Pay More at Payless!

by Cathy

The drawing room at Woman's Athletic Club

Recently, Bella received her first Saturday night party invitation. Without parents! And there will be music! And dancing! And dinner! And optional evening gown attire! (If you find one of these for your 10-year old, please let me know.)

Where will this milestone event take place, you ask? A friend's house? A restaurant? A banquet hall? A school gym? Why, no. It'll be at a club! No, no, rest assured. This isn't da cluuub. It's a Club. The Woman's Athletic Club of Chicago, that is.

Oh, you're not familiar with WAC? Well, I hadn't  been either until I checked the place out online to make sure she won't be mingling amongst dangling free weights and swimming pools. Turns out, there's none of that at this athletic club.

Once she heard about the shi-shi invite, she went straight to her closet, dug through the wall of clothes and yanked out the exact party dress she wanted to wear: a cream and black dress with vertical ruffles down the front and a black silk and tulle skirt that hit her perfectly at the knee. She just needed some tights and a pair of nice dress shoes to compete her ensemble. The tights were no problem - I could pick up a pair at Target on my way home from work and call it a day. The shoes, on the other hand, were a more delicate issue.  She needed to be with me, lest I buy her a pair that was too pointy, too rounded, too girly, too babyish, too big, too small, too rhinestoney, too sparkly, or with too many bows (i.e. one).

Considering activities, homework and sports, the timing for shopping had to magically work into our schedule. Besides, we wanted to go without her little sister since that could cause distractions of grand proportions. So I took advantage of a teeny, tiny window of time when Ari would be at swimming and Bella would be fresh out of basketball practice. I had precisely 45 minutes to work with so I packed a sandwich for her - because shopping with a tween girl is hard enough, let alone a tired, hungry tween girl - and off I went.

But where would I go?

I phoned my mother-in-law earlier that day, asking her if she had returned that pair of too-big shoes she had gotten Bella for Christmas, and if not, then I could possibly exchange them for something Bella finds and likes herself. But alas, they'd been returned.

"I know it's hard!" said my MIL on the phone. "I tried to buy her another pair but they didn't have anything nice. But you know what?" she continued, realizing my time crunch and desperate to help. "You can go to Payless! They have BOGO!" she said excitedly, her Hispanic accent making it sound even more appealing.

BOGO is always good when you have two sprouting girls to buy shoes for. Who can't always take advantage of that? But I would make that my second option. My first would be my go-to store for everything I need in a pinch: Marshall's. It was close to my house and had a good selection of nice designery stuff - except, of course, for the night we went. Repeatedly, Bella tried like Cinderella's step-sisters to make multiple pairs of shoes fit, but to no avail.

Disappointed and running super low on time, we walked out into the brisk night air. I scanned the mall desperately for a girls' shoe store to magically appear and there I saw it, beckoning us from across the parking lot: Payless.

'BOGO!' I heard my MIL's voice echoing in my head.

"BOGO it is!" I said aloud, grabbing Bella's hand and hightailing it over.

Payless for a WAC function? But, of course.

The smell of lovely plastic, man-made shoe materials overwhelmed us upon entry. We made our way to the girls aisle, where within minutes of browsing Bella spotted THE pair.

"Oooh, these are cute!" she said. And then I was surprised to hear her say: "Really? These are $25? At Payless?"

I chuckled to myself, recalling something my sister overheard once while walking past the Payless store at the Old Orchard mall. Two ladies, BOGO bags in tow, were walking out of the store, and one turns to the other and blurts out what she had been seemingly wanting to say the entire time they were in the store.

"Can you believe these were $50?" her voice went up high, before it came down to a low, deliberate tone and finished with, "At Pay. Less." Her voice trailed off, "I coulda gotten something similar at Macy's for $35!"

That BOGO deal must've been too good to pass up.

Like these ladies, Patti and I have found ourselves browsing through a Payless - either for our kids or when we're looking for some everyday, kickaround little numbers or styles based on a shoe trend we don't want to spend zillions of dollars on. We too had found ourselves musing at how expensive the shoes are.

"I don't know about these boots," I once shared with Patti. "They're cute but they're $55. At Payless. Are they worth it for what I am getting?"

"That's a lot for Payless, girl!" Patti quipped back, trying on some platform heels.

"But they're made by that Project Runway guy, you know, that designer?" I questioned back, justifying the price with the above-par quality I would get in comparison to 'regular' Payless shoes.

"Yeah, but it's up to you on if you want to spend that money here on that designer or go somewhere else and get something even better. Payless ain't cheap no more, girl!"

I didn't buy those boots that day, but standing in that Payless with Bella as she was falling in love with the black sequined flats decorated with a beautiful silky, frilly bow (I must say, they were way cuter than what we saw at Marshall's) and I falling in love with her even more for always being my budget-minded, sensitive one, I told her she shouldn't worry about where the shoes are from or what they cost. "If you love them, we're getting them," I said.

I gave the shoes a last once-over and wondered if that picture of Selena Gomez (star of Disney's Wizarads of Waverly Place!) plastered to the insoles had something to do with the higher price point for these Payless shoes. "Ah. They're a Payless designer shoe," I smiled to myself.

Happy with her choice, Bella helped me choose a pair of ballet shoes for Ari, who is now wearing Bella's old hand-me-downs and is spilling out of them. Bonus! BOGO!

We paid almost $40 for both pairs.
At Pay. Less.

Bella and I now refer to it as Paymore. The entire time in the store, we repeated our new tagline aloud in a TV announcer's voice: "Pay more at Payless!" we kept saying with a huge, fake smile.

But hey, we can't complain. At least we got BOGO.

We Are Not Invisible

by Patti

The other night M and I were watching TV and a commercial came on where a very distinguished yet clearly old (not even older -- OLD) man, all decked out in a suit with a cliche silk scarf wrapped around his neck and some serious salt and pepper scruff, was hawking some kind of booze. The thing that stood out to me, though, was that this old man, while hawking his booze, was flanked by some very NOT old women. In fact, calling them women is a stretch - I had to wonder if they were even old enough to drink that booze legally. And these "women", all golden-haired and lithe-limbed and could-be-his-granddaughters-ish, were all over this dude, smitten and amazed and in awe by his Royal Oldness, and there he was, all, well, OLD, looking all smug and having the time of his life. And I couldn't help it: I got annoyed. "Can you picture it the other way?" I asked Marcelo. "Imagine if, instead of an old man, there was an old woman, like,'the same age' old, and she was surrounded by all these hot, young guys? Can you even imagine that?" I repeated, trying to even imagine it myself. Instead, what I sadly knew to be true was this old man surrounded by these beautiful young GIRLS was actually plausible, while the other way around would be merely a Saturday Night Live skit starring Betty White.

And that is when I felt a tiny bubble of panic start to rise in my chest. I didn't want this to be true, but I knew it was. I looked over at M, who was aware of what I was saying, but not nearly as affected by it. He's a man - obviously - and one who, at 45 years of age, is aging. However, he, at 45, is in the prime of his life, his temples dotted with salt, his face a little softer yet more distinguished, his intense eyes somehow more manly than before. I, on the other hand? Am not far behind him, yet, there is nothing "distinguished" about what's goin' on up in here. I've written before about the whole process of "falling apart", and my God it just is not pretty.

But this lament is not to reiterate that. It is more about how sad it is in this society that, as we age, women somehow become.. invisible. Even to ourselves. After all, here I was clearly pointing out that commercial with roles reversed would not have been plausible. Why was I saying this? Because, on some level, I myself believed it. I myself relegate the possibility of an aging woman as attractive to a Saturday Night Live skit. And that's a shame. And what's more shameful is that there is a whole lot of women, complaining about the unfairness of it all, still completely buying into it as the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help them God.

You've probably heard the news about Demi Moore's latest shamefest; the one where she was apparently huffing on some teenagery type of drug and had to be rushed to the hospital as a result, and is now being treated for "exhaustion". No, what she is being treated for is buying into it. She is being treated for desperately clinging to her youth. She is being treated for believing she is invisible because her skin is not as supple as it once was. She is being treated for believing that starving herself will melt off not only the fat, but also the years. And the most disgusting part of it all is that, if you are embarrassing like me and read celebrity gossip sites and get into all of comments that other readers leave behind, other women are the worst proponents of this whole societal "truth". Comments like, "...she really needs to do something about those jowels..."; and, "....wow, she really is NOT aging well...'; and, "oh my GOD, her HANDS - they look so OLD!"

