hand.

I Need A Bathroom Break

Who couldn't use another good bathroom story this week, right? Especially since I can't escape them myself.

The other morning, I awoke to a tiny, loose-handed fist slamming right into my face. Wham! I was up. Ari had snuck into our bed in the middle of the night again. As I shuffled the covers to make my escape and go to the bathroom, Ari woke up. So I kept walking out of the room, because I knew what was coming if I didn't.

Ari loves to follow me to the bathroom and hang out while I go and wants me to to do the same with her while she goes. And to saddle me there until she finishes, she starts up the most mundane conversations like "What are you going to have for breakfast mommy? Do we have Cheerios? I don't think so. Maybe we can check when we're done here..." and on and on.

The pitter patter of little feet were already following me down the hallway as I hustled to make it into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it behind me just in the knick of time. Click, click, click, click, click. I watched the doorknob move left to right horror-movie style as I sat on the toilet. Joining that wonderful sound came the rattling of the door, back and forth within the door frame. Thump, thump, thump, thump, click, thump, click, click, thump. Lastly, piping into that wonderful cacophony, came my daughter's groggy, tiny voice, "Mommy! Open the door! I want to come in!"

All of you mothers out there have caught on by now that once you have kids, the bathroom does not remain merely as a place for showering and releiving yourself. Noooo. It becomes a place of solace, where instead of locking your kids in a room, you put yourself in time out and have a cup of coffee, make a phone call, follow up on emails, read a magazine or just sit down, breathe deeply and slowly count to 10.

After telling Ari that I'll be out in a minute, I heard nothing. 'She left,' I thought. One minute later, sitting half asleep reveling in the silence, I was startled by a loud whirrrrrrrrrring sound. I jerked fully awake and turned to see a chidlrens book slide clear across the bathroom floor from under the door, scaring me half to death. Still, I heard nothing except for the pounding in my chest. I chuckled it off, took my time, flushed the toilet and opened the door. There was Ari still clutching her pillow and 'Mo' the little stuffed lamb. "FINALLY!" she exclaimed seemingly exasperated. "I was laying down outside the door waiting for you and when I hear you flush, I said finally!"

She marched right past me into the bathroom, where she promptly sat down and started questioning me about the weather.

Gimme a break...please??

-Cathy

Good Enough

by Patti

I have this amazing friend. She is beautiful, talented, feisty, funny, and anal as hell. Her name is J, and she color codes her checkbook. She saves receipts from 1993, "just in case", and they remain in pristine condition. Her car always smells like lemons, and she gets it washed year-round once a week. At least. She's never late on her bills, and her clothes are covered in plastic and hung neatly in her closet. She is the world's bossiest backseat driver. She always has pre-printed directions to where we are going. Spreadsheets make her horny.


My checkbook is wadded up in a cluttered desk drawer and has wine stains on it. The checks have been used in an out-of-order fashion, which would probably cause poor J to have a seizure. I tend to toss out important receipts but somehow collect those from 7-Eleven and McDonald's. And they are all at the bottom of my purse. My car smells suspiciously like S may have left a bottle of milk hidden in the back seat in 2003. I pay my bills a day late sometimes. And my clothes? Are in my laundry basket waiting to be hung. When someone else is driving I either talk them to death or just sing along to the radio and look at the scenery. If I need directions I will pull out my phone and GPS them - WHILE DRIVING. I can create a killer spreadsheet but only because I'm capable, not because I want to.

In short: We are total opposites.

When I see her lint-free, unwrinkled outfits and perfect skin and uber-organized binders that keep her life on track, I can't help but look at my shoes where the tips of the heels are ground down to the nail, and that 4th hormonal zit on my forehead, and my "Under $10!" shirt, and the nightmare inside my purse, and then I remember that I forgot to pay that bill again, damn it... and then I feel like I'm somehow not good enough. Because I'm always running late, and I'm always losing things, and no matter how many times I organize my wallet, it reverts back to being just a pocketbook of crumpled crap. And knowing this about myself and being somehow unable to change it pisses me off.

Fished out of my purse: My cell phone with a Riccola wrapper stuck to the screen.

But here's the thing: J has never made me feel like I am any less because it. In fact, J has always lifted me up when I put myself down, and laughed out loud to the point of crying at my weird sense of humor, and rather than call me irresponsible she calls me a free-spirit. And she loves me BECAUSE of who I am, not despite who I am - even the parts that cause her to have heart attacks.

Her friendship is a gift I cherish. Because it has made me realize many, many times over the past almost-15 years I have known her, that no matter what, I am good enough just the way I am.

J is about to become a mother for the first time; the last of all her friends to do so. And though she will likely be way more organized than I ever was, I know she will also go through a bit of Culture Shock. And when she is doubting herself, or wondering if she is doing it right, or plain wanting to break down and sob because it's all so damned hard, I will be there to let her know: You? And everything you are doing? It's all good enough.

One Toilet? Oh, Crap.

Today I had a painter come and repaint my guest bathroom. Which meant, I only had one other functioning bathroom that needed to be shared between me and my two daughters for only a few hours. What are the odds that two of us needed to use the bathroom at the same time during those few hours, right?

Well, after my morning coffee kicked in, I really had to go. So I grabbed my phone (that's me, always multitasking) to send a few emails while on the toilet. No sooner did I settle down on the toilet and turned on my phone, when Ari, my five-year old, bursts through the door (which can't be locked because it needs to be planed down in order to fit the frame) and announces hastily, "I have to go kaka!" Before I could answer, she saw me there and bolted out the door to try the other bathroom - which was being painted.

4, 3, 2, 1..."Mom! I can't use the other bathroom and I really have to go kaka!" By now, I was midway through relieving myself; so I was at the point where I couldn't stop but had to wait for the sweet time nature needs to run its course. All the while, she is sitting on the edge of the tub and getting up; she is hopping around from foot to foot; she is trying to distract herself with the book she is planning to read while going kaka (we are a family of multitaskers); and she finally blurted out, "Mommy, I can't hold it anymore!!"

So in my desperate attempt to distract her/think of another solution so I could finish, I said, "Let's share!"
To which she replied "OK!" Pause. She had to think about this one. "Mommy, how??"

I was desperate at this point. "Here!" I said pointing to a bucket-style stool my girls use to brush their teeth. "Turn this around. Can you go in there?" She must have seen how ridiculous of a request that was since I was laughing picturing her trying to balance on that thing. "I can't go in there!" she replied dancing around the bathroom.

And with that, I had stalled her long enough to rid my bowel of the pressure it had building up. I quickly stood up, vaulting shut anything else that was making its way down my intestine, and Ari took to that toilet like, well...flies on you-know-what.

Mothers - for their children, they can move mountains AND bowel movements.

-Cathy

Farmer Daughter

by Patti

Sunday we spent the entire day livin’ it up in the country. A friend of M’s lives in a rambling farm house that sits on a billion acres of land. They raise horses and their kids catch fireflies.

S went bonkers zipping across of acres of unspoiled land on a dirt bike. There went my kid, all decked out in Evil Knievel gear and a huge dare devil orange helmet. Her blonde, curly hair flew wildly behind her, and, even from far away, I could see the joy in her body as she felt the freedom of the land that stretched before her.

She rode this dirt bike for hours, and then she and M flew around the fields on a 4-wheeler, taking curves like stunt pros while the resident dog “herded” them like they were sheep on crack.

Then she fed the horses mounds of fresh carrots, plucked the grassy fields for bugs and worms, got dirty from head to toe, and, even though her “allergic-to-floaty-things-in-the air” eyes were all puffy by day’s end, she stated quite simply that she wanted to be a farmer.

Though I would most likely never move to a farm because doing so would end up with M and I singing this:

I still love giving credence to what she says.

