Every Breath You Take, I'll Be Feeding You

by Cathy

This holiday season, while most of you will be feasting on more food than you've probably had all year, just know that I will be a happy little elf. As you lament your weight gain and make concrete plans to visit gyms and health clubs, I will be relieved. Relieved...that you have eaten!

A few weekends ago, my daughters participated in their annual ballet performance of The Nutcracker. Months of practicing dwindled down to two major performances which came together quite nicely.

But little was I prepared for the six-hour tech rehearsal on the Friday night before the shows. SIX. HOURS. My kids would turn into otherworldly beasts.

Those of you who know me (or are Greek) know that I/we have an obsession with making sure our loved ones are fed. Apparently this is not only cultural but also inherited. Therefore, it would be fitting that I went into panic mode once I calculated that my kids would have a half-hour to eat after school, before they went to the six hour rehearsal-a-thon. I couldn't take the stress. "Six hours?! Oh my God I gotta roast a lamb for these kids!" I confided to Patti. She laughed it off but it wasn't so funny when we got there and saw another girl chowing down on a double entree of Chinese fried rice and chicken. See? I'm not the only one who stresses about their kids eating!

That night of the rehearsal and each day throughout both performances, I thought my kids would literally starve and pass out/throw a hunger tantrum/be unable to perform. Every. single. chance. I got, I would corner them.

"Did you eat?"
"EAT!"
"Do you want some carrots?"
"Where's your water?"
"Don't let everyone else eat your food, YOU need it!"
"EAT!"
"Where's your snack bag?"
"Here eat some of these."
"Have you eaten anything I packed you?"
"You haven't eaten a thing!"
"Have some pretzels!"
"What do you mean you don't want your sandwich!?! It's the only food you have!"
"Don't eat the chocolatey stuff now. Eat your food first and THEN have dessert!"
"Are you done? Have some more. You didn't eat enough!"

On and on this went as my friends sideways glanced and smirked at my Greekness. Meanwhile, they themselves were starving, texting husbands to drop off Subway sandwiches, making plans to go grab a bite before they too, turned into tantrum-throwing monsters. Of course, with all the backstage hullabaloo, they were unable to get away, but luckily? Luckily, being always over-prepared when it comes to having food on hand (you should see the trunk of my car), I had a Costco-sized bag of Chex Mix in my carry-on of a purse.

And I fed my people. And it was good.

So this holiday season and throughout all of 2013, I wish you the comforts of a full belly, the peace and tranquility of the still ocean, the happiness and wonderment of small children and most of all, health to enjoy it all.

Happy New Year!

Please Don't Stop the Music

by Cathy

How long has it been since you've been out dancing?

I'm not talking the kind of dancing where you're bobbing your head to the music while trying to converse loudly into someone's ear over cocktails in some frou-frou lounge or even the kind where you shake your booty while you're standing in place in an overcrowded bar. I'm talking about the kind of dancing where you abandon your inhibitions, feel the music pump through your veins, don't care who's watching, dance to every song played and flop down back into your seat in a sweaty, satisfied exhaustion. That kind of dancing.

For me? It's been a while. A looooooong while. It's not for lack of trying. In fact a couple of years ago around this time of year, Patti and I rounded up some girls and decided to go "clubbing" to get us into the holiday spirit. Sadly, the only eventful part of the night was when a girl, who had been desperately stalking and hovering over the DJ, was pointedly rejected by him and fell down in a slobbering mess of mascara and stiletto thigh-high boots. (Well, that and when we walked out to find our car had been booted.) Inside, the club was hardly hoppin'. We weren't really feeling the undanceable Top 40 dance mix hits being spun. We didn't have enough cash to spring for the $400 bottle service that seemingly, everyone else in da club had privilege to, which left us a tad too sober to really get into music we didn't feel in the first place.

Maybe it was the club. Maybe it was the uninterested DJ. Maybe it was because we weren't rolling in bank. But were we trying too hard to force it? Shouldn't we just feel it and let it happen organically? But in order for that to happen, don't we need to go out and put ourselves in those environments more often? Which, we haven't. Maybe we're too old. Maybe we don't need to do that anymore...or so we think.

Joe and I picked up the girls from school one day last week, and on our way up our back steps, Joe's cellphone rang. I call it his Cleopatra tune - a fluted symphony accompanied by the clicking of tinged castanets. The girls and I joked about his Egyptian ringtone as he attempted to take a business call. Outside our back door now and Joe officially off the phone and fidgeting with his keys, Bella announced, "Hey, you wanna hear my ringtone?"

A catchy, Halloweeny-type tune of beeps and drumbeats burst out of her phone through what Joe and I apparently thought were club speakers. Instantly and simultaneously, Joe and I started to "get down". Right there on our back deck, in full view for our neighbors to see and much to the horror of our children. And I mean, we were getting down. Our deck was transformed into a dim, strobe-lit dance floor. Bags were thrown to the ground, feet were being lifted off the ground, knees bending, arms flailing, hips flinging - while the girls sat frozen and the keys dangled off our back door. Bella was too stunned to stop the music - so we just kept dancing. A "woooooo!" even made its way out of my mouth. Oh yeah...we were feeling this.

Bella came to her senses and stopped the music with an, "Oh. My. God."
"Hey, put that back on!" I demanded, desoperately.
On it came again and Joe and I danced our way into the kitchen, laughing our beat-busting butts off.
As the tears of laughter subsided, I said, "How sad are we? We're getting down to a ringtone."
"What do you mean?" asked a laughing Joe, knowing damn well what I meant.
 "We've been so dance deprived that the slightest hint of drumbeats sets us off to boogeytown," I stated the obvious. "Dude, we were dancing to a ringtone."

Yes it was funny, but really, it was sad. And yes, it did happen organically but it also showed us how we really do enjoy this and gasp! even need it once in a while. The end of the world may come tomorrow, but we're not dead yet. So let's dance like there really is no tomorrow.

Christmas is coming, my ass is getting fat!

by Patti

Re-posting an old favorite by request. 

....................................................................................................

I'm being pelted by treats falling from the sky. It's not my fault.

It’s the Most! Wonderful! Time! Of the year! You know, that time when treats magically fall out of the sky and land in your mouth, over and over again? Especially if you work in an office environment, like I do. Suddenly people put on their Baker Extraordinaire hats and they are shoving brownies and snowman cookies and red and green sprinkled sugar bars down your throat. And you just sit there and take it like a man. A fat man.

Oh, no?

Well, THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING.

They look innocent, but are evil, evil, evil.

This whole month of December has been an exercise in, well, not much exercise and WAAAAY too many chocolate reindeer balls. What is it about December that leads me to believe that it is okay to shove 13 cookies in my craw and that there won’t be any consequences as a result? I mean, it’s as if I am sugar-shocked into thinking that December Calories aren’t real.

But by the end of December, when I am slowly exiting my sugar fog and find I can’t zip up my pants, I realize: Ohhhh, they were real. And then I frantically make New Year’s Resolutions that include the gym and fat-free cottage cheese for the rest of ever.

Stop. The. Madness.

