The In-Laws

by Patti


I've known my in-laws for almost 23 years.

The first time I met them, I found myself sitting across from my future mother-in-law, asking for seconds. Yes, I had just met the mother of my new love, and I was already revealing the inner glutton. But those mashed potatoes? Were the best I'd ever tasted.

My future mother-in-law didn't speak a word of English, but, as luck would have it, this "white" girl spoke perfect(ish) Spanish, and I saw her eyes widen when she realized that this one was different. This girl made her macho Argentinean son (secretly) swoon, and made the others at the table laugh, and, even though she hadn't cracked open a bible in, like, ever, she was still a decent person that somehow made that wary Spanish mother like her against her very will.

My future father-in-law was a boisterous, wine-swigging, "porteño " who was quick with a joke and a kiss on the cheek. He slapped M on the back and asked him where he'd found such "linda piva", and then asked me why I was dating such an ugly boy.

And that's how it began.

And now, nearly 23 years later, I can safely say I have the best in-laws on the planet. Some say it may be because I only see them once or twice a year. They live in Argentina, and visiting them isn't the easiest thing in the world. But I know it's not that. I know it's because they have never interfered in my relationship with their son. In fact, when their son has been a pain in the ass, they have taken my side. I know it's because when they come to visit, they turn my house into a festival of wine and homemade empanadas and folded laundry and entertained kid and late nights around the dinner table, all while still respecting the fact that it's "my" house. I know it's because they appreciate me for who I am; they get my sense of humor, they love how I challenge their son, they know when to close in and when to back off. I also know it's because, despite the distance, they fiercely love my daughter, and have done everything they can to stay present in her life, even if an ocean separates them from her.

Just one day after M came home from his trip to Argentina, my in-laws arrived at my doorstep. They came to surprise S for her birthday. M and I knew they were coming, because they would never dare come "without calling", but they wanted to surprise S, and so they did. The doorbell rang and S, in her usual nosy way, ran to see who it could be. She peered out the window and saw an "old lady with a wig". That old lady with a wig? Was my mother-in-law in disguise. When S opened the door, my mother - her other grandmother - standing behind her, she found that "old lady in a wig" donning oversized shades and carrying a handwritten sign translated from Google that said, "My face look like my grandaughter." S eyed that "old lady in a wig" with wonder, somehow knowing it was her "gue-gue" from Argentina, but not understanding how it was at all possible that it could be. But it was, and once S accepted this, she went to hug her, laughing and happy for the surprise.

Our house, a kind of tiny two-bedroom, is swelling at the seams now. But it is the kind of swell that is caused by too much conversation, noise and clinking glasses. I hear so many horror stories about evil mother-in-laws, or meddling, overbearing father-in-laws, or cold, uncaring grandparents, and then I look back on these 23 years, and I honestly can't believe my luck.

Cabo? I'll Go.

by Cathy

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a simple step."  -- Confucius

I have a very good reason for being M.I.A. on the blog this past week... I was off on a "work" trip to one of the places I've been wanting to visit most - Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. I heard it was a haven for jetsetters and celebs alike (evident from the fact that I counted no less than 28 learjets on the tarmac when I landed) and that it was probably one of the most picturesque places in Mexico.  So when the opportunity came for me to be whisked away by these fancy hotel chains and corporate resort companies for the sake of wedding research to follow through on my editorial obligations to inform the local wedding demographic of what Cabo has to offer, I was all in. Well, all except for my conscience, whose guilty side kept rearing its ugly ass head. Guilt, for being the only one in my family able to experience such a beautiful place and take some much deserved time off.

First off, I have never gone on a vacation solo; I have visited my friend Sue in London once when Bella was two years old but this is the first trip I was taking completely alone. Sure I would meet others in my group while I was there and I have no problems with my social skill set, but not only was I going "alone" but without my family. Here I would be in these beautiful, beach town resorts, watching other families enjoy their time together, smooching their spouses while doting after their flotation-deviced kids in the infinity pool overlooking the Sea of Cortez. And I?  I would be...with a bunch of strangers, (some of whom DID bring their significant other) and the latest issue of Glamour. This was going to be quite the test for me on many levels.

Once I got there, checked in, explored, had some goodies laid out for me in my room and took in the scene, I relaxed - I felt more at ease. I was starting to slowly let go - of the need to constantly be with someone, of the stress, of the guilt and most importantly, of the boundaries I set upon myself in many ways.

Notice the TWO wine glasses and TWO coffee mugs.

As I met new people (I discovered that even those traveling with someone felt the need to chat people up, and that it wasn't just me wandering aimlessly around the pool trying to mask my 'I'm starved for conversation' look) I discovered that there are pluses and minuses to traveling without your family - traveling alone.

The pluses:

- No one is snoring/farting/coughing/tossing/turning you awake at night or crawling into your bed and pounding you with their little fists and feet. I slept like a champ for the first time in a long time my first night there.

- You don't have to be on anyone else's schedule except your own; well in my case, we did have an itinerary that we had to adhere by but all the activities were spaced out perfectly that allowed for a nice amount of free time.

- I was never late to anything because I didn't have to wait for anyone else to get ready or help anyone else get ready except myself. 

- Because of that last point, I looked fresh and fashioney every evening for dinner and tequila tastings. No accessories were missing, no outfit was stained or mismatched and hair and makeup was perfectly in place.