Okay, so yeah, Saturday she wanted to be a police officer. The day before a rap star. Last week she wanted to work for Apple designing Mac computers. A few months ago she wanted to work at M.A.C. – the cosmetics store. Last year she wanted to be a hairdresser. So what?

Even if her future “career” choices are a little on the schizophrenic side right now, her unabashed enthusiasm for each new experience says something about her character: that she is capable of dreaming, and hoping, and happiness.

For her to know what that is, holy cow I’d buy the whole farm.

Insole Insult

One night, I was getting ready to go out to some industry event and was struggling between wearing my hot, trendy, can-only-sit-down-in-them shoes, or my more comfortable but frumpier looking shoes. Of course, I chose the former; can't be vain without pain.

In an attempt to curb some of the excruciating pain I knew I would be feeling that night, I had the bright idea to look for some shoe insoles that would make bearable the board stiff soles of those hot shoes, which felt just fine during the 1.2 minutes I wore them when I tried them on and BOUGHT them. After tossing stuff out of drawers and cabinets for several minutes, I ran across a super comfy gel insole that I had...brace yourself...ripped out of a magazine. There was ONE insole glued to the ad in the magazine as a sample. And I kept it. And that's the one I wore. Just one. So I said, "What the heck. I'll just keep switching it from shoe to shoe throughout the night and I'll be good as gold." I was so proud at myself for being 'quick on my feet' and thoroughly resourceful. I rocked.

As the night went on, I discovered I couldn't casually go off in a corner to switch the insoles out of my shoes while conversing with friends or balancing my drink. So I left it in the same shoe. Since I was standing so long, that foot started getting swollen since I had less room in there to accommodate expanding, tired feet. I made a quick exit to remove it, hastily shoved it in my purse and sucked up the pain for the rest of the night.

The next day, I had to make a quick run to Jewel for some milk. I slipped on my comfy walking shoes and grabbed my purse. At the checkout counter, I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. There, like Pinocchio's nose protruding off his flat face, the black insole, which had conveniently stuck itself onto my white wallet, stayed pointing skyward for several seconds before flopping over to one side and kept bouncing there.

Boing...boing...boing it went, slowing down with every bounce. I just stood there, along with the three other people in line and the young checkout girl, whose mouth was ajar in amazement, staring at this most ridiculous sight. Do you know how sometimes you are shocked so much by something that it takes you a while to process what's going on? That was me at the Jewel checkout line that moment.

I quickly ripped that insole off my wallet, shoved it back into my purse, hurriedly paid for my milk, and strode off.

At home, I immediately removed that insole from my purse before I would pull out my lip gloss or cell phone tomorrow and have that thing stuck to it. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and settled into my sectional to relax.

My feet were killing me.


-Cathy

Good Morning! This Is Your Wake Up Call!

I woke up this morning at around 9am, treasuring my sleep during the last few days before my kids start school and life becomes one big hustle.

As I groggily shuffle into the kitchen to make some coffee, this is what greets me:



I stop short, startled out of my long, luxurious yawn.

Instantly, last night's conversation with my husband replays through my head. We were preparing a movie snack of microwavable popcorn and homemade wine coolers (because that's how we roll) and he saw my reaction as I disdainfully observed this mess.

"Yeah, I saw that too but I said 'screw it'. We'll just do them tomorrow," he says to me. Those words sounded like they had the sound of angels singing around them.
'Yes,' I thought at the time, "that sounds wonderful." Ah the feeling to chuck it all and do what you WANT rather than what NEEDS to be done! So we settled in to watch a nearly three-hour "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," and went off to bed.

Cut to this morning. As I was digging my way to the coffeemaker to make my now desperately needed cup of coffee, I was noticing how conveniently absent my husband was. Oh, that's right. Every Saturday morning he has his weekly breakfast visit with his parents. "We'll just do them tomorrow" kept repeating in my head.

I should have known better. 'WE' never means WE. It always means YOU. Whether you use it on your husband ("WE need to take the trash out") or he uses it on you ("WE really need to organize these closets") it's the same game.

So after my coffee, I begrudgingly stood there and washed this heap, all the while thinking that my first comment to my husband as he walks in the door will be:
WE really need to get a new dishwasher.

-Cathy

Puberty: New and Improved!

by Patti

Yesterday S begged me to take her to the library to pick up this book she’s been dying to read.

I was spent from work and not feeling really well, but when your kid is BEGGING to go the LIBRARY because she wants to READ, I guess you should suck it up and go.

So we went to the library and scored the book she wanted, and I started for the check-out desk. She tugged my arm and I turned around to find her smiling shyly at me. “Mom… can we check out some books on puberty, too?”

Puberty.

S has always physically been on the small side. She is skinny and petite and weighs 54 lbs. Because of that, sometimes I forget that she is almost 10 ½ years old, and the kid is hungry for information about growing up. But, as much as I try to stop it, she is growing up, so lately, we have been talking a lot about puberty and what that journey entails. She knows about periods and pads and tampons and boobs and is begging me on a daily basis for a bra. “I have to get my breast buds used to a bra, mom!” Yes, she says breast buds. She has no breast buds. But by God she wants them.

Even though I doubt she will have breast buds - much less actual breasts -anytime soon, I did promise her that we can go shopping for her first bra when she turns 11. But she wants one now.

And I won’t give in.

I know it’s technically just a piece of stretchy fabric, these days made kind of adorable with frogs printed all over them or “awesome” peace signs, and I totally get the attraction. But I also know that to HER, it means much more. And because of that, it means even that much more to me.

Maybe I’m being selfish and unreasonable, but I’m not ready for her to start down that path yet. And though she claims that having a bra will make her feel more confident (thank you Discovery Girl Magazine for giving my kid ammunition) since a handful of her friends are already wearing one (BECAUSE THEY NEED IT, WHAT THE HELL THEY ARE TEN. I didn’t get boobs ‘til I was like… oh wait. I still don’t have them.), I kind of feel that she is trying to rush things.

So last night, freshly annoyed with me because I once again told her she would have to wait a little longer for that bra, she laid on the couch to start reading her puberty books. Every once in a while she would read a passage out loud to me, and though I tried to play it cool, in my heart I was happy to know that she feels comfortable enough with me to let me share in all of this with her. “Puberty sounds like so much fun, mom!”

Yes, her underarms stink and she is moody and she likes to stare at herself in the mirror; she is starting to show typical signs that she is growing up. But really? She is still so innocent. Because puberty, kid? IS SO NOT FUN.

It's Gonna Be a Great Day!

by Patti

This morning I was squatting down in front of the open refrigerator, grabbing some snacks for S’s lunch. In a hurry, as usual, I stood up too fast and BAM! My eye met the corner of the freezer door in such a way one would think I had slept with that freezer door’s boyfriend.

I immediately saw those cartoon stars and bent over in agony, cupping my eye and cussing. S ran over to see if I was okay, and all I could do was mumble some sort of tortured gibberish. “Eee you toa mee noo lakash!”

Still mindful of the fact that she was going to miss the bus if we didn’t hustle, I grabbed a bag of frozen peas and stuck it on my throbbing eye, envisioning the huge, black, swollen look I would soon sport, and continued about my morning activities.

M wandered into the kitchen to find out what all the commotion was about, and found me with the peas on my eye while at the same time smearing cream cheese on S’s toast. “I slammed my eye into the fridge”, I told him. He looked at me and rolled his (non-swollen, non-bruised) eyes. I quickly flashbacked to the early days of our love when my slamming my eye into the refrigerator would have immediately elicited a hug and a thousand tender kisses on my battered eye. Back to reality: He yawned and left. I yelled out to him,“And I’m going to tell everyone you beat me up!”