So today, right now, as I type this, I am swearing up and down that that 3^rd Styrofoam cup of cheese/caramel/regular popcorn I just ate as a “tide me over ‘til lunch” snack will be the last. I WILL NOT EAT ANYMORE POPCORN FROM FESTIVALLY DECORATED TINS.  I will also forego reindeer- shaped anything, and sparkly, sprinkly, sugary stuff that pretends to be snowmen, and Christmas tree brownies with adorable mini M&M’s as ornaments, and marshmallow-stuffed bars of gooey heaven, and pretty  much anything that isn’t grown from the ground or a tree.

And I swear I’ll do it as SOON as December ends.

Preoccpoopied

by Patti

When S was born, I was somewhat amazed by the level of poop that suddenly came into my life. Not only was I amazed by the level of poop, I was also amazed at how it didn't gross me out. Instead, I was actually fascinated by the many colors and consistencies, shapes and sizes. I was completely and totally preoccpoopied by poop.

Now? Those days are long gone. I am no longer fascinated by my kid's poop, as my kid is now 11 years old and her poop has lost its glow. I'm back to being disgusted by poop, in general, and I feel like that is 100% totally normal and expected and okay. Because let's face it: poop is disgusting. Which is why what I am about to tell you deserves a little warning. What? You say I should have warned you earlier? You say that it is too early to be discussing poop, and that poop should pretty much not ever be discussed, like, ever? Well, sorry - but if you come here, there's gonna be poop. Consider yourself warned.

Last week I was traveling for work and was waiting to board my fight in Indianapolis. First of all, I have to say: Indianoplis? You're cuter than I expected. And your airport is quite lovely. So, here I was at the airport, and I decided to hit the bathroom. The moment I entered, I was hit by a wall of poop. The smell was unbearable; it was as if somebody had taken a poop on the floor instead of in the toilet. Which made no sense because just a few hours before, I had been in that very bathroom on my way into Indy, and the bathroom was so clean and sparkly and fresh. So why the smell? That's when I saw this young girl, about 19 years old, on the floor with a baby, about 6 months old. The baby was as naked as if he had just been born right then and there, and the girl was trying to lay him on the hard, cold floor, as he wiggled furiously under her hands. She was surrounded by about 5,689 baby wipes, all used and crumpled up, and another 9,431 paper towels. I eyed her quietly as I washed my hands, and wondered why she was trying to change the baby on the floor instead of the changing table. That's when I noticed the changing table directly above her. It was COVERED in poop. It was a Picasso of poop. It was a poopsplosion of poop! It was - okay, okay, I'll stop.

It was clear there had been an accident of outstanding pooportions, and though every fiber of my being told me to RUN RUN out of the bacteria-infested bathroom, the mother's heart in me made me ask, "Do you need help?"
The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide. She was perspiring and red as she attempted to juggle her baby, the wipes, the diapers, the POOP. "My baby's got a tummy bug. I was changing him and it went everywhere. I feel so bad - it got on the changing table, all over the floor, all over...." she gestured around her desperately as her baby continued to wiggle wildly.

I immediately began to pull paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them with warm water, then handed them to her. "First, let's get your baby off the floor. Clean him with these and I'll take care of the changing table." She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say, Really? You're willing to touch my kid's POOP? Which. Yeah. I actually was.

As she wiped down her baby, I began the task of wiping down the changing table. She wasn't kidding. The kid had gone to town. That's right: he had painted the town brown. Amazingly, I didn't gag or even flinch. I simply got down to the business of doing what needed to be done. Several thousand paper towels and a bionic dosing of sanitzer later, I presented the clean table to her. "I can't believe you did this for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH!"
"I'm a mom, too," I told her, "I would hope that if I needed the help, somebody would offer it to me."

And then I washed my hands for about nine hours and left the bathroom, smiling. It really does take a village, I thought to myself. And a few thousand paper towels.

Mom, the Magic Fairy

by Cathy

The other night as the girls were getting ready for bed, placing stuffed animals just so, fluffing and propping up pillows, blowing their noses, sipping their water and finding their eye masks (you heard right), Bella verbally stumbled upon something pretty life-changing for her.

"Mommy, when you were out of town, there was no magical fairy that put my eye mask in its place or made my bed or hung my clothes."

"Yes, honey. That's what moms are," I came to realize for myself. "Magical fairies that flitter and flutter around the house taking care of all the little things."

We stealthily put out the million little fires before they become full blown blazes and we busily bustle about and invisibly handle the million little thoughtful conveniences that make everyone else's lives easier - like replacing rolls of toilet paper (remembering to buy the toilet paper), having the fridge stocked, making sure clothes are freshly washed and folded away, cleaning off desks so homework can be done and packing backpacks and lunches just to name a few.

"And," I continued, "because I do all of these little things for you, when I am not around, they can become bigger things and you learn to appreciate what I do for you. Riiiiight?"

""MmmmHmmm," she sighed as she hunkered down into the breezy mountain air sheets and comforters that the magical fairy washed for her.

She doesn't really get it. (And that's okay).

Just like I didn't get and appreciate everything my mom did for my sister and I until I moved out. And even moreso? When I had kids. Boy, have there been countless little moments - and big moments alike - when I think about my mom and what she went through, and why she said what she said the countless times she said it, and how she handled things and how she got through things with us, with herself, with the family.

My daughters don't realize it now because they are the wallflowers just watching the dance. But wait until they start dancing. After I got married, my mom would tell me, "Now that you're in the dance, you gotta keep on dancing." She might as well have said "Blue porcupines converse with aliens on rooftops" because I just didn't GET it then. Oh, but I do now.

So, I will be Mom, the Magic Fairy and I will keep on dancing, because it's my turn to do so. And until it's my kids' turn, if I can make the music seem a little less loud and let them enjoy sitting this one out, I will.

The Candyman CAN'T

by Patti

One night earlier this week, after peering for the 10th time into the refrigerator and exclaiming dramatically that there was nothing to eat, M suddenly decided that right then, that very second, at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, it was time to do the groceries. M is a pretty domestic guy. He irons his own pants, and even knows how to make those fancy creases; he does laundry; he gets the kid ready for school; he cooks a mean breakfast and simmers a fantastic stew. This is why it irritates me endlessly when he looks into the refrigerator, is able to summarize there is "nothing to eat", takes the actual initiative to go to the grocery store - but asks me to "write the list". For all his domesticity, he suffers the mysterious ailment known as "refrigerator blindness". Yes, he can SEE we have no food, but he can't seem to SEE just what might be missing. Odd.

So I, relieved to be relieved of having to schlep to the store, began to write things on a scrap of paper: apples, bananas, grapes, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, eggs, milk, english muffins, granola bars. I then got bored of writing down the OBVIOUS and told him to please just figure out the rest. So, with my half-finished list in hand, out the door he went.

When he returned, laden with those annoyingly tiny plastic bags, I began to unpack the groceries. There were the apples, a measly three. Oh, look! Some carrots. A nice bag of plump grapes. Ah, lovely tomatoes. Bananas? No. But, here was some carrot cake. And rice pudding. And flan. And a tube of frozen sugar cookie dough. And a package of pre-cut chocolate chip cookie dough. And an industrial sized jug of hazelnut coffee creamer. And a giant box of chocolates that may have been Russian. Or Greek. Or Polish? And a can of "real" whipped cream. And a bag of gooey apple-cinnamon bread.

