The Ties that Bind Us

by Patti

My husband has pretty impeccable taste when it comes to his clothes. I even stopped buying things for him on impromptu shopping sprees because he is so damned picky, he ends up returning most of the things I choose. It's okay, I'm not offended; he looks good and the upside is I will never have to be one of those wives who lays out her husband's clothes for him. If you are one of those wives, god bless you and your outfit selecting self; you are selflessly performing a service for the non-colorblind of this world. And you are making your husband look presentable in the process.

Because my husband knows how to dress himself, I was surprised the other night when, just as I was heading to Cath's house for a much-needed Friday night get-together for us and our girls, he called me to our bedroom. I found him holding up a hot pink, striped shirt against some dark gray dress pants.
"Oh, are you picking out an outfit for the wedding tomorrow?"
"Yeah; does this make sense?"
"Yeah, it looks pretty good." I turned to leave, and he stopped me.
"Wait - what about with this tie?" I turned to find him holding up a bright yellow tie with some squiggles splashed across it.
"Uh... no. Waaay too much going on. Babe - I gotta go. Cathy is waiting for me."
"What about this one?" He pulled another over-wrought tie from his closet, holding it ever so hopefully against the hot pink shirt.
"Are you kidding me?"
"What am I going to do? I don't have any good ties!" He rifled through several more over-designed ties, holding each one up to the shirt, then casting it in disgust to the floor.

If it wasn't for the fact his sudden fashion tantrum was making me late, I might have felt sorry for my usually quite-abled dresser. I was surprised at the depths of his worry over choosing The Perfect Outfit for this wedding. It was as if he was the one getting married.
"Just go to Target and pick out a solid color tie," I offered, fingering the charcoal lines on the hot pink shirt.
"Come with me!"
"I told you - I have plans. You KNOW I have plans. I'm not canceling my plans to go tie shopping with you. Just pick out a solid color. Maybe even, like, a deep hot pink?" I walked out of our bedroom, leaving him in a sea of useless ties.
He followed behind me, holding up another flashy tie candidate.
"NO! It HAS to be a SOLID color!" I took out my phone and Googled "hot pink", bringing up a screen of varying shades of hot pink squares.  I chose the one most likely to succeed, and held it up to M. "Here! This would be the perfect color!"
"Please come with me and help me pick out a tie?"

At that moment, Gaucho the dog started darting frantically around the house, as if he sensed a soulnapping had taken place, and he knew that form which only appeared to resemble his once fashionable master was really a suburban, black socks-with-sandals-wearing dad from Minnesota.  I stared at my suddenly hapless, helpless, colorblind husband and vacillated between utter affection for this new, vulnerable him, and sharp annoyance because why was he sabotaging my plans with ties?

Just as I was about to cave into the guilt his sudden need for my fashion assistance was making me feel, I pictured myself holding up dress after dress, M hostage to my "does this make me look fat?" questions. Would he really be late to meet his friends on a Friday night for that? Would he really keep his macho motorcycle buddies waiting on a Sunday afternoon because I needed help with coordinating this blouse with this skirt?

"You'll figure it out! I gotta go!" I gave him a quick hug and kiss, grabbed the kid and my purse, and bolted out the door before he could change my mind. As I drove, my phone beeped, and at the first light, I looked down to find a text message from him. "At Salvation Army. What about this one?" Attached to the message was a picture of a pink tie. Covered in green paisleys. I fired  a quick reply. "NO". At the next light, he called me.
"They have so many ties here! Help me decide."
"OH MY GOD JUST PICK A SOLID COLOR TIE."

On my way to Cathy's - now a good half hour late - I had to stop at Target to buy some wine. As I plowed through the aisles to get to the wine, I passed the men's section and saw a deep charcoal tie. It was dressy and satiny and exactly right. I snapped a pic with my phone, texted it to M, and waited. Two seconds later. "Perfect."

I have to say, I felt a smug pride at the wedding when I saw M all dressed up. There he was, in his flashy hot pink shirt, his fitted dark gray suit, and the "perfect" tie from Target. There was something in knowing the science behind how he presented himself that day. There was this feeling of unity in knowing he had come to me for my opinion - even if it had annoyed me. I looked at all the other couples there that day and wondered, as I studied their wedding outfits, how much had gone into how they appeared that day. How many of them had had similar conversations the night before? How many wives had been annoyed by their advice-seeking husbands; how many husbands had smiled while craning their necks to see the TV as their wives spun before them in a new dress.... And I realized: these conversations, these moments, these intimate snapshots - both annoying and adoring - these are the ties that bind us.

Sister Summer Lovin'

by Cathy

When my first child was born, I was over! the! moon! that it was a girl. When I got pregnant with my second, I was obsessed with it now also being a girl. So much so, that I scoured Amazon for books on this and found one called, "How to Have a Girl". Yes, not only does such a book exist, but I found it and I bought it...just to make sure the odds were stacked in my favor of having yet another girl.

Why go to such ridiculous lengths, you may ask?