When I read things like this, and then look down at my own foreign-looking hands as I type this, I can't help but feel that tiny bubble of panic rise up in my chest. It's happening to them; it's also happening to me. As a professional singer, I see it every day, the women are simply discarded after a certain age, as if suddenly that talent vanishes with the hot youth. Yet, the men? Are still up there, balding, fat, but still there, accepted -- admired, even.

And so this is how it has to be: I have to simply accept it. It's going to happen. And all I can do is do my best to take care of myself, mind and body, and continue to develop who I am as a person, not just a face, or a body in skinny jeans. And when I look down at my hands and see the veins, the wrinkles, the worn fingers, I need to learn to be grateful for them. After all, these hands have touched so much; these hands have learned faces and skin and run themselves across what have become the memories that make up my life. And these hands? Have yet to learn so much more.

Da Boot

by Cathy & Patti


We've mentioned many times before that, yes, we are mothers and wives, but we are still independent women who like to have fun outside of those roles. Part of this fun is found in spending time with girlfriends. Unfortunately, as most moms know, the logistics and demands of motherhood don't always make that easy or even possible.

So last winter, when all of the stars and our calendars magically aligned, we found ourselves giddily planning a "Holiday Girls Night Out". This was to be a night where we'd don sparkly things and meet up at a friend's house for champagne and appetizers, and then we'd hit a trendy restaurant, and then, then! We'd head to a club where we had VIP entry! We planned it nearly three weeks in advance (because, as mothers, the only form of impulse that still exists in our lives is spending $200 on boots. NOT THAT WE'D KNOW.), and the anticipation joyously ate away at us until the Big Night finally arrived.....

Patti
It was the coldest night in history. That didn't stop me from putting on a sequined tank top and the highest heels I owned. After all, this bitch was hittin' the town and I intended to hit it properly. I picked up Cathy and her sister, Sophia, who met us at Cathy's house, and we headed to our friend Susan's house to meet up with her and our other friend Michelle for pre-cocktails. Susan greeted us at the door, still in her work clothes and entirely un-hooched. She looked tired. "Do you guys mind if we just order in?" I felt the night deflate just a little, but considering I was just about to start a new job the following Monday, and that I had come out of a horrible, rollercoaster of a year, I was actually secretly glad to save money. I could see Cathy, Michelle and Sophia were disappointed. They had been looking forward to seeing and being seen.
"I'm cool with it. Is it okay with you guys?" But Cathy, too, was watching her wallet, and as much as it pained her to let go of this rare opportunity to eat at someplace other than McDonald's, she agreed.

We ordered some Thai food and demolished a bottle of champagne, and I realized our hostess was wilting by the minute. "Go get ready, girl!"
"Um... would you be mad if I didn't go?"
I felt the night deflate a little more. "Really? Oh, come on! Come with us! You'll wake up!"
But I could see she had made up her mind.

Susan (in the middle) looking better than all of us even when she's "tired"

Bellies full and spark on due to the champagne, we left Susan's house and teetered through the ice on our heels to the car to head for downtown. Michelle decided to take her own car, because that night she was operating on borrowed time: The Sitter Was Waiting. Cathy had gotten us VIP entry into a happening club because she knew the DJ, so we were looking forward to cocktails in a cushy corner.

We couldn't believe our luck when I found a surpremely supreme parking spot a mere block from the club. If you know Chicago, and you know Friday nights, you know this is more rare than a lunar eclipse. Or husbands remembering what wives tell them. We scurried arm-in-arm, the three of us, the December wind slicing through us despite our thousands of layers, and finally arrived to the club. Cathy said the DJ's name, the magic password to what would be our Friday night Utopia, and we were "let" in.

Cathy is known as a "bolter", meaning, we could be walking together and I could fall into a black hole, get attacked by a lion, or get swallowed up by quicksand, and she would just keep walking, never looking back. Not because she is thoughtless; she is simply...purposeful. And her purpose this night was to get to the fun, already. My purpose? Was to remove my damned coat. But I couldn't, because the top button, which was closed with an elastic loop, had gotten completely tangled up somehow, and there I was, in the middle of this swanky club, all bent in half, trying to twist myself out of my 289 lb down coat. And Cathy, in her bolter style, had, well, bolted, leaving me bent in half, my coat swallowing up my head as I struggled in vain to GET! IT! OFF! Fortunately, Cathy's sister, Sophia, is not a bolter, and she sensed one of the pack was missing. She came back to me, half laughing, half freaked out. "What are you DOING?"
"I'm shtuck." My words were muffled by down.
"Here, let me help you...Sophia, bless her non-bolter heart, carefully undid the disaster I had created over my head, slid my coat back down onto my body, and masterfully untangled the button.

By this point, Cathy had finally realized her posse was missing,and she came back. "What is going on?"
"I was stuck in my coat!" I yelled through the music.
Cathy laughed. "That is SO Patti."
Unfortunately, she was right.

We found a booth, and were a little disappointed at how empty the club was. Plus, the music? Kind of sucked. There was a table next to us teeming with girls in barely-there-dresses being plied with drinks from their Russian sugar daddies. I looked at Cathy. "Should we get a drink?"
"I wonder how much they are?"
"Probably alot."
Being broke was so inconvenient.
Sophia sunk into the booth next to us. "This music sucks." Cathy and I nodded in agreement.
I felt the night deflating even more.

Aren't we good fake having-funners?

Michelle finally showed up, but stayed for less than an hour. I was actually a little jealous she had an excuse to leave because we stayed for two hours, and honestly? Only because we felt we "should". After all, there we were, free on the same night, kids being taken care of, in what was supposed to be a trendy club that we'd probably not get the opportunity to come back to again. Yet - we were bored. And because we felt we shouldn't be, we forced ourselves to stay and listen to lame music, and watch girls in hooker dresses shimmy their way into various VIP booths. The most entertaining part of the night had been the girl who sobbed next to the DJ booth, heartbroken at his refusal to acknowledge her existence.

We finally decided to call it a night and headed back out into the arctic, and as we got closer to my car, I saw a flash of orange. On my tire. And as we got even closer, that flash of orange became more and more clear, until I realized.... I had gotten "Da Boot"! "Da Boot" is a classic Chicago neon sign that screams, "LOSER! LOSER!", and there it was, on my car, opening its big, fat, orange mouth to the entire world.
"I don't get it..." Sophia wondered. "Isn't that only for people who have, like, tons of tickets?" I was confused, too. I knew I didn't have "tons of tickets", and I didn't understand how I ended up with the "Da Boot".

Collective teeth chattering, we got into my car and turned it on to warm ourselves up, and then we sat there, wondering what the fuck to do next. "Da Boot" place was closed, and the ticket that had been slapped on my car informed me that I could go to the "Da Boot" place tomorrow. But I needed my car NOT tomorrow; I needed my car right now. I started to cry as the night deflated into itself for good.

Cathy:

Not our boot, but a boot nonetheless

I didn't think that night could get any more interesting than when I saw Patti try to heave her sleeping bag of a coat over her head...in da cluuub. Or when that girl. who looked like a Bachelor reject, the wall holding her up next to the DJ booth, sobbed shamelessly into her hands. So when we decided to call our mentally-hyped yet big droopy letdown of a night to an end, I never expected it would end with a bang...I mean, a Boot.

Here we were, 1:30 in da mornin' outside da club with da boot. After much bitching, high-pitched disbelief and finally, the sobering conclusion that we would have to leave Patti's car on the street and she would take care of it tomorrow, we resolved to take a cab to my house, where thankfully, my sister had parked her car and wouldn't you know it? Had to drive towards Patti's house to hop on the Edens to go home.

But Patti was so broken by seeing this Scarlet Letter on her precious car, she couldn't find the silver lining in the situation, no matter how much we tried to comfort her. Shoulders hunched, ego battered, hope gone, she dragged herself to the trunk of her car.

"What are you doing?" I asked, half hoping she would have a Boot Buster in her trunk to appease her Bolter friend.

