Make it stop

by Patti


S has been mad at me the past few days because I couldn't chaperon her field trip to the Museum of Science & Industry this week. Work has been really busy, and I already took the day off for President's Day, and, well, this time around, I just couldn't do it.

I have chaperoned countless trips for S. When I was self-employed, I had much more flexibility (though, much larger bank anxiety), and the trade-off for all the headaches that came along with self-employment was the ability to be able to stay home without having to ask permission when my kid was sick, or wanted me at her classroom Halloween party, or begged me to come along with her and her classmates to the Field Museum. I have also volunteered to be backstage at her recitals to help other girls with their hair and makeup, spent hour after hour at the pool with S and invited friends, and I have done everything I can to make sure she has a pretty awesome birthday party every single year.

Yet, all S seems to remember is the handful of times I simply just can't. And though logically I know those handfuls of times will be but blips on her radar of childhood resentments, I can't help but panic just a little right now. You see, S will be 11 years old in 38 days. THIRTY. EIGHT. DAYS. She will be officially entering into preteen territory, where hormones will take hold of her delicate little child neck and snap it and she will come back to life as an eye-rolling, back-talking, door-slamming, bra-wearing, gum-smacking, attitude-popping, mother-hating mess. And I don't know, maybe it's my own hormones that are swirling about at this very moment, wreaking havoc on my forehead and making my pants feel tight, but it's making me sad.

In the past couple of months, I have felt... a shift. When I hug S, I feel a very subtle pulling away. When she catches me looking at her with those "annoying" love eyes, rather than giggle, she gets slightly irritated. M will be going to Argentina to visit his parents for a couple of weeks in March, leaving S and I at home, and normally, this is something we'd both secretly look forward to -- the night after night we will slumber party together in the "the big bed" eating popcorn and reading books, or surfing the 'net. But this time around, S is a little hesitant about whether or not she wants to sleep with me. And though I put on a brave face and say, "that's fine if you decide not to," in my heart, it's not fine, not at all. And that is when I want to slap myself purple for all of the nights she begged me to lay down with her, or to read her just one more story, or to stay just five minutes longer, or to go with her on her field trip..... and I said no.

They aren't kidding, those "theys" that tell you: "Enjoy it while it lasts; it goes by so fast!" "They'll be grown before you know it!" "One day you'll look back and miss these days!" Those "theys"? They know things. When S was only a couple of months old, M and I went to a client's child's birthday party, and I was sitting in a corner with her, trying to stay awake as kids ran all around me, screaming. The father of one of those screaming kids came and sat next to me on the couch, gazing at the then-tiny S with a mixture of awe and sadness. "I wish there was a way to bottle them up at this age," he said, rather wistfully. "Blink, and it's over." At the time, in the haze of new motherhood exhaustion and the feeling of infinity that stretched before me, I only knew to smile and nod. But I didn't truly understand, how could I?

And now? The clock seems to be operating on elapsed time, and I am realizing with a bittersweetness I can hardly bear that it's happening -- she's really, really growing up. And what I wouldn't do to bottle her up and make it stop.

TWWW's First Annual - Cathy Takes Oscar

by Cathy

Since I was old enough to understand what the Oscars were, I have been as diligent and loyal a viewer of that shimmery event as its golden mascot. In fact, I've had my Oscar dress designed since I was 14, on the off-chance that I one day make it there in some capacity. Although the dress design has undoubtedly gone through several tweaks and transformations throughout the years, the dream remains.

As I am hoping, pimpin' and prayin' for that dream while glued to my television year after longing year, I feel that I now officially reserve the right to be an unofficial commentator on what the red carpet and the grand Oscar stage puts forth into our living rooms every year. There's just so much that demands to be commended, satirized, pitied, booed, applauded and lauded, that I just can't contain myself! So until Oscar decides to take me on, I will take him on:


- Kudos to you, Billy Crystal. You were actually funny. The intro, the best picture Broadway medley and the 'What Are They Thinking?' piece were all entertaining and intelligent without being crude or slapstick. Your one-liners throughout the night were on key, truthful and again, funny. Please come back next year and every year after that!

- Cirque du Soleil - what a top-notch, jaw-dropping performance. The Oscars needed a theatrical boost!

- Melissa McCarthy and the whole gang of "Bridesmaids" - Scorsese!! Love you, funny ladies!

- Alexander Payne - I have my own selfish reasons for loving him during this year's telecast as he uttered the first Greek words ever at the Oscars. S'agapo poli Alexander!

- "The Artist" for Best Picture of the Year? Even though Jean Dujardin is my new crush and his smile lights up the stage all on its own, admittedly, I haven't seen the movie but humor me here - it's a SILENT movie made by the French. Okaaaayy?

Viola Davis - What happened to the sleek, sexy, choppy bob you sported at the Golden Globes or the soft curls framing your Marchesa gown at the SAGs? Although I commend you for going au naturel, the Oscars wasn't the place to do it. It felt a little Christmas-y with your red hair and green dress. And hello - didn't your stylist tell you that you shouldn't ever match your earrings (or your clutch, for that matter, ladies) to the color of your dress?

J. Lo - Let them say what they want about you - wardrobe malfunction, areola shadow, whatevs.  You can rock anything you wear and cause enough of a buzz to keep them talking about you, smart lady. The diva title was meant to be yours.

Cameron Diaz - your hair is too short and you need to lay off the gym weights. And the dress? I love Gucci, but this one was eh.

 Milla Jovovich - we all love a sexy bedroom eye but you looked borderline junkie, lids fluttering to stay open, eyeballs rolling back in your head during your presentation.

She was one leg stance short of this.

Angelina - eventually that stoic, forced, understated glamour and tight-lipped classy image was bound to crack and reveal the touch o' classlessness Angelina always harbored. There is a much more demure, classy way to rock a high slit than turning your foot outward and sprawling out your inner thigh. If she would have done the same with the other leg, she would have been ready to leap and ribbit. And for the love of GOD can you please stuff a steak in your mouth! A loaf of bread! Your arms are third-world skelatal. Make a dinner reservation and take Rose Byrne with you or I'll have to crack you both in half with my pinkies.

Jessica Chastain -  Yes, Alexander McQueen was a fashion talent icon lost way too soon and the dress had amazing detail and show-stopping attributes, but on Jessica, I felt it was too stark for her alabaster skin and fair hair. Something feminine would have flowed much more nicely together.

Sasha Baren Cohen - YOU SUCK. Take your classless stunts to the appropriate environments you've created for them. You've marred the dignity the Oscars have carried for 84 years. Not the time or the place for your dumb-ass shenanigans.



Natalie Portman -  Hunny, sweety-pie. If your dress was knee-length, all you would have needed were those ruby slippers and some bows in your hair. A polka-dotted ballgown? In red? I don't care that it's vintage Dior. Even fashion Gods make mistekes. No, no. Just because you're a mom now doesn't mean you need to lose all sense of fashion.

LOVED the presenter skits: Emma Stone and Ben Stiller and Gwyneth Paltrow and Robert Downey Jr. were spot on. Best dressed in white: Gwyneth Paltrow and Jennifer Lopez. Best dressed in red: Michelle Williams and Emma Stone. Worst dressed: Natalie Portman and Penelope Cruz. So happy for Meryl Streep! Loved her and Chris Rock for keeping things real. So sad for Demian Bichir and Nick Nolte.

 


Did I miss anything? Do you disagree? Let me know!

And until I get to rock the red carpet myself and have other non-descript bloggers scrutinize the dress which I have been design-cycling since my teens years, I'll be back again next year.

Bread, Bras, and Brows!

by Patti


I am writing this at nearly 10:30 pm on a Sunday night  when I really should be getting ready for my work week, picking out what to wear (so as to avoid Outfit Disaster), and making sure I have enough clean underwear to get me through Friday. Instead, I am writing this at 10 pm on a Sunday night because it is the only time I have to do it. As always, the needs of others come before mine, and I constantly remind myself that this is but a season in my life - the season of the Needs of Others Come Before Mine.