And just as I went into a sugar coma by sheer osmosis, I was somewhat saved by three tins of croissant dough. But not really. Because, where was the healthy stuff? My "list" was in one bag. The rest of the bags were filled with sugar and boxes of who knows what the hell because the labels were in RUSSIAN.
"What IS this?" I asked M.
"I don't know, but doesn't it look good?"
Apparently, M's grocery list is "sugar and stuff with cool pictures on it".

At least the picture had broccoli in it?

As I unpacked the "groceries", half laughing, half cursing, S jumped around me in glee, shouting out that her papi should always do the groceries. Then, apparently intoxicated by the sugar dust that now filled the air, she promptly made herself a bedtime snack: a waffle sandwich stuffed with Nutella, sprinkled with 1/2 cup of Ovaltine chocolate powder, and then topped off with the last banana left in our house.

And then, as my sugar beast daughter put her head together with her sugar beast papi to figure out how to bring the picture on the box to life, I put away the rest of the groceries, stuffing sugary treats into every crevice of the refrigerator, vowing to buy some celery.

I'll Stress Tonight, You Worry Tomorrow

by Cathy

I've always been jealous of the fact that my husband has been a good sleeper. And by this, I don't mean that he sleeps through the night without wailing himself awake because he's sick or has to go to the bathroom or he had a bad dream. That's covered by my kids on the occasional blue moon. What I mean is, no matter how bad a day he's had, no matter what happened right before he put his head down on that pillow, he instantly falls asleep. How many nights have I laid there next to him, exasperated, sighing loudly and cursing under my breath that he has the ability to do this? Countless.

For me, apparently, bedtime somehow translates into "Let's get this party started!" in my brain. That is when I think/stress about to-do lists, done lists, projects, bills, family, work and every other big thing that looms gargantuan, shadowing me in the still and dark of night to the point where I slide under my covers, squeeze my eyes shut and wish it away. So I toss and turn and get up to use the bathroom, check to make sure doors are locked, check on the kids, fluff my pillow countless times, put on some socks, take the socks off, nudge Joe to stop snoring (because honestly, is that really helping me here?!) turn the blinds totally shut in my room, and finally physically get pen and paper to jot down the eight million random thoughts that have found their way to me via Insomnia Road. All I need is confetti and a drink (which I've been very tempted to have depending on how long I've been stressing over stuff when I should be sleeping) and I can have myself a one-woman party!

I've always been aware, however, that Joe wakes up much earlier than I do. I always thought, for obvious reasons, that it was because he falls asleep much sooner than me and also, because when I met him, he boasted about how he likes getting up early enough to watch the sunrise and what a productive day you can have when you're an early riser! Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. I like to sleep in because when I finally DO fall asleep, I wanna milk that cow for all it's worth. Plus, watching the sunset isn't a shabby second option.

So I was amazed when I recently discovered that he gets up thinking about work and "stuff". He wakes up worried which is just as bad as going to sleep stressed. Was I a little relieved and, dare I say, secretly happy that I wasn't the only one stressing over things, making mountains out of mountains? I would lie if I said I wasn't. It's sadly comforting to know that he worries and stresses about everything I do. It makes me feel not-so-neurotic and strangely, that we are on the same page with things. His mind just jumpstarts the process at a different time of day.

Now that we know how each is hardwired, we will continue to share the burden of our stress while we attempt to put out these monstrous, sleep-stealing fires and work on preventing others from starting. We will take shifts and bear the weight of our worries on each of our respective shoulders, as the other revels in sweet, much-needed slumber. After all, we would be useless zombies if we were both on the same stress schedule. Funny how nature works, eh? But for us, this works. And that stress-sharing accommodation? That's just part of what marriage is all about.

Ritz Carlton gone RONG!

by Patti & Cathy

From the moment we start school, it seems our lives are constantly interrupted by alarm clocks. We have all, at one time or another, slept through an alarm, or woken frantically to a blinking alarm, or even just plain forgot to set an alarm.

Whatever the case, we don't set alarms for kicks. Most of the time, we set alarms because we need to get yanked out of our sleep for a good reason. How that "yanking" occurs - or whether or not it occurs it all - can set the tone for an entire day.

Cathy:
I've scheduled my share of hotel room wake-up calls in my lifetime, (that sounds way worse than implied) but never did I experience what I did on this recent trip to Aruba. I relied on my cell phone to wake me up for three of the four mornings I was there, but decided that I should use the wake-up service on the morning of my departure as a back-up. You know, in case I overslept and waaaahhhh, waaaahhhh, I was stuck in Aruba.

As I had been doing every morning I was there, I woke up before my alarm was set to go off. Well aware I was about to leave paradise, I was luxuriating in the giant, cloud-like bed, desperately trying to cling to the chillaxed vacation mode I easily cultivated the past few days. As I relished the sun's beams streaming in on my face and the sounds of the waterfall coming from the pool below, the phone RONGED. Not rang, but more of a ringing GONG. (I get that they need to be loud enough to wake the heaviest of lead sleepers, but I always experience a mini heart attack when this happens.)

The Gong gone Rong.

Grumbling at the interruption and cursing at myself for not remembering to cancel the wake-up call, I slid across the fluffiness and picked up the phone. From across the line came the Caribbean accent of a chirpy woman. "Ms. Demetropopoboulos," she stumbled. "This is your seven o'clock..."
Yeah, yeah. I know.
I hung up the phone.
Immediately upon hang-up, it RONGED again.
What the...?
"Hello?"
"This is your seven o'clock wake..."
Click. Yes, I got it.
And then? Then, it RONGED again.
Holy Caribbean Islands, I was being stalked by the wake-up woman.
"HeLLO," I said flatly.
 "Ms. Demetropopoboulos," I let her struggle. "Are you aware that this is your wake-up call?" she inquired authoritatively.
Are you aware that I have no choice BUT to wake up since you've called me three times back to back? Who was this lady, my mother?!
"Uh...yes. Yes, I am," I replied, wondering if she was that serious about her job or was this a power struggle at this point. "Thank you for your diligence." Click.

I stared at the phone sideways, ready to pounce on it like a tiger to its prey, if it ronged again. But it didn't. The wake-up lady done did her job and woke my luxuriating ass up. Goodbye, vacation. Hello? Reality. RONG!!!

Patti
I'm going to confess something right here: I have trust issues. Yep, I said it. In the words of Tony Montana, "Who do I trust? ME." It's horrible, I know, but it is what it is. I have just witnessed so much incompetence in my life (NO, I'm not a perfectionist, why do you ask?) that I have kind of learned to not trust people to get the job done right. I'm a suspicious, cynical, side-eye givin' girl, and I know that about myself. WHICH is why it is so very strange that several weeks ago, when I had the luxury of sleeping at the Ritz! Carlton! for several nights by! my! self!, I chose to use the Ritz! Carlton's! wake-up call service to rouse me out of bed my first morning.

I had a meeting "first thing", and the day before had been a long one that consisted of a 6 am airport arrival, bumpy flight, and getting settled in for days of meetings, so needless to say, I was tired, and I knew I was tired, yet, because it was the Ritz! Carlton! I had an innate sense they would not screw it up.