"I can't leave these Christmas gifts in my trunk out here. I'm taking them with me," she mumbled sadly, pulling out industrial-sized plastic bags that rumbled with board games and other goodies.

My sister, in the meantime, hailed down a cab and in we shuffled.

The entire cab ride home, Patti was near tears. Stuffed into the corner of the cab's back seat, the crumpled, crinkly bags laid across her lap, she was super quiet - and if you know Patti, this is also as rare as a lunar eclipse. Her expressions, coupled by the few sentences she did blurt out, expressed her frustration and anger at herself. Why is this happening? How could this happen? Why tonight? Why now? How was she going to explain this to M? How much would she have to dish out to get her car back? How could she let this happen?

We finally pulled up to my house and while my sister warmed up her car, I gave Patti a huge, comforting hug and told her that tomorrow was another day and tomorrow, she would get her car back. And that she did. Turns out she had ONE outstanding parking ticket that she had gotten years ago and hadn't received any reminder notices to pay it. 'Cuz that's how the city of Chicago works, folks.

Even though the night began as a bright, shiny and plump balloon that was determined to fizzle down to a floppy, wrinkled heap of pruney latex, it allowed us yet another oh SO Patti! story we could always look back on and laugh about. And those? You'll never catch me bolting away from.

Field Tripping & Falling Down

by Cathy

Last week, Bella coerced me into chaperoning a class field trip to the Museum of Science & Interesting (her toddler term for the Museum of Science & Industry). By 'coerced', I mean, "Here's a notice for our next field trip to the museum. Can you please, please volunteer to be a chaperone?"Yeah, I had to switch some days around at work but you don't have to twist my arm. I could spend days there - and the Planetarium. In my past life, I'm convinced I was a scientist.

I was assigned a group of seven fifth grade girls. I thought this was kind of a biggish group of girls but I could handle it, right? They're only in fifth grade.

First, we headed off to the educational labs for 90 minutes of Colorful Chemistry! These labs were the entire purpose of the field trip. After that was taken care of, we were free to roam the museum at will until it was time to board the bus at 2pm.

 As soon as we stepped out of the labs, I got bombarded.
 "Can we go to the Coal Mine?" 
"Ooooh, can we go to the hamster wheel?" 
"I want to go see the baby chicks hatch! Can we, can we?"
"We haaaave to go to the Storm Centers!"
"Where's the map? Can I have the map?"

After some wandering around, pinpointing locations on the map, being distracted by wind tunnels, avalanche formations, air ball machines and of course, a turn on the human hamster wheel, which let me tell you, makes treadmills feel like you're taking a stroll, we run into other groups from our school with their haggard chaperones in tow.

"You have to go to the Happy Brrrr-day exhibit! We made ice cream!" squealed the sugar-highed girls. "NO! You have to go on the flight simulators!" screamed others.

 Meanwhile, I was thinking, 'Whose brilliant idea was this? To let one adult loose in a giant museum with seven kids and no game plan? It was like I was willingly taking my two kids x 100 all by myself to the museum for the day. What adult in their right mind would do that? One hundred times more requests, 100 x more questions, 100 x more 'Can we?' 'I want to' 'But they went' 'Do you have any money?' The flight simulator was $4 per person to board, so when I turned it down - because I'm not shelling out $32 to get strapped into a seat with high-pitched screaming girls going upside down in a dark, metal tube - one girl pleaded: "Please?? Can you just pay for me and I'll pay you back tomorrow??"

Thankfully, it was time for lunch (for which we got precisely 20 minutes to shove down our throats) so we headed downstairs to assemble in the school lunchroom. All the while, I was still being bombarded with, "Why aren't we going to the Coal Mine????" and ""When can we go see the baby chicks hatch???" and "What are we doing after lunch??"

After lunch and before I was literally going to go out of my mind, I marched the giddy group up to see the baby chicks, (none of which were actively hatching but in the process of hatching which apparently, could take hours), and then we all agreed as a group to go to the Coal Mine.; well, all except one.
"Kate is scared to go in the Coal Mine!" blurted out a random girl. I looked over at Kate and she was on the verge of tears.
I pulled her to the side. "What's wrong, honey? You don't want to go into the Coal Mine exhibit?"
She gave a few quick shakes of the head. "No."
"You don't have to be sacred - it's not scary, it's educational. And we will all be there with you the whole time," I comforted her.
"But, I'm claustrophobic and I'm afraid of Black Lung Disease!' she almost whimpered back. I could see she was visibly upset.
"You do know that this isn't a real coal mine, right? It's all fake and it's just an exhibit created to look like one," I half-smiled back.
"Yeah, but I'm still scared."

As a chaperone, I had a very difficult decision to make. Either let the girls go alone and I would stay with Kate (which I was very hesitant to do), urge Kate to come with us and be a trouper because I couldn't let the other girls go alone, or, we forfeit that particular exhibit altogether and go elsewhere - dear, Lord.
After posing this to coal miner A.J., standing at the exhibit's entrance, he promptly informed me that the girls needed a chaperone to go into the exhibit with them.

Then I witnessed something fantastic: the maturity level of my group of girls. Yes, some of the girls were disappointed but they were also very concerned about Kate's fears, and if need be, we could go elsewhere in the museum. Seeing the sacrifice her friends were willing to make, Kate decided then and there that she would go into the exhibit.
"Are you SURE??" I asked her twenty times over, not wanting to be responsible if she had a claustrophobia-induced panic attack while down there or worse yet, become infected with Fake Black Lung Disease.

I could tell she was scared but insisted that she could handle it. During the half-hour exhibit tour, I was keeping her close, making jokes and putting a reassuring arm around her. She was a total trouper to say the least.

Finally on the bus, I sat quietly with another mom chaperone until she blurted out, "I made Helen [her daughter] cry."
"What? Why?" I asked, pretending not to intuit what happened.
"They kept running off and I had to call after them telling them not to run off where I couldn't find them because I was responsible for them," she explained hurriedly. "Finally, I had it."
"Did you scream at them?"
"At the top of my lungs," she said, head bowed.
The poor lady had snapped with all the pressure of watching six other kids besides her own in a cavernous museum. Like Michael Douglas, she had her Falling Down moment in a public museum in front of her daughter and almost ALL of her friends.

I guess we were all challenged with being troupers in one form or another that day. It's not referred to as The Museum of Science & Interesting for nothing, you know.

Houdini Hamster

by Patti


Last summer, S begged me into a submission until I agreed to let her have a hamster. We had tried fish (they died), a guinea pig (Allergies! Went to live with my mom!), a cat (who should have been named Wanderlust. She ran away 3 times -- the last time stuck), birds (dear GOD those things don't stop chirping, like, EVER), and finally, S decided to try to convince me that THE magic pet was a hamster.

She did her research and presented her case, and swore to the moon and back that she would take good care of the little fellow, and she even saved her own money to buy him.

So I finally agreed, and that is how Gus came into our lives.

I'm cute & fragile, but I ain't no Pollyanna

I have to admit, Gus is pretty darned cute - for a rodent. He is a hamster, so at least he doesn't sport that creepy, ropey rat tail that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and run screaming down the street all skinless. And most of all, S had been true to her word. Sure, she sometimes forgets Gus exists, but for the most part, she's been a pretty good Hamster mom, and I think the experience of caring for him has gotten her even more ready for what's to come next month when we bring home a puppy.

One night, annoyed with the hacking my husband was doing all. night. long. in our bed thanks to his Man Cold, I huffily grabbed my pillow and headed for the basement to try to sleep in silence. We were "dog sitting" M's co-worker's dog, Homie, at the time, and before heading down, I decided to let Homie sleep with me. Too exhausted to even pull out the bed from the convertible couch, I plopped directly onto the couch with Homie and fell promptly to sleep.

Suddenly, I don't know how long later, I woke with a start. I heard a ruckus coming from the other side of the basement, and I shot up from the couch as my eyes tried to focus in the dark. That's when I saw Homie half under S's craft table, his cream-colored ass up in the air. "What the...?" I was a bit drunk with sleep, and my mind didn't understand what was going on. I got up from the couch, unsteady, my heart pounding, and that's when I saw it: GUS WAS RUNNING ACROSS THE BASEMENT FLOOR, Homie chasing him, his paws pouncing heavily after him. Gus did a few zig-zag manuevers, desperately attempting to escape death, and I lunged after Homie, grabbing him by  the neck and pushing him into the bathroom. By the time I turned around, Gus was gone.