- You get to be alone - truly alone - in a place other than your day-to-day environment, which gives you a whole different perspective on life and everything outside your "little world." I wrote some thoughts down. I allowed myself to take things in and feel. My five senses were alive. Because of this, I found myself being moved to tears on more than one occasion: when I slid open that giant balcony door and took in the ocean view from my room for the first time; 

when I went for my first walk on the beach and admired the overwhelming awesomeness of the sea while the frothy waves crashed at my feet; when I looked up at night from my balcony and saw the night sky lit up like a Christmas tree with seemingly all the astronomical formations in the cosmos; and when I awoke one morning to find this expression of love for someone in the sand below:

 Now, the minuses:

- Until I got used to being alone, and even then, it was hard to not want to share such a beautiful place with someone I loved. Like I emailed to Patti on my first day there - torn between feeling sad because I was alone, guilty because my family couldn't join me and tingling with curiosity as to what the upcoming experiences would bring - "even the most beautiful place in the world can be lonely if you have no one to share it with." But the goal was to feel comfortable with being alone and enjoying the freedom of that - and that's what I tried to focus on.

- You have no one to rub suntan lotion on your back. I blindly sprayed back there and prayed it took in all the right places. Then I relied on my long hair to do the rest.

- I don't mean to be ungrateful that I get to sleep in an ocean view room right on the beach, but those waves crashing haphazardly in no rhythmic fashion whatsoever (isn't that what they're supposed to do?), actually kept me awake at night rather than lulling me to sleep. This is not my life; it needs getting used to. I know, I know, I'll cry you a river.

- All of your pictures are of scenery. Except for the ones you try to take by turning the camera on  yourself (thank you iPhone for making this super easy to do now with the reverse camera angle feature!) Here, the results:

Me, posing for me, on the Sea of Cortez. 'Am I doing this right?'

or

Me, posing for me, on the (romantic) sunset cruise at Land's End Arc

Of course once I got to know the people in my group and realized that they were interesting, fun and funny, things got even better. We went shopping, had gourmet four-star dinners every night, went on tours, and even karaoked. We had drinks at the hotel swim-up bars, exchanged industry stories and gossip and had some great laughs. We saw whales spouting and flicking their tails in the shimmering sea as we had sushi and cucumber margaritas during a sunset cocktail hour. We saw iguanas, sea lions that swam up to our catamaran in the Pacific, turkey vultures hovering overhead, dolphins, fly fish and even sea urchins. 

Even though I technically wasn't "alone" I felt as though for me, I was. I used this trip as a challenge for myself - to push my boundaries, to go outside my comfort zone, to "Do It Anyway" like Patti and I say. And I am so glad I did.

Stay tuned for my next post about how I pushed my physical boundaries while in Cabo!

Not dead... just buried

by Patti


With Cathy off on a trip for work, and me off on a trip AT work, it's been difficult to mine the brain for anything that makes sense - at all.

So, this is only to say, for those that may be waiting with bated breath, that posting will resume next week. And it will be brilliant!

In the meantime, archives baby!

When did I become "The Annoying Old Lady Next Door"?

by Patti


My wonderful neighbors left Sunday morning for their yearly trip to Jamaica. Although I am sure they look forward to this vacation with glee every single year, I kind of dread it. Why? Because they have three grown-ish sons that still live at home, and every time they leave, those boys are possessed by the Spirit of the Parentless. Now, Before I get all complain-y, I do have to say that these guys are good guys - they all have jobs or go to school, or both, and they are, for the most part, polite and helpful and cool. But they are guys, and they are all in the early 20's, and they do live life like they are in their early 20's, and when their parents are gone, the parties, oh God the parties, they never end.

And this is when I become Mrs. Kravitz.

If you don't know who Mrs. Kravitz is, then I'm even older than I care to realize, and this makes me feel even more Mrs. Kravitz-like than I originally felt. But there is just no better way to describe what becomes of me when the neighbors' kids are left to their own devices.

It's just that suddenly, I am no longer in a peaceful, pleasant little suburb of Chicago; instead, I am living right next door to Kappa Freaking Sigma, and, along with the bean bags tossed during a drunken game of "bags",  I can hear the beer cans being tossed haphazardly  into the night over and over again, their landings creating a symphony of aluminium hell. "Leave them alone", M warns me when he sees the sour expression on my face. "They're just having fun." The fun? I don't mind. But when it's 2 am and I have to get up at 7 am, and I have been hearing "DUDE!" belched out for the past 4 hours, well, I'm kind of OVER IT.

Last year, when my neighbors took off on their trip, I endured these antics night after night, and finally, one of these nights, I snapped. I bolted out of my bed in a pissed-off frenzy, flung open the sliding glass door to my deck, and shouted out, "I DON'T MEAN TO BE A BITCH, BUT CAN YOU GUYS SHUT UP?" Look at me, being all pissed off and polite at the same time. Their carefree laughter was immediately silenced, and as I slammed the sliding door shut, I heard them giggling. I knew that giggle; it was the same one I giggled when I was young and fun and didn't have to get up early to get a kid to school and get my ass to work, and some clearly old, bitter, boring person told ME to shut up. And now? Here I was, that clearly old, bitter, boring person  - that Mrs. Kravitz - ruining somebody else's fun. Really, there is no faster rocket to feeling old than to break up a party.

After my snap last year, I had to confront one of the boys the next day. He was taking out the garbage bags full of empty cans, and when he saw me, he bowed his head sheepishly and apologized for being rude. Of course, this made me feel like crap - and older than EVER - and I kind of apologized back for being so, well, old, and he promised to dial it back while I internally promised to not be such an anal pain in the ass.