"Good evening, Ms. Pudaydah" greeted the silky voice that probably had to audition for the job as the Ritz! Carlton! wake-up call lady. And no, that is not how you spell my last name, but apparently, my wake-up call lady, much like Cathy's, has trouble pronouncing last names with Latin flare. Mattered not, though; I was just impressed she knew who I was. That alone led me to believe I could certainly trust the Ritz! Carlton! to do their job.
"Yes, I need a wake-up call for 6:30 am, please."
"Why certainly, Ms. Pudaydah. Have a nice night!"
"I will!"

And I did. I attempted to watch a little television, as somehow the same shows that I might watch at home are far more entertaining when watched from a bed laden with 4,000 ergonomic pillows and covered in ten billion count cotton sheets. Ah, Ritz! Carlton! Feeling my eyes grow heavy, I briefly debated setting a back-up alarm on my cell phone, and then decided that the Ritz! Carlton! was all about customer service, and would never in a million years NOT perform a wake-up call as requested. Satisfied, and wrapped in my cozy, fluffy Ritz! Carlton! robe, I soon fell blissfully asleep.

These things seep drugs into your pores. 

Before I knew it, my eyes flew open. Light streamed in through the gauzy Ritz! Carlton! curtains, and I felt immediate panic. WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE. I flung my body toward my charging cell phone: 7:00 am. Can it BE? Had the Ritz! Carlton! FAILED ME? I threw off the fluffy white comforter and darted to the shower. As I hurriedly shampooed and soaped and tried to blink awake under the perfect water pressure of the Ritz! Carlton! shower head, I concluded that, indeed - Ritz! Carlton! or not, who do I trust? ME.

I hurried through the rest of my "getting ready", annoyed that I had allowed a plush name wrapped in a tricky, sleep-inducing robe to do me in. Apparently, my Ritz! Carlton! had gone wrong instead of RONG!

You Got Holes in Your Ears or What?

by Cathy

I was up watching television in bed the other night - my usual wind-down routine before bedtime. As I usually do, I had it tuned into Friends reruns on cable. Yes, I enjoy watching this show because for me, these television Friends were almost like my real-life friends - I laughed, loved and cried (and sometimes cried from laughter) - through all of their trials and tribulations. We grew up together in some kind of parallel universe. So for the purposes of this post, I'm going to assume that you grew up in this universe and are familiar with the cast of the show. If not, well then, carry on.

In this particular episode, Rachel's sister (Christina Applegate) takes Rachel's daughter Emma (a toddler) to get her ears pierced as a surprise, goodwill gesture. Apparently, this is what the "fun, cool aunts do," she had to explain herself. You see, Rachel didn't see this "gesture" as fun, or even cool. In fact, she lost her cool and reprimanded her sister for this obvious act of barbarianism. When Ross, the baby's father, gets wind of the little studs on his daughter's little ears, he blamed Rachel for leaving their child with someone SO irresponsible. I mean, really, you would think she brought the baby back looking like this:

Hey there, you punky princess. What's YOUR name?

My husband, who surprisingly wasn't alseep yet, and even more surprisingly, was watching Friends, turned to me and said, "What is it with people freaking out about getting a little girl's ears pierced?"

"I know, riiiiiight?! I don't understand why it's such a big deal!" I agreed, shocked that he would even care to comment on this.

"I mean, don't all girls get their ears pierced?" he pushed.

"Of course they do, otherwise they can kiss half of their fashion sense goodbye," I replied. "Who the heck wears clip-ons now? Hell, who the heck sells clip-ons?"

I pondered this some more, now intrigued at why some were so opposed to getting a toddler's ears pierced than others.
"It must be an ethnic thing," I concluded.
Joe looked at me half quizzically and half incredulously.
"Think about it," I attempted. "You're half Mexican. Mexicans pierce their baby girls' ears practically at birth. My sister and I both got ours pierced when we were very young; I don't even remember it. And I had both our girls' ears pierced before they turned a year old," I continued. "Granted, it was mainly because I heard that getting them pierced when they're really young is better since they don't remember the pain and aren't as cognizant of the studs in their ears so they don't keep touching and infecting them..."

"Maybe you're right," he shrugged as he yawned, clearly wishing he was now asleep.

"I'm serious! Think about it," I nudged.

Earrings AND a bracelet!! GASP!

Various cultures are all for having their baby girls' ears studded moreso than Americans it seems. Honestly, I can see why this may freak them out; there is something unnatural about a slobbering, burping bundle rockin' accessories. It's not really necessary, is it? I mean, it's not like they're going to don a matching choker and a pair of heels and hit the town. It makes sense to wait until they are old enough to have it look, well...natural. I get it.

I guess we culturally-diverse folks think differently. We bling out our baby girls, polish their toenails and pull a frilly 'lil bikini over their diapers (most of the time, without the bikini top) while chilling at the beach sporting over-sized sunnies. Why? Because that's just how our cultures have always rolled and how we, in turn, now roll. Holes in our baby ears or not, eventually all of us girls - black, white, brown, yellow, blue and orange - we all get there in our own time.

Super Powers

by Patti

Last night I attended a book club meeting. The book club is through work, and it's been fun chatting about non-work related things with my coworkers over wine and words. Yes, there is wine. Why? Your book club is wine-free? How sorry I am for you.

Anyway.

So there I am in the throes of the book club meeting, debating whether or not I'd turn my kid in if I thought she had murdered somebody (for the record - I would. Even though I was met with "you are a monster" glares at such a proclomation), when my phone rang. Upon a quick glance, I saw that, speak of the devil! It was my kid! As I was right in the middle if this very important discussion about murder, I slid away the call, making a quick note to self to call her right back. Then: BZZZ! A text. I looked down at my phone and saw the words race across the screen. MOM! HURRY UP AND COME HOME! WE'RE HUNGRY!

Within seconds, my phone rang again. This time I picked it up, more than a little irritated. "Yes, honey?"
"Mom! When are you coming home? Papi and I are hungry and there is nothing to eat here!" I pictured her and my husband staring blankly into the freezer, the one stuffed with frozen pizza, chicken and ravioli, and at that moment I thought perhaps I'd be the one doing time for murder.
"I'm almost done with book club; you guys can figure it out."
"But, MO-OM!"

Click.

Yes. I hung up on my STARVING child. Because, really? I was once again, for the millionth time, awed to pieces at the sheer depth with which my child seemed to be rendered helpless when I wasn't around. It also astounds me how my husband, who is for the most part a true partner in every sense of the word, is suddenly rendered magically invisible when I'm not home. Somehow, only I can manage to rustle up a meal and serve it steaming hot in Chicago when I'm actually in Florida. Somehow, only I can find the left shoe, know what side goes best with a tuna sandwich, brush her hair, and remind her to feed the dog when I am sitting at my desk at work. Most importantly, clearly it is only I that can kiss her good night - right here, on this cheek, mom - when I'm clicking my wineglass against a friend's over the long-ago reserved table at Yolo.

The phenonemon of my amazing super powers continues to stump me. Is it a gift? Or is it a curse?

Something tells me my super powers, instilled in me the day the stick turned blue, the ones who have gotten progressively stronger over the years, will slowly begin to wear away. And, as often as these super powers feel like more of a burden than anything, I have to wonder: Their eventual disappearance - is that a gift? Or a curse?

Red Friday

by Patti

Friday I circled a mall parking lot for 40 minutes. And then I gave up and went home.