I eat hamsters

I stood there for a moment, weighing my options. I now knew it was 3 am. I also knew I had to get up at 7 am for work. I also knew that Gus was gone. S was sleeping upstairs, totally oblivious to the fact that her beloved Gus was gone. I was tired, and was in no mood to perform search and rescue at this very moment. I let the thought cross my mind: Would it be so bad if I just went back to sleep and didn't look for Gus? And then immediately squashed it: GOD WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?

I looked for Gus. Even though I was exhausted and had to be up in 4 hours and the basement suddenly seemed like a vast, endless, infinity of possible places to hide. There I was, crawling along the walls on my hands and knees, squatting under tables, peering under couches, moving furniture. I was SO ANNOYED.  M was hacking upstairs, all feverish and phlegmy, and I hated him at that moment for daring to be sick. And I hated that hamster for daring to be so small. And I hated Homie for being a rodent-chasin' night-wrecker.

I searched for an hour and could not find him anywhere. I sat on the couch, practicing my "I did what I could" speech to S, when I heard it. "Scratch, scratch, scratch." The sounds seemed to be coming from under my butt. "Scratch. Scratch. SCRATCH." I jumped up from the couch, fearing I'd plastered Gus. "Scratch, scratch. Scratch." I had already looked under the couch; he hadn't been there. I carefully removed all of the cushions, and very slowly began to pull out the bed from the couch. When the bed was half out, I peered into the space underneath and wouldn't you know it, there was Gus. He was just sitting there, ever-so-casually CLEANING HIMSELF, not a care in the world. He looked almost... triumphant. As if he knew he'd pulled one over on all of us. I grabbed his exercise ball and put the furry little asshole in it, and transferred him back to his cage, and then I wired it shut. Then I took Homie out of the bathroom and put him upstairs in the kitchen. And THEN I went back to the basement and tried to go back to sleep. But all night long I had dreams of dogs killing hamsters, and it was a sweaty, sleep-deprived nightmarish night.

A couple of weeks later, Homie returned to his owner, M, S, and I went on our road trip. My mom, animal lover that she is, agreed to come by our house every day to play with Gus and feed him. On the last day of our road trip, when we were 6 hours from home, my  mom called me, hysterical. "I CAN'T FIND GUS! I THINK HE'S DEAD!" And because, you know, there was just so much I could do to revive a hamster from six hours away, I told my mom to go home and not worry about it. Of course, she thought I was some newly minted monster, but the truth was, I knew exactly where Gus was. He was living the high life under the couch, probably throwing a rodent rave and laughing to all of his friends about the fools he had for owners.

If Obama Does It...I Guess It's Okay

by Cathy

When Barack Obama was first elected President, I remember watching snippets of a television interview - I believe it was Barbara Walters at the helm - where the First Lady was asked some real down-to-earth questions about the President and the relationship the two of them had. (Come to think of it, only Barbara Walters could get away with those questions.)

At one point within that segment, I remember Michelle Obama mentioning that Barack never puts his dirty laundry in the hamper, but just puts sets them on top of the hamper.  This must have been brought up based on a quote from the Michelle's book, which she co-authored, called Michelle Obama: In Her Own Words. Here is her exact quote:

"The Barack Obama who lives in my house is not as impressive. He still has trouble 

putting his socks actually in the dirty clothes [hamper], and he still doesn't do a better 

job than Sasha at making his bed, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm a little stunned 

at this whole Barack Obama thing." - Associated Press, May 29, 2007

Women around the world must have let out a collective sigh.

Here, all along, they thought they were the only ones that couldn't get their husbands to put their clothes IN the hamper or hang the towels ON the towel rod. My husband, as a matter of fact, is guilty of both of those household infractions. Witness here, Exhibit A.

Just inches away, a towel rod is aching to serve its purpose.

Now I guess I shouldn't complain because at least he's not just throwing the towel on the floor or balling it up on top of the hamper. He is taking the effort to throw it over the rod so it has the opportunity to dry. Somewhat.

But if you can answer me this, I will nominate YOU as President of the United States:

Why, in the name of this great land of ours, does he not just throw it over the towel rod it belongs on rather than throw it over the curtain rod?? What is the justification for this? The physical act of folding it and throwing it over is exactly the same - just on a different surface!

To make things worse, the above picture was taken in the kids' bathroom. So, because it's up so high, guess what happens when they need to take it down? A big curtain/towel/rod/curtain ring explosion on the floor. That's what.

We may never find logical answers to explain the illogical things men do. So we sit back and witness it, tidy it and move on. After all, if the President of the United States gets away with this stuff, what makes our husbands any more special?

It Could be Worser

by Patti


Last year, after months and months of S complaining that she couldn't see, we were finally forced to believe her when the school sent home a letter notifying us she had failed her vision test. She gleefully jumped around as I sighed that we would have to take her to get her "eyes checked". "Will I need glasses? I hope I need glasses!"

She needed glasses.

She spent about 39 hours picking out frames, and after we shelled out a billion dollars, our daughter was once again with perfect vision, this time thanks to some pretty hip glasses perched happily on her tiny nose.

Last week, after about a month of once again complaining she couldn't see, I took her to get her eyes checked again. Sure enough, the doctor informed me, her prescription had changed. S squinted through her now useless glasses at me and asked, "So I get to pick out NEW glasses?"

I figured we would just have them pop her new lenses into her old frames - after all, they had cost a fortune AND were still in perfect condition - however, the vision place had other ideas. "We have a special going! Two frames for $99! That includes the lenses!"
'No, that's okay. I just want to keep her old frames and put the new lenses in them."
S wandered over to me sporting a pair of Elton John-like frames. "I LOVE THESE!"

The sales clerk punched some numbers into his magical computer and informed me that replacing the lenses in the old frames would cost more than just getting new frames, and besides, wow, didn't those frames my daughter was wearing look cool. But the frames S was wearing were the same price as the "Two for $99!" deal, so I told S to pick something out of the "deal" category so we could get two pairs for the same price as the ones she wanted.

She slumped her shoulders and walked over to the "deal" table. I watched her half-heartedly try on several frames, and even I had to admit that the "deal" table was really just the "these are so ugly nobody wants them" table, and I felt myself caving inside. "Honey, let's go ahead and get the ones you really like."
"REALLY? REALLY?" She slid the Elton John-like frames on again. "I LOVE these! They make me look really geeky!"

Apparently, "geeky" is in.

I turned to the clerk and told him we would take the frames, and he proceeded to punch more numbers into his magical computer, and came back with a mysterious total. "I don't get it," I told him. "Why would the price be higher than the "Two for $99" deal, when the price of the frames is $99?"
"Well, that's because those are not part of the deal. You have to pay the difference." he said, acting like this made perfect sense.
"The difference of what?" I asked.
"The deal includes frames that are $69, so you have to pay the difference of $30, plus the cost of the lenses.

I heard a strange sound and then realized it was my mind exploding. "Wait. You are telling me that the 'deal' frames are $69 apiece, which, if I buy two, totals $138. Yet, if I buy two of them, the total comes to $99, AND it includes the lenses? But if I buy these frames that are $99, and buy just ONE frame, the total is $130 because I have to pay the difference?"
"Yes!" he said, relieved I was finally "getting it".

But I didn't get it. I was more confused than ever, but also realized with dizzy dismay that no matter what, I was one way or the other not going to end up paying less than the total he was giving me, so I finally gave up and said, "I'll take them."

Apparently not satisfied with having melted my brain with twisted logic, he asked me, "Do you want the anti-glare lenses?"
"No, just the basic lenses."
"I would consider the anti-glare. You see," he pointed to his own glasses, "mine are so clear it doesn't even look like I'm wearing glasses." I guess he forgot about the 2-inch black frames circling his eyes. He then picked up S's old glasses and held them up to the light, strategically flipping them back and forth so that the light bounced off of them. "See all the reflection? That's bad. That's why she needs new glasses. The glare is making her vision worser."

Worser? WORSER? 