Although I sometimes get frustrated by this particular season of my life, for the most part, I'm pretty accepting of it given the many blessings that frustration is wrapped up in. So, what I have learned to do is hustle and shuffle and find ways to make more efficient use of the time I do have. Enter: Walmart.

Yes, I am talking about that place - the one that, from the moment you enter, oratorily murders you with screaming children, visually assaults you with messy, crowded aisles, and rapes your fashion sense with its Rollback! 3 for $10! t-shirts made of combustible fabric.

This will not do.

Still, sacrifice  your senses and look beyond all of that, and you will find that Walmart is a veritable goldmine of time efficiency. This Saturday, for example, after glancing at myself in the mirror and realizing my brows were dangerously approaching Martin Scorcese-ness, I decided I could no longer put myself last, not for one moment longer. But, I also knew that I had some serious weekend kid shuttling to do, and had to make sure we had our Sunday breakfast fixings in the 'fridge, and had to learn a bunch of new music for a gig that night, AND had to actually shave and paint my toenails for the first time in forever for that gig. I knew that if I was going to find the time to de-forest my brows, I was going to have to get creative. So, to Walmart I drove, kid and kid's friend in tow. I mean, where else could I get my brows perfected, buy bread for breakfast, and, replace that bra whose hooks I had hammered into shape three times already? ALL AT THE SAME TIME?

Of course, it being Saturday, the lot was packed to capacity, cars parked frighteningly close to one another. I circled my way around the lot several times, dodging shoppers and their carts, which were packed mountain-high with toilet paper, Legos, socks and eggs - a combination only a Walmart cart could contain. My time dwindling, I finally just parked a mile away, and dragged the girls through the lot to the store. In record time I was able to weave through the crowds and get my brows threaded at a Rollback price, buy bread and eggs and juice and shampoo, and  get my receipt cheerfully "approved" by the Greeter/Good-bye-er at the door. Done! Just like that! And I even had time to stop and get a donut for S and her friend as a reward for sitting on those torn, pleather chairs so patiently as Suneela ripped my brow hairs from their surprised roots.

Say what you will about Walmart and infamous scenes like this:

and this:

...but as a busy mother and wife and general liver of life, I know the truth: At Walmart? You really do save money, and live better. And get plenty of entertainment in the process.

Once Again, Miche-again!

by Cathy and Patti

We know, we know...we've bombarded you with so many Michigan stories this past week that you want to pull that unassuming, innocent little state off the map. But if you can indulge us in a follow-up post about how our recent trip up there this past weekend went, we promise you...it will be worth your time.

The comedy of errors that ensued before we even hit the road should have been a sign. We all agreed we would leave after our Saturday afternoon ballet lesson, where we would all be gathered, overnight bags and lunch coolers in tow. We decided to take two cars since we couldn't cram so many people, duffle bags, vats of cheeseballs, purses and winter gear all in one car. After class, we piled into our respective cars for the almost hour and-a-half drive.

What did that consist of on our part? Situating two adults, two girls, two bulbous ballet bags, coats, winter accessories, four overnight bags ("I want my bag IN the car!"), three separate trips back to the trunk, opening and sprawling out lunches (we agreed we would pack lunches to save time, which consisted of sandwiches, chips, pickles, sugar snap peas, apples, Doritos, pretzels, and cheese balls), opening water bottles, balancing coffee cups in broken cup holders, positioning our phones for easy access and GPS capabilities, deciding on music selection and interior climate control, and opening a box of Kleenex for Bella, who was sick and blowing her nose every second as opposed to her usual every minute.

Ahhh...there. All settled in. In our post-chaotic moment of stillness, we caught sight of Michelle waiting up ahead, her car sideways, eyes riveted in our direction. We busted out in laughter just thinking what was going through her mind as she was watching our clown car-ish circus act unfold before her very eyes. We drove up to her car, agreed on the quickest route and set out on our mini roadtrip.

Cathy
That quickest route decision turned out to be taking the Skyway instead of staying on 94 the whole way up. We've taken both routes before but for some reason, not only did we feel we spent $1,394 dollars on tolls this time around, but had to contend with some major traffic - which was partly to blame for those tolls. Ever take a ride up towards Indiana recently? Traffic in the toll lanes was virtually inching along. 'What the heck?' we mused aloud in our car, which was bogged down with so much stuff I swear I heard the back bumper scraping the ground.

When we finally got to the toll booth, I screamed, "NO WONDER! There's no person here! It's a machine!"
"HUH?" echoed Patti, just as baffled.
So obligingly, we stuffed the equivalent of our life savings down that money-sucker while bitching out loud that it's no wonder our economy is going to shit. So many jobs were eliminated to bring in these toll machines that take four times as long, cost more to justify the toll increases and snarl traffic to a halt. Nice job, government.

After going through two more of these, we were driving along quite comfortably, the kids content in the back seat, Patti and I gossiping and singing in the front seat. I casually mentioned that it seemed like it was taking forever and we thought nothing of it, until twenty minutes later, with a steady eye on my watch, announced more decisively that we must have missed the exit. "It's taking way too long," I said.

"Pull up our location on your phone," Patti agreed. After punching in some directional points, I declared out loud, "We are 22 miles out of our way...but good news! The next exit will take us back the way we need to go!" 

Patti was more than ecstatic to hear this news since she had to pee so bad; I told her to just do it old-school style on the side of the road between the opened up front and back doors. But, no. Instead, she preferred to go at a truck stop restroom. But not before we encountered the toll booth machine from hell.

That exit smacked us with yet another toll booth machine and by now, since Patti had been paying at all the toll booth stops with the cash she happened to have on hand, I felt bad and offered up my Mastercard debit, the only form of 'cash' I had on me. "Here! Pop that in. I insist!" I demanded in my Greek way.

In it went and there it got stuck. It wouldn't go in all the way but it wasn't far out enough to be grasped. Only then did we see a paper sign that was taped up top that read: Attention Mastercard debit card users. This machine does not accept that form of payment. "There's a button to press here for help. Hold on," offered a calm Patti, realizing the onset of my panic. Moments later, a woman's recorded voice came blaring through the maniacal toll booth machine:  "No one is available to take your call at this moment. Please hold until the next available representative." As Patti and I turned to stare at each other with our mouths agape, the clincher kicked in: Music. Not just any music, but a jacked up, static version of some Shania Twain song. Really? As cars behind us started backing up and poking into neighboring crawling lanes, I concluded then and there that not only would be stuck here for a while but that I would never get my debit card, my financial connection to the world, back.

Patti

Why didn't I use my debit card? Because I had lost it a few days before our Miche-Again! trip, OF COURSE, and the bank takes it sweet-ass time mailing replacement debit cards. So I was traveling old school style: WITH CASH. And that cash? Was about to disappear. So Cathy offered up her own debit card, which was now dangerously close to being eaten by the toll booth machine. 

Finally! A real, live, non-Shania Twain voice came crackling out of the speaker. "How may I help you?" it slurred. So, wait - the state cut all the toll booth worker jobs, but hired at-home drunks to answer emergency toll booth calls? I explained to the at-home drunk that the machine had eaten Cathy's debit card, and she put me on hold while she "worked" on the problem (aka, grabbed herself another beer). Within seconds, the card came mercifully spitting out of the machine, and we all cheered. I once again dug into my rapidly emptying wallet, and pulled out two singles. I leaned out of the car window to start feeding the machine, and a sudden gust of wind snatched the money from my hands and carried it away. "MY  MONEY!" I screamed. Yes, it was only a couple of dollars, but all of the tolls had eaten up my reserves, and I NEEDED those dollars. Cathy, never one to waste a precious penny, gallantly threw open her door and started galloping after my flying dollars. Yes. She was literally CHASING MONEY. She sprinted across the toll booth lanes and was able to rescue a dollar, which she then held triumphantly above her head while doing a victory jig. Right there. At the top of the expressway. 

