Thursday, June 28, 2012

Fifty Shades of Grey, Sleepless Nights

by Cathy

Since I am on a roll about the lack of sleep I am getting due to my neighbors and city living, I thought it appropriate to round out my Insomniac Trilogy by talking about what prevents me from getting any sleep in my own bedroom. Yes. I'm going there.

Sleepless nights, partly due to the antics of Mr. Christian Grey

I knowingly prolong my sleep window of opportunity by getting caught up in THE trilogy of the moment: Fifty Shades of Grey.  I say to myself that I'll only read "a few pages just so that I can calm myself down" and get me in the mood for sleep, but if you've read any Shade of the Grey trilogy, it elicits the exact opposite effect. Nonetheless, as the clock trudges relentlessly towards midnight, I force myself to earmark the salacious page I'm on and begin coaxing the slumber out from deep within my exhausted bones. I settle in next to my snoring-to-high-heaven husband for what I hope and pray will be a restful night's sleep.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blinkety blink. I can almost hear my eyes blinking. I wish I could be like my husband, who conks out as soon as his head hits the pillow. But, no. I have to play and re-play the day in my head, analyze, re-analyze, think, re-think, plan, re-plan, mentally write and re-write tomorrow's to-do's, worry, freak-out and toss and turn and get up to make sure I: didn't forget any laundry in the washing machine; make sure I turned on the dryer; remembered to thaw meat for tomorrow's dinner; check on the girls to make sure they aren't too hot or too cold; adjust the windows, make sure the doors are locked and anything else you can think of. Oh yeah...by now...I have to pee.

I am convinced that at the point my sleep window closed, the hormone door was swung wide open. Thus, a mix of: stayed up way too late + Far Too Many Shades of Grey + hormones + Joe's snoring + the incessant thoughts springing up in my head = me falling asleep somewhere in the vicinity of 2 a.m.....which....is right around the time Ari wakes up.


Pitter patter pitter patter. Just as I am dozing off, I hear her little feet coming towards our bedroom down the hallway and my stomach sinks. As my body is jarred fully awake and once again has veered off the course of sleep, my nerves are now shooting electric currents through my body and my eyes start to sting. Immediately I know I have to decide between three options:1) scoop her up and take her back to lay with her until she falls asleep again 2) let her sleep there while I try to sleep there or 3) just leave her there and I go sleep in her bed.

Since option #1 is too much work and option #2 has resulted in little fists and feet landing on my face and poking me in places that jerk me angrily awake and have me looking like a baggy-eyed, bruised up version of myself, I instinctively go for option #3.


As I shuffle into Ari's fluffy pink bed, I make yet another mental note about picking up some Nyquil and Tylenol P.M. on my next store visit. Oh...and some toilet paper. And some...




Wednesday, June 27, 2012

The Pointe of Dreams

by Patti

This past weekend marked a monumental milestone in S's 11-year old life. Since she was four years old, S has dreamed of this milestone, and it has finally come to fruition: She's en pointe.

She has studied countless YouTube videos in preparation for this day, and the bunions, the blood, the twisted toes - none of that scares her away.

The day she got fitted for her pointe shoes, the parents, bystanders in our kids' dreams, hovered, snapping pictures, inhaling the glee that seemed to permeate the air. There were pointe shoes spread out all over the floor, as the fitters grasped the delicate, still unmarred feet of our daughters, trying to find the perfect fit. They were Cinderella ballerinas. 

Glass slippers
S's fitter called her over the barre, and S walked over, at first clumsy, the pointe shoes a new, strange feeling on her feet. The fitter worked her hand around S's foot, eyeing for any "twist" or "scrunch" in the fabric as S looked down at her feet, unbelieving of her luck.

Then the fitter asked her to plie so that she could see how the shoes moved with her. S grasped the barre and dipped low, her legs strong and determined. 

At last, the fitter uttered the magic words. "Please go up en pointe." S held her breath, knowing she was about to go up for the very first time, feeling the air change around her. Then she did it - she grew a foot in an instant -  she was en pointe.


S smiled hard into the mirror, failing at her attempt to remain cool and casual. The fitter clapped her hands together in celebration, and then got back to work, analyzing S's feet, their position, the fit of the shoes.
The first pair was deemed unsuitable, and S was sent back to the purple velvet couch to try on another pair.

If at first you don't succeed....
 S tried on a good dozen pairs of shoes that afternoon, and every walk to the mirror and subsequent lift up on to her toes grew stronger and stronger. By the time she and her fitter found the pair that sang on her feet, she could have pirhouetted out of the store en pointe, out onto the street, and all the way home.

But first: I had to pay.

When the cashier chirped out the total to me, my stomach lurched. Really? For pointe shoes? And then, as I looked over at S proudly clutching the little purple bag that held her wishes, I realized: I wasn't paying for shoes; I was paying for a dream. And then, as I handed over my debit card, it seemed I was getting quite a deal.

The moment we got home, S put on her new pointe shoes. They were satin-y, pink champagne on her feet as she flitted on her toes across the kitchen floor. "Look, mom!" I was actually impressed at how easily she seemed to lift herself  up so high.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"Not at all!" she answered, her arms delicately fluttering as she looked down at her vertical feet. "It feels cool!"

Remember when we dreamed? When it all seemed possible; when it was all new and fresh and we got butterflies at the thought of what was yet to come? I see that in her eyes now. Dreams keep a heart beating.

Love. Dream. Hope.





Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Stuck in the Middle with...Them

by Cathy

I live in a six-unit condo building. Each side of the building has three units - the top and the bottom of which are duplexes, the middle ones are simplex units. We're in one of those. We have the most number of people in the entire building (4), yet we are the ones living on a single floor while one- and two-people families are living in the spacious two-floor units.

So until we make the move to a single-family home, we are sandwiched - and not in a good way. As irony would have it, the unit below us has only one woman living there. She's an attorney who works from home, and aside from the occasional late-night phone conversation or clarinet practice for her Klezmer band (which she does in her basement), I can barely even tell she lives there. Now why couldn't SHE live upstairs from us? Instead?