I drove to work icing my eye, and on the way pulled into a Starbucks for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I went into the store, my stomach growling in anticipation. I placed my order and when I reached into my bag to pull out my wallet, I realized there was no wallet. I fumbled through my purse for a few minutes, as if doing so would make it suddenly magically appear. “Uh… I don’t have my wallet…” I told the cashier.


“That’s okay – you can go out to your car and we’ll hold your order for you….”

“It’s not there – I left it at home.”

“Oh. Well….” She subtly pulled the sandwich closer to her, as if I might just snatch it and run out of the store. Which, I might have. Because I was THAT hungry. “We already started your coffee order, so why don’t you just take it and you can pay us tomorrow.”

I thanked the crap out of her and silently wondered if my swollen, boxer eye had anything to do with her sympathy. Then I wondered what else could go wrong today.

As I was getting into my car, I noticed a weird stain on the back of my pant leg – my WHITE pant leg - near the calf. I sat down and pulled up my pant leg, and discovered a clump of dried blood on the back of my leg. That’s when I remembered that I had shaved my legs this morning, because I DO still do that from time to time, and that sharp pain I felt when I did so? That was me apparently SLICING myself open. The blood had dripped down my calf, and, in my usual morning rush, I failed to notice. So of COURSE I slipped on my WHITE pants, which served as a nice lil’ mopping device for the blood that was geysering out of my leg.

And then I punched myself in the eye with the freezer door.

And then I forgot my wallet and only drank sympathy coffee for breakfast.

And now I sit here with my throbbing eye, my growling stomach, and my bloody white pants.

Holy Tantrums, Batman

Ari, my little one, was just shy of two years old. I had taken my girls to church the week before Easter (Holy Week) to receive holy ointment. It's when the priest uses blessed oil on a cotton swab, makes the sign of the cross with it on your forehead, chin, both cheeks, palms and backs of the hand while reciting a special prayer. I've taken Bella, my older daughter, since she was little and she loved the whole process. I had also taken Ari when she was a baby with no problems, but this time, she was at the age where she was more aware of what was going on. And she wasn't having any of it.

As we approached the priest after waiting patiently in a long line for quite some time, I had Ari in my arms. Bella went first, no problem. So then I stepped up and presented Ari to the priest so she can receive her holy oil blessing. Well let me tell you, as soon as that swab touched her face, it's as though the priest was conducting some sort of exorcism. She flipped. She was jerking and resisting so hard she flung the priest's large, ornamented cross almost off his neck while nearly whacking the swabs out of his hands. I looked at the priest with a mixture of horror, embarrassment and apologetic pleading. After trying again to pry Ari's arms away from her beet-red, screaming face, he gave me a reassuring yet regretful look of his own, as if to say, "This isn't going to happen."

So after managing to receive my blessing, all while pinning Ari to my hip and breaking into a sweat, I mustered up my kid and what little was left of my pride, straightened myself out and started the long walk down the middle aisle of the church to exit. To give you an idea of the setup, that middle aisle was flanked by long pews on either side and then yet another aisle along the walls on either side where everyone was waiting reverently to receive their sacrament.

We almost made it out. As we were walking down the center aisle to leave, I put her squirmy little body down since she was hiking my skirt up with all her shuffling. BAD. MOVE. Still crying, she throws a TANTRUM - a sit-down and scream tantrum - smack in the middle of the middle aisle.

The church was packed to the rafters. When i squatted down to attempt to pick her up, balancing shakily on my heels and trying to keep my equilibrium while being weighed down on one side with my big-ass bulky diaper bag, since i brought everything under the sun to distract her, she starts leaning AWAY from me. So I lunged forward and pulled her back BY HER DRESS just in time before she was ready to start her way back towards the priest. In the process, the diaper bag swings around and lands with a thump on the pristine blue runner, just as I dragged her towards me and lifted her up. Yet again, I shakily squatted to pick up that heavy ass bag, while holding her backwards facing the crowd with the other arm, her dress hiked up to her neck, red-faced, kicking and screaming, all while trying to walk out of there (the aisle now seemed like an eternity) without dropping her and with what scraps of dignity I had left. I had broken into a full-out body sweat.

Bella, who had just turned seven at the time, was waiting patiently at the end of the aisle, smartly distancing herself from that whole fiasco, with a look of sympathy on her cute little face.

As I started speed walking to get out, I wondered if churches were considered safe havens for leaving children - you know - like fire stations and hospitals, because I TOTALLY would have left her there that day. Obviosuly, this whole experience was gut-wrenching.

But this all goes back to what I have learned and concluded:
When you become a parent, you have not ONE SHRED of dignity left. Ever. Anywhere. It all goes out the window. Don't try to save face, keep your nose up, dress in dressy clothes or heels, or wear nice jewelry. Just kiss your vanity and pride goodbye, take it in stride and laugh when you want to cry. Because looking back, you WILL laugh and realize that other parents won't judge you because they've been there too.

-Cathy

Don't Pluck!

by Patti

Today I plucked a gray hair off the top of my head.

It was one of those wiry, sprouty numbers that pop up seemingly overnight.
Now before you get all “big wup, one gray hair!” I’ll have you know that the one I plucked off the top of my head is one of thousands I have plucked in the last couple of years. At a red light? I pluck. In the bathroom? I pluck. Waiting for S to get off the school bus? I pluck. I CAN’T STOP PLUCKING.

This reminds me of when I used to go this Indian salon to get my brows threaded. Between visits, I would pluck any strays that peppered my brow bone. Each time I would sit down to get it done professionally, my threader, who apparently was somehow watching me and just knew I was cheating, would slap my forehead and scold, “Don’t pluck!” Her Hindi accent made it sound even more serious, and so it became that each time I dared to pluck my own strays, I would hear her voice: “Don’t pluck!”And I would feel guilty.

So now, the plucking has moved to the grays. The many, many oh-God-help-me grays. And because I pluck them, they grow back in the form of those wiry, sprouty little numbers. And because they grow this way, I can’t just wait for them to grow all long and white, so I have to pluck them AGAIN. which of course only leads to more wiry, sprouty little numbers which of course leads to more plucking, which of course leads to…

Need I go on?

I don’t know, there are many things I am finding depressing about “getting on” in years, but this wiry hair crap is pretty damned high on the list. I feel like it’s some sort of badge for all to see.”Hey look at me! I’m an old bitch!”

But then again, I guess it’s better than the alternative, right?

RIGHT?

Highway 40s

So yesterday, I celebrated my 41st birthday.
I am officially cruising down Highway 40s.

I was completely overwhelmed and blown away by all the birthday wishes received from friends, family, acquaintances, my kids and via social networking sites. I truly felt blessed at the support system I am lucky enough to have.

Of course remarks ranged from the pick-me-uppers ("Forties are the new thirties!") and the obligatory knocks to the gut ("Welcome to the Cougar Club!") but overall, it was a no-frills, easy day spent with my kids at a local water park. Couldn't ask for more.

As I look back at this last year, the year I was 40, I was so proud of all I had accomplished and overcome. From the small (floating on my back and swimming underwater with my eyes open) to the big (work-related television appearances) I felt very content with my milestones. Of course, like a true Leo, I am looking to do some soul-searching and set the bar higher for this year. But in doing so, I wanted to share some insights I've made throughout this process. None of these are breakthrough musings by any means, but I've learned that they really do need to be applied to live a fulfilled life:

- I will always be older; I will never be younger. More importantly, I will never be this age again. Enjoy the time you are experiencing now.

- I AM young, compared to next year.

- There will always be someone older than me (which makes me young) and someone younger than me (which makes me old). Age will only be just a NUMBER.

- You lose yourself in living life; you lose yourself through marriage and your spouse, your kids, your job, the burden of responsibilities, your lack of time to be with yourself. All of these extenuating relationships change who you once were. Make it a point to find that person again - your hopes, your dreams, your beliefs, your zest for life, your goals (little or big), your old self. Try to get to that time, place and mindframe again.