We finally arrived to Miche's, whereupon Miche and our friend Enza, who had arrived a full hour before, came bouncing out of the house. "You made it! You made it!" they sang as they danced around us, and then offered to help bring our stuff in. I was traveling with Gaucho, who we had just brought home the weekend before, and I have to make a confession right here, right now: When S was a baby, I only traveled with diapers and my boobs. For Gaucho? My 8.5 week old puppy? I traveled with a crate, a pen, a bag of chew toys, a bag of food, medication, potty pads, a harness, a leash, a collar, two blankets, Desitin for a face rash, two stainless steel bowls, baby wipes.... Miche and Enza made trip after trip lugging all the crap I had brought - FOR A DOG. Cathy, Bella, S and I? Had one bag each. Oh! And of course, there was the food, and the star of that food was the TUB-O-CHEESE BALLS Cathy had brought along for the car ride. Those balls could have fed an entire country, and there still would have been leftovers. So. Many. Balls!

After a tedious shuffle back and forth to and from the car into the house, and the pandemonium of setting up Gaucho's crate and pen, I finally flopped down on the couch and looked out the window to see this:

Yes, there was a lone roll of toilet paper under my car. Because that's how we "roll". 

We hung out the rest of the day, and then went out for dinner that night. By the time we got home, we realized just how exhausted we all were, and hit the hay around midnight. Since I had a "newborn" with me (Gaucho), I offered to sleep on the couch in the living room so that I could hear him whine and take him out without disturbing anybody else. Cathy claimed she had a hacking cough that attacked at night, and was granted the guest room so that she could cough in isolation. Miche shared her bed with Enza, and the four girls made a cozy slumber-party  style set-up upstairs. Then, all lights were out.

1 am: The girls are still making noise upstairs --  I call from my cell phone to them and tell them to keep it quiet. Then I hear Enza and Miche giggling like ten-year olds themselves, and I march down the hallway and ask them to keep it down. I am killing the joy left and right. 

2 am: The girls are still being annoying, I call them again.

3 am: I am tossing and turning on the couch, amazed that the girls upstairs are STILL making noise. I am also nervous that Gaucho will begin his antics of crying all night, as he had been doing all week since we brought him home, and, though he is actually completely quiet, I am anxious waiting for it to happen. 

3:30 am: I am still awake, now thoroughly convinced that Gaucho is likely in a coma in his crate - why else the utter quiet?

4:00 am: A shadowy figure comes darting down the stairs and into the hallway. I hear a little commotion by Miche's room, then another commotion by Cathy's room, and then, within minutes, all is quiet again.

4:15 am: Hear coughing coming from upstairs.

4:20 am: Hear coughing coming from Michelle's room.

4:25 am: Don't hear any coughing coming from Cathy's room and wonder if she made up whole "coughing attack" thing just to get the guest room to herself.

4:30 am: Begin Googling "puppy coma" on my cell phone. Part of me wants to wake Gaucho to make sure he is, well, ALIVE; the other part of me is terrified to wake him and then have him become a yowling monster and wake up the whole house. 

6 am: Wake Gaucho. He stares at me grumpily, as if to say, "I cry, you complain. I sleep, you complain. What do you WANT for me, lady?" I force-feed him in the case he actually is suffering from hypoglycemia, wait for him to do his business outside, and then put him back in his crate at 6:30 am. 

7 am: Finally fall asleep.

9:30 am: The girls wake up.

Yes, that night was a complete and total nightmare, but you know what? I can't wait 'til next year to do Miche-again!all over again. Because the memories we have created on these trips for our daughters, for ourselves, are worth every missed exit, every lost dollar, every sleepless night.

A Time and a Place

by Cathy

I have a confession to make; I have mom guilt.
Surprise!
Yes, I know, it happens so often to us moms that it becomes interlaced within our psyche, but allow me to share with you one of my most recent guilty conscience-abusers.

This past weekend, as you may have read, we had our third annual trip to Michigan with our daughters. We moms, (Patti, Michelle and I) each bring our daughters  for a slumber party-esque, marshmallow-roasting, game-playing, shopping, movie-watching, pretend-playing, sledding (weather permitting) good time.

I bring Bella, my 10-year old, who is the same age as the other girls, therefore, technically making these other girls HER friends. She met them through ballet and they have been friends for several years now. It's a given that they have much in common.

However, I am the only mom in this scenario that has TWO girls; my younger one, Ari, is five years younger than Bella. Over the last several years, we've become so tight with these girls and their families that Ari basically grew up viewing them as her "older sisters". Herewithin, lies my dilemma.

Ari was three years old when we started our Michigan excursion tradition - the older girls were eight. At those ages, there are some definite disparities in social development, behavior and maturity. Now, they are almost six and 11 years of age. Ari has matured into a thoughtful, playful, wise, fun and funny little GIRL (not baby) old enough to grasp what's going on and intuit when she is being fibbed to and because of this, I struggled deeply with not bringing her on this annual girls trip with us this time around. If I told her where we were going (she has heard us talking about the Michigan trips in the past) she would have been upset if I didn't include her. And how do I explain all of this to a five-year old? So I had to lie.

I had a separate talk with Bella on this before the trip, during which she quickly pointed out her feelings on the possibility of bringing Ari: she wants her own thing with her friends; Ari would just annoy them; they couldn't share any of their big girl secrets; she wouldn't let them play their own games; she would whine and spoil their fun. I get all of this and completely understand where she is coming from. After all, her little sister has put a wrench in the lifestyle she was accustomed to having for five years before Ari was born and now she has had to endure five long years of sharing EVERYTHING with her -including her friends - and even sometimes letting her get her way because, "She's little." I get that she still wants some things just for herself. That's how she sees it.

How do I see it? I see it as a girls getaway where the moms can connect and the girls can play. The games concocted by the girls this weekend consisted of iCarly spoofs, karaoke, fashion shows and parachuting Barbies off the loft balcony - hardly a secretive, big-girls-only, private-time needed weekend on their part.
Ari would have easily been able to partake in all of that without any drama - unless the drama was specifically targeted and sought out by the older girls, "just because we're older and she's little". Come bedtime, Ari would sleep with me in the guest room on the first floor as the girls whispered and gossiped the night away amongst themselves and their secretive little worlds upstairs all alone and just fine.

What will happen for the next trip, I can't say for sure but I do know that I can't and won't fib to Ari anymore, or deny her an experience that is meant to be shared by us GIRLS. I hope I can also make Bella understand that if the tables were turned, she wouldn't want to be left out of all the fun. And the bottom line is, if she really needed to have her big girl time with her own friends on her own time, then that is something that can be arranged separately, at any other time of the year and within the intimate confines of her own circumstances. There can be a time and a place for that, which will make it all the more special.

But this trip? It's not the time or the place for a one-on-one on any level. It's a big, fun, slumber party that all the girls in our families can experience together - regardless of our age.

No pasa nada!

by Patti


I had a conversation with M the other day that left me completely and totally frustrated. Yes, I realize that I am a wife, and that I was having a conversation with my husband, and that it is not uncommon for that equation right there: wife + husband + conversation to have the result of = frustration.  But in this case, the frustration was borne out of sheer, well, the pure fact that my  husband has no idea what he's talking about.


It all began when I received a phone call from the vet telling me that Gaucho's poop test came back positive for a very common parasite in puppies, and that the treatment was super simple and inexpensive. I of course immediately began to Google the diagnosis, and called M to tell him that our new "son" needed drugs, and that I would be home late as  I was going to stop by the vet to pick up the medicine.
"He's not taking medicine," he told me, quite plainly.
"What do you mean? He's got parasites! He needs the medicine!"
"No he doesn't. He's a dog; he has to be tough. Besides, you are falling for the trick."
"The trick?"
"Yes, the doctor is tricking you into buying medicine. It's all just a business. Just leave him alone - he'll be fine. Nothing's gonna happen."

This is SO him, this whole "doubt authority" and "no pasa nada" attitude. I blame it on Argentina, the Land of "No Pasa Nada". Undercooked meat? No pasa nada. Strep throat? No pada nada. Your arm is dangling from its socket? No pasa nada.  

.....