Instead, a loud Italian family and their 90-lb. German Shepherd live above us. Granted, here I am, the pot calling the kettle black. We are a Greek/Latino family and we are loud as heck. But at least my upstairs and downstairs neighbors have the option of fleeing one floor above or below us when the going gets loud. We have nowhere to go and as such, are subjected to every fight, toddler tantrum, dog-barking episode that occurs. And when does most of this occur, you may ask? But of course, waaaaaay before we wake up in the morning. It's bad enough I have outside noise to deal with when asleep but noise emanating from within your "house" that's not your doing - that's a whole other component to city living.

We never had much luck when it came to upstairs neighbors since we moved into this multi-unit building 15 years ago. The first couple was the building developer and his wife. How bad could that be, right? No kids. No pets. Well, they were both over six-feet tall and heavy-footed as hell. The scenario that stands out the most with them, happened one night when the guy walked back from a local bar, drunk as a skunk in a funk. It must have been around 2 a.m. and Joe and I were fast asleep when I heard a key searching our back door for a keyhole. Then the knob was turning incessantly and the screen door slid along the tracks in one fell swoop. My eyes flew open and I froze, with the exception of moving my elbow hard enough to nudge Joe in the ribs. "Someone's at the back door!" I whispered and shrieked simultaneously.

In seconds, he was on his feet and stepping cautiously down the hallway, wide awake now. After a few tense minutes, he returned.
"I didn't see anyone," he said shuffling back under the covers. "What did you hear?"

As if on cue, we heard the supposed intruder stumbling into the room above us. He obviously found the back door keyhole that fit his key. After a series of boom-boom-booms heard criss-crossing the floor above us, we felt the ceiling, walls and floors shudder and all the furniture and pictures on our wall shook with electricity as we heard the loudest THUD! ever. We simultaneously shot up in bed, our hearts racing and our breaths still, waiting for more. But there was only silence. Apparently, he shuffled his drunk weight around the room in an attempt to remove his pants and naturally, got tangled in them to the point where he lost his balance and tipped over like a tree falling in the forest. There he lay flat on his face and slept for the rest of the night while we hardly clocked a wink.

The people who moved in after them were a single mom and her teenage son, another lead-footed, shuffler who listened to loud rock music at all times and had friends over almost always.

And now, we have the loud Euro family. We've had them as upstairs neighbors for nine years now so you would think we'd be used to this but we never do because every day brings with it a unique, loud-ass scenario that could be as simple as their four-year old using the bathroom and screaming out to her mother. "Mommy! I miss you! Mommy! Can you wipe me?!?" As luck would have it yet again, they are also a Shrek-sized family. Both parents are over six-feet tall (noticing a pattern here?) and their "toddler" wears a shoe size that looks dangerously close to the size I wear, as Bella delicately pointed out to me today. "That's just wrong," we said, almost in unison.


That big-footed toddler doesn't run as delicately as a girl her age should. She flops her feet in a dead-weight fashion with every leap forward. More than once, my heat has kicked in simply by having one of the parents stomp-walk above my thermostat. Meanwhile the dog jumps off the couch and my light fixtures shake, rattle and roll. We all know that Greeks and Italians talk so loud it sounds like they're always fighting, but when in fact they are fighting? Fuggedaboudit.

Now this family is finally moving into the single-family home they need to be in but the question looms large: Which big-footed, loud-mouthed, zoo-toting family will move in?





Monday, June 25, 2012

Eavesdropped: Insane Gramp

by Patti


S was Skyping with Bella the other day, when Bella asked her if she had Instagram.
"Yes! In Argentina!" replied S.
Bella blinked over the virtual airwaves, trying to understand S's answer.
"Why did you ask me that?" S asked, trying to understand the reason for such an odd question.
"Ask you what?" replied Bella.
"If I had an insane gramp...."

In a parallel universe, somehow this.......
equals this.




Thursday, June 21, 2012

Windows & Eyes Wide Shut

by Cathy

I love two things: sleep and nice weather.

I love them even more when I can get them at the same time. However, Chicago weather rarely allows you the opportunity to crack open the windows of your house because the temperature here goes from 30 degrees to 90 degrees overnight - which means you can have the heat on one day and the air conditioning on, the next; no natural air flow.

When all the weather Gods decide to smile down upon Chicago and all the planets align and the earth is at the most precise point on its axis to where I get to throw open my windows and let some natural air flow into my stale, incubated home, I revel in the act. Once the crack is heard and the humidity-swollen windows unseal themselves from their frames, I lift them high above my head like an Olympic weightlifting champ and take in the summer breeze that blows through my hair as I shut my eyes and smile widely - much like those women do in those commercials for anything from chocolate to shampoo.

Having the windows open is a perfect compromise for me and Joe because he H-A-T-E-S the air conditioner much like a vampire hates holy water. At night, we settle in for a comfortable night's sleep, feeling the cool breeze flow in as we snuggle under the summer blankets and sleep like a babies until...

...someone's godforsaken, f*&^$ing car alarm undoubtedly will go off at some insane time of the morning - every morning I get to sleep in. WEEE-OOOOOOO-WEEEEE-OOOOOOOO-WEEEEEE-OOOOOOO-WEEEEE-OOOOOOOO and on and on until I start dreaming, half-awake, that I am releasing the safety on my rifle as I prop myself out of that open window and aim at the alarmed car - alarmed by some phantom force that comes out only to nudge cars into shriek mode and annoy me when I have my windows open and trying to sleep in.

...one of my neighbors decides to mow the lawn (again, at an insane time of morning - don't these people ever sleep IN?) with the loudest electric lawn mower on the face of the earth, then uses a leaf blower to blow debris off his property and onto mine (I never understood the purpose for those damned things) and then uses an edge trimmer to get his lawn to look more manicured than my nails will ever be. And now...I'm up.