- Ultimately, you must do things and live your life for yourself - never for anyone else. They may hate you at the moment for their own selfish reasons but you will always hate yourself for not doing what you should have - what your gut was telling you to do - and it's never a healthy thing to live with regret. Everyone else will get over it.

- Always surround yourself with people of all ages - from young and spirited to old and wise. Be their friends. Listen to their stories. Let them take you in to their world; it will change the way you see the world.

- If you put it in your head that you are old, you will beome old. Think young, be young and never quit experiencing life.

- I think about turning 41 and say, "I am only two years past my thirties!" and as I look at my kids, I think "They are still little. My youngest one is only starting kindergarten this year!" It's all in how you look at things. Find the positive and focus on that.

- Find your will and find your way. No one else will find it or do it for you.

- Never let anyone quash your spirit. It's what keeps you going. It's what keeps you young.

- Laugh at everything. Laugh it off. Laugh at yourself most importantly.

-Cathy

Mani - Patti

by Cathy

I finally got a chance to experience the latest craze in nail polish: the shattered look. Have you heard of it? You apply one coat of whichever nail polish color you choose and then apply a second coat of contrasting "Shatter" color to give your nails the following look:

So my daughter and I were excited to show Patti and her daughter, S, during our abrupt visit to their house yesterday. After Patti sees my new manicure, she says: "That's what my nails look like most of the time anyway!"

That reminds me of another nail polish story with her: It was Halloween and she wanted to polish her nails black but didn't want to spend a fortune on the polish since it would be only for fun. So she bought a discounted polish for .99 cents. When she showed me the end result, I was amazed at how vibrant the color was. "That looks awesome," I told her. "Not at all cheapy looking."
Her reply: "Are you kidding? I have like a thousand coats of this stuff on. Ninety-nine coats for .99 cents!!!"

That's Patti; and I love her for always keeping it REAL!!!

Like Fine Wine....

Today Cathy is older than 25, that’s for sure.

Older than 30, even.

Older than....

Well, it doesn’t matter, because no matter how old she is, she is still hot and sexy, fun, funny, smart, a great wife and mother, and a wonderful, beautiful friend. And she couldn’t be all that without having come this far.

Happy Birthday Beeyotch! Glad I found you, and that you found me, and that we found we!


Love you!
~Patti

Letting Go

by Patti

This morning I officially became the mother of a FIFTH GRADER.

Do you know what this means? It means I have one school year left with a little girl, and then she will be in JUNIOR HIGH and the world will end.

How can it be that just a second ago she was this blinking, curious little creature fresh out of my womb, all smooshy and wrinkled and new,and now, she’s this long-legged KID begging for a bra and rolling her eyes at me?

This weekend I was helping my mom clean out some old files, and I found a dusty cassette tape. (Remember those? The 8-track’s futuristic replacement and now totally obsolete?) On my way home, I popped it into my player and suddenly a little munchkin voice filled my car. It was a 5-year old S, singing silly songs and saying prayers for her runaway cat, Sally. My face was immediately swallowed up by the hugest smile, and I felt the sunshine of the little girl S fill my whole body.

When I got home, I made S come into the car with me and listen to the tape. When she heard herself, she too broke out in a huge grin and gushed over that little girl. “I was so cute, mommy!” We listened to the entire tape, and when it ended, S sighed heavily and said, “I miss myself…”

She looked a little sad at not being a baby anymore, and it made me realize that life seems to always be about letting go of something. For mothers, it is letting go of babyhood and those precious milestones that come along with it. For kids it is letting go of childhood and its magic. For all of us it is letting go of friendships, letting go of jobs, letting go of homes, letting go of places, letting go of youth… It just seems we are always letting go of something.

But then this morning, as I saw my now fifth-grader onto the school bus, her new backpack weighed down with shiny new markers and folders and clean notebooks, I realized that we have to let go to make room for all that is yet to come.

S is not a baby anymore; in fact, she is hardly even a little girl anymore. But the future is wide open, and I can’t wait to watch her fill it up.

Home

by Patti


Our family just returned from a week-long getaway to Portland, Oregon.

Oh, Portland, do you know how beautiful you are?

Portland is where I finished high school and made life-long friends.

Portland is where I smoked clove cigarettes and went dancing at Skoochie’s and listened to Alphaville’s “Forever Young”, and felt it.

Portland is where I acted and sang on stage and embraced my Thespianism to its very core.

Portland is where I met M.

And after almost 15 years of living there, I moved to Chicago with M.

We left behind the beautiful Pacific Northwest with its heaven-touched coast....



but being young and tethered only to each other, we were also excited about the prospect of nightlife and high rises and restaurants that stayed open past 10 pm.

We have now been in this crazy snow-blown city for 15 years, and we love it -- for the most part. (Because, really? SEVEN MONTHS OF WINTER?)

Yet. There is something about Portland and the way it smells like pine needles when you step out of the airport. There is something about the way Mt. Hood glitters in the distance. There is something about Portland's many looping bridges and the way they proudly cross the Willamette River.

There is something about going home.

Because that is what Portland has meant to me: home.

My family moved around like nomads practically my whole life, and it was in Portland that I finally experienced what it is to have roots, to have friends for more than one school year, to have a place that no matter where you go, you feel like when you go to that place, you are home.

I hadn’t been back to Portland in nearly 10 years when we went this time, and it was strange how the second we left the airport and hit the highway, I just knew where I was. The roads and street signs and trees and river and bridges, they were all imprinted in my brain like a perfect map. Yes, there was growth - lots of new restaurants and shops and businesses - but the heart of what I remembered was the same.

And as we drove past the little burger shack where M and I used to eat The Best Veggie Burger on Earth slathered with melted Tilamook Cheese, and the bus stop where my mom used to wait for the bus that would take her downtown to work, and the bridge I used to cross with butterflies in my stomach to get to M’s house, and the path I used to jog on Sunday mornings, and the store that my best friend in high school and I dropped off our collected cans to for weekend cash, and my old house with its big kitchen window that faced the street, and the hill where I learned to drive stick shift, and the condo my family lived in when we first moved to Portland that had that awesome pool where my best friend and I scorched ourselves into oblivion all summer, and the bagel store where I always ordered extra cream cheese and two chocolate chip cookies, and the exit off the highway that led to my first “real job”… as I passed all of these places, the memories of each one vividly danced up before my eyes, and I was transported back to a time of innocence and freedom, and for a minute, I felt nostalgic and a little sad for that time now gone.

But then, with my daughter by my side and M’s profile against the window, I realized: Yes, Portland is beautiful, and it holds many memories for me, but my home is no longer a place, it is people. And no matter where I go now, if it doesn’t include them, it’s just not home.

"The Talk"

We've all heard about having "the talk" with our kids about the birds and the bees. We've seen various scenarios on television shows and in movies or heard about them from friends. But nothing compares to when you actually sit down with your child and have these blunt, grown-upy conversations with them. You somehow both emerge changed.

For a while now, I have been sensing that my 10-year old has been itching to ask me questions about puberty, periods and having babies. I can see her confusion when she watches a Kotex commercial or when she observes a "baby making" conversation in a movie. The icing on the cake was when she asked me a few weeks ago, "Mom, how do you know when you're pregnant? Do you just find out?"

As much as I reveled in her innocence, I couldn't continue to play this game just to reassure myself they are still little and satisfy my need to keep my kids safe from life's harsh realities. She'll have to find out eventually and I don't want her to find out from anyone else. Her class will be studying health education this year so I didn't want her to go in completely clueless in front of her friends.

Setting the precendence of openess and honesty between me and my daughters is something that I have always promised myself I would do because it not only bonds our relationship but is also necessary for my inclusion in their lives as they navigate through the bumpy and awkward years ahead of them. So many life changes, both emotional and physical are ahead of them; and I want to be their guide and go-to person for those important rites of passage.