I was only there because S is in the Nutcracker again this year, and we went to support those in the cast that were doing a Black Friday sneak preview. After a scouting of the lot with no luck, and eager to not miss the 11 am showing, I dumped S at the door so she could run inside and find Cathy and Mich - whose girls were among those slated to perform - while I continued my search for parking.

But I never found parking. Instead, I got yelled at, honked at, flipped off at, sneered at, arms-up-in-air'd at...... The bloodied, beat-up man slumped into a bench at the mall entrance as paramedics tended to his war wounds didn't even surprise me. What was he thinking, trying to grab that parking space when CLEARLY IT WAS MEANT FOR THE OTHER GUY. For every spot that miraculously opened up, there were at least 20 cars waiting. How anybody knew whose "turn" it was to park was an operation of epic intelligence. And, after a night of wine and too many potatoes au gratin, I wasn't in any mood to think. ABOUT PARKING.

Apparently, the performance was running ahead of schedule, and Cathy, with whom, along with our girls, I had planned to spend some time on Black Friday since we would all be at the mall, decided to bolt as soon as it ended. Since they were leaving, there was no reason for me to continue my manic parking lot tour, and I decided to abort Operation There is No Damned Place to Park! I called S and had her meet me outside again, and out she came, donned in her carefully chosen "mall outfit" and an expression of such letdown I wanted to cry. She was so disappointed there'd be no Black Friday experience, but I made it up to her in the form of an overpriced Caramel Apple Spice from Starbucks and a promise to visit the capital of Smells like Tween Spirit, Claire's, the next day.
"But can't we go today?"
"Honey, there is NO. WAY. I am entering any store today. I mean... LOOK!" I gestured to the madness around me, making sure she didn't miss the beat-up man in the blood spattered shirt.

So, after three near-collisions in the parking lot, we headed to the serene Starbucks, where a jazzy version of Silver Bells soothed us as we sipped our steaming latte and apple concoctions. Just outside and across the street was a Best Buy. Upon imagining the bloodshed no doubt occurring inside at that very moment over deeply discounted flat screen televisions and tricked out laptops, I shuddered. I then sunk more deeply into my chair, humming along to the chorus.

Thank you, Gracias and Sas Efcharistó̱

by Patti 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Most of you will not read this until well after tomorrow, since you will likely be cussing your way through the baking of sweet potato casseroles and the defrosting and basting of unfortunate turkeys. 

But when you do have the opportunity to read this - hopefully with a glass of pinot in your hand and a gourmet turkey sandwich slathered in cranberry sauce with a side of stuffing who's countin' carbs, not me, that's for sure - we want you to know something: We are thankful.

We love our families, we love our friends, we love the days that are blessedly granted us time and again. And despite the "bite your tongue" day that occurs every year the day after Thanksgiving - the one that has many people shivering at midnight in lines the length and complexity of ancient labyrinths, bellies bursting with Aunt Rita's green bean casserole - we even love this time of year, doorbustin' rib-shovin' shoppers and all.

There's some doorbustin' 'bout to be had.

And there's something else we want you to know: We love you, too.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's Holiday Time? No, It's Remodeling Time

by Cathy

This past weekend I pretended I was a visitor in my own home - I did a walk-through. I forced myself to look at my house from the perspective of a stranger; someone entering my house for the first time. Have you ever tried that in your house? Or are you afraid of what you will discover?

The reason I put myself through this stressful experience is because I am hosting, like I do every year, Thanksgiving dinner at my house. But each year, our house, like us, changes, evolves and well...ages. Every year, we have something new to contend with like the toll of the normal wear and tear of everyday, commonly used things, stains, breaks, cracks, spills, dirt, results of accidents and what have you. As you go through your day-to-day routines, you eventually no longer see or forget that there is a huge nail polish stain on the living room area rug...

No amount of acetone will take this off.

...or that we have turned one corner of the living room into a music area complete with guitars and keyboards, or that half the lights in the bathroom and kitchen have gone out or that the shower curtain bears the streaks of marker-stained little hands which attempted to pull it back to take much needed baths.

How about the piles of papers everywhere? Or the fact that our living room table sometimes doubles as a desk? Between my husband and I periodically working from home, the girls' schoolwork and projects, bills, brochures, mail, 'to file' piles, 'to review' piles, etc., we are begging to go green. Then there's the belongings from the girls' room, which trickle out and find themselves in every single room of the house: books, binders, clothes, stuffed animals, belts, hair accessories and last but not least, the fact that snacks and food are being had in every room that contains a television. Mix all of these together (things that really, you don't have the time to fret over as you go through your daily grind but stand out like flies in milk when you're out of that mode) and you have a house that you will be most critical of than the normal guest. After all, we all tend to be harder on ourselves than others.

So in addition to my cooking shopping list this week, I am making a "get it together" list for my house. Cleaning and tidying up of major areas aside (which is most of the work), I need to replace some light bulbs, spot clean some rugs (although I fear the nail polish is there to stay) and perhaps, if time allows, spring for a new drip coffee maker since ours now apparently, has sprung a leak. And while I'm in the kitchen, how about taking down all the papers that are tacked on the fridge like a shield of armor so I can actually see it?

In order to get my house guest-ready for the holidays, I must first, think outside the house.

Blocked

by Patti

It started out innocently enough. I got busy at work; S got busy with school and ballet; I had family visiting. You know: life? And as life got in the way, and I found less and less time to do the things outside of those necessary to survival - things like eating and drinking and peeing - I started moving away from the thing that, while unnecessary to survival by most accounts, is totally necessary to my own survival: Writing.

And then, when I found that little gaps of time opened up to me, I found myself filling them with other things totally unnecessary to survival, things like the entire Paranormal Activity series and spray painting the heels of my shoes. (Don't judge.) When I found the time to sit down and write, I felt tumbleweeds roll lazily through my brain, the words that normally flow so easily from my hands trapped within the intricate weaves of twig and dust. I had nothing. No words. No ideas. Nothing to say. Nothing to express. No picture to paint. So I would carefully close my laptop and tell myself the words would come tomorrow.

But they didn't.

"What's wrong with me?" I lamented to Cathy.
"Be patient. You'll write when you're ready." She encouraged.

Weeks later, feeling lonely on the whitespace of this blog, Cathy started giving me ideas to write about. "Come on, girl, it's no fun without you!"
"I know, I know... I'll have something on Monday."

But the words never came.

Yes, I am writing words this very moment, but it feels more like one of those "freestyle" writing experiments we did in my college creative writing class. Don't think, just write. Yet the words I know exist to tell the stories I need to tell are somewhere in outer space, perhaps dotting the black galaxy, perhaps twisted into the Milky Way, perhaps making up the handle of the Big Dipper.

Rather than try to summon them on demand, I have decided to simply give them the opportunity to disentangle from the nebula and willingly make their way back to me.

I can feel it. They're coming.

Wake Up! I'm Back

by Cathy

The second morning I returned from my trip, my inner clock jarred me awake. It was still dark out so it wasn't time to get up just yet. Was it?

'Come on,' I grumbled to myself as I tossed and turned in place. I knew that I was up because of the time zone difference between Aruba and Chicago. And on top of that, we had the daylight savings hour to contend with so now I was TWO hours off.
What time was it anyway?