...one of the 1,397 dogs within a one block radius of my building will inevitably see that phantom force haunting all the car alarms in the area or maybe just notice a bee buzzing by, but they will bark their hearts and lungs out until they are satisfied with how well they've done their dog duty for the day. This is usually followed by the owner's urgent, reprimanding requests to stop. So it will go like this: bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, howl, bark, bark, bark-bark, bark, howl, bark, bark-bark-bark, bark..."Timber! Stop!" Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark-bark, "TIMBER!" And guess what? Now, I'm up and annoyed as hell.

...you know how in Cinderella when the sweet, little chirping birds gracefully and beautifully sing-song the sleeping maiden awake in the morning and braid her hair and make her bed and give her a bath and help get her dressed? If a bird is going to do all that for me, then that's the only time it's okay for it to sit on my windowsill and shriek out it's little chirping bird call. Otherwise, it should go sit on the windowsill of the dog owners/landscape artists who are already awake and bringing down the neighborhood.

...and finally, I know they're just doing their jobs but when the garbage and recycling trucks come through at 7am and of course, they need to reverse, because who can always drive straight ahead down an alley, right? When they reverse through the crossroads of my back alleys, the automatic safety feature kicks in to alert the entire neighborhood that the truck is reversing with a series of BEEEEEP-BEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEPS. Then there is a pause as he straightens out the truck, only to reverse again: BEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP. "WHOA!!!" screams the spotter to the driver, who can't see what he is inches away from hitting. We get this TWO mornings a week - once with regular garbage pick up and once with recycling. I know, I know, I should be thankful that we HAVE garbage pick-up and that I am not living in squalor being swallowed up by my own wasteful consumption. But can't they do it at lunchtime?

Of course let's not forget the fire trucks, ambulances and kids that wake up at the ass-crack of dawn who are out playing and screaming and fighting while their bleary-eyed parents are face-planted in a mug of coffee the size of a flower planter and too tired to shush them down.


I am well aware that I sound like a cantankerous old fart and you would think I'd be used to all this by now given that I was born and raised in Chi-town. However, when I was younger, I could sleep through a world war. Now that I've had kids my body has programmed me to hear a pin drop in the middle of the night.

Maybe it's my age. Maybe I'm getting to old for city living. Maybe I ought to move to the suburbs. Or maybe...I should just keep my windows sealed shut FOREVER so I can get some shut-eye.




Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Acquiring Signal

by Patti


We had the same television in our family room since S was born. That's 11 years. And in technology time, I'm pretty sure that is actually more like 6923 years.

A couple of years ago my brother-in-law was living with us for a while, and he, being the television addict that he is, immediately ran out and bought a flat screen TV. M, being the proud "I'll buy my OWN flat screen TV --- IF I want it" kind of man that he is, relegated the stylish, sleek, expensive, MODERN television to the basement, where it got good use only thanks to my brother-in-law and S's Wii-lovin' friends. (And late nights visits from me, where I may or may not have licked that smooth, flat screen in the dark.)  But then my brother-in-law moved out, and, as a parting gift of "thanks for letting me mooch off of you for a year", he gave us the flat screen.

That was almost two years ago. And the television stayed in our basement - pretty, shiny, MODERN, largely ignored. "Don't you think we should maybe think about swapping our old TV with the flat screen. I mean, we never go down to the basement,and that TV... it's so nice, and it's not being used. At all." I often said to M, hoping to appeal to his ever-present practical side.

My rational arguments finally made sense, and the moment he caved and shrugged his shoulders, I got busy. I scored the perfect TV stand on Craigslist, and this past Saturday, while M was at work, I hauled it in the backseat of my car from the seller's house to our house, and began the machinations of bringing our family room into 2012. I disconnected cables and wires wildly, mentally taking a snapshot of where each one belonged. I rolled up the rug and dragged the heavy media armoir that had housed the old TV into our kitchen, and I then carried our dinosaur television - which appeared to also weigh as much as a dinosaur - down to the basement. In the process, I'm pretty sure I felt a vital cable disconnect in my brain - one that seemed to be attached to my lower back.

Once I got to the basement, I began unhooking all of the craziness down there, taking more mental snapshots of the setup so that I could repeat it upstairs. We have DISH satellite, so the setup requires a fancy box that not only delivers our channels, it also delivers the HD to our TV. I felt so snappy, alive, capable! I told S that I'd be done in less than an hour, and then we could go out and grab some lunch.

Three. Hours. Later? I was still at it. But by this point, I no longer felt alive! Capable! Snappy! I felt dead! Dumb! Crabby! The cables and connections made no sense, and no matter which configuration I attempted, all I ever got was an "Acquiring Signal" that froze on the flat screen. And I hadn't even BEGUN the dinosaur connection downstairs. Not only that, but the TV stand I had just scored? Looked college dorm-ish and cheap in our family room. The flat screen, once majestic in the basement, now looked small and, well, flat. "What have I DONE?" I lamented to nobody in particular.
"Mom, I'm hungry! You told me we were leaving soon, and that was HOURS ago!"

Just as I was about lay on the floor in surrender, M came home to a jungle of cables and wires and two dead TVs.
"Hi babe!" I called out, all chipper and jauntily, attempting to conceal the half-assed, half-done job now splayed out before us. "Don't you just LOVE our new TV stand? I got it off Craigslist. Oh! I can't get the cable to work. I've tried everything. Can you try?"
"MO-OM! I'm STARVING!"
M looked around, surveying the technological warfare in our family room. Then he calmly began to unravel the snakes of wires. I instantly felt better - I just knew he'd be able to figure it out.
"MOM, I'm DYING of STARVATION!"
"Why don't you take S to get something to eat, and stop and pick up some of these?" He held up some of those fancy red/yellow/white wires that apparently make things work.
"Okay - be back soon!"