He did some more "number crunching" and informed me that my insurance minus this plus that minus that plus this equaled "Great news! The price includes the anti-glare lenses!" and wasn't that just the best? Let's see.... I was being forced to buy new frames when I didn't want to, the "vision expert" that I was supposed to trust  hadn't yet mastered proper grammar, and I was fresh out $130 in a suspiciously scammy way. Yet, seeing S staring at herself in the mirror, giddy over her new, geeky frames, and knowing that, as annoying as it was to have to spend it, I at least had that $130 to spend, I figured, "Eh, it could be worser."

Pimp My Ride

by Cathy & Patti

Everyone has their own driving routine. Each of us keeps our mirrors at a certain level, our seats in a comfortable driving position and our climate controlled to the temperature we desire.  We keep our favorite CDs at arms length and our radio stations pre-programmed to our taste in music. We designate our favorite cup holder and an alcove for loose change. Never out of reach are our sunglasses, hand sanitizers and Kleenex. (What? We have kids, okay?) Some of us keep our cars smelling Mountain Breezy and others, well... more Mountain Goaty. The point is, it's our car and we drive it the way we like.

What makes for interesting dynamics is when your car, your intimate home on wheels, becomes invaded by driver-side passengers. They've entered your personal car space, and by doing so, seated right up in front with you, have access to everything you do. You could tell them to sit back there with the Wet Wipes, empty Cheetos bags and countless water bottles rolling around the floor mats. You could ask them to wedge themselves in between your kids' car seats, which are encrusted with stale McDonald's french fries or cheesy rainbow colored Goldfish. But you don't. You let them ride up front with you and as such, surrender your domain to violations of all kinds. Not fun.

But you know what else isn't fun? If you are the driver-side passenger, subjected to the car owner's preferences.

Cathy:
When I first step into Patti's car, I am usually overtaken by the just-sprayed scent of citrus. Oranges, usually. Sometimes lemons. Either way, it smells like I wandered into a Bounce commercial. But I know this about Patti - her house is very scenty too - and I personally appreciate that she is the Breezy type.

When we decide to take "one car" it's usually Patti's since she prefers to have her own car and be in the driver's seat. This works out great for me because my family has one car and that would leave my husband S.O.L when we go on weekend trips to Michigan or spa getaways in Wisconsin. Besides, I can sit back, enjoy the scenery and take on the role of co-pilot. It's a win-win!

I've been called an "air traffic controller" while in the driver's seat before. I am constantly fiddling around with the air vents, the temperature (I'm cold!! It's too hot! Now my feet are freezing!) And the radio? That's what I'm known for. I have a button on my steering wheel - as if my car was made just for me - that allows me to easily and constantly change the station with the slight movement of my index finger. This annoys the living crap out of anyone who gets into my car, including now, my kids.

Anyway, it took me years to figure out how to change the pre-programmed stations in Patti's car. But I think I got it down now, so I am constantly poking that scanner on the dashboard. When she gets annoyed enough to pop in a CD, things get interesting. You see, Patti has about three or four selected CDs which are pretty much cemented into her disc-changer. These are Michael Jackson, Rihanna, 80s ballads, some remakes and some songs she has written on her guitar. That's it. It's either that or the radio. I love Rihanna so I can handle that - I'm a top-forty, club dancing kinda girl. But the rest? I tune out while Patti sings (that's something she does well, thankfully) her Lionel Ritchie songs. All of a sudden, the ride has taken on the feel of an Oprah & Gayle roadtrip.

I like all kinds of music depending on the mood I'm in. I love Journey, Stevie Nicks, Prince, Sting, Madonna, Fiona Apple and others along those lines but after you've heard the same songs playing on a loop for years in your friend's car, it's time for a change. After politely listening to her tunes (it is her car after all) and before I have to hear, "If you don't dance to this song, you're dead!" one more time as she Sits-n-Spins her hips in the driver's seat to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough," I throw the tuner into KISS-FM and start bobbing my shoulders to "Mr. Saxobeat"

Patti:
I am very scenty. It's only because I have a bionic nose and can smell the fish that was fried 20 years ago in my kitchen, or the milk that was spilled in my car seven years ago. Never mind I didn't own the car seven years ago; it was spilled and I do smell it. Hence, the scenty-ness! If Cathy steps into my car and feels like she is being raped by fruit, I consider it a compliment.

But let's get something straight: I like scenty; I don't like 50-centy. I'm not a fan of Euro house music or Katy Perry or "nn-ch-nn-ch-nn-ch-nn-ch" bass rattling my windows while my car bops to to the beat at a red light. Give me some CS&N, Joni Mitchell, Journey, Fleetwood Mac, or old school Elton. If I wanna get down in the car, I want Jackson 5, or good ol' Sly.

Cathy? Is a B96 club beeyotch. And when she gets in my car, I know she does her "good friend" best to tolerate my scenty 70's vibe ride, but she inevitably gets itchy and suddenly her fingers are flyin' over my radio buttons, and she is "bzz. bzz. bzz-ing" her seat into the "right" position, and she is shoving my ac/heat vents left and right, and she is opening and closing the window and/or visor mirror. By the time we get to where ever it is we are going, I am exhausted.

On the rare occasions I am the passenger in her ride, I'm fascinated by the apparent tune ADD she suffers. That button on her steering wheel is the most abused button on the planet. I don't think I have ever heard a song in its entirety in her car. Those poor songs don't stand a chance under her fickle, push-button fingers. Unfortunately, even though she B96's the crap out of my car every time she is in it, I don't get the chance to Carol Kinganize her car, since she is in sole control with that damned button. Not only that, but Cathy, much like my husband M, seems to have an aversion to a/c in the car. "It's gorgeous out!" she yells through the wind that screams in through the open windows as I glare at her through the hair that has been viciously whipped into my eyes.

But that's okay. I know there is much she tolerates about my ride, from its anally-retentive clean interior to the smooth strains of the Commodores when all she wants is some thumping Greek house music. Putting up with my ride means she accepts me the way I am, and for that, she can pimp my ride anytime.

Perfect Timing

by Cathy

Don't you sometimes marvel at the timing your kids have?

I could be washing dishes or folding laundry or making dinner, and they are contently occupied drawing, playing on the computer, watching TV or doing homework. Or they could be in their room, making goofy videos of themselves on my iPhone singing their version of Beyonce's "I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady. I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady..." while jiggling around like Shakira. Either way, they're occupied, which when realized, sets off a DING! in my head that I should take advantage of this time and get in some R&R.

So I grab a snack, settle into the big, cozy leather sectional in our living room, throw my feet up on the table, set my water glass down and pick up the remote. As the television is powering up, I situate my blanket, pillows and snack accordingly. On the remote, I scroll down the list of DVR'd programs, finding my shows nestled among the series of iCarly, Wizards of Waverly Place and Shake It Up episodes clogging my List feature. Then...jackpot. "Oooooh, Parenthood!" I say excitedly. Click and......

"Mooooom?"
Hard sigh.
"Yes?" I say, naturally annoyed, hitting pause.

The following response could be one of:

"Bella hit me"
"I need help with my homework"
"Where's the flashlight?"
"Ari won't leave me alone"
"The shower curtain rod fell down!"
"Where's papi?"
"Do we have anymore toilet paper?"
"I need help on the computer"
"Ari dropped your iPhone"
"I can't find my book/eyemask/iPod/other slipper/homework"

Once the crisis has been addressed, it doesn't stop there. Ari is now aware that I have settled into the living room couch, is bored with her sister and wants to keep me company. So while I'm trying to watch my show, now with the volume turned up to 68, she skips in and out, hums, asks me to color with her, brings in Chutes and Ladders or puzzles, flips/climbs/jumps/hurdles/straddles/leaps onto the sectional every which way and repeatedly enough so that she looks like a wind-up toy on turbo.

This doesn't only happen when I want some downtime. Like clockwork - I am not even kidding you here - my kids have a sixth sense for when Joe and I want some alone time. As soon as we starting hugging or kissing, even touching, the sound of little running feet pattering down the hallway is heard and BAM! there's Ari standing/pounding at our door. The same goes for when we settle in on the computer, ready to tackle a long overdue project, answer some work emails, or yes, even write these blog posts.

"Can I play [insert computer game here]?"
"Can I check my email?"
"I have a school project to do on the computer"
"Can  you make me some waffles for a snack?"
"Ooooh, can I see??"
"Can you call next door and see if G can have a playdate?"