I've been promising her that we'll have a "girls day" so we can go out alone and talk about all of the grown up stuff and she had been looking forward to it. But since then, a bad cold and cough has grounded her, so I decided that last night, since we were alone in the house, would be the perfect time to have our 'chat'.

First, I asked her to tell me everything she already knew/read/heard about puberty and periods. It was so cute to see her exhibit uncertainty, shyness, embarrassment, awkwardness and hesitation mixed with curiosity. We went through it all, complete with hand-drawn diagrams of a woman's reproductive system and hands-on exhibits of feminine hygiene products. Whew! I felt relief when that was over and she seemed content with the descriptive lecture.

However, just when you think it's safe to go back in the water...
"Mom," she asked after a long pause, "I have one more question. How do you get pregnant?" Luckily, my back was to her so she couldn't see my wide-eyed expression as I furiously bought time by clinking and clanking the dishes I was putting away and murmuring something about 'too much stuff in this kitchen'. But this was it. If we were going to do this, we would do it all the way.

So we had that conversation as I tried to give her as much information as she would need to understand how it all worked without getting very specific. She had some very well thought-out questions. Before I knew it, it was over. She was satisfied with quenching her curiosity and I breathed another long sigh of relief.

Later that night, I asked her how she felt about our discussions.
"Releived," she said. That made me feel awesome.
I casually mentioned something to her about how she wasn't so little anymore and how she's growing up before my eyes. She got very confused and said, "Why?"
"Well, we just had a convesation about sex, for goodness sake," I said matter-of-factly without making eye contact.
She waited a bit and said with a shaky voice, "Well, just because we talked about all of that doesn't mean that I'm still not your little girl. I will always be your little girl."

I gave her a long, hard hug. This is one of the things I love about my over-emotional, big-hearted little girl. She always knows exactly what to make these awkward moments more bearable. Just like her mommy.

-Cathy

Home Spa Pit-Stop

This may or may not have something to do with me celebrating a birthday next week, but tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed how much LONGER my bedtime routine has become.

Seemingly overnight, I have come to realize how my face and body have jumped into high maintenance status. No longer can I just get away with brushing and flossing and cleansing my face of makeup. Nooooooo. It has become a full-blown spa pit-stop. Only instead of a crew of eight guys virtually overhauling a race car in 12.5 seconds, it's lonely old me, doing the job of virtually every health and beauty expert out there, in no less than half an hour.

Here's my routine:

1) Floss and brush teeth
2) Wash face
3) Use toner on face - to remove excess built-in dirt and pray that it lives up to claims of shrinking crater-sized pores on my face.
4) Slap some Olay Regenerist firming lotion on my jowls, and again, pray they lift.
5) While I'm at it, use some on my neck, especially the deeply engraved neck wrinkle that appeared virtually overnight, going clear across my neck, like a choker.
6) Whip out some facial serum that claims to reduce fine line and wrinkles. Make sure I douse that all over the frown lines between my brows, forehead lines and parenthesis that have formed on either side of my mouth. I make a mental note to stop sleeping on my face. Then I go over my whole face with a light moisturizer.
7) Pluck stray eyebrow hairs and for the 100th time, make a note to call and make a professional eyebrow shaping appointment.
7) Reach for the Vaseline (yeah, I know, it's petroleum jelly but I'm desperate at this point) and dab some on my crows feet. While I'm at it, I dab some on my eyebrows in an upward motion to keep their shape. By the way, EVERYTHING is applied in an upward motion.
8) Since I'm a side-sleeper, I lotion up my chest and decolletage area all the way up to my neck. Already getting those sleep lines there. Make a mental note to sleep on my back without a pillow.
9) While I'm slathering the cream, I rub some on my crackly ass elbows and moisten up my hands.
10) Speaking of crackly, I reach for the Vaseline again (from crows feet to feet feet) and cake that on my heels, which for the love of God, can't get soft even after all the pumicing and lotioning in the world. Dab some Vaseline on my dry lips as well, making sure I go OUTSIDE my lip line to prevent those ugly upper lip fan lines. Ugh.

So right when I think I'm ready for bed, I get a glimpse of my upper arms in the mirror. Damn you, summer. I grab the free weights and start my reps. Standing. Sitting. Laying on the floor. Jiggle - lift - grunt - repeat.
Now I can't neglect the rest of my body, so I throw in some crunches and squats and call it a night.

Mind you, this is all done after a day of being on the lookout for gray hairs that need coloring, taking my 20-minute jog, waxing my bikini line, shaving my armpits and legs (again, damn you summer) and ALL while making mental notes:
Sit up straight. Tighten. Don't slouch. Stretch. Do Kegels. Eat fiber. Take my multivitamin and calcium. Keep head up. Tighten. Don't frown. Smile. Do Kegels. Tighten. Use this opportunity to exercise. Schedule a manicure. Don't forget perfume. Accessorize. Do kegels. Look cute and put together. Tighten. Stay sane. Getting old sucks. Fight it every step of the way...until you can afford all this upkeep professionally.

-Cathy

Lights Out

I'm driving home the other night with my two girls in the car, on the Edens expressway no less. It was about 10pm and I was following my husband and his parents home from a family visit in Northbrook. Since I got caught at a red light before getting on the Edens, they were way ahead of me.

I continued on, windows down, enjoying the warm evening breeze, singing along to a song on the radio while the girls were playing on whatever electronic device they had in the back seat, when something briefly appeared and caught my eye on the left, front side of my car. It seemed as though something flapped up against the car and went away. 'Strange,' I thought.

So I kept driving and singing, when I looped into a wide turn in the road, and the wind caught whatever was flapping right underneath it. And there it was. Staring me right in the face: MY HEADLIGHT.


If you squint a bit, you can see it sticking out over my dashboard, like a dog ear perked up to hear what's going on.

I drove like that down the Edens for about 10 more minutes, laughing my ass off the entire time at the absolute ludicrous circumstances that freely hand over blog fodder. When I exited, I snapped this shot.








So being the ever-resourceful superwoman that women have now evolved into, I took hold of that headlight, put it into position and popped it back in with my fist. Done...until next time when that headlight finds the most inappropriate time to rear its ugly head.

-Cathy

Yeah, It's Probably the Cramps

I don't know, maybe it's the cramps. Maybe it's the fact that my right brain is stuck working on the most left-brain project ever in the history of the universe at work. Maybe it's the fact that it is for once NOT 115 degrees outside; instead, it is a glorious just-under-80 and, while I can SEE the gloriousness, I am stuck inside, unable to FEEL the gloriousness.

Whatever it is, I'm in A Mood.

And because I'm in A Mood, I am more irritated than usual by stuff that normally irritates me only a just little. I find I have low tolerance for lots of stuff - and maybe that puts me in the Perpetually Cranky category. Though, most that know me would say I seem to spit sunshine, so who knows. AT ANY RATE, today, I am annoyed.

By what, you ask?

Okay, I'll play.

1. What the hell is up with Subway's One Napkin Policy? I mean, seriously? I order a sandwich with 348 types of things on it, PLUS barbeque sauce - yes, SAUCE being the operative word, here - and the Subway guy only gives me ONE napkin. When I politely ask for "extra napkins, please", he hands me ONE more. Yeah, that oughtta do it. If any of you are Curb Your Enthusiasm fans, you may remember the episode where Larry asks for more napkins, and the Napkin Natzi won't cave, so when Napkin Natzi is not looking, Larry swipes a few more. A bit later, as he is driving home, he is pulled over the police - FOR STEALING NAPKINS. So yeah, when you are driving home today, and you see a very bitchy looking lady pulled over by the police, that might be me. Me and my extra napkins.