S and I were gone for about an hour, and when we returned, I found M lounging on the deck, talking on the phone. I gave him a "thumbs up" question, and he thumbs downed me back. I rushed into the family room to find the cables and wires all neatly rolled up, the flat screen sad and useless on its new, ugly, college dorm-y stand. M walked in behind me. "What happened?" I asked.
"I can't figure it out."
My heart sank. M is the most MacGyver-y person I know; that man can figure out or fix anything. The fact that he was waving his white flag at our TV problem led me to believe we were destined to Jenga and Monopoly for the rest of our lives. "That does it! I"m calling DISH." I punched the number into the phone, put up with 10 minutes of prompts, and finally got a live guy. I explained the situation to him, and he immediately calmed my fears, telling me he could fix my problem in his sleep. "Even if you can't see it?" I asked him. "Cuz it's realllly hard to explain."
"Trust me."

So I spent 20 minutes on the phone with the cockiest tech support dude I have ever encountered, and when I saw the "Acquiring Signal" across my TV, and then a beautiful blaze of blue indicating the signal had actually been acquired, I literally whooped into the phone and started jumping around like an idiot with his pants on fire. "Ohmygod, you are SOOOO smart!" I gushed. "I have been working on this for, like, SEVEN HOURS!" My whooping and gushing and jumping only served to further cockyfy him, but I didn't care. At that moment, I had to rate getting our DISH satellite to work only second to giving birth to my child. Maybe even first since there was no pooping on the table involved.

Once we hung up, I caressed the television while M made sure the one downstairs was working, and as soon as the glow of that victory wore off, I remembered that I hated, but HATED the new television stand I had just bought. So M suggested we MacGyver our old cherry armoir. He removed the top, and suddenly, magically, with a hallelujah chorus behind it and a golden glow all around it, stood the most beautiful TV stand I'd ever seen. "Yes!" I shouted. "Yes! That's the TV stand I've been looking for!"

My victory was hard-won, because all the moving and shuffling and lifting and puffing did a number on my back, and  the next day I couldn't walk. Good thing I had ol' Flat Screen to entertain me while I lay on the couch - flat on my crippled back.




Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Papi Pooper

by Cathy

"Hmm..." wondered Ari aloud as she tapped her index finger to her pursed lips. It was bedtime and she had some hard decisions to make.  As she mulled over which book to choose for her bedtime story, she asked me, "Who should I ask to read me a book today, you or Papi?"

I offered my suggestion, knowing full well that she will do the opposite. "Why don't I read it tonight and papi will do it tomorrow night?"

"I'll ask Papi," she said definitively. "Then you can do it tomorrow night."

Surprise!

Bella, overhearing our conversation, piped in. "Well, then mommy can read me a story tonight then. Can you mommy?" Since I secretly love that my 11-year old still wants me to read her a bedtime story, I quickly agreed. I'll take this as long as I can get it.

I settled into Bella's bed with her and the book she chose, while Joe limped into the room half asleep.

"Here, papi!" said Ari, way more energetic than she should be at this hour. "Here's the book I want."
She pointed to a fancy, two-inch thick hardcover with gold gilded paging entitled Treasury of Bedtime Stories.


"That whole thing?!" said Joe, alarmed.
"No!!" said Ari laughing. Even she knew better than that. "Just one story, papi."
"How about half a story. It's late and I'm tired and you guys need to go to bed."

Bella burst into incredulous laughter, since she and I were privy to that whole conversation while sitting on her bed. "HALF a story?! Who reads half a story??"

"Ha ha ha!" I chimed in. "Papi is such a party pooper!" [Pause for laughter that was quickly building up in my lungs as a result of the new nickname that ingeniously and rapidly formed in my head.] "A papi pooper!!!" I barely screamed out with dissipating breath. [More hysterical laughing here by both of us.] "Remember that party pooper song from Father of the Bride?!" I elbowed a doubled-over Bella.

Taking a deep breath, she shrieked "Yessssssss!" and began singing the following from the movie:


 

By now Bella and I were chanting this repeatedly in the crazy Franc accent while tappin' our toes and flicking our wrists. Ari, who wasn't familiar with the movie, was giggling hysterically. Joe was hiding behind Treasury of Bedtime Stories, no doubt rolling his eyes and keeping his cheeks from exploding with laughter. Why? Because he knows it's true.

Bella further proved the point by recalling the times when he was supposed to be reading her a bedtime story, but instead, she read to him while he snored to high heaven. Or whenever the girls are running, laughing, fighting, roughhousing, playing at ANY time of day or night, he would yell out, "Go to bed!!"

No doubt getting pretty tired at this point of being labeled a Party Pooper, he bravely attempted to dispute the accusation by agreeing to a game of Twister with the girls the other night. I say bravely because he is barely off his crutches and his ankle is still rather swollen, which means he can't put undue pressure on it, still has to ice it and was scolded by his doctor because he should still be using at least one crutch. I think he lasted about four minutes being hunched over on the Twister mat and we decided to give him a pass. A party pooper papi pass.




Friday, June 15, 2012

Up in the Air and They Just Don't Care

by Patti

Did you know that the airport bar is jam-packed at 7 am? Yes! It is! The morning lushes are getting their drunk on, waiting for planes, their beers and whiskeys golden in the morning sunlight, their collective heads bobbing.

Don't get me wrong: I love me some booze. But I am not and cannot be a morning drinker. I can barely function as it is in the morning, and the thought of booze trickling its way through my already nauseous veins sends me into hurl mode.

Disclaimer: I did take a shot of Makers Mark in an airport bar once at 9 am with some girlfriends as we waited to board a plane to Vegas. But waiting to board a plane to Vegas is living in some sort of suspended reality bubble. It doesn't count. What happens in the Vegas Bubble of Suspended Reality stays in the Vegas Bubble of Suspended Reality. But in non-suspended reality, a drink accompanied by the morning chirp of birds feels way to Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf to me.

But that's just me. Because in airports, strange things happen. All the time. People regularly stumble out of bars and onto planes at 7 am..... and then carry that crazy right onto the airplane and 30,000 feet up in the air.