Years ago, on a family trip to Argentina, we rented a beach house. S was just learning to walk, and she was having so much fun toddling around the universe, making me a psychotic chaser after-er. One afternoon, after a day at the beach and a string of showers to wash away that beach, I was in one of the upstairs bedrooms organizing stuff when I heard a strange sound. "Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzz." I looked around, up and down, wondering where the hell that noise was coming from. I knew I recognized the sound, I just didn't know how or why. At that moment, M appeared in the doorway with an devil-eyed S on his hip. "SHHH!" I shouted. Yes, I shouted a "Shhh".
"What? What's wrong?"
"Listen! Do you hear that?"
We stood still, craning our necks towards the silence, waiting.
Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzz-Bzzzzz.
"THERE!" I pointed to the air frantically. "Do you hear it?"
M put S down and strode further into the room, S toddling behind him. I lunged for S, suddenly remembering that sound. "IT'S ELECTRICITY!" I screamed. S kicked her legs angrily, annoyed that I had roadblocked her in such an inconsiderate way.
"What? No, it's not." M looked around quickly, as if the electricity was hiding coyly behind the curtains, waiting to jump out with a "mega-watt" smile on its face, shouting, "GOTCHA!"
"YES, IT IS!" Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. "You HAVE to call the electrician!"
"Where am I going to find an electrician? It's Sunday. We're at the beach! Everyone is sleeping!" Ah, yes, the all-important siesta. The whole country  had just eaten pasta and guzzled an industrial-sized bottle of wine. Of course they were sleeping. But I told him to wake them all up, and to his credit, to appease me, he called the landlord, who called an electrician.

One half-hour later, a sleepy-eyed man showed up, the makeshift box of tools he was carrying apparently enough to make him an electrician. He marched upstairs, tapping the wall as he went, trying to look official. We followed behind - M, M's mom and dad, and me, S in my arms. M and his dad, the fearless macho Argentinian men that they are, followed him all the way into the room, while M's mom and I stayed on the fringes, preferring to live. The man walked around the room a little aimlessly, tapping the wall here and there, and then he went into the en suite bathroom, making a few official sounding clanking noises to put the finishing touches on his act. He walked out, looked at all of us, and announced (in Spanish), "It's just a little electrical current running through the floors. Just make sure you don't walk on the floor with wet feet. Nothing's gonna happen. No pasa nada!" And then, just like that, he left, the electrical current crackling ominously in the background - the perfect exit music.

We moved out that afternoon to another beach house, as even M, the consummate "no pasa nada" man, had to admit that the man had gone overboard in his lackadaisical attitude. M's dad, an Argentinian thoroughbred of machismo and doubt, came along with us, but maintained that, indeed, "nothing would have happened" if we had stayed. But I knew better. I could picture S toddling into that electrical  box of a room, her tiny feet soaking in the currents and shooting them straight up into her curly-haired head. No pasa nada, my ass.

......

After our little "debate" about Gaucho and his need for medication, I reminded M of the day we could have died from electrical shock, the whole lot of us, thanks to the "no pasa nada" way of thinking. Did he really want to take that risk with his own "son"? Stubborn as ever, he still maintained I was being naive and falling victim to "the system", and I had to feel sorry for him for just one second, wondering just how crowded it must be in his head with all that paranoia living there. Then I snapped out of my temporary pity and told him he'd better suck it up and get on board, because if he didn't, I could pretty much guarantee that tonight? No pasa nada.

Gaucho vs. Gucci

by Cathy

If you've been following our blog, you know by now that Patti has recently become the proud new parent of a little smushy-faced, cuddly French bulldog named Gaucho. After years of repeated attempts with various pets (including a cat, another dog, birds, a guinea pig and a hamster, which they still have) and having all the stars align in terms of a buying a single-family home, moving to the suburbs, convincing her stubborn Argentinian husband to commit to a dog and at the same time, giving her daughter S a sibling, it all came to fruition recently.

As for us, we are in an opposite situation. We live in a second floor condo in the city of Chicago, we have two kids and not much space left and my husband has allergies to pet dander. Me? I've never been a dog person. I never coveted dogs when I would see other kids play with them in the park. I would never even go near them and was actually afraid of them until I got to be a teenager. In fact, this past weekend was the very first time I ever held a dog - Gaucho.

Way since before Patti got Gaucho, my kids would squeal in tight-hugged unison as they Googled pictures of cute little dogs or saw them on television. They would print out these pictures of dogs and put them up on their bedroom wall. In fact there is a collage of black-and-white dog pictures up adorning their room. Good grief, I thought. Why can't they just put up pictures of Justin Beiber or Lemonade Mouth or other cute little Disney characters the way I put up pictures of Duran Duran? They drop hints here and there by commenting, "Isn't that dog cute?" or "Which one do you like?" How could two non-dog lovers spawn kids with such a connection to dogs?

I keep reminding them that our living situation is not conducive to keeping a dog and that even more importantly, once the cuteness and playful factors wear off, dogs are a HUGE responsibility. My youngest one, Ari, not fully comprehending this, thought I was referring to how expensive they are, which is another point on my list of cons, and says, "Well, how much bucks are they??"

So for now, folks, instead of a Gaucho, we will contend with our Gucci, the adorable FAO Schwarz, caramel-colored stuffed dog sent all the way from the U.K. to my oldest daughter when she was born, by my good friend Sue. A Gucci ribbon taken off of a gift given to me from my husband became his leash and that's how Gucci, our dog, came to be.

Our dog Gucci and his brand-name ribbon leash.

We've had Gucci now for almost 11 years and he's perfect. Adorable, quiet, provides hours of playtime fun, and cheap. No walks, no poop, no pee, no barking, no space hogging, no smelling.
What's funny is that he is the same size and color as Gaucho is now - parallel lives!

For now, he's the perfect little dog for our family, until we move or finally break down and give in.

Miche-again!

by Patti and Cathy

This weekend, we are headed to Michigan for what has become an annual tradition. We crash our friend Michelle’s vacation house, pile on the daughters, and celebrate a weekend of estrogen, both new and used, with s’mores, fires, sledding, guitars, and wine. Oh, and whine!

 The first time we went three years ago, our daughters were set loose into Miche’s beautiful vacation home, and promptly began to run in circles, screaming at decibels so high, all of the neighboring states’ dogs came a-callin. Miche has a loft that overlooks the living room, and it wasn’t long before various dolls, stuffed animals, and other kid paraphernalia came soaring over the loft and onto the living room floor below. Some of these dolls came scaling down the wall of the loft on rope, while others, not as lucky, were simply flung to their dolly deaths.

In the past couple of years, our girls have calmed down a bit, and have now started gathering, slumber party-style, in the upstairs loft to tell secrets, watch movies, or play games. This gives us times to gather in our own slumber party-style downstairs, cozy on the couches, wine in hand, the fireplace crackling, to share our own secrets, to play music, to laugh that crazy silent, shoulder-shaking laugh, and sometimes, to cry.

Of course, these weekends can never be without some sort of drama. After all, it’s all estrogen, all the time, and anytime one sleeps away from home - especially with others - there are adjustments to make, sleeping styles to harmonize with, and general chaos that is always a promise away...

Patti
Have you ever heard a bed chirp? Yes, you may have heard one creak or bounce or boing, but chirp?

Well, I have. And the culprit was poor Cathy, tossing and turning all night long with a sleep mask slapped on her face, and a useless bottle of Nyquil mocking her from her nightstand. I was in the twin bed across from her, saddled with a migraine I'd had since the day before, and trying to ignore the “Chirp! Chirp!” that emanated from her bed each and every time she dared to even breathe. And this is how it went all. night. long, until the morning came and I glanced over to see Cathy, all bleary-eyed and gray from exhaustion, staring up at the ceiling, the bed chirping each time she blinked. "I couldn’t sleep at ALL!” she lamented.

“Me neither,” I commiserated."There is something wrong with your bed. It....chirps!"

"I know! I heard it all night!"