This year, within hours of my neighbor's departure, one of the boys was hosting an afternoon barbeque on the back deck - a Kickoff to Freedom, of sorts. It started off innocently enough but, as the hours disappeared, it got progressively louder and louder until I pretty much had to shut my sliding glass door, which, I have to admit, annoyed me unto no end since we have we had freakishly warm weather and I have been living with the doors and windows open. But I had to choose: Breeze and "DUDE!"? Or Ceiling fans and silence? Choices, choices... I chose ceiling fans and silence. AND NOT HAPPILY. I once again felt my inner Mrs. Kravitz emerging, and I got a little panicky, knowing a whole week of possible parties to break up lay before me, and that there was no M at home to temper my Old Bitch temper. I was pretty much free to freak out as often and carelessly as possible. This was not good.

SHUT UP! SHUT UP! NO FUN ALLOWED!

At that moment, I made a promise to myself to try to chill out. I promised to remind myself that this was but one mere week in my life; that, really, what harm was there in letting these DUDES! have a little fun. Wasn't I them once?  Wasn't I young and free and filled with the wild promise of "anything is possible"? Yes, I was.

And when I'm not too busy Mrs. Kravitz-ing away other people's fun, I'm still one of them. Yes, older, more weighed down, a little more jaded, but still open to that wild promise that anything is possible.

Baby Love, My Baby Love

by Cathy

I never thought I could love another baby like I’ve loved my two daughters; but this week, it happened.  This baby, the one that gave its mommy frequent nausea throughout the pregnancy, swelled up her feet to the size of decorative Mylar balloons, didn’t allow her to sleep in a bed but in a recliner for the last three months and put her through 22 hours of labor – that baby is the new love of my life.

This past Monday, the first child of my one and only sister was born. I became a real aunt and my daughters became real cousins – not "aunts" and "cousins" of respectable friends or acquaintances, (which are also a blessing), or once and twice removed cousins. but real honest-to-goodness-blood-related relatives. And to make things even more sugary and spicey and everything nicey?

That baby is also a little girl!

My sister’s mother-in-law had two boys and she had always, down in the maternal depths of her heart, longed for a girl. In the hospital, she was beyond the moon as she whispered to that little burrito-wrapped, pink bundle in her arms about all the dolls they’ll buy and all the cookies they will bake. My daughters? They are thrilled to have another little girl to play with and even more importantly, dress up. That baby will end up the trendiest little fashionista in the burbs. And oh the shopping that will be done!!

Even more thrilling for me, is that I now can pass down the totes upon totes of European shoes, faux fur coats, frilly hats and holiday dresses I have saved from my girls. Deep down I had hoped that my sister would have a girl, even though she always told me that she sees herself with boys. She also told me that she saw herself with four kids. Let’s give her some time on that one and check back in about two years – just as this now unscathed, perfect little human will be entering the Terrible Twos.

Seeing her now, so tiny, all unknowing and innocent, sleeping away in her little bassinet in the hospital nursery, I marveled at how awesome a task it is to take this blank slate and mold, shape and gently nudge it – physically, emotionally and mentally – into a well-rounded individual. I sometimes wish I could start all over again, now that I am seasoned as a parent, a disciplinarian, an organizer, more of an adult. It just seems so much easier when they are so small, giving credence to the old adage of Small Kids = Small Problems, Bigger Kids = Bigger Problems.

So I told my sister, even though she doesn’t see it yet because she is too wrapped up in the surrealness of it all, too focused on the post-pains of childbirth and the shock of falling into caring for another human being and just hasn’t fully grasped the lifechanging aspects of it all yet, to truly enjoy every little moment - to enjoy the nights she will stand over her crib and cry as she watches this little miracle of life sleep or revel in every little tight-fisted grip the baby takes of her finger.

My mother once told me, as she sat next to me and watched as I held my infants while they smiled and frowned and twitched their little smushy faces as they slept, that this was when God was handing them their destiny; the frowns were for the tough times, the laughs were for the good times and the twitches were for all the uncertainties in between.  

Now as I watch my sister take on the gargantuan uncertainties of motherhood, I know one thing for certain: the love she will feel for this baby, this piece of her heart that is beating outside of her body, will never be rivaled by any other love she will ever experience.

Siblings

by Patti

S finally has the baby brother she has always longed for. And I finally know what other moms mean when they say they "can't take the bickering."

The only difference is that this baby brother? Is a dog.

Gaucho has now been with us for just over a month, and I can honestly say we can't imagine our lives without him. This bat-eared, flat-faced, wrinkly-bodied, chocolate-eyed little creature has kind of stolen our hearts, and I'm not even sure he realizes it.

He has also transformed from shaky, scared little puppy, to a confident, frisky, mischievous little thing that zigzags around the back yard and tries to befriend Great Danes 900 times bigger than him.

Part of this new found confidence also means that he sticks his barely-there nose into a book that S is reading, or paws the homework  she is working on, or tries to take a lick of ice cream right as the spoon is headed into S's mouth. In short: He has become The Annoying Baby Brother.

"Mom! Gaucho won't stop biting my sweater!"
"Mom! Gaucho keeps trying to chew my 'Young Authors' book!"
"MOM! Gaucho keeps trying to jump off the couch!"
"Mom! Gaucho keeps trying to eat my apple!"

And I look over at them, Gaucho parked brattily on top of S, his innocent face daring me to ground him, and I just can't get mad at him. He IS younger, after all, and, well, S, being the big sister and all, should know better than to provoke him.

But, so as not to play favorites, I scold him, even though he cocks his head at me when I do in such a way that I might just have to eat him up right then and there.