To be fair, it's not only my kids, but outsiders as well, that know the exact time I have settled into my downtime/bathtime/computer time/TV time. How is it that the phone rings right at the exact second I sit down? How? I've even become paranoid that there is a little Annoyance Camera set up somewhere within our house that everyone but me is monitoring, ready to pounce on me the minute they see me get comfortable.

I'm not sure what I can do to avoid this 'perfect timing' of things, but in the meantime, I will keep trying to take a break when I get a break. And even when I don't.

Oh look! I finished this post! I only worked through eighteen interruptions, so I hope it makes sense.

The New Foreplay

by Patti


I have been following a design blog that details the DIY renovation of a young couple's house. It's been surprisingly painful, the discovery of this new jealousy that has overtaken my normally "happy for others" body. It's just that... well, the light fixtures! The appliances! The new kitchen cabinets! The backsplash! THE UNDER CABINET LIGHTING! I kind of want to make out with all of it, and worse, it makes me kind of want to totally break up with my own house.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for my cozy little shack. And since we bought it a couple of years ago, I can even confidently say that I think I've done a pretty good job turning it from "someone else's dated ranch" to our charming, modern-with-an-antique-twist-so-that-it-looks-eclectic-and-full-of-character cozy little shack.

Still... I'M JEALOUS. I want under cabinet lighting, too! And recessed lighting, dear Lord recessed lighting! What I wouldn't do for recessed lighting.

Alas, I have a big ol' 80's florescent light fancily trimmed by "oak" smack dab in the middle of my kitchen ceiling.

(So wrong. So very, very wrong.)

At least it works, because my dishwasher? Yeah, right.  I mean, it's pretty. It's all stainless steel and looks good, but it doesn't work. And things keep coming up, like new glasses, dance classes, and co-pays, so for now I have Old Lady Hands from having to wash all of my dishes by hand 63 times a day, and it doesn't look like that condition is gonna get better anytime soon.

(Don't be fooled by this fraudulent, stainless steel bitch. She doesn't work.)

ANYWAY. The point of this all is that this envy, this deep envy and all of the fantasies that have swirled through my head in following this couple's Fantastic Journey in beautifying their home has made me question myself. Who is this person with the wrinkled dish-pan hands that gets all dreamy over brushed nickle light fixtures, crisp white crown molding, and kitchen faucets with fancy, high arcs? WHO AM I? Why do I get weak in the knees over under cabinet lighting, wide-planked hardwood, and slate bathroom floors? Why would I rather blow my Benjamins at Menard's than Barney's? Okay, scratch that. I've never shopped at Barney's. But you know what I mean.

I'll be honest: In the last year I have gotten a new refrigerator and a new oven. And the oven? Is a double oven. Yes, yes, I know! WHY AM I COMPLAINING? Let me be clear: I am not complaining so much as I am confessing that I now know something about myself that scares me: I am getting old. Like, really old. Because if Anderson Cooper (yes, I know I'm not his type, just go with it) was standing in tight jeans with a book in his hand and a smart-ass smirk on his face in front of a brand new, whisper quiet Kitchen Aid stainless steel dishwasher that just happened to be mounted under brand new granite countertops and flanked by brand new cherry - no, pine, no, cherry - no... okay, I'm not sure just yet, but anything other than 80's oak - well then, I'm afraid I might just rush forth, and as Anderson outstretched his arms, I might just push him right out of the way and start french kissing that new dishwasher.

I just might.

Rockin' the Cradle of Civilization

by Cathy

If you are one of the three people who haven't seen "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", then you won't relate to this.  Note: I may have made a reference to this movie before and this won't be the last time, either.

I am the old Greek man in the movie. The dad. The "everything stemmed from Greeks" Greek. Democracy. Civilization. Astronomy. Math. Medicine. The Olympic Games. Science. Philosophy. A Root Language. Oh that last one really annoys the crap outta my family. They refuse to watch the Scripps National Spelling Bee broadcast with me because when contestants ask the root of the word and the response is "Greek," I do a little dance. They almost anticipate my response to a Greek-based word. "Just tell us what it means because you're gonna tell us anyway!" And I do. Can I help it if I am proud of my heritage? My culture? My civilization?

It seems that I am gaining that reputation to all those around me now. The other day, my cousin Katrina, who is the next proud Greek I know, was over for dinner. As I was dishing out mounds of spaghetti and beef into her plate, asking her if she preferred more mitzithra, (a shredded Greek pasta cheese) and whisking plates around from the stove to the table, she said, "Wow. I feel like I'm at your mom's house."
"Of course!" I replied. "That's because I'm Greek! That's what we do - feed people!"
Katrina laughed in agreement.

Later, dinner conversation somehow shifted to my kids counting to 10 in Greek, then in French and then in Spanish. Then Katrina followed with the Spanish counting she knew. "Wow," said my husband, the Latino. "Your accent is pretty good!"
"Yeah," Bella chimed in. "You even roll your "r's"!
Before Katrina could blurt out, "It's 'cause I'm Greek!" I piped in with "Of course! She's Greek!!!"

Even my neighbor has picked up on my Greek representin' habits. The other day, my kids and I filed out of the car in the garage just as she was pulling in. She apparently saw the trunk full of grocery bags and offered to help take some upstairs. "No, that's okay," I replied. "I'll get the kids to help. What am I feeding them for??"
She burst into laughter. "Is that a Greek thing?"
"Yes! My parents used that as an incentive to get us to help constantly! How did you know?"
Still laughing, she said, "I think the Germans took a page out of their book," referencing a side of her own heritage.

My kids don't get this now, but my constant references to all things Greek - the language, the cultural nuances - will stay with them as they grow and learn.  My garage door may not be painted as the Greek flag, I may not have Parthenon-like columns supporting my deck or statues of Aphrodite adorning my garden, but my ties to my culture are firm and unbreakable and that is what I want for my kids.

I take pride in telling people what my ancestors have contributed to the world, and I truly appreciate it when others give me historical tidbits about their cultures as well. After all, I may be Greek, but I don't have xenophobia. (As if you thought I would let this opportunity slip by...that's a Greek word meaning a fear of foreigners,  Xeno = foreign(ers) and Phobia = fear.) 

 Just rockin' it, baby!

Sheepy

by Patti


When S was born, my father gave her a little stuffed sheep. That little sheep sat perched on her dresser, stitched black eyes steady and unblinking, until she was old enough to start actually appreciating her stuffed animals. Ever since that day, that sheep, who became "Sheepy", has been S's best friend.

Sheepy went with S to her first day of preschool, safely clutched in S's scared little hands to safeguard her, and then he accompanied her every day thereafter, all the way through kindergarten, through every snack time, play time, and most importantly, nap time, and he never let her down.

We were always careful with Sheepy, ensuring he was tucked into bed with S every night, and, unless we were on a trip away from home, that he only went to school with her and then right back home. We could never risk losing Sheepy, after all; he was S's universe, and losing him would tear that universe apart.

When S was 7 years old, we took a family trip to Costa Rica, and of course, Sheepy came along with us. At the airport in Chicago, S was feeling sleepy, and whenever she feels sleepy, she needs to hold Sheepy. I warned S that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to take Sheepy out of her little carry-on; after all, what if something happened to him? But she insisted she would NEVER let ANYTHING happen to Sheepy, so out he came. There was a last minute gate change, and we all scrambled to get our things together and raced through the aiport to find our new gate and get on the plane.

Once we were all settled in on the plane, S proceeded to build her "nest": 2 blankets - Pooh and Bunny - and Sheepy, who would be cozily wrapped in Pooh while Bunny covered S. She began digging through her carry-on, and looked up at me, pale. "Mommy, I can't find Sheepy!"
"Are you sure?" I helped her dig through the bag, my stomach flipping just a little. Sure enough, Sheepy was nowhere to be found. I looked up at S, helpless. She could see by my expression that Sheepy was not on the plane with us. Her lip began to quiver, her eyes watering, and within seconds, she began to wail. Her cry twisted my heart violently; I had never seen her so devastated. I pulled her to me. "Oh, my baby... I'm so sorry!"