I turned to look at my alarm clock and was greeted by 3:45 blinkety-blinking at me.
"What the...?"
I nudged Joe. "We had a power outage in the middle of the night."
"What?" Joe snorted awake. "What happened? What time is it?"
"Hold on, let me check my phone." Luckily it was still on and sitting on my nightstand.
"6:15? Wow, I thought it was much earlier. Glad I woke up or we would have overslept!"

So then we tried to sleep that limbo sleep where you want to get some more rest but you can't let yourself fully sleep lest you sleep too long - after all, it was rather close to our 7am wake up call - but no use. Our minds and bladders were reeling. I got up to go to the bathroom and in passing our alarm system, I heard BEEP. I hadn't heard it until then, but that doesn't mean it hadn't been going off since the power outage. I padded into the bathroom and 30 seconds later, BEEP. How long was this going on?

I grumbled at the third BEEP in two minutes. So I walked over to the alarm keypad and with one eye still shut, I started pressing buttons. In no particular order, in no code formation. Just kept pressing them but to no avail. I began using both hands now and in the process, I inadvertently hit the two buttons retained for Panic Mode.

No, no need to panic. It's just me, half asleep, pressing alarm keypads at the ass-crack of dawn.

Before I knew it, sirens were blaring and lights were flashing. The girls were out of bed and dragging into the hallway half in fear of their lives and half wanting to go back to bed. Joe was out of bed asking what was going on and shooing the girls back to bed while I was "this close" to pulling the alarm keypad out of the wall to make it stop. Thoughts of my condo neighbors running to my front door in their night clothes, bedhead hair and bad breath were running through my head as I frantically, now fully WIDE awake, tried to make the sirens stop. Please, please, please don't let the police show up! I was fully expecting my house phone to start ringing off the hook.


Then, it hit me.The fuse box!!! I opened the furnace room and clicked every fuse down the panel until I found the one connected to the alarm box. Thankfully, it stopped. And thankfully? No police, no neighbors and no phone calls.

"Well, I guess we're officially up now!" Joe said.
"My God, a few minutes ago we were sound asleep! But thank goodness I got up because we would've totally overslept today."
"Yup, you made sure THAT didn't happen," he replied.
Ahhhhh....good to be home again.

Aruba (not Jamaica) Is Where I Wanna Take Ya

by Cathy

Bon Bini to Aruba!

One of the best perks about my job is getting to travel. I'm not talking about seeing the inside of airports and conference rooms business trips here; I'm talking about experiencing these destinations as potential getaways. So when the opportunity arose for me to fly to Aruba, I cannonballed into it. Granted, we had to take notes, jot relevant stats, info and details down, meet the right people and ask the right questions, however it's all done in a casual, very non-business like setting. In other words, as many friends described it complete with airquotes: "work"

The start of my trip started off a bit frantic, thanks to an hour and a half delay with my connecting flight, which pushed into my scheduled itinerary once on Aruba. I literally had 10 minutes to check in, change into a fashionable-ish outfit and meet the rest of my media group in the hotel lobby. Once at our event, I eased into the DJ's drumbeats and slowly melted into my Vodka Mango concoction created especially for this press event, which took place on the pool deck of the swanky Renaissance Hotel across from the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea. Aahhh...this "work" was more like it.

Part of my "work" included covering this:

2nd annual Aruba InStyle Fashion Week

This is when designers from Latin American, the Caribbean and even the U.S. showcase their new collections. As I eventually found out, there was press coverage from all of these places: Argentina, Brazil, Venezuela (which we were only about 18 miles off the coast of), Curacao, Columbia, Costa Rica, Barbados and even from Spain. Combined with the diverse cultures already present on Aruba (the national language spoken is Papiamento and are taught Spanish, Dutch and English in addition to this in school), I was in for a multi-cultural treat. And as I also found out, Latin Americans are NEVER on time for ANYTHING. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?

Needless to say we attended some fantastic open-air fashion shows/club parties:

Ronchi de Cuba show at the famed Versace Mansion. This is someone's house, y'all.

Swimwear show while dipping my toes in the water? Why, thank you.

We had an amazing island tour on the Kuckoo Kunuku party buses:

Turn up the music and shake your maracas!! (Famed California lighthouse in the background).

Walked through natural boulder formations a la 127 Hours.

 We visited Gold Mill ruins on the rocky northern coast of the island and came across these stacked rock piles. Island folklore says that you must stack five rocks (any size), make three wishes and in three months, given your stack is still intact against high winds, your wishes will come true.

Wishes, wishes everywhere, as far as the eye can see...

Me with my wish stack. Fingers crossed!

We were refreshed from the hot sun with fresh coconut juice, macheted open for our drinking pleasure.

Tasted some amazing local cuisine like Keshi Yena

Went on a tranquil catamaran/snorkeling excursion. Anyone want a gander at a real, live shipwreck?

And of course, no trip would be complete without a shopping excursion. Just FYI, Aruba has 1.5% sales tax and boasts every luxury brand store you can think of, so ladies, this is the place to get that Gucci purse. Speaking of which, while in that store perusing the handbags - I have my eye on one or two I'm salivating over - another woman comes in and the sharp-dressed suit asks, "Hello, what can I show you today?"
Her reply was my favorite: "Oh, nothing. I'm just here visiting my purse."
Ladies, can we relate or what? Loved that.

Instead, I chose to shop in a little Gingerbread-looking outdoor "mall" that clearly evoked the Dutch architecture the island inherits from its owners. 

Little pink houses - for shopping!

Our media group. And, oh, that amazing, fake-looking sea.

My visit there was quite the sensory and cultural experience to say the least. I will always cherish the sights, sounds, flavors and company. Until the next time...

(Oh, and nothing against Jamaica. Been there, done that. Just keeping with the flow of that breezy Cocktail theme song.)

When Mom Is Away, Confusion Is at Play

by Cathy

I was recently away for five days (much more on this coming soon). This meant that I left the girls in the care of my husband. Aside from the hours they were at school, he had to handle the A-Z of everything that involves them, school, food, homework, activities, baths, and basic home upkeep so that the rooms and hallways are walkable - essentially, everything I normally tackle while present.

Now before I go on, I must be honest here and say that my husband helps out A LOT. His work schedule is extremely flexible and for this, I am very thankful. We are respectful of each other's time and schedules and pitch in accordingly when the other cannot. His main tasks are preparing breakfast, shuttling the kids to school and back and forth from activities and pitching in around the house with homework and basic household upkeep.

I have been away once before for several days this year to Mexico. Upon my return, I didn't have time to assess how things went down here since I was saddled with a bout of the stomach flu and was out for a couple of days. By then, the follow up got lost in the shuffle. This time, 'twas a different story.

I knew things were going to be a little tough when I received a text from him while I was about to board my flight out of Chicago, around 7:30am. "What do I pack for lunch? PBJ?" It would be a long several days for him. Here are a few of the highlights:

- "Papi got my snack bag all mixed up," my six-year old offered up at breakfast the morning after my arrival. "What do you mean?"
He gave me the wrong snack bag and I got confused and forgot what it looked like so I think I lost it at school."
"So you didn't have your snack on that day?"
"No and I still can't find it!"