The bed chirped again, giving us its middle finger, and we broke out into the kind of delirious laughter that only completey exhausted people can summon up, then we dragged our asses out of bed and got ready for the day. We were vacationing at Miche's house - Miche and our other friend, Enza, were downstairs having breakfast, probably fully-rested and ready to seize the day, and we joined them, our eyes glazed and glassy from lack of sleep. But once we got coffee in, and realized with mounting glee that this time we had come WITHOUT THE KIDS WITHOUT THE KIDS WITHOUT THE KIDS, we were wide awake. The whole day languished before us, and in it there was to be wine tasting, the beach, going to a fancy restaurant that served cocktails, shopping... oh, the FREEDOM!

So we hit the winding Michigan roads and flirted with the Wine Boy (who said he was really a comedian sommelier-ing for cash, but somehow, we were the ones making him laugh. Or maybe he was laughing at us?) at the first vineyard, and got tipsy off samples. Maybe a little too tipsy, because while Miche and Enza sampled it up in proper grown-up style, Cathy and I were huddled face-to-face laughing so hard we literally almost peed out all that wine. And if I told you what were laughing at us you might just cluck your tongue sympathetically at us and pat our heads with a "there, there" normally reserved for the truly insane. After annoying every single person in the place, we headed to another vineyard and were served by a hot-but-not-hot Jersey Shore reject. The buff-armed buttah face gave us sample after sample, and by the time we left the place, full of wine and giggles, we were ready for a nap on the beach.

We spent the rest of the day lounging on the beach, sipping more wine from some klassy plastic cups, and planning the night ahead of us. And how glorious it was to take our time putting on make-up, hoochin' up our hair, and slippin' on our skinny jeans, without having to open up a juice box, tell a kid to get dressed, or force a brush through a daughter's rat's nest.

That night was magical, but the magic didn't begin at the restaurant or at any club (because they must not believe in dancing in New Buffalo, Michigan) -- it all began after we got home, washed off our make-up, and threw on our sweats. We sat on the back deck and made s'mores, drank champagne, and laughed so hard it hurt for days. And on the drive home we got a little nostalgic for what had just passed, because we realized, next time we came back it wouldn't be the same. No, not at all. Because next time, as they did every time before, the daughters would descend....

Cathy
And descending upon Michigan is what we are doing this weekend. It's time once again for our annual mother/daughter trip up to Tallgrass Cottage, like we've been doing for the last three years now. Every year, our daughters' anticipation mounts as we get closer to our planned outing but the incessant questions about the timing and details of this trip begin with the season's first snowfall.

Since that first uproarious trip up there three years ago, armed with a trunk full of sleds in every size and shape imaginable and the promising backdrop of a fluffy yet thickly packed layer of snow gripped firmly to the ground, we look forward to sledding the weekend away like they do in those heart-tugging Michigan commercials. However, last year, there was only a sprinkling of snow to be had, so instead of woo-hooing! our way down a steep, slippery hill, red-faced, arms stretched to the sky and our souls satiated with fun and laughter, we found ourselves catching the 4:15pm showing of Justin Beiber: Never Say Never...in 3D.

With the girls seated comfortably two rows in front of us, we four women plopped our tired, disappointed asses in the back row, slipped on our thankfully dark 3D shades, and settled in for a nice, long nap. But there was no napping to be had. Dare I say the movie was...interesting? Enjoyable, even? By the very end of the movie, after we cheered, fist-pumped, sang, clapped and did some pretty top-notch swirly seat dancing, we sang Never Say Never at the top of our lungs while sporting our shades and dishing out some pretty dang good arm dancing/seat bumpin' choreography. Needless to say, our daughters had practically crawled under their seats. What can we say? We're just good at finding the fun. 

There is nary a speck of snow to be found on the ground this weekend and no Justin Beiber movie on the silver screen radar. At first we were stressing about what to do. How will the girls keep occupied and not hound us with constant kidterruptions of every variety? (Mom! We're hungry! Mom! Watch this! Mom! Do we have any movies? Mom! I'm not tired! Mom! We're bored! Can we go somewhere? Can we go shopping? Can we make s'mores? Can you play Apples to Apples with Then we remembered that the house is big enough for each group to play separately and strong enough to handle the estrogen that will be bulging at the cedar siding seams and that no matter what, we will find the fun. Again. Because that's what we do. Even though we swore we would never lock ourselves in a house for the weekend with a bunch of pre-hormonal tween girls and their post-hormonal, R&R-seeking mothers with no solid gameplan on tap.  

But as they say, never say never.

Idiot Box Society

by Cathy

I want to throw the book at Facebook.
I want Twitter to go down the shitter.
I want to flush YouTube down the DrainTube.
I want to feed SchoolFeed to the wolves.
I have no interest in Pinterest.
I have been SuckedIn by LinkedIn.
I have squared off with FourSquare.

I have Negativity towards Google Plus.

Friend, like, poke, check-in, link, connect, follow, pin, tweet, chirp, blog, share, retweet, mention, download, upload, tag, flag, tumble, instagram, view, click, comment, status, invite, update, highlight, feature, bing, ping, pong, join, unfriend, unfollow, dislike, check out, LOG OFF.

Too much is too much. How much more can we take? How many more "friends" and "connections" and "interests" do we need? How many times do we need to connect with the SAME people on yet another social media platform? How much more of our time can these sites suck from our lives?

Remember back in the day when the television set was called "The Idiot Box"? We have so many versions of televisions these days that we have officially become an Idiot Box Society. All day long, we are plugged into something - our desktops, our laptops, our iPads, our iPods, our Wii, our xBox, our DS, oh yeah, our televisions and lest not we forget the biggest Idiot Box of all - our smartphones. This title is bestowed upon smartphones purely for their portability and because of that, their constant accessability.

We are texting, gaming, linking, YouTubing, Facebooking, Twittering, Pinning, FourSquaring our way into social isolation (yes, even with 2,482 "friends" on Facebook) and self-awareness oblivion. What are we doing WHILE we are doing all of the above? Walking, driving, conversing with a live person, watching television (now, one electronic gadget at a time is not sufficient - we are on two and three devices at a time), eating (heck, I'm having lunch as I type this), working, working out, using the bathroom (I am guilty of this too) and pretty much every necessary daily task you can think of. If we could check our phones while we slept or were having sex, we would be doing that too. Wait a minute, I'm pretty sure people have covered that last one already.


People - it's time to stop.

Put down your phones and step away. In fact, put ALL of your techy thingies down and go out for a walk. With your kids. Or with your dog. Take in your surroundings. Be more aware of where you are right now, this minute. Start a conversation with a person on the street instead of posting endless, trite comments with people who live only out in the stratosphere. Have a real life human connection with someone you can actually touch.

Before I got my smartphone, I used to make fun of Patti because she was constantly nursing her Blackberry. She was on it so often I started saying things like, "Got that Crackberry on the nipple again, huh?" Granted, she was in real estate sales at the time, which, DUH!, makes total sense considering she needed to be in touch with the constant, demanding needs of her clients, right? But now...what's MY excuse? My iPhone has become a drug, an addiction, a sickening habit. My urge to check it constantly is like a tick my body responds to without my brain even thinking about it.

But I am slowly backing away from it. If I'm at home, I try not to even turn it on. I keep it in my purse at work. I'm picking and choosing the top two or three social media platforms I want to use - no more than that. I'm not cutting off my ties but stretching them out longer.

I once read that losing your smartphone now is much more detrimental than losing your wallet. That puts things into perspective, doesn't it? People have their whole life programmed onto their phones - including the capability to use it as a debit card, access bank accounts, start their cars or set security alarm systems for their houses. I don't know but it sounds like dangerous territory to me.  Let's not get too reliant on technology, folks. Because it will eventually screw us over in some way, shape or form when we are least expecting it. Sometimes, "old school" is the best school.

And in case you're wondering which way you lean, you are 'old school' when you make reference to the 'Idiot Box'.

Been Fur-berizing

by Patti


I went missing again, didn't I?

It's amazing how life can just suck you in and swallow you up whole.

And I only have one kid!

Well, make that two.

No, I didn't suddenly become pregnant and gestate and give birth to a child in some warpy time-lapsed way over the past week. Instead, I became mother to this:

Could you just DIE?

Yes, it finally a happened. We now have a dog. A real, live dog, not a stuffed animal draped droopily over S's pillows, wishing with all its might to make itself real, but remaining as stuffed and as fake as possible.