M kept looking through S's bag to see if he could somehow magically rustle up Sheepy by sheer will alone, and she was crying so loudly that the flight attendant actually came over to see what was going on. I explained to her that she had lost her beloved "sleeping buddy", and she must have been a mom, because she gave me such a look of understanding, I felt like I needed for her to hug me.

Then my mom was standing there, pulled from 15 rows away by her granddaughter's cry. "What is wrong?"she asked, panicked. S was wrapped around me, sobbing, and I mouthed the tragedy to her over S's sweaty, heartbroken little head. Suddenly my father was there, too. My father could never stand to hear S cry, not even for a single second, and seeing his "cookie-cookie" like this was almost more than he could bear. My mom looked at my dad and told him, and he bent into our row, practically climbing over M, desperate to take away her sadness. Alas, the plane was about to take off, and my parents were ushered back to their seats, leaving us with the loss of Sheepy in our laps.

S cried for a good hour, eventually falling asleep, shuttering and exhausted with grief. She slept on my lap most of the flight, and I stroked her hair, I myself devastated. It felt like the end of so much, and I was just as sad as S. We finally landed, and S woke, somber. We gathered our bags, took a shuttle to the car rental place, and all settled into the car, ready for our Costa Rican adventure. Before we took off in the car, I wanted to grab something from my bag, and reached into the cargo space to dig through it. I unzipped my bag, and out popped a furry little leg. I quickly unzipped it the rest of the way, and laying there, a patient look on his round little face, was Sheepy! I pulled him from my bag and held him up in the air, yelling out jubilantly to the car, "SHEEPY! I FOUND SHEEPY! HERE IS SHEEPY! SHEEPY IS HERE!" S lunged for Sheepy, pulling him from my hands to her chest, rocking back and forth with gratitude and excitement.  My parents broke out in a joyous chorus of cheers, and M turned to me,  his eyes wide.
"WHERE WAS HE?"
"IN MY BAG!"
"IN YOUR BAG?"
"YES! IN MY BAG!"
Yes, we were shouting, we were that hysterical. To think he had been IN MY BAG THE WHOLE TIME, through all of S's miserable cries, throughout the entire 6-hour flight. To think of how much sorrow we could have avoided if ONLY I had checked MY bag, and not just hers.  My mind spun back to the airport, and suddenly, there I was, grabbing Sheepy hastily and shoving him in my bag. How had I not remembered this?

Today, nearly 4 years later, Sheepy is still with us. He is dirty, matted, old, and absolutely loved. S still sleeps with him every night, his worn little body tucked safely under her chin. Sheepy forgave us that near-miss, continuing to guard over S and her swiftly dwindling childhood, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Needacoupleitis

by Cathy & Patti


If you're married, or even paired off in a married kind-of-way, you know how hard it is to find other couples that you can have fun with.  You adore the wife; you think the husband is an ass. Your husband hit it off with the other husband; thinks the wife is a bitch. Your husband loves your friend; you both think the husband is a jerk. You both feel sorry for the husband because the wife is insufferable.

The possibilities of incompatibility are endless! So most of the time, you end up going out with your friends and your husband with his. Once in a while, though, you find another couple that you BOTH like; they both like YOU back, and miracle of miracles! You have somebody to play with!

Throw kids into the mix and things immediately get complicated. You can only hope their kids get along with your kids and vice-a-freakin'-versa. Otherwise, you are almost always back to square one in finding "That Couple".

We call this phenomenon "Needacoupleitis". We believe it is a true disorder that occurs in nearly all the social lives of couples. Once you pair up, you are suddenly making friends for two.

Cathy
Take the situation of me and my husband, for example. When I married him, I married his friends, no question. He has been tight with most of these friends since kindergarten. His friends for life are now my friends for life. And what do I think about these friends and their wives/girlfriends, the group which Patti affectionately refers to as "the A-List" friends? I've come to love them like I've known them my whole life.

Granted, this "gang" hasn't been without its drama. Divorces. Separations. Near break-ups. Reconciliations. And they have all held tight together. I liked all of his friends immediately, which is pretty rare from a woman's perspective to take such a strong liking to this culturally and characteristically diverse group; one is Korean, one is Croation, one is Ecuadorian, one is Puerto Rican. How does a Greek girl fit into all of these colors and countries? Well seeing as I married outside my nationality...just fine.

Ethnicity has nothing to do with anything, let me make that clear. I was worried more about the egos and the strong personalities and the monopolizing of my husband's time and focus, and the testing of his drinking limits and what can come of that, than anything else. I was worried that they would come between the views we have as a couple - I mean, he will always know these guys longer than he'll ever know me. And I'm fine with that. As long as he understood where the limits of friends versus wife are drawn. Thankfully, that was never, ever an issue. And what's sweeter, is that all of the 'wives' as the female counterparts are referred to in this gang, get along swimmingly. Seriously. That may be the biggest miracle of all. Can you imagine how uncomfortable it would be for the gang if that weren't the case?

As for Joe getting along with my friends and their husbands, whether he has been uncomfortable or bored or annoyed, he has never shown it. He is like me - we can get along with just about anyone as long as they are not a blatant bitch/asshole or disrespectful. It comes with the territory, this infusion of friendships among couples. You learn to accept, make due and eventually, maybe even like them. Just like a marriage.

Patti:
Look up "Loner" in the dictionary and you will see M's intense, dark face. How I ended up with a man who needs his space in doses the size of the galaxy is one of life's biggest mysteries. Anybody who knows me knows I am the Julie McCoy of Real Life. I am social, outgoing, friendly, chatty, and have plenty of friends I can call on. M, on the other hand, is a corner dweller, and observer, a thinker. He is the kind that likes taking vacations alone, that prefers nights at home, and that keeps his friendships down to not only one hand, but a few fingers. Don't get me wrong, M is hilarious, not shy in the least, and will start up a conversation with pretty much anybody. He is also super curious and adventurous, and if it wasn't for him I'd probably not have nearly the number of stamps on my passport that I do. But, aside from his adventurous, charming ways, he is also intensely private. Very, very few will ever know what is really going on his head. He also simply doesn't need a lot of human interaction. So while my friends, to me, are oxygen, friends, to him, can feel like a "burden" - yet another thing to tackle on his "to do" list when he'd rather just be on his motorcycle.

In the nearly 23 years we have been together, I have seen him consistently keep contact with 3 friends: only one of which lives in the United States, and that friend, the one he considers his "best friend" and would do anything for, doesn't even live in our state. So, yeah, while I of course get along with those guys' "better halves", it's not as if we really get the chance to just "hang out". After all, while it would be fun to be able to jet to Argentina for a double date, our kid need clothes and food, that demanding little brat. And I have wonderful female friends I adore, and M has hung out with their better halves, but he isn't the type that will reach out to them and say, "Hey! Let's go have a beer together".  I mean, sure, if I plan something, and insist that he come along, he will, and will even have fun against his will. But for the most part, we are couple-less much of the time.

So, just as much as M respects my need to socialize and go out with my girlfriends, and be somebody other than Mother and Wife, I've also learned to be okay with M and his loner ways. Just because we're married doesn't mean we have to have the same tastes, hobbies, and, yes, friends. We are together but we are also separate, and there is no reason that being couple-less should impact the value of the friendships we do have, whether together - or alone.

Seduced by Velcro

by Cathy

It seems that we are constantly rushing through our tasks, doesn't it? We have so much to do, that we don't do things carefully enough. Things like making sure to triple-check your emails before you hit SEND and propel them into outer space where they can always be retrieved by someone at any given time. Scary, huh? Today I almost sent out a work email to a fashion designer in the industry. I meant to say, "I'm sure you'll go far" and at the very last minute, my eye caught it: I had written, "I'm sure you'll go fart."

If I can stop myself from laughing at my own carelessness long enough, I'd like to share with you another close call that would've been disastrous if not caught. It happened the other day in the midst of school-prepping morning madness. We were running late as we do every single morning, and my husband grabbed Bella's coat off the coat rack, where I had sleepily hung it the night before, freshly washed and dried and smelling like lavender-scented pine trees. He hurriedly tugged in onto her shoulders, she zipped it up and they were ready to go.

"Uhhh, mommy," said my husband slowly in his parenting voice, screeching the brakes on our Morning Rush Hour. "Aren't you going to need these?"