- As I busily fell back into my routine by preparing lunches during breakfast, I opened the fridge to find my reflection staring back at me. There was nothing in there except a loaf of sliced bread, a carton of eggs, some random yogurt drinks, a gallon of milk and some other odds and ends.
"You didn't go to the grocery store at all while I was gone?"
"Yeah," Joe mentioned smoothly. "We got bread and milk. The basics."

Our refrigerator now doubles as a mirror.

- I opened my kitchen cabinets to reach for a plate and noticed that my entire cupboard had been rearranged. No one apparently knew the storage system I've had in place for the last 15 years in those cabinets so stuff was stacked upon other random, breakable stuff and completely out of place. Whose house was I in?

- That same evening I announced that I was going to take a quick shower before bedtime. Upon entering my bathroom, I tripped on a giant, plastic, pink hula hoop that had taken residence in there during my absence. Just then, I hear my husband say, "Ari needs a bath too. She's pretty funky."
"Didn't she take a bath while I was gone?!"
"I tried, but she just wouldn't listen so I said, 'Forget it.' I had so much to do with work."
I verified this after I forced Ari into the bathtub and scrubbed her scalp and body raw.
"Honey, why didn't you take a bath while I was gone?"
"Papi didn't give me one!!"

- I unpacked my suitcase and opened the washing machine to throw in my vacay load and saw that there was a load, already washed and wrung, still sitting in there. Crossing my fingers that it hadn't been in there too long, (it didn't smell bad at the time), I threw the clothes into the dryer and hoped for the best. The next night, while looking for her PJs, Bella screams down the hall, "MOM! Our dryer smells like butt! And so do all of our clothes in it. Everything smells like butt!"
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Smell this!" she said, and practically shoved her pants up my nose. "This is from the dryer."
"Ewww," I said, twitching my nose. "Yeah, papi forgot the load in the machine and I thought it would be okay but I guess it's not. I have to re-wash the whole load."
"Lemme smell it," countered Joe. "It doesn't smell. I don't smell butt. I don't smell anything," said the man who cringes at every towel he dries himself with, convinced they all smell like mold. Maybe it's because loads need to be immediately put in the dryer rather than chilling out in the washing machine for a day or two?

- The day after my arrival, the girls were dropped off at home after school by my neighbor as I was busily preparing food.
"Mmmmm," said Bella taking off her coat. "Smells good! I'm starving!"
"What did you guys eat when I was gone?" I found an opportunity to ask without Joe around.
"Frozen chicken nuggets, frozen fish sticks, frozen pizza, frozen potatoes..." Bella rattled off exasperated. "I want some real food!"

I smiled an ear to ear grin, knowing that there is nothing like a woman's/mother's touch. Although fathers may provide the basics necessary to live and get to places on time, mothers provide the little creature comforts that make a house a home.

Pillow Talk

by Cathy

Ever since Bella was born (actually, since she was a toddler) I have had to lay with her - and now my younger daughter - to fall asleep at night. Why? Because we have trained them this way. Not because that's how we intended this to go. We did not intend to spend hours upon hours of precious, free time sitting in a half-lit room staring at the strange light designs on the ceiling made by that giant star hanging on the wall. Hours that could have been spent doing much needed housework or taking advantage of even more needed "me" time or "couple time". No siree.

Bella was a finicky sleeper. She did just fine as a baby and I was even able to "nap when the baby naps". But as she entered her toddler years and became cognizant that she would be sleeping alone, she morphed into a very troubled sleeper. She repeatedly got up, dragging her exhausted little body out of her toddler bed and into the living room where I would be practically hiding under the couch cushions so that she could just return to bed and put herself to sleep. Because I knew...I KNEW...that once I entered that room and sat on that floor next to her bed, it would still take her centuries to fall asleep. She even caught me trying to crawl out more than a few times, (picture that pretty scene, would you?) whereupon I had to start the whole ordeal over again since she was now traumatized that I would leave her.

Many a night would I sit on that floor, sometimes literally crying tears of frustration at how this process had gotten so out of hand. She needed some type of security, some kind of reassurance to sleep quickly and soundly and even to this day, her bed is strewn with numerous special stuffed animals, her special pillow and Cuddles, and she has even concocted a little "nest" for herself to sleep in amongst throngs of pillows and teddy bears.

I don't lay with her now unless she asks me to, which can be about once a week. Sometimes I sit on her bed for a few minutes, sometimes I'll crawl under the covers with her since I'll only be able to do this for a short time yet before one of us falls out of the narrow twin bed.

However, with our younger daughter, I was determined to NOT repeat this mistake and thankfully, she was a very independent, self-soothing baby once we passed the "let her cry it out" phase. I avoided laying with her like the plague, but my husband on the other hand, who had no idea what I had been through with Bella, decided to start laying with her. The only good part is that he fell asleep instantly (whereas I would sit and mull over mental to-do lists, things I could be doing now, making myself more anxious than sleepy).  I was secretly happy it wasn't me this time.

But eventually, he tried to cut off ties too. He liked his free television time to veg on the couch and watch the news. He soon started denying her requests and then Ari tried to sideline me into the task. I obliged more than once, but then nipped that too in the proverbial bud. I came up with a hardline rule, since she now was old enough to lay by herself: I would only sit on the edge of her bed for ONE minute and then I would leave.

That has been my M.O. for quite some time now but the other night, Ari convinced me to lay down next to her "just for two minutes." What mother can deny that for her child? So I did, but vowed I would get up in a few minutes and made that clear. She agreed. As soon as I lay down, her little arm swung around and circled my neck comfortingly. Then she began to talk.

[I discovered that as they grew, the more they wanted to tell me as I was tucking them into bed. This was their time to confess or ruminate over things that only a clear mind, free of noise, gadgetry and television clutter, would allow. And oh, the things I heard. ]

I listened intently to her concerns, her observations, her fears, to things said to her by friends that have already left obvious impressions on her. As she was talking, I couldn't help but think to myself, What else have I missed about their thoughts and lives by not laying with them? 
If this is the time they feel most comfortable to talk to me, why haven't I realized this and taken advantage of it more? 
What if these are the only moments they would open up and I would get quality time with them?

Apparently, the fear of laying with them until they go to college had scared me into possibly depriving myself of a piece of them. These little pieces that make up the parts of who they are, how they feel, how they will think and live their lives, how they become affected and how they process life's curveballs and curiosities - these were the moments, and I was letting them go right past me, to be dreamt away and never return.

So now I lay with them - even if it's a few more minutes than I "allow" myself - and take in every little part of their beings - their hugs, their kisses, their caresses, their whispers, their observations, their revelations, their laughs, their minds and their hearts. Then I can drift off to sleep knowing that I was there to listen, to help, to make a joke, to take in these small, yet precious moments of life with them.

The iFamily

by Cathy


Hey y'all! Yee-haw!!!!
We done leaped into the 21st century!!!
We bought an iPad.

You gotta know our backstory to know that this is kind of a big deal in our house, and apparently, a shifting of the planets' alignment in my tween's world.

First off, let me clarify that we are not like The Beverly Hillbillies ; we are forward-thinking, technology-aware, on the edge-of-trends people. I have an iPhone, Bella has an iPod and we have one Mac laptop and one iMac desktop. The problem, however, is how old these two computers are.