2. Why do people insist on parking crooked? WHY? Can you just take the extra 3.5 seconds to back out and pull back in again in order to ensure you are NOT parked crooked? The world is full of cars circling parking lots over and freakin' over again, looking for a parking spot. And when we finally find one, when it is rendered unusable by some selfish, inconsiderate parking hog, well - IT PISSES US OFF. And well, when we are feeling pissed off, we may be inclined to squeeze our pissed off selves into that spot ANYWAY, and when you find you have to crawl across the passenger seat to get behind your steering wheel, your skirt hiking clear up to your head, or your tie strangling you as you do so, well...

3. Hey! I'm feeling better already. I'm out of things that annoy me!

For now.

~Patti

Us

This has been a summer of milestones for S: First, she jetted off to South America with her dad, and WITHOUT ME, to visit his family. Second, she jumped off a diving board and swam in 12 feet of scary, wet, could-be-sharks-in-there-water. Third: She learned to face certain fears with pluck and vigor. Fourth: She jetted off again to visit family, this time without her dad OR me. I mean, that’s huge for a girl who needs somebody to walk her to the bathroom in her own house. Granted, she flew with family, so she didn’t fly alone; but she flew away from US, and that, my friends, IS huge.

You know what else is huge? The fact that her flying away led to another milestone: MARRIED PEOPLE WERE LEFT ALONE. ALONE AS IN: NO KIDS. ALONE AS IN: Well…Some
things are better left unsaid.

SO. This Alone Time has been pretty cool. We went to see a movie, one that didn’t include animation or giggly, screaming tween girls, and it didn’t have to be planned a year in advance. In fact, we decided on-the-fly to see it HALF AND HOUR BEFORE IT STARTED. We had dinner with friends, and it didn’t include censored or interrupted conversation. We took a late summer-night drive in a convertible, and we didn’t have to watch the clock. We came and went as we pleased, both separately and together (GOD, get your mind out of the gutter!), and can I tell you how wonderful it has been?

Don’t get me wrong: I miss my kid. Alot, even. But in getting this little slice of life without her I have also realized just how much I have really missed the “us” of M and me. We were “us” for 11 years before S came along. And during those 11 years, we experienced so many amazing things together as JUST “us”. Yes, we have experienced amazing things together as not just “us”, namely, actually becoming a Not Just “Us”. But sometimes, the line that separates the past from the present becomes a little too defined, and a little blurring of that line to somehow re-join the two halves is needed.

And that is what this week has done.

The extra-cool thing about it has been that we didn’t experience it in the altered reality of some lush tropical resort, or under the romantic covers of some plush hotel. Instead, we got to re-experience REAL LIFE at HOME, with work, and bills, and every day happenings, as JUST US again. As dull as it may sound to some, re-connecting on that level and seeing that we can still laugh together, have fun together, or just “be” together… that is the best part of all.

S comes home tomorrow, and I can’t wait to smoosh her wiggly little body. I can’t wait to love on her as she rolls her eyes and acts all smothered and bothered. I just can’t wait to clap my eyes on that kid.

And as we settle back into our routine together, all of us, I will carry with me a little smile in my heart knowing that, yeah, her dad and I? We’re good.

~Patti

April Fresh

Yesterday I pulled down my pants to pee (how do you like that for an opener?) and discovered why I felt a little "fluffy" down there: Safely bunched up in my underwear was a Downy dryer sheet.

How it had gone undiscovered in the HOURS since I had gotten dressed, I don't know. But there it was, and there I was, April Fresh.

~Patti

Across The Pond Is A Long Way, My Friend

We have all types of friends: work friends, childhood friends, high school friends, college friends, spouse's friends, 'friends of' friends, other school mom friends, and the list goes on.

But there is usually only one friend that has grown up with you; one that has been there when your heart was broken, went through all of your 'firsts' with, one with whom you've fought with and couldn't wait to make up with, who has seen the best and the worst of you, has always supported you, has laughed and cried with you and has never, ever judged you. Nightclubs, concerts, vacations, parties, hangovers, boyfriends, endless nights of studying, college exams - she was there through it all, either dragged along or was a willing partner in crime. We've laughed 'til we cried and we've cried 'til we laughed.

The irony of my situation with this friend, who has been all of this for me, is that we take all the more pleasure in seeing each other when we have the opportunity because, you see, this friend of mine lives in the U.K. I thought I'd never make it through when she announced almost 10 years ago that she will be moving to England after her wedding. But somehow, I managed :)

Aside from our weekly emails throughout the years, I've only gotten to physically see her a handful of times. And today, was one of those rare times.

As easily as we fell into a gripping bear hug that lasted several minutes and resulted in unexpected emotional tears from both of us, that's how easily we fell into our routine. We picked up like we just saw each other yesterday - laughing and talking at the speed of light, bubbling over with topics, questions, life musings and observations, barely able to catch our breath. And lots of hugs and kisses. We had no mind for our husbands and daughters (we each have two girls who hit it off swimmingly, as the Brits say!) who were present; we were immersed in each other's world. Every now and then, the English accent she's picked up managed to give way to the Greek/Chicago accent, lingo and humor that we shared and bonded over back in the day.

The hours flew by like minutes and before I knew it, I was hugging her goodbye again, not believing that this meeting was like a blip on life's radar.

But we were already making plans for our next visit and even suggested something special for our milestone birthday in a few years.

In the meantime, I am starting to make my plans to visit London next year.

I LOVE YOU, SUE!!! xoxoxoxoxo

-Cathy

The Bedtime Big-Top

Ladies and gentlemen!
Boys and girls!
Children of all ages!
Welcome to the three-ring circus I call bedtime at my house, with yours truly as the ringmaster.

The following is a typical night at our house:

Me: "Girls! Get ready for bed! Go brush your teeth!" (This is said no less than 20 times.)

Once they are settled with their pajamas on and in bed:

B: "I didn't have my snack!"
A: "Me too!"

They both get up and have a bowl of cereal, of which Bella eats all of it and Ari eats half of.
Back in bed.

B: "I have to go to the bathroom."
A: "Me too."
Back in bed.

B: "I forgot to blow my nose." This entails her spraying her saline spray into her nose and blowing with at least five tissues. She then gets a nosebleed. I have to go into the bathroom to get her more tissues and a Q-Tip coated with petroleum jelly so she can clot the bleeding and moisten the inside of her nose.
Settled back in.

A: "I'm hungry."

B: "Ooops. I forgot to get my water." She always keeps a fresh cup of water next to her bed, which she might need in the middle of the night, when she never gets up.

A: "I'm thirsty too." A cup of water for her.

Me: "Ari, did you brush your teeth?"

A: "No. I wanna do it now."
Brush. Back to bed.

A: "Can you read me a bedtime story?" Sometimes I do this depending on the time and the level of my frustration thus far.

B: "Has anyone seen my eye mask? I can't sleep without my eye mask." Search ensues. Back to bed.

A: "Mommy, can you lay with me for a few minutes?" I sit on her bed.

B: "Mommy, can you tuck me in?" I get up to tuck Bella in. I also tuck in Ari. When I do so, she says, "Can you scratch my arms?" So naturally, if I do this, Bella wants her arms scratched too. So I scratch both girls' arms and tuck them back in again.
Sit back on bed.

A: "We forgot to do our prayves." (Ari's word for prayers.) So we all recite our bedtime prayer and sit there while Ari goes through all of the little one-liner prayers she's learned at school.
We settle back down.

B: "Can we turn off the closet light?" It's too bright in here." Turn that off and turn on Hello Kitty night light. Bella complains that it's still too bright.

A: "I'm hot! I wanna change into my nightgown." Back in bed.

B: "Can we turn on the air? It's too hot in here." Air, check.

