Oh, Snap!

by Cathy

Have you ever known anyone who is continually cool, calm and collected? Someone who remains unnaturally calm in the face of chaos, someone who exudes confidence that no matter what, everything will be okay?

I know a couple of people like that and it always baffles me that they never let their emotions get carried away with them. For us, on the other hand, this family of Greek and Latin hot blood, yelling is our way of talking, so it's to be expected to hear cranked up shrilled voices coming from our car, our house, or whatever space we grace.

Often, I am envious of such people and think, Why can't I be more like that instead of getting all-out Greek loud and dramatically animated over things? I picture these people as examples of social anchors, living a grounded serene, stress-free life, having all their affairs in order, and consider them perfect for seeking advice and solutions from.

Then I begin to wonder. Are they repressed? Is it affecting them in some other way to not express their emotions? It must be exhausting having to be the grounding force. We are told, after all, that it is healthy and cathartic to let your emotions out, to express the way you feel inside instead of shoving things down deep within the confines of your soul to where they can build up and manifest into some toxic explosion of sorts.
Eventually, however, people snap - even these people.  I inadvertently became privy to one of these rare scenarios recently.

Apparently, this acquaintance was on the phone with some bank or credit card company (and had been for the past 45 minutes, according to what I could make out). Yes, I was eavesdropping but let's be clear that the environment we were in wasn't conducive to extreme privacy given the paper thin walls. So when I heard the shrieks through those said walls, I kinda freaked out a little bit. Was there an intruder? Was she being murdered? The more I listened, the clearer it became.

"FIVE! TWO! SEVEN!....NINE! NINE! FOUR!...." Every shrilled number became louder and louder. Then...
"PERSON! PERSON!"
(pause)
"I WANT TO SPEAK WITH A F*$#ING PERSON!!!!!!!!!!"
(long, long pause)
"WHAT IS THE F&%^ING PROBLEM?!?!?"
(pause)
"NO!! I WILL NOT BE PUT ON HOLD AGAIN! DON'T YOU DARE PUT ME ON HOLD! I AM NOT DEALING WITH YOUR AUTOMATED MACHINES ANYMORE! I'VE SPENT ALMOST AN HOUR ON THE PHONE WITH YOU PEOPLE AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS..."

Then the pacing began and her voice trailed away only to return again with vengeance.

"I GO THROUGH THIS WITH YOU PEOPLE EVERY MONTH! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!"

Her voice, which is usually evenly well-tempered and stable, was starting to give way...it was going...breaking...out. I felt so helpless because I knew exactly how she felt because, who hasn't been there?

Apparently, we all go to Snapville. And it feels so comforting to know that we are all capable of that visit.

Spring Break Flakes

by Cathy

Yesterday, my kids went back to school after almost two weeks off for spring break. We decided to forgo any trips because we are a) planning on taking one this summer b) it's just one more thing I'd have to schedule and c) we didn't want this to turn in to Spring Broke. Quite frankly, we were all looking forward to a little under-scheduling. 
 

There was going to be none of this nonsense.

So, while Florida, Hawaii and Washington D.C. were overflowing with strollers, cranky parents and even crankier kids, we decided to sit this one out and have a staycation of sorts. We decided to go local.

The week before, my husband and I were filled with fantastic ideas! Activities! Trips on the train! Museums! I was humming along making lists in my head and envisioning fun, productive days off! Oh, what we will do! Oh, what we will see! This didn't feel like scheduling - this felt like fun planning! Let's take trips to different cities in our own hometown!, we said. Chinatown! Pilsen! Greektown! Little Italy! The world was our oyster and we didn't even have to board one overcrowded plane or wait in one miserable line. Oh, were we gonna be smart. This was genius!

Apparently, we were all looking forward to that under-scheduling more than any of us thought. Each day started off with a glimmer of hope - hope that I'll get them up early enough, hope that they'll still feel like checking out that museum, hope that they'll want to do more than just veg. Alas, it didn't happen. (Not to mention that the weather was more conducive to staying in rather than hitting public transit.) On the days I had to work, I felt bad they were sitting at home, doing nothing. Little did I know, they preferred it that way. I wanted to give them a memorable spring break so when they went back to school and get asked "What did you do over spring break?" they would have a weighty, productive answer, worthy of two weeks time.

So what will they go back with after almost two weeks? ('Two weeks?!' Patti shrieked in an email to me. 'You could have gone to Greece!!') "Oh, we just hung out at home, did lots of shopping, saw a movie, got together with friends and family and just relaxed."

And you know what? That sounds like a break we all deserve.

Diagnosis: Gettin' Old

by Patti

I had my first complete "wellness" check in years. Maybe in ever, even. I don't know, maybe it was the burning butt, maybe it was the heart palpitations, maybe it was the scary-looking mole on my leg. I finally took all those annoying little symptoms as a sign that death was near, and found time in my life for a physical.