And then, just as soon as the bickering between them begins, it is over, and they are once again cuddled onto each other, watching some totally insufferable show that features screaming! All! The! Time! on Nickelodian together.

Ah, siblings. Such a wonder to behold.

Even if one of them regularly tries to eat rocks.

When the Cat's Away....

by Patti

I'm getting ready to hang a new chandelier and maybe even spray paint a blackboard onto my kid's bedroom wall, and I'm going to do it because my husband is out of the country.

I have this thing: whenever M goes out of town, I simply have to redecorate in some way. Sometimes it is something as simple as buying an old, $4 desk from Salvation Army, slapping some stain on it, and decking out my dining room with the "new wine glass hutch that looks expensive":

Sometimes, it can be as elaborate as buying and assembling a new bed - complete with bedding - a new rug, hanging new curtains, and sanding and repainting an old dresser - all in one day.

It's not that I can't do these things while M is around, but when he is, I have to deal with the Questions. "Why are you doing that?" "Are you sure you're doing that right?" "Why don't you pick this color instead?" "Are you going to leave that there?" When M is around, he is privy to my process - which I will readily admit ain't always pretty - so I get where those questions and doubts come from. But I know my process; I know that although it might appear during that process that a creative bomb exploded its overzealous guts all over whichever room was victim to my whims...

in the end - it will look amazing. And that is why I prefer to do these things while he is gone. I can just "process" away without having the constant interruptions of his annoying doubt.

Poor M - the second he booked his ticket, he saw that gleam in my eye. He gave me The Look, the one that begs me not to knock down any walls. But I reassured him I only planned to change out a few light fixtures (with the help of my roof thatchin' Greek), stain some wood to yank its grainy self out of the 80's and into the 2012's, and try to re-purpose an old table into a TV console. That's all! And I might paint a wall turquoise. (Well, he doesn't know about the turquoise wall - yet. But, you know, process!)

I remember years ago when M was out of town, I suddenly hated, but hated, our pewter wrought iron bed. There it stood, rather un-majestically, in the middle our bedroom sticking out its tongue at me. So I immediately ran out and bought some black spray paint, came home and disassembled the bed, laid out some drop cloths, and went insane with "Jet Black". Never mind we lived in a condo on the 19th floor and the windows in our bedroom did not open and our carpet was cream colored, I sprayed the shit out of that wrought iron bed right then and there in our bedroom and, completely high on fumes, transformed that pewter nothingness into a glorious, glossy masterpiece of black. And while I was at it, I kind of spray painted our cream carpet black, too. Once I realized what I had done, I died a few thousand deaths, hearing M's scolding, "Oh, Lucy!" voice in my head, and desperately tried to figure out a way to cover it up. Laundry basket on top? Too obvious. A plant? I kill plants; we all knew that. A fake plant? Too retired-in-Florida. OH GOD WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO? So I called M and told him how amazing and incredible our "new" bed looked, and then I casually slipped in the tiny little speck of black I'd gotten on the carpet, ha ha ha, oops, isn't that hilarious?  He did not think it was hilarious. He "Oh, Lucy'd" me to death, and I nodded along, knowing he'd get over it once he saw how incredible our bed looked.

And he did get over it, as he has gotten over many other of my redecorating mishaps, because he has no choice but to admit that I kind of kick ass at coming up with ways to reinvent the old into new, over and over again.

I am shaking a can of spray paint as I type this, the familiar sound of "beads in a can" like music to me. You see, M is already gone, and I only have two weeks to tackle this round of "husband's away" redecorating. I'm going to miss that man, but I have my kid and the promise of a turquoise wall to keep me company.

Or maybe orange?

Process!

There's No Use in Planning

by Cathy and Patti

Making plans. Keeping a schedule.
It's the trademark of a super organized person, and by far,  it's the biggest, if not the most important, component of parenting. You learn quickly from your mistakes - not keeping to a nap schedule, forgetting diapers, a pacifier, a change of clothes, snacks, water bottles, books, crafts, toys - that once a vital item is forgotten or overlooked, you will make damn sure to plan ahead so it doesn't happen again.

After a decade of this planning and scheduling and staying on a routine, we now have it down to a science. This way of life has crept over from parenting territory into our personal territory. We are now much more responsible, thoughtful, cautionary and seasoned when it comes to managing our personal lives. We plan ahead. We plan every detail. We plan for the unexpected, for the what-ifs, for per chances, for the rare occurrences. In fact, we have at least two plans for every necessary plan-making occasion.

This past week, in the midst of our daily Gmail chatting routine, we remembered that the birthday of our good girlfriend Michelle is approaching, and wouldn't it be fun if we plan a night to take her out?

So naturally, we start doing what we do best: Start laying some stellar action plans.

Cathy:
The only problem was? That these plans involved other people besides us. And those people? Had no idea we were weaving them into our web of evening-crashing, yet well-intended planning. After some trigger-fingered online chatting, we agreed that Patti would send the email to Michelle to set the date and cc me. Once that was done, she hopped back on chat.

Immediately, we start setting up scenarios for the different possible dates and nights we were considering for the outing. It went something like this:

Patti: "If we do it on Friday night, I'll have to ask my mom to sleep over since M won't be home."
Cathy: "Oooooor," I tossed back, "you could drop off S at our house along with the dog and Joe can watch them all!"
Patti: "Ooooh, that would work and would be fun for the girls!"
Cathy: "Of course! Either way we have a plan."

But do we?

Patti: "How funny, we are making all these plans and Michelle hasn't even confirmed. So us."
Cathy: "LOL. Indeed. Joe has no clue either."