A: "I lost my Princess Doggie Cuddles. I can't sleep without that." Search ensues in the mountain of stuffed animals stacked in the corner of her bed and in the toy pile on the floor next to her bed. We find it and I try to leave the room.

A: "Mommy wait, I'm scared!"
I really give her something to be scared of by threatening her into staying in her bed and I leave the room and shut the door. I go either in to the kitchen or in my bedroom.
I hear their bedroom door creak open.

B: "Mommy, I have a headache." I get up and give her Motrin. And leave the room again.

Their bedroom door creaks open again.

A: "Mommy, can I lay in your bed?" A resounding NO comes from me and my half-asleep husband and I walk her back to her bed. I head back to my room again.

Crrreeeaaaakkk.

B: "I just want to give you another goodnight hug and kiss." I do that for the fourth time that night and she heads back to her bed.

Crrreeeeaaaakkkk.

A: She shows up next to me with big puppy dog eyes, clutching her pillow and stuffed animals, showing me she's scared. I raise my voice and shoo her back to her bed, telling them both that I've had enough.

Then, and only then, do they stay in bed, and eventually fall asleep. Or so I thought.

Crreeeaaakkk.

B: "Mommy, Ari asleep and I just want to let you know that I took my Motrin. Can I give you another hug and a goodnight kiss?" Sure. "And oh, by the way...Ari farts in her sleep."

I break out into laughter because at this point, I would start crying if I didn't.

By now it's 11pm, I'm exhausted, they're over-exhausted and I've had to resort to raising my voice and scaring the little one to sleep.

So I get up and do what comes naturally: I get up to make popcorn for tomorrow night's circus show, all the while laughing and thinking how we're one elephant and one clown short of the real thing.

-Cathy

Room Parent of the Year

Last year, I volunteered to be a room parent at my eldest daughter's school. Basically, room parents are the liaisons between the school and the parents of the children in the classroom.

She was in fourth grade and this was the first time I attempted to take on that task. I had no idea what to expect.

As the year drudged along, I found out that we were required to attend four all-room parent meetings during the school year in addition to corresponding with the homeroom teacher on in-class events, and have a series of sub-meetings for which we had to plan various functions.

Now granted, it sounds like a lot. However, I was saved by the fact that there were two parents assigned to each grade level room. So our class had two parents (I was one of them) and the other fourth grade girls class had two parents. So luckily, I had three other parents to mooch meeting notes off of. Ahhh...reminded me of my good 'ol college days.

Here's the lesson I took away from that little experience: Either you have your shit organized, or you just go with the flow. Me? I ended up falling into that latter category, as is evident by the notes I took at one of those four required all-room parent meetings, shown below:



Yes, dear readers. I wrote my notes ON THE BACK OF MY CHECKBOOK.

Not only did I arrive late to the meeting, I came totally unprepared. I tried to maintain my dignity as I sat there scribbling with a half-ass pen I had to borrow, furiously burying my nose into my checkbook (thank goodness I threw that in my purse the night before, otherwise my notes would have been on Kleenex tissues) so as I don't see the look of a mixture of horror and polite smiles on the faces of the other, overly-prepared room parent moms.

The mom next to me had a THREE-RING BINDER, with colored TABS, sheet protectors, neat pockets on the inside covers and more paper clips and highlighters than I could count. Seriously? How much time DO you have? Oh, and did I mention she has three kids and basically LIVES at the school?

Thus I concluded that it didn't matter if you work full-time, or stay at home raising your kids full time, or balance a little of both like I do. Either you are an organized schedule follower or you're not. And let's face it, I never was. My kids are on Latin/Greek time when it comes to bedtime. We never did the baths at 5:30, dinner at 6:30, homework done by 7:30, and bedtime at 8:30. NOT. EVEN. CLOSE. Like I said, we just go with the flow. And you know what, it still works out okay for us.

So when I got the email to consider volunteering for a room parent again this year, I decided to hold off and perhaps give it a shot next year, when I get a chance to buy a stand-up easel and a film projector.

-Cathy

When They Tell You to Do Kegels, Listen

The other night M and I were wrestling in the kitchen.

What? Don’t all married couples do this?

We playfully pushed and swatted each other as S stood giddily on the sidelines, directing M to push me here, and me to pinch him there. Finally, M suddenly grabbed me in a bear hug from behind and squeezed the living crap out of me. ALMOST LITERALLY.

That hug was (un)strategically placed, and that combined with my laughter was just not a good combination because the next thing I knew, I felt a warm gush “down there”. Horrified, I felt the slow trickle down my legs, and then, just like that, it made its exit out from under my skirt and onto the kitchen floor.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I PEED ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR.

M hopped back in terror, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you…. DID YOU JUST PEE?”

S covered her mouth and squealed with a mixture of disgusted delight and absolute humiliation that this was her mother: The Lady Who Pees on Kitchen Floors.

“YES I JUST PEED!” I said defiantly. “You try squeezing a kid out of your vagina and let’s see how well YOU can hold it in!”

We all kind of just stared down at it: the little puddle that shimmered mockingly back at us. It was my pee. And it was on the kitchen floor. Something was out of context here.

I grabbed the bleach and a handful of paper towels and wiped it up while M and S laughed in the background.

Look: If you can’t pee on the kitchen floor in front of your family, well then you just really haven’t gone deep enough.

~Patti

Don't Touch My Monkey

A few weeks ago S and I were invited to a friend’s house for dinner. Michelle’s husband was out of town, and she thought it would be fun to get the kids together and enjoy a nice summer evening on her back deck.

I arrived, bottle of wine in hand, and as soon my glass was full, got to keeping my friend company in the kitchen while she sliced and diced and did other kitchenly things. Her 3-year son Ciaran was kneeling on a stool over the kitchen skin, very busy on something that apparently required the faucet to be on.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked him.

He pointed into the sink. “Me give Woody a bath!”

I peered over into the sink and saw poor ol’ Toy Story Woody, fully dressed in his plaid shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, half-drowned, his frozen smile begging for mercy. “Wow!” I exclaimed, “He looks pretty clean to me!”

Ciaran shook his curly head in furious disagreement, “No! Woody need bath!”
I left Ciaran to murdering Woody with water, and continued chatting with Michelle.

Once dinner was ready, we headed out to the back deck, and I heard Michelle telling Ciaran it was time to turn off the faucet. Ciaran was pretty hell-bent in believing that Woody needed to bathe for at least another good 2 hours, and refused to shut off the faucet. There was a little skirmish of wills, and then Ciaran and Michelle appeared on the deck, where I was already seated with S and Michelle’s daughter, Sophie.

The food looked amazing, and I was starving, so couldn’t wait to dig in. I was just about to shove a forkful into my mouth when Ciaran shot out of his seat back into the kitchen, where he headed straight for the faucet. Michelle also shot out of her seat after him, and brought him back all frustrated and squirmy to the deck. I waited for Michelle to sit down so I could begin the feast, but the minute she did, Ciaran was out of his seat again, headed straight for Woody. I put my fork down again, and waited for the battle. Once more, Michelle brought Ciaran out the deck. “WOOOOOODY NEEEEEEED BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH!” Michelle pushed him down onto the bench, this time physically holding him down as she attempted with the other hand to feed herself. Amazed at her multi-tasking and will to succeed, I picked up my fork and almost actually made it into my mouth before a piercing scream abruptly brought it back down. Ciaran was trying to get out from under his mother’s hold, and managed to set himself free. He was sprinting in to the kitchen, determined to give WOODY A BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATH! Michelle threw down her fork and chased after him again.

I heard his woeful screams from the kitchen and looked over at his big sister Sophie, who had put her head into her hands in exasperation. “Oh boy,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood, “He’s, uh, pretty mad, huh?”