I've been feeling kind of old lately. Not near-death old, just.... old. There's a new, subtle sag to my face, an ache in my hips, a longer recovery period from too much wine. But this day, the day of my physical, I walked into the waiting room and felt instantly younger. The patients were all old. I mean really old. One woman, the few hairs she had left standing at colorless attention on her head, was having a conversation with her daughter, and I'm pretty sure that the people in the state of Iowa could hear her. The thing is, I don't think she heard herself.  She was complaining about something on the television that was blaring on the wall above, and her daughter nodded along absent-mindedly. The receptionist called over the daughter to give her some take-home instructions, and the daughter motioned to her mother it was time to leave. That is when the old lady got up, the beige shoes on her feet sporting squeaky 5-inch orthopedic support wedges, and promptly began to fart her way toward the door.  I looked around the room, wondering if anybody else had heard, but apparently they were all deaf or busy holding in their own farts. Off she went, leaving a trail of farts in her wake, and then she was gone. I thought to myself, wow. Will I one day fart my way out of a room and not give a damn?

Suddenly a cell phone rang, and the cute old suspendered man a few chairs away from me pulled a shiny blue flip phone out of his pocket. "HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?" He shouted repeatedly into the phone, not giving the person on the other side a chance to respond. "OH, YES, BOB? Yes, it's me!" Ol' Bob had answered the phone with his speaker on. But Bob didn't seem to mind that his speaker was on; he simply kept the phone pressed to his ear as if it weren't on speaker, and carried on his conversation. Actually, it was Bob's wife that carried on the conversation. On she went about the cable company and the broken computer and did Bob think she should call a repairman? But before Bob could answer, she answered for him. Over and over again. And as hard as Bob tried to hang up, his wife kept going. So Bob just nodded along, the shiny blue phone pressed to his ear, his wife chirping away on the other line for all of us to hear.

I was finally called into my appointment, where I was promptly asked would I mind if a first-year resident joined us for the consultation. I gave my permission, and was then handed a paper sheet and told to disrobe from head to toe. So I did, wrapping the thin paper sheet around my now totally naked body, and sat down on the paper-covered exam table. I saw myself in the mirror, and, despite the middle-aged face staring back at me, felt a little younger than I had before the appointment thanks to Bob and Fart Lady. So smug in my youth, was I. Until, in walked the most gorgeous, dewy creature on the planet. He was a Doctor from the Movies kind of doctor, and instantly I regretted my decision to allow the resident to be present at my appointment. Suddenly, all the "old lady" problems I had planned to discuss with my similarly "older woman" doctor began to swirl before me, and I felt humiliated before I even opened my mouth. I felt myself break out into a sweat, knowing all of my secrets would soon be discovered. In I had walked, put together, lip-glossed, leopard heels showing sass. But now, stripped and vulnerable, I was simply another aging human being holding in my fears - and farts.

Fortunately, I appear to be healthy, save the burning butt that will soon see an MRI. Otherwise, I received a clean bill of health - and a reality check. Yes, I am getting older; I will probably one day fart myself out of a room or not quite know how to use the latest technology. All I'm saying? They better make those orthopedic wedge shoes in a leopard print. Because I ain't goin' down without a fight.

Trash or Treasure?

by Cathy

The other evening, my six-year old walks determinately into the living room where my husband and I were engrossed in an episode of Southland, and asks in a rather demanding tone:

"Mommy, why are my school papers in the garbage?"

I stop short of the formerly captivating television show to deal with the drama unfolding in my living room.

I look over at her, one hand pinned just so on her hip, the other hand thrust forward holding the accordion-folded stack of papers I had just hours ago, unsuccessfully disposed of in our kitchen garbage bin.
Oh crap. I thought I hid those!
"Why do you always throw my school papers away?" she persisted as my mind reeled about how to respond.

Fumbling over what to say, I look over at my husband to find his face buried in the crook of his elbow, head bobbing up and down with silent, but apparently uncontrollable laughter. I shot him the look of death and turned to face my daughter, who was shooting me the look of death.

Why does she automatically assume it's me?!? Maybe because this isn't the first time this has happened. My excuse of, "Oh no! They must have accidentally fallen into the garbage!" barely passed muster the first time and didn't cut the mustard at all on the second. So after that, I learned my lesson and began folding up the papers and tucking sideways under banana peels and coffee grinds so that they couldn't be seen. This day, I apparently forgot to be sneaky.

It's not that I don't love keeping every cute, meaningful little art project, note and drawing from my children; in fact, I have stacks in the storage from each school grade for each kid. (And even those I had to riffle through alone in the confines of my dungeon storage, away from the prying eyes of my hoarding family.) As much as they want me to, I just can't keep every scribble of scrap paper and every puppet made out of a brown paper bag; I just keep what I perceive to be the milestones, the special, the unique items.