Apparently, farts don't count on planes. Did you know that? At least, that is what those who are farting out the farts seem to think. I spent four hours in a metal tube of farts the other day. I don't know if it was the girl next to me, the man behind me, or the girl in front of me - or, who knows, maybe the entire planeload of passengers had plane gas (and I ain't talkin' fuel) - but whoever it was was clearly operating on the Farts Don't Count in the Air theory. And my LORD can I just point out right here and right now that farts DO count up in the air? They really do still smell. I promise. So, please: Hold it in.

Also: About reclining that seat. Yes, I know that there is absolutely nothing comfortable about sitting in an airplane seat - unless you are legless (in which case, you're probably already uncomfortable, so enjoy the extra room - you deserve it) - or one of those First Class People that have the luxury of hurtling through the air in a Lazy Boy recliner. But us Regular People? We are crammed into those seats with our knees assaulting our chins. So when you try to create more legroom by reclining your seat, you are inevitably instantly stealing away somebody else's already dangerously low legroom.

The other day, I had the distinct pleasure of sitting behind the Extreme Seat Recliner. Not only did she recline her seat, but I'm fairly certain that hers was of the Deluxe Recline variety, because as I innocently sat there reading my book, I suddenly found the girl in front of me in my lap. The tray table I had pulled out to support my book was now jammed into my sternum, and the girl's head was practically between my legs.

 I passively-aggressively shoved the seat, hoping she would get the hint. Instead, she settled more deeply into her seat and into a nice, long, nap. A fidgety one. Because that bitch would not. stop. moving. for four hours. And each time she did, she didn't just shift her body into a new position; she FLUNG her body into a new position. And each time she did, the entire chair would shake further into my lap, and the tray into my sternum.

Let's talk food. Airlines no longer feed a passenger unless that passenger wants to purchase a mysteriously dry-yet-soggy turkey and cranberry sandwich for $15. So most savvy eco-travelers have started bringing their own food. But may I ask whatever happened to the sandwich? Because people no longer bring such simple fare to tide them over on a plane; no - they bring BUFFETS. And most of the time they are either drowning in garlic, smothered in curry, or slathered in fake, melted cheese. I love all of these things, I do - but NOT TOGETHER, and most definitely NOT within the confines of recycled air at no-oxygen heights. Combine that with farts and snoring drunk breath, and please, just please - let me just strap on a parachute and jump out.

Have you had enough? What is that you say? You don't want to hear about the man who falls asleep with his mouth open, his oblivous-to-the-world head bobbing and weaving on his airplane-pillowed neck? Because all planes have those, you know. And that man will inevitablly fall deeply asleep the VERY second you realize that if you don't go pee now, but right now, bad things will happen. So you will sit there, calculating whether or not holding it for three more hours is possible, and then you will conclude, that no, it is not, and you will carefully tap him on the shoulder, and he will snuffle and snort himself awake, his eyes bleary and confused, and then he will sigh heavily as you APOLOGIZE FOR HAVING TO PEE, and he will get up very slowly and barely move out of your way so that your ass might just brush his chest as you work your way by so that you can go pee for crying out loud. And then you will come back from the bathroom, and he might be asleep again, and you will have to wake him up, and this time you will apologize for having to sit down - the nerve! - and your ass will once again brush against his chest as you work your way by back to your seat. And then, amid the farts, the drunks, and the head between your legs, you will pray you don't have to pee again.

But since you don't want to hear about it, I'll stop here.

Happy Travels!




Thursday, June 14, 2012

If You're at Target Long Enough...

by Cathy


...you will undoubtedly run into someone you know

...the more you stand there chatting with that person, the more people you will run into and pretty soon, coffee hour at Target with your friends seems like a good idea

...you will pick up waaaaay more stuff than you need or ever intended to buy

...you will spend waaaaay more money than you ever thought you could afford

...you will get side-Targeted

...the randomness of the things you throw in your cart will make you very self-aware. A garden hose and a new pair of sandals?A car air freshener and a kids piggy bank? A panama hat and some diapers?

...you get chic for cheap (designer brand whore, anyone?)

...and if you bring your kids...fugetaboutit. You'll snap and go broke all at once

...you'll end up having Pizza Hut for dinner, then for dessert, a coffee and a scone from Starbucks. Why would you ever want to leave?

...you will dig through plenty of clearance shelves and racks to assemble a hodgepodge of random stuff that's "Cute! I'll need it some day."

...you will encounter the quintessential Saturday Night Live cashier. (Sadly, SNL doesn't post excerpts of many of its skits on YouTube but you can check out a home recorded version of the SNL Target Lady skit here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AadELglfRxw).

I had one the other day that announced every item of mine she was scanning: "Pickles...oooh peaches...Cheerios!" As she was scanning my 1,001 items, I confessed to her that of course, I only came in for milk and now look - a packed conveyor belt of stuff.

She commiserated knowingly and said: "That's the number one thing my customers say! Ya come in for some avocados then ya end up buyin' lingerie! Everything is so strategically placed...I know 'xactly what you're talkin' about!" she sang. "Lysol...nail polish...pizza!" Upon handing me my last bag, her hand got tangled up in it but she didn't miss a beat. "Ooooh!" she laughed. "Just take me with you then! Ha! Ya got any wine at home?"
"I always have wine at home," I egged her on.
"Well then I'm definitely goin' with you! Ha ha!"

And lastly, if you're at target long enough...

...you will discover why it's fittingly called Target. (Kudos to the marketing genius that came up with this one.) It's because you, yes YOU, the unassuming consumer, are the Target! You are the target for everything about Target that sucks you in! BAM! You've been Targeted.

..




Tuesday, June 12, 2012

You Must Have Been Dropped on Your Head as a Child

by Cathy

As she's done countless times before, Ari pitter-pattered her way down our hallway last night - no doubt, half asleep as always. Since I was still up, I headed her off at the foot of the bed, where she ended up bowed over, resting her tired head.