Patti: "Of course not. SO US. Funny, too, cuz we make all these grand delusional plans, and then we end up flying by the seat of our pants anyway."
Cathy: "Yes, that is so true! Why IS that? See just goes to show there's no use in planning."

Sometimes, there really IS no use in planning. Haven't you ever had a well-laid out plan for an evening out but everything ends up going to shit? It just wasn't meant to happen the way you planned it, and then you force it and then it ends up being the disaster it was meant to be. But we plan anyway, because that's just how we're wired.

Patti:
I'm not the best planner. Never have been. I "planned" my wedding via a few phone calls and emails and showed up to get hitched on a ship 1,000 miles from home, never having laid eyes on my flowers, my cake, or my officiant. But it worked. Obviously. Hell, even my kid was left to chance. And that worked out better than I could have ever expected. So, yes, I leave a lot to "it'll all work out!", and, thankfully, it usually does.

However, I have become much, much more "planful" since becoming a mother, and I amaze even myself at how grown-up that makes me feel. Yes, I realize I'm kind of old and that I probably should feel like a grown-up by now, but do you ever feel, like, so totally 16 in your head, and then you look in the mirror, and JESUS! WHAT HAPPENED? No? Well, that happens to me all the time, hence the "Wow! I'm a grown-up!" realizations. It feels so weird to plan events weeks in advance, because I have to, to line up baby-sitters, and plan Spring Break activities, and work my vacations around school vacations. All so grown up!

But apparently, despite my new grown-uppy status, I have yet to master planning. I must be doing something wrong, because I either get all crazy-delirious with my planning and start including people that have NO idea that they are being planned for within an inch of their lives, or I totally underplan and suddenly find myself with 10 guests in my house and not enough forks.

It just seems that even if I do find the right balance with my planning, it matters not. I will still find “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.” In other words, ha! Why did I bother? I can't even begin to tell you how many of my carefully laid plans just blew up in my face. Dare I say, it seems that things somehow always turn out better when I don't plan? Sure, there have been times that The Plan Gods totally called me out on my disrespect for the art of planning - like that one time when M and I flew to Italy and then walked around the country, dragging our suitcases behind us, with no place to stay because we hadn't reserved a hotel. But I can honestly say that for the most part? There's no use in planning! All it does is set up expectations that then only lead to disillusion and disappointment.

So! I hereby declare NOT planning the new planning. Let's put down our calendars, our itineraries, our to-do lists... and dare to just go with the flow.

And let's hope Michelle is okay with that.

I'm Greek...We Eyeball Recipes

by Cathy

When I got married, my mom gave me a beautiful, hardcover Greek recipe book, complete with instructions on how to set the proper table and what tools a good housewife needs to have in her kitchen to cook for her family. At that time, I worked full-time as did my husband, so whipping up a gourmet Greek meal to be the "perfect little housewife" was out of the question because the "perfect little housewife" was not the road I was going down. Dinners consisted mostly of takeout or frozen pizza and chips. Not healthy, I know, but there simply wasn't any time to be creative in the kitchen and work a 50+ hour-a-week job. But as I watched us slowly start to bust out of our jeans, I knew I had to bust out that cookbook and trash the junk food dinners.

As I slowly honed my cooking skills with the easy, less time-consuming recipes first, I started recalling the dishes my mom would make when I lived at home. There were fancified versions of these in my shiny cookbook but I just wanted the simple recipes - the way my mom made them.  From memory. So I would call her up and she would give me these recipes over the phone or during an afternoon coffee session and I would write them down in my hand-written recipe book - the one I plan to hand down to my girls. The only problem was, her verbal recipes were not as concise as what was in that recipe book.  There were no clear measurements or cooking times of any kind. She would say, "a little of this, a little of that, a pinch of this, a half Greek coffee cup of this, when it browns it's done, when the sauce thickens, it's done" and the go-to classic - "just eyeball it."

Fifteen years later, that is how I know to prepare these recipes. I "eyeball" them. So this obviously brings me to quite a predicament when I get asked to share my recipes. I don't mind doing that; what makes it difficult is narrowing down in true measurements what I already know by "eyeballing."

Once, my Martha Stewarty neighbor asked me for my Yuvarelakia (Greek meatball) recipe, after the aroma coming from my kitchen wafted out and into her kitchen via our back deck doors. I gave her a small tasting first to verify that indeed, she did want the recipe - and indeed she did. So I sat down one night to translate it for her, starting with the name, which literally means, Little Barrels. Now again, this neighbor of mine is very "by the book". When she gives me recipes, there are special kitchen tools and various Pyrex measuring cups and measuring spoons of all sizes involved, ramekins for pre-sorting, and there IS a difference between pureeing and mincing. She keeps her spices in clear test-tube cylinders topped with corks, labels clearly typed, and the pages of her homemade recipe book (a three-ring binder) have each page set neatly into sheet protectors to prevent against spills from cooking. Before I stole the latter idea from her, my recipes were on post-its, napkins, torn out of magazines from various waiting rooms, printed from online, etc.

So knowing this, I clearly couldn't go to her with my Greek ghetto version of a recipe for Little Barrels. After struggling with measurement equivalents, cooking time, sauce consistency, etc. I handed my recipe over to my neighbor, but not without full disclosure.

"Here's that recipe, but just so you know, I can't guarantee that it will turn out the same for you as it does for me."

"What do you mean?" she replied, almost insulted.

"What I mean is, I don't make this recipe using exact measurements. I eyeball everything."

"Eyeball?" It's as if I spoke to her in Mandarin Chinese.