If it wasn't for Mac's sleek, minimalistic design, you could not tell that this is 12 years old:

That's our new, powerful, smartcased iPad wedged up tauntingly against a classic.

Or that this is seven years old - at least:

iMac G5: cool name, cool design, bad mutha(board)

My husband, a bonafide MacHead and a staunch believer in using something until you can't physically use it anymore, refuses to part with the tiny little laptop, claiming, "Are you kidding me? This is retro Apple. It's vintage! It's awesome! People at the coffee studio always ask me to check it out!"

Ya think it's 'cause it's sort of like, a relic? 

This is one of the first MacBooks Apple came out with so it is sort of a collectible and to be completely honest, if you can get past the tingy sound when it powers on or the fact that you have to connect it to the internet with an ethernet cable (GASP!) that little thing has so much power, memory, speed and form, it seems almost wrong - sort of like watching tiny toddlers start walking prematurely and how in the world can that be physically possible? It's our little workhorse, which will now be used by our tween for all of the middle school essays she was to write, so it's still being put to great use!

The desktop, however, is a whole other story. When you turn this dinosaur on, it sounds like The Gong Show. GNNNNNNnnnnnnngggggggg!!!!! One of the few goof-ups Apple made had to do with this particular iMac G5. Apparently, as we were told by MacHead repairmen, this version has a defective motherboard that will eventually cause the computer to just die. Then they went ahead and listed the "symptoms" caused by the "diseased" motherboard and wouldn't you know it, we are experiencing them now: it can't be upgraded to the newest version of Mac OS; it starts going dead on us; the cooling fan kicks in loudly when it's off, just to name a few. Oh, and our favorite? Ever since we did a slight upgrade to Leopard, it set something else askew within its sick self, whereby it shuts completely down if it's left unattended for a short amount of time. As in five minutes. Gotta go to the bathroom while you're in the middle of something? Fuggedaboutit. Gotta restart the sucker all over again. GNNNNNNnnnnnnngggggggg!!!!! 
Oh, and are you sitting? It's also NOT wireless. We don't even own a router! (DOUBLE GASP!)

So now you know why getting this iPad was such a big deal (mainly for my husband, who does a lot of work from home). For me, slightly less because I got myself an iPhone a year ago and joined the high tech masses of society. I was so excited about it, I slept with it next to me on my nightstand. Still do. But for my husband, who is still tinkering around with a T-Mobile phone, the iPad was an angelic Godsend. He's still getting used to its capabilities, nuances and little quirks, but as the days go on, his awe for the thing becomes greater and greater.

He happened to email me something while I was at the grocery store the other day so I emailed him back from my phone. Under his message, was the omnipresent, "Sent From my iPad" and under mine, "Sent From my iPhone." I didn't even realize that until he emailed me back and said, "We are an iFamily now. :)" I could almost feel the pride emanating from the screen. Until our iMac dies and we buy a new desktop.

Sweetly, Come Undone

by Cathy

I have the sweetest, most thoughtful girls on the planet. They are both kind, respectful and generous.

Last night, my six-year old, Ari, wanted to surprise my husband and I with what she called a "romantic dinner". The thought popped into her head two nights ago while I was tucking her into bed - although I have no idea what prompted that thought. Either way, she had it stuck in her head and insisted on doing it, and after some coaxing and savvy explaining, I got her to hold off until last night. And boy, did she ever remember.

She got home from school, ate, did her homework, rushed off to her bedroom, shut the door and began her planning preparations for our "date night in". She staked her claim in the living room and posted some signs (backed up by verbal warnings) that we should not, under any circumstance, enter or peek into that living room until she invited us in. After what seemed like hours of scurrying to and fro, sliding around some chairs, requesting step stools, carrying bins, writing out menus, digging up pink aprons and covering the coffee table in a fuzzy, teddy bear blanket/tablecloth, we were summoned to be seated.

My husband and I sat across from each other, literally on the edges of our seats due to fluffy couch pillows placed lovingly against the dining room chair seatbacks for comfort. No matter that our knees were crouched up against the sharp edges of the coffee table - we were on a romantic date and nothing was going to spoil this fun. Pretend tea was served to us in Ari's plastic, princess Disney tea set as we perused our hand-written menus, courtesy of Ari's Cafaye.

My menu had Brecfist and Dusrte as such:
wofols
eggs
meteu (meat)
spgedey
cack
SunDay
ice screme
cokese

Joe's had Lunch and Dinnr as such:
eggs
Hot Dogs
chiginugit
friyse
spgedye
brede
meteu
salide

Ari dutifully stood guard, decked up in an adult-sized pink apron which was tied all the way up under her underarms and mentally took note of our orders. She set up some tunes on a keyboard and for full effect, we unsealed the plastic film from around our fireplace for the first time since they were toddlers and fired that baby up. Ari even entertained us with a puppet show from behind our couch called "The Frog Who Won't Leave the Puppy Alone," complete with intermissions where she allowed us our "privaseat" and "funny talk".

Towards the end of our hot date, I asked if I could personally thank the owner of Ari's Cafaye and she shyly said, "That's me!" So I grabbed her, tickled her and plopped her on my lap, whereupon I smothered her with millions of thankful mommy hugs and kisses. Worried as to her father's potential jealousy, she looked over her shoulder mid-tickle and gestured to him that she will come to him next.

Later that night, once we had tucked both girls into bed, I cleaned up the living room and collected the menus and signs posted outside the living room. Then my eye caught a welcome sign that I missed on my way in:

The sentiment; the spelling; the innocence. I've come undone.

And that, my dear friends, is when I lost it. I don't even know where all of this emotion was coming from and was baffled that all it took was to read this sign, the catalyst in my mommy meltdown. I began sobbing - the type of sobbing where your body is racked with heaving sighs and multiple attempts at catching your breath. I was drowning in tears and my face was so contorted with wails that I now know why they call it the "ugly cry". And it just kept coming. My eyes became puffy, my nose filled up with snot and I was wailing like a baby.

My husband shuffles into our bedroom half-asleep. "Are you okay? What's wrong?!"
And there I stood, hand wrist-deep in a tissue box, face beet-red, puffy and smeared in makeup-infused tears, and replied, "My babies are growing up!!!!"
"Of course they're growing up," he says, totally unhelpful and setting himself up to be punched by his lunatic wife/mother of his kids.
"Pretty soon she's gonna grow up and figure out how to spell and we'll be done with this phase of our kids! Look!" I said, shoving the sign under his nose. "It's the cutest most innocent thing and that is going to come to an end. SOOOONNN!!" I fell apart again.
What was wrong with me?!?! Why was this hitting me so hard? It's not like I haven't seen this writing before; I must have looked insane.
"Yes, but when they do, we'll still get written letters, just of a different kind," he tried hard to reassure me.
"But I like these!!" I cried back, slamming her hand-written note down on the bed.
After a long pause filled with lots of sniffing, nose-blowing and heaved sighs, I turned back to Joe.
"Just wait. You'll experience this too. For me, it was this letter. For you, it will be something else very seemingly insignificant yet monumental in some way and it will hit you out of nowhere. Just wait," I taunted. "You'll see."

And with that, I drifted off to sleep with sweet thoughts of my sweet girls in sweet, unforgettable moments that I hold onto with the tenacity that only a mother could take in, hold dear and never let go of.