"Come on, honey. Let me take you back to your bed," I whispered as Joe snorted awake.
"What's going on?" he mumbled with one eye closed, arm stretched out in front of him as if searching for something.
"I got this," I said, as I ushered Ari's tired little body out the door and followed her down the hallway.

Upon entering her pitch black room, I heard her stop short and lay her head on the edge of the bed. 'Poor thing is sooooo tired,' I thought to myself.

I could barely see my hand in front of my face and couldn't gauge the distance from where she was laying to her pillow, so I just scooped up her legs and swung them onto the bed and put pushed hard to shift her up and onto her pillow. Apparently, she was MUCH closer to the pillow than I thought because the next thing I heard was a loud THUD. (It reminded me of those cartoons where the bad guy is using a tree log to bust down the door of the poor victim, except the log was Ari's head and the door was the headboard.) I froze. All I could hear was the headboard reverberating in the blackness. Oh my God, was that her head?!

She attempted to whimper on and off while I frantically whispered over her head: "Are you okay? Honey?! Is your head okay?! Are. You. OKAY?!?"

She wouldn't respond and this freaked me out because I didn't know if she was too tired or if I had knocked her out. So I sat there poking, pinching and nudging her while listening up close to see if she was breathing. With every poke, pinch and nudge, she shifted and with each of those shifts came a slight, tired whimper, followed at last, by a deep sigh. She was just too plain tired to acknowledge the pain resonating in her head. Sighing in practical unison with her, I sat there, my eyes now just adjusting to the darkness, and I thought about how scary it is that in just a millisecond, a serious injury could find your child. And what's more frightening? To know that it may be YOUR fault.


This happened to me once with each of my girls: With Bella, I neglected to strap her into her playswing and she fell hard on her tiny, still-forming head and with Ari, I let her 'cry it out' in the playpen when she managed in a fit of rage to break out of her baby prison and flipped over onto her head and the floor.

Of course I had to reference these episodes when my sister, a new mom, texted me at work the other day in classic new-worried-mom mode to tell me: "The baby just whacked her head really hard against my cheekbone while I was holding her and now she's crying. Do you think she'll be okay?" After I reminded her of my episodes, my sister replied with a relieved string of LOLs.

I was literally laughing out loud recalling the incidents now and my co-worker Marie had to come into my office and asked what party she was missing. I explained to her about my sister's worry and she too now had a baby-been-dropped-on-its-head story to share. "I was holding my son Nathan and he was about one at the time and we were at the park and he was throwing a fit," she began. "He got so fussy and fidgety, that he lunged forward and leaped right out of my arms and onto the cement pavement below."

I gasped. "What did you DO!?"

"I became hysterical, crying and screaming for someone to help me because I saw blood," she recalled with worry on her face. "Luckily, the blood was coming from his nose and nothing was broken. It was such a horrible experience. But he's okay now," she added with a laugh.

It occurred to me then that every mom out there has a freak-out story about their child that they can now easily share, but perhaps were not at all proud about at the time. In fact, my parents always tell me about the time I was in the baby walker when I was one year old, and my father left the front door to our apartment wide open as he went down three flights of stairs to retrieve the mail. I unknowingly waddled after him and cartwheeled my way down those flights of stairs while still in the baby walker.

I swear I still see a slight fracture in my skull from that incident. But it's okay, because you must have been dropped on your head as a child too. I'm SURE of it.




Friday, June 8, 2012

The thought of dying is killing me

by Patti

I have to leave in a few days for a work trip, and that ol' friend Anxiety has already started poking at my insides. Well, actually, Anxiety has been poking at my insides long before today; it is a faithful companion when it comes to having to fly, never failing to do its job just right by me. Oh, Anxiety. You and your willingness to succeed.

Yes, I'm afraid to fly. I never was before I had S. I have had the lucky opportunity to travel to many places in the world, and before I became a mother, I never gave packing my bags and boarding a plane a second thought. After S? Why would I do that? I COULD DIE. And although I'm not too keen on dying just yet - especially in a fiery crash that might have me knowing I'm going to die for many, many torturous minutes as I hurtle mercilessly through the air in a metal tube with 200 other screaming passengers - my main fear of flying is not necessarily dying - though, I have to admit that would suck; it's dying and leaving S motherless.

And it's not just flying. Before I had S, I have to admit: I did alot of crazy things. Things I did without regard to consequence. Like the time M and I went skydiving, for example. I mean, REALLY? Would I REALLY strap on some fabric fashioned into a supposed life-saving parachute and jump out of a perfectly good plane when my daughter needs a mother to take her shopping for a prom dress? I mean, M has good taste and all, but I need to stay alive for that someday purchase of coquettish chiffon and a boutonniere. If he takes her shopping for a prom dress, S will likely end up going to her prom in this:

I'm too sexy for my habit
So, yeah: The mere thought of skydiving now sends my stomach into a mile-high skydive of its own - sans parachute.

I have to give my mind credit: It is pretty adept at coming up with every possible way to die. Aside from the usual culprtis like cancer and other assorted 21st century diseases (ebola, anyone?), my creative little mind has convinced me that going for a stroll in the park will leave me stabbed; driving will leave me decapitated; eating a burger will leave me all Mad Cow; swimming in the ocean will leave me either sucked under by a rip tide or legless-by-shark; running on the treadmill will cause my heart to stop, causing me to collapse onto the rapidly moving surface so that my head gets sucked into the machine; walking to the mailbox will leave me kidnapped - and depending on what kind of mood M is in, I may or may not be rescued by the resulting ransom....

Oh, I could go on (and on),  but the point is: However and whenver the great big clock in the sky points to my Time to Go, I don't want it to be when S still needs me. Dying on its own is some scary shit; dying and leaving behind my daughter when she still doesn't know the difference between long-wearing and thickening mascaras; when she still hasn't gotten her first period; when she still hasn't had her heart broken in the ways that make a girl a woman; when she still hasn't known the fear that motherhood instills in a woman's heart - I simply can't leave. Not yet.