All of this cannot - and will not - be saved

My husband, on the other hand? He keeps every. little. scrap. of. paper. Where does one draw the line?

I turned to look my six-year old straight in the eyes and said, "Oh honey, we don't need all of those. I already kept your important papers."

Before her look of mortification could be expressed verbally, my husband jumps in in the form of Captain Dad, to apparently save the day.
"Honey, you can put those on my nightstand. I'll file them away."
Ta da da DA!

"No," I stopped his rescue mission flat. "Just go put them with the other papers under the computer desk and I'll take care of them," I directed her.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen to complete her task.

My husband turns to me, and says rather matter-of-factly: "Wow. You deserve the mother of the year award. Nice going."
"I'm not going to apologize for being practical," I retorted."I keep what I need to keep. I can't keep everything. I'm not a hoarder."
He looked at me, shaking his head.

This whole scenario reminded me of an episode of The Middle in which Brick, the youngest of three kids, finds the handmade card he lovingly created for his mother (and which she had just gushed over mere hours before) mockingly teetering atop a pile of garbage in their kitchen trash. After confronting her, Brick dared her to produce past projects of his, which she swears up and down she has kept. Needless to say, after ransacking her garage and even bribing a fellow neighbor to use one of her kids' projects as a stand-in, she was found guilty on all charges. Feeling horrible, she creates a beautiful heart-shaped card with a thoughtful, tearjerker of an apology and places it on Brick's bed. Guess where that ended up.

While I would never throw away a handmade card from my kids, I wouldn't think twice about ditching math tests or spelling quizzes. After all, one person's "treasure" can be another person's hoarding nightmare.

Building Fences

by Patti

Christ has risen. So has my fence.

We spent all of Easter Sunday from sunup to sundown, building a wall between ourselves and our neighbor. Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining. I have wanted this fence for quite some time. You see, like most Chicago neighborhoods, the yards in mine are separated by low, chain link fences.  To top it off, while Chicago is known for its sparkling lakefront, Magnificent Mile, lively nightlife, and interesting architecture, what it is not known for is generous backyards. Humble house or monstrous mansion, if you live in Chicago or its nearby neighborhoods, you get a standard-sized lot.  And that my friends, coupled with low chain-link fences, means you better love thy neighbors. If you don't? You better put up a fence.

So we did. The sheer force of M's will woke me, and the "let's build a fence today!" energy got me right out of bed, into the kitchen for coffee, and out into the yard to begin the fencetivities. We had actually purchased several of the materials the day before, and even - for once - gone "by the book" and took out a permit with the Village. Doing things legally is so freeing, isn't it?

Let me ask you this: Have you ever dug a ditch? Because that is what I did yesterday. For hours. And while, on some strange level, actually kind of relaxing, digging ditches is also laborious, monotonous, painful work. Digging ditches makes you realize how much DIRT there is in this world and my god the dirt! It never ends! I dug and dug, with big shovels and little shovels, and still, there was dirt. As I dug, S frantically tried to save all the earthworms that kept popping out of the never ending dirt, their little worm eyes surprised to see the light. She lovingly cradled each slimy, wiggly little creature, and moved them one by one to a new, safe part of the yard. And I kept digging.

As I dug, M measured and sawed and drilled and nailed, and before I could say, "Holy crap there's a lot of dirt!" a very professional-looking frame had been built. One ready for a fence. Can I just say how hot it is to be married to somebody who knows how to build things? Because it is. We then spent the next several hours lifting and carrying and placing panels, ensuring that each one met the other in perfect harmony; that each one measured exactly the same as the other, and suddenly, what started out as just random pieces of wood, became this:

At some point, we ran out of screws and also realized we were starving, so what better way to celebrate Easter besides building a fence than to eat Mexican food and drink beer. No better way, I tell you. We headed to a hoppin' Taco Burrito King, had our fill, and then straight to Menard's to buy our screws. And more wood. Have you ever visited Menard's warehouse? I never even knew such things existed. It's an entirely separate, mysterious universe where you drive through a security area to pick up your wood. Or stones. Or metal. It is huge and filled with cute guys driving little trucks that lift things. And bonus! Is there anything more fun than doing ballet in a place like this? I thought not.

M and I had set a goal to be done with the fence in one day, and while we fell a few planks short of "done", we succeeded in teamwork and effort. Not a single argument, bicker, or eye roll was had during the building of this fence. In fact, despite the fact we both had to pop Alleve and spent the night hobbling around the house bent at 90 degree angles, we had fun. And when it comes down to it, building a life together is a lot like building a fence; it takes teamwork, commitment - and some really good screws.