"Yes. We're Greek! That's how we do it." I replied firmly while pointing out that I had even written that in some portions of the recipe. ( It literally said, "Pour some Greek olive oil into the mixture until sufficient. Just eyeball it.")

My neighbor tried to hide her dismayed confusion and politely thanked me for the recipe as she went into her kitchen - obviously either to sheet protect the Greek ghetto recipe or to calculate the success rate of my measurements.

Regardless, a few weeks later, she called me over to taste her Little Barrels. And you know what? Considering she had to work with my Greek ghetto recipe, they were pretty darn good! But not as good as the "eyeballed" version.

I'm Drivin' Here!

by Cathy



Even if you've never seen Midnight Cowboy, you have undoubtedly caught this scene somewhere:

It is said that this famous scene was improvised by Dustin Hoffman; that cab wasn't supposed to be on set and the reaction of the driver and the people in the background say it all.

When I first saw this, I laughed my arse off and I still do to this day. However, it's not so funny if you are the unassuming driver, or gasp! even a driver who really does have the right of way. Yeah, yeah, yeah, pedestrians always have the right of way and use that as their silver bullet, but sometimes, ya kinda just want to run them over.

First off, that pounding Hoffman gave on the hood of that cab? Absolutely unacceptable. You touch my car, I WILL run you over. I am sitting behind the wheel of a very powerful machine, okay?? I once had a bicyclist slam on the top of my car as he was riding by because I was double-parked a few inches into the bicycle lane. To top it off, he screamed some obscenity through my window, right to my bewildered face, as my baby slept in the back seat. And because of that? He's lucky I didn't go after him and force him into some parked cars.

Which brings me to another point, dear road-raged pedestrian/cyclist: before you haul up and start spewing sewage from your mouth into my open car window while behaving like a tantrum-throwing child, show some shred of respect and check to see that there are no kids in the car! I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me, and I, getting caught up in the moment, reciprocate the same ugly behavior back, forgetting for those few enraged seconds, that my kids are observing, listening, watching and well, taking life lessons from me, these of which I never intend to have them learn.

Everyone talks about Road Rage but why are they so tight-lipped about Pedestrian Rage? Haven't they noticed that in the last several years, not to be outshined by Road Ragers, pedestrians began waging a silent war by banding together in a seemingly underground fashion to wreak antagonistic havoc on all drivers? Have you noticed that if you stop an inch too far into the crossing lane while they are walking, or start accelerating as they just finish passing your car, you get a glaring sideways look of death from them? And God forbid you don't happen to see them because, wouldn't you know, they happen to be the line of one of several of your blind spots; that takes them to Defcon 6.

What could possibly set them on such a constant edge? Obviously they are pissed off that I am driving and they have to walk. And as walkers with their walking rights, even tree limbs should bend and bow to them as they walk past, right? They need to get over themselves.

I once read somewhere that a driver has around 200 possible distractions to contend with while driving, including inclement weather, street conditions, construction, potholes, traffic, directions, other drivers, what's going on inside the car (babies, conversations, fighting children), stop signs, speed limits, jaywalkers. bicyclists, traffic signals, animals, thinking about their next stop, cell phones, radio, eating, other traffic violators, car trouble, blind spots and on and on.


Therefore, dear pedestrians, we drivers don't intend to or purposefully want to run your ass over. That's not what we set out to do when we get behind the wheel. We just want to get from point A to point B and all the midpoints in between, move on with our day and deal with life's stresses as we're doing it. But you obviously think that that is EXACTLY what we want to do.

And you know, what? Push us in the wrong direction, and we just might. Why? 'Cause we're drivin' heah! We're drivin'!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

by Patti


So, my car misses the mechanic, apparently. The bitch has started whining again - literally. Now, whenever I drive her, a high-pitched "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" accompanies my every mile. "MOM! That is so ANNOYING!" Sofia shrieks from the backseat. As if THAT isn't annoying.

But, yes, it is annoying, this "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE". I told M about it, since he is my husband and "the man" and responsible for car stuff. But can I be frank for a moment? I have single-handedly diagnosed and fixed car troubles in the past. I put my Dr. Google skills to work, and once again am totally amazed at the information I can find online. Try it: Google ANY symptom - car or human - and somebody else in the world has already searched it, experienced it, or found the answer to the problem. But this time around, I just wanted "the man" to handle it. I don't know, I was busy baking brownies, or washing the dishes, or shuttling the kid, or checking her homework, or having cramps, but I just couldn't do it this time.

He immediately denied I was hearing an "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE", even though HE WASN'T EVER IN THE CAR TO HAVE NOT HEARD IT. But you know, I guess his "man ears" are bionic or psychic, or something, because he just knew I hadn't heard it. Like any good mother does, I put the kid in the middle as my witness. "YES!" she confirmed. "There is this HORRIBLE sound; I can barely stand it!" Apparently, she hadn't heard it, either. Look at us two crazy girls, hearing things for the fun of it. Such women.

The other night I picked up M and S to go out to dinner. "Where is 'the noise'?", M asked, his voice tinged with an annoying "I told you so" delight.  I had completely forgotten about the "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE". You see, it has this weird way of only happening when it wants to, and for some reason, at this very moment, it was apparently otherwise occupied, because it wasn't there. OF COURSE.
"It happens, I swear!"
"Yes!" Sofia piped in. "It does, Papi!"
M just smiled his Ricky Ricardo "Oh Lucy" smile, smug in his absolute certainty we were just crazy.
We ate dinner, and then on the way home, my car finally decided to take my side. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she cried, almost more loudly than ever. Even she was annoyed by my husband's macho certainty. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she added, for good measure.
"SEE!" S and I shouted in unison.