We have been waiting for 2 months for this little alien-like creature to come home to us. We actually met him the first day of 2012, but the idea of him was planted in our hearts before Christmas. And now, as if wishes really do come true, he's here, and his name is Gaucho.

Last Saturday, S and I hit the road and drove 5 hours to a tiny town in Southern Illinois to pick up Gaucho. M couldn't come with us - he had to work. But he texted me the whole way, sending me messages as if he truly believed I was driving for the very first time in my whole, entire life, and that just maybe I was actually also blind while doing so. First, uh, texting me when you know I am driving to stalk me into being safe? How is that safe? Secondly, I have been driving for thousands of years, and drove for that many before I ever even met the man, yet, he somehow has it in his head that I took my very first breath when I met him.

ANYWAY.

We made it just fine, thank you very much for your concern my dear husband, and I will never forget that trembly, nervous, sweaty feeling I got as we got closer and closer to Gaucho. One would think I was about to go pick up a real, live baby, not a furry one. S was no better. She was a mess in the backseat, trying to sing along to Michael Jackson but unable to hold a note for more than two seconds because she kept breaking out into nervous giggles. "I can't believe this is really happening!" she kept announcing to nobody in particular, in awe that her dream was coming true.

We finally made it, and when we walked into our breeder's house, our hearts exploded and left puddles all over the floor. The puppies lapped up those puddles, and then attacked us with their puppy breath and big, clumsy paws, and giant bat ears. S scooped up Gaucho, holding that long-held dream in her hands, and pulled him to her with her eyes closed in gratitude. He sniffed her face, trying to know her, and began to tremble, understanding his life was about to change, just not knowing quite how.

We spent two hours with all of the puppies, bid farewell to the wonderful woman who had cared for Gaucho since he was born, and tore our puppy away from all that he had ever known. My heart broke for him; we were taking him away from his brother and sister, his parents, his aunts and uncles, his home. But I also knew he was going to a new home that would give him all the love he could ever hope for, and then some.

He's been with us four days now, and already we can't imagine our lives without him. He's sweet, smart, playful, mellow, does all his "business" outside (at only 8 week old!) .... and, oh yeah, cries like a newborn at night. This is where the hard part comes in. I didn't sleep at. all. the first two nights, and I felt like I was starting all over again with a newborn. He just didn't want to be alone, and considering we ripped him away from all he'd ever known, I understood. So I slept with him tucked into my chest those first two nights, and took him out every hour or two to help him understand that he needed to go out. On the third night, bleary-eyed and nauseous from exhaustion, we decided it was time to let him "cry it out". In other words, we were going to FURberize the little furball. And sure enough, he yelped and yowled and squeaked and barked... and then he realized that his crate, which he LOVES during the day, and willingly runs in there throughout the day to partake in deep snoozes, was actually just as cool at night. And so he finally fell asleep, and when we woke in the morning, his little overnight pee pad had been put to good use, and he was still adorable and awesome and un-scarred.

So yeah, that's kind of where I've been. Falling in love is very time consuming, you know, and watching S and her little motherly instincts come into full bloom is something bewitching to behold. But I'm back, and be fully prepared to be completely annoyed by me, as I am afraid I have become one of "those dog people".

But if you had this face nuzzed into yours, wouldn't you, too?

Not My Problem

by Cathy

Patti and I have a dear, beautiful friend who has two kids: a girl the same age as our daughters, and a three-year old boy. That boy, C, has got a twinkle in his smiling eyes, dimples that could melt the sun and a grin that will undoubtedly break many hearts.

His cuteness aside, he's a pretty snazzy dresser to boot. (Well, maybe mom and dad had a small role here.) He rocks his newsboy caps and his fedoras, his vintagey shirts, plaid button-downs and his cool boots. He's a showstopper, in every sense of the word. And in case your eye doesn't catch him, he'll let you know he's there. This rambunctious, free-spirited, face-grabber (Look at this! Look!) will definitely demand your attention if you don't freely give it. He's always got something to say, somewhere to run, and in true toddler phase, something to demand.

His mama (and good friend, Miche), is wonderful with C. Although she may at times playfully refer to him as "the little monster" she pushes him to do better, disciplines him when needed, teaches him patience and etiquette where he lacks it and maintains her cool throughout it all. 

Last Saturday, after ballet class, Miche, Patti and I went out to lunch with all of our kids in tow. The moms grabbed a comfy booth and we set up the kids at conjoined tables right near us for supervisory and other obvious reasons. But they decided that near the window is where they wanted to sit, therefore thwarting our convenient plan. En masse, our girls migrated over, staked their claim and waited restlessly for their food. Miche tried to keep C separate from the table of older girls, so she plopped him down into the booth with me while she went up to check on her order.

C sat there but he wasn't happy about it. Immediately he starts whining. "I don't wanna sit here!"
Frantic to keep him distracted for fearing some type of hunger-induced meltdown, I began interacting with him. And not just any old boring adult-to-kid conversation. I tapped into my acting chops and pulled out the mental props. I chopped and propped him as follows:

"C! I looooove your fedora hat! Can I try it on?"
"No!"
"Awww, I'm gonna be sooooo sad because it's so beautiful and I really want you to share it with me."

He uncrinkled his frown long enough to look at me, probably wondering, 'Is she for real?' It must've worked because he handed over his hat.

Immediately setting it upon my head, I asked "How do I look?"

That didn't cut it for little C. He began squirming and whining half-assedly to get his mother's attention, distorting his face into cry mode once more.

"Ooooooh, I can't wait to eat my hot dog!" I blurted out. "What are you gonna eat?"
"I don't wanna eat!" he screamed red-faced.
"B..B..But, how are you gonna grow if you don't eat?" I asked in my most genuinely worried voice. "Do you just wanna stay little forever and not get big and strong like Spiderman? That won't be good, will it?"
(Whatever...that's the first thing that popped into my head that I thought he could relate to, okaaay?)

Once again, he stopped mid-fit and sat there thinking about what I said, avoiding eye contact with me.
I was making progress and I was so proud of myself! I wanted to keep challenging myself with "the little monster" because now it was fun!
Just then, Miche walked over, and knowing he could get away with his behavior, defaulted back to whine mode.

As Miche got him settled down and situated him with his food, Patti walked over with a 'What's going on?' look on her face.

I, still reveling in psychologically battling and winning over an annoyed three-year old boy, was amazed at my composure. After explaining to Patti what just happened, I said, "Why can't I be this way with my own kids? I would've just gotten upset and said, 'You HAVE to eat!' or 'Stop whining and calm down or else we're going home!' Why am I so quick to be patient with other people's kids and not my own?

Patti looked me dead in the eyes and had a response at the ready.
"Because they're not your kids. They're not your problem. You know that you only have to deal with them temporarily and then they go back to their parents."

And there it was in a nutshell. I have the patience because it's not my problem. I couldn't help but think how quick we are to be patient and hand over solutions for other people and their problems but can't apply that same psychology to our own kids and our own problems.

So all I have to do is pretend that my kids aren't really my problem and the patience will follow, because maintaining patience with our kids, is every parents' problem.

Flim Flanned

by Patti

My car, high-maintenance bitch that she has become, decided to spring an oil leak, and M found me a reputable mechanic who would fix it right and for cheap. My favorite combination! The only caveat? His was a Cash Only enterprise. So as M and I drove through a somewhat questionable neighborhood to pick up my car the other night, I remembered that I had no cash on me.

We hunted down an ATM and I withdrew $200. Then I remembered the bill was actually $237, and tried to withdraw $40 more. But when I did, the machine told me I had "exceeded my daily withdrawal limit". Now, I knew  I had enough money in my account, so I tried again, and got the same message. Worried, I tried withdrawing $20. Still, the same message. Concerned my account would somehow freeze up, I gave up and ran to the car where M was waiting. "The machine wouldn't let me take out more than $200! It's as if it knows I shouldn't be spending money!" I lamented. "What am I gonna do? It's cash only!"  M told me had $40 on him but that it was to buy a flan he had eaten when we had dropped off the car two nights before.
"$40 for FLAN?" 
"I want to buy the whole thing," he told me. "It's the best flan I have ever eaten in my life!"
What "the whole thing" meant, I didn't know, but for $40 it had better give a neck massage as its being eaten. Oh wow, that sounds so porny.