He turned Bella towards me and there she stood, oblivious to the look she would be sporting at school today. From two of the front velcro close tabs on her coat were hanging one Men's Jockey low-rise briefs and one of my black thongs. NO. JOKE. He quickly ripped them off and handed them to me while we all broke down in a belly laugh of belly laughs.

To make things worse, this wasn't the first time underwear decorated my kids' coats like a tricked-out Christmas tree. It happened the last time I washed their coats. That time, it was on Ari's bright, white coat, and from it was another one of MY thongs - this one in chartreuse green.  Thank Victoria's Secret, folks.

Here's what I don't get: why is it that only underwear - and only my husband's and my underwear - gets attracted to the velcro tabs?? Why couldn't it have been a sock or one of the girls' little undershirts or even a mitten? Those are all small enough to latch on. But why the parents' underwear? Why is that this velcro, which is soooo easily seduced, is determined to send my kids to school looking slutty-fied?

I'm not sure why, but hopefully, we will never be too rushed to realize that we are sending our kids off to school with Jockey briefs and thongs dangling from their coats. Hopefully...


P.S. A picture would've been worth a thousand laughs but alas, I forgot to take one. And plus, who wants to air their (at least it was clean) laundry out there? T.M.I., people.

Oh, hello there...

by Patti


...it's been a while.

You see, I was in a car for 539583950342 hours, which was not necessarily conducive to blogging. But I loved every torturous second, and now I can blog all about it in endless prose! Lucky you!

There is no better way to start off a fresh, new year then to get in a car and just drive. And that is exactly what we did. Literally. On January 1st, M, S, and I all piled into the fully loaded car, put it in "Drive", and, well, drove. All the way to Texas! Yee-haw!

The plan was to visit my cousin in Houston. But first! We had to make a few requisite stops at Middle of Nowhere gas stations, and let me tell you: the first day of 2012 in Illinois was WIN. DY.  You don't believe me? You think I'm being dramatic? ME? DRAMATIC?!?!?!? Behold the PROOF:

Once I screwed my head back onto my neck, we had to make a very special pit-stop as we continued our way down Illinois. Remember my post a couple of weeks ago about Homie? Well, I was right. AS USUAL. Homie worked his magic on M's heart, and, after a visit to see this....

....we will no longer be dog-less as of February 12th. That's right, our very own version of Homie, who shall be named Gaucho, will be peeing on our floors, and farting in our family room, and snoring loudly yet cozily in our laps very, VERY soon! I swear, S shivered her way across the rest of Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas and Texas, she was that excited. She IS that excited. Road trips with special pit-stops are magical like that.

After that life-changing pit-stop, which ended up being so not a pit-stop but a 2.5 hour visit that included chasing dogs, petting ponies, and holding newborn puppies - what kind of Heaven all wrapped up in one place is that for a kid? - we continued our way down Illinois in utter darkness. It felt like we had just started our trip - I mean, we were still in the same STATE for crying out loud - yet...we were already tired. And STARVING. And the number of restaurants and that were available for us to choose from to satiate that starvation was exactly zero. So we drove, and drove, and drove, and ended up in Missouri and still drove, until I finally spotted a familiar site: DENNY'S! Oh, Savior of Road Trips!

We wearily pulled into the parking lot, S still vibrating with excitement, and literally shuffled our way into the saddest Denny's I've ever been in. The customers all looked on the brink of death, on crack, or severely suicidal, and there was apparently only one waitress working the joint. But we were desperate and starving and No Way in Hell were going to keep driving, so we grabbed one of the booths and waited what seemed a thousand years to place our order. M jokingly asked the waitress if the food he ordered was going to like the picture? She cocked her head and smiled vacantly. Our food finally came - and it actually did look like the picture! -  and we scarfed it down in 3.5 seconds, paid and bolted to the beyond. We drove for another zillion years and finally found a hotel that wasn't run by Norman Bates, and proceeded to sleep like....shit. There was some weird dripping outside the window all. night. long. And people kept walking by our door all. night. long. And some man on another floor was snoring and we could actually HEAR HIM snoring all. night. long, and ohmygod it was a total nightmare.

But the next day dawned fresh and beautiful, and though we missed the "free, hot breakfast!" because we finally fell asleep only a few hours before the end of the breakfast deadline, we still felt excited, despite the lack of sleep. Since we missed breakfast, and worrying we'd hit another stretch of food desert, we took advantage of the McDonald's that was right next to the hotel and hit the drive-thru. Here was our order, and pay close attention, because it's critical to this absolutely compelling story I am telling you:
Egg McMuffin
2 Coffees
1 Large Orange Juice
Fruit & Yogurt Parfait

Got it? Good. We pulled up to the window to pay and get our stuff, and the woman handed us one bag and 1 coffee. "Y'all have a nice day!"  Call me gifted, but I somehow knew the other coffee and the juice were not in the bag. "We ordered TWO coffees, and a juice..."
"Oh! Sorry 'bout that!" Oh, those Missourians. Missourans?  She disappeared for a minute and then handed us another coffee and a juice. I peeked inside the bag and noticed the Fruit & Yogurt parfait was also missing. "The yogurt?" I asked.
"....OH! Oh, sorry 'bout that!" She once again disappeared, but this time? It was FOR. EH. VER. I'm not even kidding when I tell you that a full five minutes - which, come on, let's face it, in drive-thru time is forever - passed before she came back and popped her head out to give us an update. "She's still workin' on it, sorry!"

Working on it? What is there to work on? It's a Fruit & Yogurt Parfait not an art project. We looked behind us and noticed that a line of cars was starting to build. All because of a Fruit & Freakin' Yogurt Parfait! She finally came back and stuck her head out the window, but M's head was blocking my view and I couldn't see anything. I heard him exclaim, "THAT'S HUGE!" Since I couldn't see anything, I could only imagine that it actually  MUST have been a work of art, a HUGE work of art that was worth all the time we had been made to wait. And that is when he turned towards S and I with this in his hands:

I'm not sure I can effectively show you with this picture just how TINY this Fruit & Yogurt Parfait was. I mean, it must have come off the Shrunken Munchkin Menu, because it was microfuckingscopic, and it most certainly did NOT look like the picture, and I could not believe that we had waited THAT LONG for this. And that she had given us UPDATES on its progress. Oh, but how we laughed. And laughed. And laughed pretty  much all the way through Missouri up to the Arkansas state line.

We finally  made it to Houston, and entering the city was a little surreal. You see, I left the city 27 years ago for the great green pastures of Oregon, and I had not been back since. We had a nice, albeit bionic, visit with my cousin. We ate Texas Bar-B-Q and Southwestern Mexican food, and best of all? I got to visit my old neighborhood house, the one in front of which I was kissed by my first "Great Love". And as we passed the front porch I could almost see myself there, standing on tiptoes, being kissed. I showed S my old high school - the one I went to for 2 years before leaving for good, and she practically blew my ear drums out with her "OHMYGOD IT'S HUMONGOUS!" And you know what? It was. I thought it would look smaller now that I'm all bitter and jaded, but it looked even bigger than I remembered it to be. And it was pretty neat to share a piece of my past with S like that.

After we left Houston, we impulsively decided to take the "long way home", and swung through New Orleans. We arrived just in time for dinner, and feasted on some gumbo and crusty french  bread and Cajun beer right in the heart of the French Quarter. We drove through the streets a while, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the adorable houses that were all adorned with flickering hanging lanterns for porch lights, drove past countless bars with jazz bands playing in the open windows, saw a man doing clap push-ups on the sidewalk, and then deemed ourselves to have "seen New Orleans".

The next day, we detoured through Memphis to visit Graceland. We didn't really have time to tour the mansion and all its tacky glory, but we were able to see the grounds and even sign our names on the giant stone wall that surrounds the mansion. I whipped out a red marker and we added our greetings to the millions of others. We even saw one woman crying. Oh, how she had loved Elvis Aaron Presley.

And then, just like that, it was time to head home. Sure, there are more bad hotel stories to tell, and a few "Mo-OM! I'm BORED!" moments that made M and I want to throw S out the window of our speeding car. But I won't torture you with those details. Because the truth is, all those many miles of road, and those bad hotels, and yes, even those "Mo-OM! I'm BORED"s all add up to the three of us simply making memories together.

And there's nothing better than that.