My car continued to "EEEEEEEEEEE", "EEEEEEEEEEE", "EEEEEEEEEEE", all the way home, and M finally jumped out and had me pop the hood. "It looks like the timing belt". His voice was muffled as he poked around underneath the hood. "We can just spray it with a special oil and it will be fine. It's no big deal."
He got back in the car, satisfied with his genius. "AND?" I demanded. "Aren't you going to apologize?"
"For what?"
"For not believing me!"
"It'll be fine."
???

My car did the "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" again this weekend, and I called M from the road to ask him about that "special oil". "It's not a big deal," he said. "Nothing will happen if you don't fix it."
"Yeah, but I want to fix it 'cuz it's annoying as hell."
"Okay, I'll fix it. But it might also be the alternator."
I knew that word from all of my Googling, and  knew it meant trouble. "And if it's the alternator?"
"Then the car will die and never start again."

So hard to choose between these choices, "No Big Deal", or "Will Die and Never Start Again"!

So as M apologizes to me under his macho breath while he is spraying the crap out of that timing belt, I'm gonna cross the crap out of my fingers and pray for "No Big Deal".

Slum-thing's Got to Give

by Patti and Cathy


If there is one thing we don't mind saying about ourselves it is that we are some highly resourceful beeyotches. Let's face it: life is dynamic, and sometimes you find yourself in a situation where all you can do is ask yourself, "now what?" For some, those "now whats" are easy to fix. Maybe they have the time. Maybe they have the money. But for us? Time and money are often the scarcest of commodities, and that is when we are forced to MacGyver our way right on through those "what nows".

If we don't get resourceful, it doesn't get done, it doesn't happen, it doesn't change.  And that is how each of our own personal Book of Solutions was written -- out of sheer need, will, must. Sometimes we will go back and read some of the chapters in our books, and even WE cannot believe what has been written -- even though we wrote the stories. Indeed, sometimes these "solutions" of ours end up being more like slumlutions.

Patti
My dear friend Janie and I sang for years together in a society band. The gigs called for formal wear, from flirty cocktail wear to trendy evening dresses. We were working a lot, which meant a lot of outfits that I simply did not have. This is where my resourcefulness came to the rescue. I had a velvet (what? it was the 90's!) top that served me well for a good couple of years, but it was starting to get stale. So I took a needle and thread and created a va-va-voom low-cut neckline by scrunching the fabric into a cleavage-baring masterpiece. When I showed up at the gig, Janie couldn't believe it was the same top I'd been wearing for the past two years. "It looks amazing!" she marveled. Perhaps - but I could only hope Janie didn't lean in too closely. If she did, she might see the multiple colors of thread I'd had to use, and the amateur zig-zag sewing methods I'd used to create this "scrunch". One wrong move and I'd go from va-va-voom right back to Victorian librarian.

A few weeks later, I showed up in a brand new pair of gold strappy sandals. Except - they were actually three-year old black strappy sandals that were worn and tired and reincarnated into sparkly gold sandals via a can of "Hammered Gold" spray paint purchased at Home Depot. "What?" Janie declared me a fashion genius, and I just shrugged my shoulders, knowing that such "genius" was merely a creative flash of resourcefulness that struck my fancy at the last minute. Of course, had I taken off my shoes, she might have seen the "hammered gold" paint crusted onto the soles of my feet. I had spray-painted my sandals in such a hurry, I got paint in all the wrong places. And then, of course, because the paint job has been a last-minute flash of "genius", the sandals hadn't had time to dry. Hence, hammered gold toes.

And I don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed to say this resourcefulness? Runs in the family. M is the King of Resourcefulness. He pulls it off with a bit more finesse than I do, though; being raised in Argentina and having ridden a bicycle with no seat growing up forced him to get pretty creative in life.

Last summer, M and S left the country for two weeks together, leaving me at home. He was a little nervous about leaving me here by myself, and, for his own peace of mind, decided to install an alarm system before he left. Behold:

It's an old-school transistor radio hung by a neon green cord from the outdoor light fixture on our back porch. That radio has been playing day and night since July of last year. Sometimes I come home late at night after a  gig, and as I am walking up the sidewalk to my house, I hear an "Ah - ya - yi!" coming from  my back porch.  As I get closer, I realize it's the "alarm system", set to some Best! Of! Latino! station, blaring out merengues, salsas, and cumbias all night long. M insists this is without a doubt the most genius invention ever, this homemade alarm system, and we are safe as long as Elvis Crespo keeps singing away those intruders.

We may be safe from those intruders, but who is going to save us from ourselves?


Cathy
We had a four poster bed. You know, those Victorian, regal looking beds made of deep, cherry wood with scroll detail on the headboard that sit about four feet off the ground? I say 'had' because that is how our bed started out when we purchased it almost 15 years ago while I was in my antiquey stage.

When Bella was five years old, she discovered that the posts can double as exercise equipment! Onto our monstrous bed she would hoist her little body every spare minute of the day, first using her knee to climb onto the bench at the foot of the bed and then again, leveraging that little knee to help haul herself over onto the fluffy duvet. Then she would grab onto that pole (that's what we called it) for dear life and start swirling around it and climbing it like a rope, her little feet gripped tightly to the beautifully engraved etchings. And every time I would see her do this, I would warn, "Honey, that's gonna break. That's gonna break! You're gonna get hurt!" my voice would rise.