Anyway.

I was supremely annoyed that M was actually telling me that a) he was spending $40 on flan; and, b) he was choosing to BUY FLAN instead of forking over his cash to me so that I could remove my car from mechanic purgatory. I told him to use his debit card, but alas, the flan place was also a Cash Only enterprise. "Just write a check for the rest," he told me, as if this made perfect sense.
"BUT HE ONLY TAKES CASH! And you have the exact amount I need! What if he doesn't give me my car back?"
M just drove calmly towards the mechanic's "shop", which was actually located in a garage in the back of his house, and assured me he would take a check for the difference.

But before we got there, he actually did it: he stopped at the bakery to buy that flan! And some bread! I still could not believe he was choosing flan over saving my car. When he got in the car, all glowy with anticipation over the damned flan - which was the size of a HOUSE - he had just put in the trunk, I told him he'd better be prepared to fork over the cash from his account (Yes, we have separate accounts. One less thing to argue about!) if the mechanic refused my check. He just nodded, not really listening to me as he was already consumed with what was to come later - his precious flan quivering on a spoon - and continued on to the mechanic's.

Once we got there, M hopped out of the car and explained to the mechanic that we had the majority of the bill due in cash, and would he accept a check for the rest? I saw the mechanic shift his eyes my way, wondering if he was a fool to trust me. I wondered if I should offer him the flan as collateral? And then I saw him reluctantly shake his head in agreement.  I quickly wrote out a check for the rest, got my car, and we were on our way.

Just as we were pulling out of the mechanic's alley, my car following M's, my cell phone rang. "Hello?"
"This is Chase Bank," stated a robotic woman's voice. "We have reason to believe there is fraud with your checking account," she continued, her stilted voice attempting suspense. "Please confirm your identity by answering the following questions...."  I wasn't at all surprised, considering the amount of times I ignored the ATM's warnings to me, so I curiously listened as "the voice" asked me to select which car I was driving, to choose a street I have lived on, and finally, she asked me to pick a person I have lived with. She gave me a "Tracy", an "Amy", a "Shawn", and finally.... M. She said his name so seductively, I had to wonder if she had lived with him, too. If she only knew he spends $40 on flan. I fully expected "the voice" to ask me when was the last time I had, uh, relations with my husband, but she apparently felt satisfied with my answers, and finally agreed that it was okay to let me continue to withdraw money from my checking account.

When we got home, I told M about the Chase call, alternately impressed with its "quick response" system and freaked out by the "big brother-ness" of it all. As he listened, he cut himself a 15-foot slice of flan and set it on the counter, his eyes looking a bit like this:

It jiggled invitingly on the plate, challenging my ever having questioned M's choice to pick it over my car. I took a bite, and within seconds a Hallelujah! chorus broke out in my  mouth. This was magic flan! It was firm yet creamy, sweet yet balanced. The way it played in my mouth, I knew that it knew it was worth every damned cent. Thank God for husbands with poor judgment and mechanics who take checks! And it's a good thing my checking account is now unfrozen. You know, just in case I had to go and buy some more of that flan. Or something.

Here's to the Downtrodden: Let's Raise Our Drinks!

by Cathy

"When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade."

This saying is the classic pick-me-up for anyone in a bad situation. It implies that we should take the manure that has landed into our laps (something bad) and turn it into fertilizer (something useful and purposeful).

For every inspiring story we hear, there are hundreds more disappointing ones. Thousands of jobs lost everyday. Thousands of homes lost everyday. Pay cuts. Stock market drops. Sinking real estate values. Essential freezes on bank loans. Bankruptcies. Foreclosures. Unemployment. Downsizing.

For the last several years, it seems that's all we Americans have been doing - making lemonade with all these lemons life has handed us. We've squeezed so many of them and downed so much of their tartness, we are thirsting for something else to drink. We want a glass of champagne, damn it, or a fine, aged wine. Hell, we'll even take a tall glass of cold water.

So this is for all those that have had it with lemonade and every spiked variety of it that they've concocted to carry them across life's bridges over the lowest of valleys.


This is for all of those that stretch a dime into a dollar, for those who "extract the fat from a fly," for those who wring water from rocks, sweat from the earth and tears from the sun. For those who begrudgingly wake up every morning trying to find that one speck of hope that will get them through the day since they've had that much-needed hope squashed into smithereens on a daily basis - yet still grip onto the tiny foothold of its possibility. This is for the insomniacs, the depressed-prone, the stressballs, the anxious, the panicked, the chronic worriers of gargantuan realities.

This is for the hope-forsaken, the frustrated, the wanna-quitters, the easier-to-give-uppers. For the ones that HAVE to keep going, even when there is a constant proverbial hand ready to push their faces back into the water the second they come up for air, seeking relief from the vice crushing their lungs.

You are not alone. We, this nation, under God, are currently weaved together by the threads of financial insecurity on every level. From the man on the street, to the unemployed and the underemployed, to the cushy job holders that are very well aware that they could easily become the could-lose-my-job-at-any-seconders.

Keep strong your faith, your aspirations and your willingness to live and get through it. Search for a Plan B. If you can't find it, create a Plan B. Take solace in the fact that generations before us have done more with much less. Let their determination guide your strength and your willingness. Don't let circumstances take the lead in your life, but you take lead in your circumstances.

So raise your glass, filled with your newfound libation of choice, and drink to your health and the health of those around you. And even if you can still only fill your glass with lemonade for now, know that one day, you won't have to down it any longer - because one can only take so much of the sour before they won't accept anything but the sweet.

We'll drink to that!

Cheers.

Shower Theatre

by Patti

S began replacing bath time with "grown-uppy" showers a few years ago, and as soon as those started, they became a sudden window of alone time for me. While she wailed out the latest Disney tunes through the spray of water, I would grab my laptop, or a book, or simply settle onto the couch to watch some uninterrupted TV. Every once in a while I would call out, "You okay?", and she would halt her shower falsetto to shout out "YES!" and then continue warbling into the shampoo bottle.

Lately, though, her shower time has really infringed on my alone time. It's as if the novelty has worn off for her, and now? She needs an audience to bathe. Just as I am sitting down to read, her echo-y voice comes barreling out of the bathroom. "MOM! COME HERE!"  Since she is in the shower, and showers are full of slippery, drown-y danger, I go running. "WHAT? ARE YOU OKAY?" I shout breathlessly as I tear open the shower curtain.  And there she is, shampoo lathered high onto her head, a brush in her hand. "Watch this!" And then she proceeds to jiggle frenetically while singing something like this into her brush:

(actual shower audio)

After the obligatory clap, I shut the shower curtain and head back to the comfort of my "alone time", but before I can even reach the couch, it happens again. "MOM!" I head back to the bathroom, this time at a slower pace. I know she is fine, obviously, and I wonder what is in store for me now. I pull back the shower curtain and find her standing on one foot, the other pointed against her knee, her arms delicately fluttering at her sides. "I'm doing shower ballet!" she announces proudly.
"Wow, that's...cool. But be careful, you might slip!" and then I shut the curtain again.
But this time, I don't even make it out of the bathroom. "Wait! Mom! Look!" I turn to find her head already popped out from behind the curtain, her hair flinging buckets of water onto the floor.
"What is it, honey?"
"Ummm... LOOK!" And then she will start swaying her hips from side-to-side, her arms flailing wildly over her head, her eyes crossing for added effect.
"Did you just totally make that up to keep me here?"
She smiles, completely busted, water dripping into her eyes. "It's just that... I'm BORED."

Apparently, it's not enough to just get clean anymore. No, showers must now also be entertaining! I firmly tell her to hurry and finish soaping up her body, and to really use soap, not just pretend, and then leave the bathroom, telling her to not call me again unless she is out and dried.