Sophie’s cheeks were flushed as she flopped her head down dramatically into her arms, “He does this Every. Single. Day!” I wondered if that was true, and if so, I was even more impressed at my friend’s patience.

Michelle emerged triumphantly from the kitchen with Ciaran tossed over her shoulder, and planted him down firmly onto the deck. “What do you say, Ciaran?”

Ciaran sniffled and struggled with his pride, but he finally managed to offer a heartfelt little “I sowwy….”

Relieved that the crisis seemed to have been averted, we all settled in again and I happily picked up my fork – once again – and managed to shovel in some food, at last! Ciaran’s mood significantly lightened and the black temper tantrum cloud seemed to have lifted.

But within minutes, that all changed.

Sophie decided she was done eating and wanted to leave the table, but Michelle told her she needed to wait for all of us to finish. So she asked if she could at least go and get her monkey (GAWD!). Michelle, at this point done with it all, nodded her permission while swigging a much needed shot of wine from her glass. Sophie was back in a flash, and in her hands she had a stuffed monkey that was wrapped up in a banana. Yes, it was as scary-looking as it sounds. But the creepiness was totally lost on S and Sophie, because they oohed and aaahed over the “cuteness” of it all, which somehow renewed Ciaran’s desire to go and give Woody a bath. That is where the reprieve ended, because while Sophie and S fawned over a monkey in a banana, Ciaran got more and more restless, absolutely certain Woody would simply perish if he didn’t get that damned bath.

Michelle, now done with it all more than EVER, suggested to Ciaran that he go and play with Sophie’s monkey. His eyes lit up, and he tore out of his seat to the other side of the table. But Sophie? Was not having it. This was HER monkey, and she was in no mood to have Ciaran even look at it. Ciaran and Sophie struggled over the monkey, tug-o-warring with it. At one point, in a desperate attempt to get Ciaran to drop the monkey, Sophie grabbed him by the cheeks and squeezed them so hard she almost drew blood. Ciaran wailed in pain and surprise, and he stood there, all purple-cheeked, crying but still tenaciously reaching for the monkey. And in the midst of his wails, Sophie, also done with it all, yelled out in despair, “MOM! WHY DID YOU TELL HIM TOUCH MY MONKEY?”

Touch. My. Monkey?

Yes, I am 12 years old, and so is Michelle, apparently, because despite the screaming and whining and tears and bloody cheeks, and the fact that we had not had one moment’s peace on that beautiful back deck over a beautifully prepared meal, somehow, the single phrase, “TOUCH MY MONKEY” put us both into a fit of totally immature laughter. “She said TOUCH MY MONKEY!” we snorted out loud to each other, trying not to spew the wine we had both just sipped. The kids, tear-streaked and purple-faced, just stared at us, stunned into silence, not getting what the hell was so funny.

But it was funny. And it has to be funny. Because if it’s not funny at times like this, you cry.

~Patti

No Class In First Class

When my young daughter, Ari, was a mere 17 months old, we took a little holiday vacation to Miami the week before Christmas to relax. (Ha.)

Things went swimmingly while we were there for the first few days. So much so, that my husband decided to extend the vacation a few more days until December 23rd. But more on that later.

So every day we would take Ari down to the pool with the stroller to make sure she had her nap. Since she was so over-stimulated being at the pool, this would entail me strolling her up and down the beach boardwalk until she fell asleep. Then I would carefully stroll her back into the pool area, park the stroller, order the frozen margarita Bucket O’ Booze (not kidding – it was literally served in a bucket with two straws) and my husband Joe and I sipped on that while we soaked up the South Beach rays and marveled at Bella’s (our then five year-old daughter) pool noodle techniques. And did I mention that we would pray that some other fun-lovin’ kid didn’t scream too loud as he/she was cannonballing the afternoon away?

Needless to say, Ari’s naps ended up being about 45 minutes to one hour per day, when she was used to getting (and should have been getting) at least two and-a-half hours per day. But we were having so much fun being in South Beach at the Lowes swimming pool, that we thought nothing of it. Every night Ari would seem very restless and unlike herself until about the fifth night when she had a COMPLETE meltdown. And where? At one of the chi-chi outdoor restaurants on Lincoln Road, where we had decided to order lobster and be all cool and Miami-like. After she grabbed a handful of butter and pulled it through her hair like gel, we grabbed our mohawked little terror, practically straight-jacketed her into the stroller and ended up having one of the roughest night’s sleep thus far.

She was completely overtired. And instead of one of us (i.e. ME) being selfless and taking her up to the room to nap, we subjected her to such half-ass sleep that by end of our now extended trip, she was beyond herself – outside of her body – with exhaustion.

At the airport on the way home, my husband was self-checking us in and says, “It’s only $xx more if we upgrade to first class. Let’s do it.” I was in no position to argue. Sounded great.

So here’s how this went down:

- Next to me, Bella was completely obsessed with the giant seats-turned-recliners with all the buttons and doodads, that all she kept doing THE ENTIRE THREE HOUR FLIGHT was pushing those buttons and extending and retracting the chair. Bbbbzzzzz. Bbbbbbzzzzzz. Bbbbbbzzzz. Bbbbbbbbzzz. The glass of red wine I stupidly decided to order ended up in my lap and all over my seat – she was so excited to show me a NEW button she had found for the headrest – so I had to sit on a folded up quilt in my wine soaked jeans.

- Ari (running completely on fumes at this point) was running circles around the free-standing partition that separated the passenger seating with the flight attendant’s galley. Round and round and round and round and round she went on turbo. When we tried to calm her down by popping a pacifier in her mouth she yanked it out and threw it clear across first class. It landed behind my husband’s seat, across the aisle from me. The flight attendants (half trying to be helpful and half desperately trying to stop her from terrorizing the entire flight) were directing my husband (who was now forcefully holding a kicking Ari in his lap) to retract the seat as much as he could to free up the space behind his seat so they can search for the pacifier. By now Joe’s knees were to his chin and two flight attendants were elbow deep behind the seat, but couldn’t extract the pacificer from the depths of metal and wiring back there. Ari was screaming. Bbbbbbzzzzzz, bbbbbbzzzzzz, bbbbbbbzzzzzzzzz.

- A man’s voice – the pilot? – is heard on the intercom, “Parents, can you please control your children. Thank you.” I looked around and caught the white parts of some eyeballs, some glaring right at me. Bbbbzzzzz. Bbbbbbzzzz. I stunk like a whino.

- At this point, Joe had had it with Ari, who was stuck on him like flies on shit. She was clutching his neck, hanging on him, crying, whining and screaming. And I had no more pacifiers with me. A bottle of milk didn’t work. Joe was now yelling at me to take her and give him a break. He tried to pass her off to me across the aisle, which set Ari into another tailspin. The veins in Joe’s temples were throbbing. Bbbbzzzz. Bbbbbbbzzzzz. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I desperately wanted to suck the wine out of the fibers of my jeans.

-On it went like this until FINALLY, finally, when the plane started its descent and began to rattle its way into the tundra-like weather conditions while landing in a sub-zero, wind-chilled Chicago, we saw her eyes start to close as she was sprawled across Joe’s lap. We both looked at each other wearily. She was out. So out, she didn’t wake up as we deplaned, or waited 45 minutes for our stroller, or took a cab in –5 degrees weather, or when we laid her in her bed.

And now, at midnight, came part two of my punishment for going on vacation and extending it until December 23rd. I laid in Bella’s bed until she fell asleep, her body still buzzing from that contraption of a seat. Then I hauled ass downstairs to our storage to bring up ALL of the gifts I still had to wrap for Christmas morning, because tomorrow I had to make a cake and visit my in-laws, where we would exchange gifts that I needed to wrap now. I dove into bed face first at 2am and imagined diving into the pool at the Lowes again, dreaming of another sorely needed vacation.

-Cathy