Friday, November 30, 2012

Ritz Carlton gone RONG!

by Patti & Cathy

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

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

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

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

The Gong gone Rong.

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

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

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

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

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

And I did. I attempted to watch a little television, as somehow the same shows that I might watch at home are far more entertaining when watched from a bed laden with 4,000 ergonomic pillows and covered in ten billion count cotton sheets. Ah, Ritz! Carlton! Feeling my eyes grow heavy, I briefly debated setting a back-up alarm on my cell phone, and then decided that the Ritz! Carlton! was all about customer service, and would never in a million years NOT perform a wake-up call as requested. Satisfied, and wrapped in my cozy, fluffy Ritz! Carlton! robe, I soon fell blissfully asleep.
These things seep drugs into your pores. 
Before I knew it, my eyes flew open. Light streamed in through the gauzy Ritz! Carlton! curtains, and I felt immediate panic. WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE. I flung my body toward my charging cell phone: 7:00 am. Can it BE? Had the Ritz! Carlton! FAILED ME? I threw off the fluffy white comforter and darted to the shower. As I hurriedly shampooed and soaped and tried to blink awake under the perfect water pressure of the Ritz! Carlton! shower head, I concluded that, indeed - Ritz! Carlton! or not, who do I trust? ME.

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




Thursday, November 29, 2012

You Got Holes in Your Ears or What?

by Cathy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Super Powers

by Patti

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

Anyway.

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

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

Click.

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

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

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




Monday, November 26, 2012

Red Friday

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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




Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Thank you, Gracias and Sas Efcharistó̱

by Patti 

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

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving!




Tuesday, November 20, 2012

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

by Cathy

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

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

No amount of acetone will take this off.
...or that we have turned one corner of the living room into a music area complete with guitars and keyboards, or that half the lights in the bathroom and kitchen have gone out or that the shower curtain bears the streaks of marker-stained little hands which attempted to pull it back to take much needed baths.

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

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

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




Monday, November 19, 2012

Blocked

by Patti

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

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

But they didn't.

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

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

But the words never came.

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

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

I can feel it. They're coming.




Friday, November 16, 2012

Wake Up! I'm Back

by Cathy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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









Thursday, November 15, 2012

Aruba (not Jamaica) Is Where I Wanna Take Ya

by Cathy

Bon Bini to Aruba!

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

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

Part of my "work" included covering this:
2nd annual Aruba InStyle Fashion Week

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

Needless to say we attended some fantastic open-air fashion shows/club parties:
Ronchi de Cuba show at the famed Versace Mansion. This is someone's house, y'all.

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

We had an amazing island tour on the Kuckoo Kunuku party buses:
Turn up the music and shake your maracas!! (Famed California lighthouse in the background).

Walked through natural boulder formations a la 127 Hours.
 We visited Gold Mill ruins on the rocky northern coast of the island and came across these stacked rock piles. Island folklore says that you must stack five rocks (any size), make three wishes and in three months, given your stack is still intact against high winds, your wishes will come true.
Wishes, wishes everywhere, as far as the eye can see...
Me with my wish stack. Fingers crossed!


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

Tasted some amazing local cuisine like Keshi Yena


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

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

Instead, I chose to shop in a little Gingerbread-looking outdoor "mall" that clearly evoked the Dutch architecture the island inherits from its owners. 
Little pink houses - for shopping!
Our media group. And, oh, that amazing, fake-looking sea.


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

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




Tuesday, November 13, 2012

When Mom Is Away, Confusion Is at Play

by Cathy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our refrigerator now doubles as a mirror.

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

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

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

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

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




Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
Best Blogger TipsBest Blogger Tips