A few minutes later. "MOM!" Are you serious?
"WHAT?"
"It's important this time; I swear!"
I head to the bathroom and her head is already poked out of the curtain, her hair once again bathing the bathroom floor. "Did you know that Sarah got those Converse that go up to your knee? Can I have some of those?"
"JUST FINISH TAKING A SHOWER AND WE CAN TALK ABOUT IT AFTER YOU GET OUT!" And I turn to leave, but not before almost killing myself in the process as I slip on the floor that is now completely soaked.

As I make my way to the living room, I hear her belting out another song, this time singing Adele's "Rolling in the Deep", S's version of the lyrics far more interesting. "There's a fire that's started in my heart, and it's making me feel that I'm not scared of the dark. I'm rolling in the dee-ee-eep! Why are making fun of mee-ee-ee? And you tell me, that you have to pee-ee!"

I turn back to the bathroom and stand by the door, smiling, reminding myself that these are the times I will one day miss.

If it Ain't Broke....

by Cathy and Patti

Ahhh, the good old days. There was no Facebook. No Twitter. No Internet, period.

Dinosaur Technology

Little, by little, technology began improving the way we do things, mainly, the way we communicate. At first it was scary but intriguing; intimidating, but challenging. We began buying big honking computers and brick-sized cell phones. We learned about software, hardware, operating systems, THE INTERNET! We went from floppy drives, to CDs to USB jumpdrives. Technical jargon eventually became ubiquitous in everyday conversation, so much so, that you wouldn't be able to understand half of the television commercials out there today if you're not up on
the lingo: Wi-fi, routers, iCloud (i Everything), apps, HDMI, hotspots, VOIP, USB, social media, interfacing, SEO, etc.

She's a brick.... phone!

And it keeps changing! Improving! Faster! Bigger! Most of these techy doodads are overloaded with stuff we don't think we need now, but then find we can't live without. Truth is, there's SO much stuff being flung at us at lightning speeds, it has to be that these devices come equipped with bells that will never be rung and whistles that will never be blown.

At times, it feels overwhelming, this need to keep up or fall off the face of the earth. If you can't communicate via a computer, smartphone, or tablet, you might as well crawl under a prehistoric rock. Imagine if it seems hard for us forty-somethings now to keep up with tutorials on building our own websites and creating our own blogs (widgets! badges! gadgets! linkies!) how much more difficult it is to cope with living life in a technologically-driven society for our parents. Once their generation dies off, there will be no humble recollection of the slow-paced simplicity that once was. And that is one sad realization.

Technological advancement is running so far in advance, that it is circling back around and onto itself, actually back-pedaling from its intended purpose. People have become so reliant on it that they forget the basics. And it's time for the technology advancers to leave well enough alone.

Cathy
I've seen the repercussions of technology takeover firsthand on several occasions. (People, you CAN use your key to open your car door if your remote doesn't work!)

Upon entering our house the other day after school, barely having taken off their coats, my kids scissored out in each direction to stake their claim on our tech devices. Ari claimed the house computer and Bella grabbed my iPhone and begged me for the passcode so she can text her friends.

"I told you, I am not giving you my passcode," I said frustratingly. "Just email your friend!"

"I can't if Ari is on the computer!" she retorted.

"Or CALL her," said my husband matter-of-factly. Honestly, this made me stop dead in my tracks.

'Oh yeah!' I thought. 'She CAN just call her. Duh!' It just proved how we've been programmed to default to technology.

My parents are immigrants who have never gone to school here. They can speak well enough to communicate but when it comes to dealing with their phone bill or calling Blue Cross Blue Shield about their policy, I take on those tasks for them.

At their house the other day, I clicked the phone on speaker mode and they listened in at how things are now done.

"Policy," I stated clearly into the phone.

"Representative," I stated a few seconds later.

I was having a conversation with an automated machine. I wondered how much money it took for them to build and create a voice recognition system that could converse with a human, instead of giving a job to someone and doing it the old fashioned way. Was this really a necessary technological advancement?

"You have to talk to a machine now," my mom commented aloud. "Instead of a person." Her comment pretty much clinched the absurdity of it all. She lamented to me about how she feels that technology will eventually replace the need for people to leave their houses to go anywhere - the bank, the grocery store, the post office  - since these places will be rendered useless. You can do it all from your computer! So in essence, the monster we've created to better communicate with one another will end up becoming the ultimate isolator.

Convenient? Or confusing?

I even got worried for my parents when the old coin-fed car meters were replaced by paybox meters. Would they know how to use them? (It's simpler to slide a quarter into a slot.) They don't own a debit card. (It's simpler to keep cash on hand.) They don't have a computer. (It's simpler to cut a check and mail it,  shop for things at stores and communicate with people face to face.) They don't own a Kindle. (It's simpler to open up a book.) They don't have cable. (It's simpler to choose from a few channels than from hundreds of non-relevant ones). Technology touts the streamlining of our time, but in fact, the upkeep for it has monopolized our time.

If you have a Gmail account, you know that your email account has recently become NEW! and IMPROVED! And if you don't switch over willingly, it will eventually be done for you. Same goes for Facebook and their new tell-all timeline structure. Like it or not, if you want to use Facebook, you must abide by the new rules created by bored, bazillionaire moguls to come up with ways to invade your privacy further, annoy you to no end and ultimately, make it all user-unfriendly.

Patti

That Google! Changing its homepage because it was bored!

I was on Gmail, to which, I admit, I fled from my years-old email account that somehow lost its glisten, when I thought to myself, "This looks...different." And that is when I realized that it was different. I already knew Google had gotten bored and changed its homepage, but now it was also working its way into forcing me to change the previously just fine interface of Gmail to its New and Improved Interface!... or else. More curious than anything, I caved and did it. The "facelift" took a few minutes, and while I waited, full of anticipation and fully expecting for glitter-winged unicorns to come flying out of my screen, I was then disappointed to find that, eh, what's the big deal? WHY DID THEY EVEN BOTHER? The change was certainly not magical enough, or even notable enough to have made that whole five minutes of my life worth using up. I remember I was Gmail chatting with Cathy at that moment, and she got a little worried because her changeover was taking far too long. It turns out her changeover had not taken that long; it had actually already happened. That's how unspectacular it was.

I had to wonder: Why did they take the time to change what was truly already absolutely just fine? In fact, all they did was create stress. If it confused me, a pretty technologically adept person, and almost panicked Cathy, who, while not a technology genius, is certainly smart, experienced, and resourceful enough to figure it out if need be, imagine what it did to people like my mom, who still doesn't get that she can check her email from a computer other than her own - because, you know, the email lives in her computer.

But I am to blame. After all, my old email account, the one that had served me loyally and well for 15 years, was also just fine. And I abandoned it. For something better. So it serves me right that my "something better" also abandoned me for something better.

As much as we resist it, we also find ourselves being unwittingly carried along with the tides of change. Even my daughter, whose grainy picture was being emailed across the country before she was even born, and was then born into the digital age, suffers from severe technology ADD.  She has become disillusioned with her iPod (it's the first generation, Mom!), her Wii (it's kind of yesterday, Mom. It's all about the xBox Kinect now!), and her cell phone, (slide out keyboards are out, Mom!), and while I'm initially inclined to believe that it's because she just has too much, I also find myself itching for the latest smartphone - mine is over a year old now, and has lost its luster. I sigh over shiny new cell phones, then slap myself across the face and remind myself that I am an example, so stop it, already, your phone works just fine. And only then can I inform S that she is lucky she has any of these things at all.

Meanwhile, as I try to maintain that stance of resistance, I receive another notice in my email that I need to "download this upgrade!", then a notification on my cell phone that there are "updates available!", then a flash across my TV screen that I can "press this button for instant information!" on a program I'm watching, and I feel my resolve melting while my head spins into stupidity. All of this information! Information! Information! is actually making us DUMBER. The more we know, the less we know!

Explain that.

Just make sure you send that explanation via email. IM is probably better. Or you can Tweet it. Better yet: Post it on my Facebook page. Oh, wait - they are changing their interface again and it might be confusing for me to find. You know what? Call me.