But the mystery of "when" remains, and so the possibility that my brain will explode as I am innocently falling asleep does too. Let's just hope that by then, S is leaning on her cane, her grandchildren around her, her husband's arm circling her waist. What a way to go.




Thursday, June 7, 2012

Nail Salon Newbies

by Cathy

When you were a child, did your mother ever take you to the nail salon? Heck, did your mother herself ever even go to the nail salon? For me, that's a no and a no.

In fact, the first time I ever got a professional manicure or pedicure, I was in my late twenties.  Getting a mani/pedi just wasn't as IN back then as it now. Besides, we were DIYers; my mom was a certified beautician so she cut our hair, highlighted it, colored her own and polished our nails (as well as her own). We always looked like a million bucks without spending the million bucks.

So when my daughter asked for a nail salon party for her 11th birthday, I thought 'Why not? This could be fun.' There were seven girls in total, each of who got the choice of getting either a mani or a pedi. Bella could get both since she was the birthday girl. And Ari? My five-year old? She asked for a pedicure.

I stepped back and observed while they selected their service and color. They each took on a different, more mature persona as they decided: Mani or pedi? Which color? Nail art? Should I mix TWO colors? Should I alternate colors?

Ari, for example, hemmed and hawed over her decision for quite some time; this was very unlike her usually decisive self. She was awestruck at the color options as she looked up at the massive wall shelving unit that was brimming with every shade of every color in the rainbow and then some. "Mommy, pick me up so I can see the ones on top!" she squealed every so often. I patiently lifted and suggested and oohed and ahhed, but she would have none of it. She knew what she was looking for, and after a good twenty minutes and multiple choice changes later, she settled on a reddish-pink color.

Bella came off as a complete pro. Unlike her usual indecisive self, she promptly chose her turquoise color, was shown to her seat immediately and proceeded to set the massage chair to the setting of her choice. She picked up a tabloid magazine next to her, settled in and was thoroughly enjoying her spa time. It's as if she's done this millions of times before. She didn't really have any interest in observing the steps, the process or how anything was done. She was just intent on relaxing.

Ari, on the other hand, had to sit waaaaaay up close to the edge of the large leather recliner, and was intent on watching every. single. thing. the lady was doing and how she did it. She was in awe. Her tiny feet were inserted into the humongous plastic flip flops as the woman laughed lovingly at Ari's smallness and topped off her pedicure with some daisies on her big toes. Ari was squealing with delight.

Part of the thrill of watching your kids grow up is taking in how they experience new things. It was such a joy for me to experience such a womanly rite of passage with them for the first time at the ages they are now. And although we are big advocates of DIY, we will definitely plan some mother-daughter days at the nail salon at least once a year going forward. It's now officially, the IN thing to do.







Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Nuh oekoo oh uh uh nuh bu!

by Patti


S and I went for our semi-annual teeth cleaning the other day. I hate getting my teeth cleaned. I mean - really? Who does love getting their teeth cleaned? But I REALLY hate getting my teeth cleaned. I have what I call "weak teeth". They aren't satisfied unless they are crumbling and cavity-ridden. And they have a love affair with dentists, because they can't go more than a few months without having to see one.

I have had the same dentist for 11 years. A few months after S was born, I started visiting this guy, plopping S down in her car seat next to the dentist chair while he drilled and chiseled my mouth back into health. Today, as I settled into the chair of doom, I commented to him that I could not believe that 11 entire years had flown by in what seemed the time it took him to tell me I had a new cavity. And now, my kid, that once-baby that cooed at my feet while my dentist tortured me, was in the room next to mine, getting her own crazy teeth buffed and shined while he actually DID tell me I had a new cavity. My fourth in is as many months.

"We're going to have to up your visits to once every three months."
At this point, my mouth was pried open. Yet, he waited for my answer.
"Uh-huh," I nodded into his latex hand.
He poked around a bit more, pausing every so often to chat with me. As he chatted, he dangled the dangerously sharp plaque-scraper over my face, twirling it carelessly as he emphasized his words. I shrunk back into the chair, my eyes instinctively blinking to protect themselves from becoming decorative instrument tips. Yet, at the same time, my mind couldn't help but think that if he DID poke my eyes out, I'd be able to sue him, and WOW, would we be rich. Sure, I'd be eye-less, but we'd be rich!
"So, how's work?" he asked me as he dug further into the back of my mouth. My mouth was now stretched practically over my head, inside out.
"Oh, nuh un ow. I un oo ee aeeore"
He nodded, as if he understood what I was saying, and then proceeded to pepper the rest of my appointment with complex questions that could not be answered with a mere shake of my head.

Once he was done with me, he informed me that he was going to go down the hall to check out S's shark teeth, and that the hygienist would be in to polish my teeth. In breezed the peppy hygienist - officially the sweetest woman on earth. She is one of those people that probably bathes in sugar and makes you feel mean by simply standing next to you. Radiating sunshine and butterflies, she bent over my mouth, her kind eyes twinkly. "We have a new polisher!" she declared proudly. "It's a little loud, okay?"
Suddenly the room began to shake and I realized she had turned on the "new polisher". She hovered it over my mouth, her eyes full of apology.  And then she dove in, jack hammering each tooth with an explosion of mint. "So, how have you been?" she yelled over the "new polisher".
"Eyeee uh uh ee".
She tapped me lightly. "No, no. Don't move your mouth!"
Really?
"All done!"

I rose from the chair with shiny teeth and a vibrating head, and went to check on S. She grinned at me, her soon-gonna-cost-me-$7,000-in-braces teeth also shiny, and then we headed home. In the car she turned to me. "Mom, why does the dentist always ask me so many questions when my mouth is open?" Kid, you got my teeth. Better start now perfecting the art of "nuh oekoo oh uh uh nu bu!"




Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Before There Was Costco...

by Cathy

This past weekend, as I was busily preparing our Sunday dinner of grilled steaks and onions, Greek village salad and fittingly, Mexican rice, I realized that my glass olive oil dispenser, the one that sits at the ready on my kitchen counter, ever so full of its Greek homeland pride, had only a few drops of precious oil left.