Sure enough, one day as she was twirling around it, the pole broke. It snapped. And of course, Bella got hurt. And of course she cried. And of course I had to tell her so.  The fourth pole had broken right at the base of the footboard and a sad, puny little fitted piece was all that was left. After I lamented the death of my four poster bed, I took charge. I grabbed a hacksaw (my neighbor had this) and sawed that little sucker right off. I then sanded down the stump gave it a few good coats of wood stain. Voila!

I stepped back and admired my...limpy three poster bed. I knew what I had to do. I secured myself into my gym shoes, stepped back and let at it. Tae Bo had never come in so handy. My roundhouse kicks were the bomb and my ass was getting a good workout to boot! I switched legs for an even workout, loosening that third post, cracking away, by the second. Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am. Down it went. I repeated the process on the other side and now admired my symmetrical bed. I was happy and well, proud.

What I wasn't so proud of? The time I came home from midnight mass one chilly Easter. It was a challenge just to bring the lit candle home, as that is our tradition on the night of the Resurrection; we bring the light of Jesus back to our house and keep it burning all night. What I didn't count on was not being able to find a suitable candle holder - or even A candle holder - at 1am and half asleep. Looking around my kitchen, I spotted my food processor. Ding! I unscrewed the lid and popped that candle in there for the night. Done and done.

It took me a while to get all that hardened wax unglued from my kitchen appliance, but you know what? Whether we are faced with half-sewed Victorian shirts or half-posted Victorian poster beds, we make it work. And it works.

Sooner or Later Came Much Too Soon

by Cathy

We live in a six-unit building. Our condo shares the same deck space with our next door neighbors. These neighbors of ours have lived next door to us for 13 years. I have watched as they went from a single woman living alone and working ungodly hours, to a couple, to getting married and having her husband move in with her, to getting pregnant and having a baby. That baby, Grace, is now eight years old. My daughters are almost 11 and six.

My neighbors and we have watched our girls grow up together, as close as sisters can be. Playdates have consisted of knocking on each other's door at any hour of any day. Oh, the convenience of it all!

One particular playdate, years ago when Grace was about two or three and in the midst of being potty-trained, will never be forgotten. As we adults chatted, drank and laughed away out on the deck one beautiful summer night after having barbequed some serious gourmet burgers, our girls played Barbies in their room, in our house. Suddenly, Bella ran out and frantically announced, "Gracie just went poo-poo on the carpet!" All four chairs slid back across the deck at once and Traci, Grace's mom, was already heading to her house to grab her portable steamer-vac.

Side note: What you must know about Traci is that she is the perfect neighbor. Correction, she is the perfect Martha Stewarty neighbor. She's my go-to person when someone gets sick, when I needed help with a DIY project around the house, when I needed an ingredient, a tool, a dutch oven, tacky glue, books, corn syrup, carpet cleaner, a lemon zester/garlic press, fresh parsley, soil fertilizer, or when I needed to shred some papers.  So it makes sense that she does have a steamer vac and many other practical appliances and ingredients and cleansers and doodads that we would never think of buying, just in case.

When we got to the girls' room, we found not only poop smeared on the carpet but apparently, Gracie had stuffed a Barbie doll down her pants to prevent the poop from coming out at such an inconvenient time. Princess Barbie was now sporting a poop coat and matching poop hat. I looked over at Traci, who is always so prim, proper and polite, and thought she would faint out of sheer shock. Her horrified look and wide eyes said it all, but that didn't deter her from mechanically settling in and attacking the problem step by painstakingly, methodical step. A half-hour later, despite my pleading to 'just leave it be' and it was 'more than clean' Traci had pretty much steam vac-ed the entire bedroom crouched down on her knees while the men were yucking it up on the deck enjoying their third bottle of wine, when clearly, we should have been the ones having some shots.

We have not only shared poop but houses, cars, decks, toys, garage space, disagreements, parenting skills, recipes, decorating tips, business advice, secrets, several bottles of good wine drunk out of Waterford glasses (because, as they would say, "What are we saving them for?"), laughter, tears and the Magic Box (a small, lidded yard shed filled with balls, games, play-doh, mats, cute fold-up chairs, scooters, and the magic blanket, always laid out so our girls can make a fort out of umbrellas or sprawl out the million little Polly Pocket pieces and American Girl doll accessories comfortably). Hell, we would have shared ONE HOUSE if we knocked down that firewall and installed a revolving door and time-shared our husbands out as we had always joked.

Since they were in diapers, our girls have waddled around on our deck, splashed around in a kiddie pool which Traci and I filled with countless buckets of water hoisted from our bathtubs, decorated cookies, ran through sprinklers, had snowball fights, planted flowers, swung on swings hung from our deck beams and had scooter races in our alley . We knew we wouldn't live next to each other forever and that sooner or later, this blissful convenience of having this "perfect extended family" next door would have to end. And that time came one month ago when they announced that they would be putting their condo on the market. 'Okay,' I thought. 'That should take some time.' But it didn't. Two weeks later, they got an offer and have set the closing date for mid-April. Just. Like. That.

These neighbors of ours have taught me many things, helped us through many things and cannot ever be replaced. What other neighbor would offer to drop off and pick up Bella from school in the middle of an arctic winter every day for months so that I wouldn't have to take my newborn, Ari, out in the frigid temps?

The other day, Traci called to tell me that she will leave the Magic Box out on the deck for us. That is when it hit me. Blubbering through the phone, I thanked her. Then she began to cry. Together, for a long, lingering while, we quietly had a moment that summed up the 13 years of life we have shared -  which was more than any words could ever say.`