Normally, I would panic - a panic that only a Greek without olive oil could experience - but I knew I could fall back on my trusty vat of olive oil I have on reserve. Instinctively, I picked up the fancy dispenser and headed straight to the corner of my kitchen where I keep my jumbo tin of Greek olive oil.

Don't let the picture fool you; this sucker is BIG


I swung the nozzle around, fit it carefully into the opening of the glass bottle and started pumping fresh Greek olive oil from the container into the carafe. Instantly, as if I was teleported to the olive groves of the Peloponnese and back, I was armed with a fresh, newly filled bottle of olive oil.

Then I wondered: How many other people have a vat of olive oil sitting in their kitchen for refills? Mine just happens to be shipped directly from my brother-in-law's olive groves in Greece, so the container is much larger than one could buy at a store, unless of course, it was Costco, and even Costco has nothing on the size of these imported olive oil containers. But seriously? Who has that?

Pondering this with a smile on my face, I recalled my childhood (the food we ate, how we ate it) and laughed out loud when I remembered that once, my mother asked me to go to our indoor porch out back and fetch some potatoes for that evening's dinner.

"Where are they?" I asked.
"Oh, you'll see them." she said. "Grab about five or six."

I swung open the back screen door and glanced around, looking for a small bag of potatoes that, say, a normal person would buy from the store. I couldn't believe my eyes when I spotted a SACK - I'm talking the burlap sacks of potatoes you see donkeys hauling in foreign countries, which were about my size and height at the time. I got closer and opened up the sack, expecting to find something or actually, someone in there along with the potatoes, simply because of the sheer size of the thing.

Looking back now, I remembered that I barely flinched at the fact that we had an industrial-sized sack of potatoes on our porch (and now I flinch because, did we really eat that many potatoes?); it just seemed normal to me at the time. Just like it seemed normal that we roasted a whole lamb for holidays or that would throw a half carcass of lamb into the oven - with probably half that sack of potatoes - when we were having people over. Just like it seemed normal to buy and store our wine by the case, not by the bottle. Just like it seemed normal that my dad would bring home wheels - heck, tires - of yummy Greek cheese. Sometimes it would be crates of oranges; other times, it would be gallon-sized containers of olives. Yes siree. We Greeks did bulk waaaaay before Costco was even a glimmer in our all-consuming eyes.

It helped that Greeks are mostly in the food industries: restaurants, diners, banquet halls, supermarkets, produce stores, butcher shops. All the connections came in handy (and still do) for the Greek Costco Connection, or Greekco as we so appropriately call it in our family.

Since my sister and I have gotten married and moved to our respective homes, Greekco has now become Momco. It never fails that every time we visit our parent's house, we will undoubtedly leave carrying some type of food item: pork chops, lamb chops, ground meat, large bags of grapes, oranges, grapefruits, steaks, fish, chicken breasts, chicken thighs, whole chickens, fresh chickens, frozen chickens - we're always carrying some variation of friggin' chickens in addition to whatever else they ziploc, tupperware or aluminum foil up for us to take home. The ongoing joke when returning from the parent's house is: "We're always carrying chickens."

Deep down there is something comforting about keeping up this Greekco tradition in my home and perhaps one day, my children will look back and think how funny and odd it was that we had a vat of imported Greek olive oil in our kitchen. But it will remind them of home, just like it does for me. And as long as they come to visit me after they move out, you can bet that my Greek need-to-feed gene will mutate from Greekco to Momco.





Monday, June 4, 2012

Date Night

by Patti


This past couple of weeks has taken me on an unexpected ride of revelations. My baby girl has suddenly morphed into a full-fledged little lady, complete with long legs, a defined waist, and opinions much different than my own. In short: She is growing up. And with that growing up, I have learned rather quickly, comes not only tangle of emotions that only a mother who has to come to terms with the gradual letting go of her babies can truly understand, but also the startling realization that: OH, YEAH. Once these babies leave? You're kinda stuck with that person you chose to be with for the rest of, like, ever.

When your kids start growing up, you realize with a start that they will eventually leave, and that all those what-feels-like-a-million years that you spent nurturing and loving and guiding and doing-for and being-there-for... well, those years have suddenly cumulated into this one moment, and you realize that they have kind of conditioned you to be a mother and think like a mother and love with the laser-like focus and intensity of a mother; and though you truly loved your husband through it all, you may have inadvertently forgotten to kiss him good night a few times. Multiply "a few times" by a million years, and that can equal one big, fat uh-oh.

All of these thoughts swirled in my already jammed-up head this past week, and, during a lunchtime check-in with M at work one day, I brought all of this crazy up to him. "We have to do it," I told him. "As much as I hate even the phrase 'date night', we need to start making them happen." He agreed it would be nice; though, in true M style, his idea of a date night was a week in Italy.
"Let's just start with dinner out once a month, okay? Just you and me."
I felt much better after our little chat. The kid was growing up, and M and I had the time and space between us that virtually every couple experiences after becoming parents, but plans were in place. That alone made me feel hopeful.

And then, like magic, a mere few days after "our talk", I got a text: "Dinner Saturday night, 9 pm. You and yo."  I couldn't believe it. I asked and I received. The night of our dinner, M donned a crisp shirt and cologne. I wore a black dress and heels. And we talked over candlelight (well, yelled, really. The restaurant was obviously a very popular choice and was jam-packed with other 'date night-ers'.) about stuff that didn't have anything to do with being parents, or bills, or groceries, or things that needed to get done right now or else the house might just fall down. It was just... stuff. The stuff we used to talk about when we were getting to know each other. And though our candle kept going out, and we had to keep saying "WHAT?" to one another because we coudn't hear, it was still really fun, and a really good first date night.

And as we, together, see our baby off into womanhood, and experience the bittersweetness of letting her go, there will be many more to come. Just him and yo.




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