I was a child who grew up with a sister and I wanted nothing more than for me to have children that were sisters. The secrets, the gossip, the clothes/makeup-sharing, the advice, the countless nights awake talking, the tears, the happiness, the vacations, the boys, the experiences, the childhood we both shared and still reminisce about...THIS is what I wanted my kids to experience.

So when my second was also a girl, I was elated! Ecstatic! The happiest mom on earth! NOW they can grow up to experience that closeness. That bond. That...dislike?

I just couldn't get it. My sister and I had four years apart and my girls, five years. That should put us on the same level, right? However, when my young one got old enough to speak, understand and try to "play" with her sister, it was like watching rams butting heads. Add to that, the fact that they couldn't be more different in every possible way - personality, attitude, likes and dislikes - this was not turning out to be the romanticized Disney movie I had envisioned in my hormone-afflicted head. The fights. The frustration. The annoyance. I mused to them aloud almost every day:

"Why can't you guys just get along?!"
"My sister and I never did these things to each other!"
"Just play together NICELY!!"
"You guys are sisters and you will be each others' best friend for life. Don't you get that?!"

These would be followed minutes later by one of them tattling about what the other did. On it went like this to the point where Joe and I pondered if they were ever going to get along and I, sad that they would never allow themselves to experience the closeness that having a sister brings. Until this summer....

Magically, as if a sparkly baton came swooping into our house and bippety-boppety-booped them out of their state of hate, they began getting along.

Seemingly overnight, giggles and laughter replaced screaming and fighting. Music replaced door slamming. They began videotaping themselves on their phones, pods and pads doing silly, fun, sisterly things. They were hanging out more, making duct tape crafts together, watching YouTube and listening to music. They created their own inside jokes. Their own language. Their own humor. And the kicker? My youngest, who has asked me to lay/sit on her bed every. single. night. since she was a toddler, has suddenly stopped asking. Just like that. Now she snuggles with her sister, and stays up late as they giggle and chat the night away, the same way I did with my sister.

Sigh. Finally. Turns out that patience is a virtue that mother nature intended to take its course.

Ari turned seven years old yesterday. As I struggle through the fact that my toddler is now a young lady, I am comforted by what I see blossoming between them. Bella made her a card and put a picture on it from a few years ago. They look close...

...but now, are truly closer.

I step precariously and with much trepidation to the place in my mind where I feel like they have begun this wondrous and fulfilling journey on experiencing all the comfort and happiness that their relationship brings, as I know things won't be perfect. I am not saying that there won't be another fight or argument - there will be many. Now at least they have begun to realize, and will more so as they grow, that there is a special bond that binds them that can never be broken...

Sisterhood

Thank You and Goodbye: A Farewell to my Childhood Home

by Cathy

FOR  RENT

Never did two words affect me as deeply as these did the other day; they were plastered across the living room window of the house on Mozart Street where I spent my childhood. Those same windows where I eagerly awaited the daily return of my father from work and that same living room where I would undoubtedly wait and "surprise" him every evening when he walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see that sign - I merely drove by the building to reminisce, to see how different it felt now that my parents had officially moved out after 36 years. I was not expecting to see that sign.

Like a bullet ricocheting through my insides, those two words left my eyes, processed through to my brain, dropped down to my heart and shot right back up to my eyes in the form of waves of sobs - all within seconds. I wasn't ready for that reaction yet I knew that selling our childhood home would be like grieving the loss of loved one.

As I drove away in a bleary-eyed mess, I remembered how I was seven years-old when we moved in and I thought that beautiful structure was a castle, with its clear, diamond-shaped doorknobs, its stained-glass windows and its regal architecture gracing the facade's roof line. That castle, which  now holds all of my memories, my secrets, my dreams, my past, my life, will now be filled with others' lives, although I don't see how there will be any room left for them.

 It was the place I grew from a child, to a teenager, to a college student, to a married woman. I know too well that spot on the floor in my room where I would spend hours on the phone with boys or girlfriends. Those rounded cement decorations flanking our front door which we used as an intercom when we were playing Charlie's Angels. The front stoop, where we spent countless, carefree summer nights playing, gossiping, hanging out, choreographing dances to Queen and REO Speedwagon for our neighborhood talent show. The garage where we spent wonderfully simple Easters with our grandparents roasting lambs, and where we kept our first dog, Ginger, who ate the bicycle seat of my favorite pink bike. Where I learned how to ride a bike. The family birthday parties in the back yard. The back alley where I first learned how to drive with my dad in our white Plymouth Valiant. The familiar path to Virginia Park, where we walked or rode our bikes with our grandfather. All now distant, yet still vibrant memories.

Just last week, after 36 years of living there, my parents left their brick-and-mortar child behind. They not only sold my childhood home, but in a sense, they sold my childhood - and that of my sister's. That place that was filled with countless memories - sad, funny, memorable, devastating, fun - and every single one of those memories, relevant threads that tightly bind the fabric of our youth and ultimately, who we became as adults. The places we used to hide, the places we used to hide stuff, the doors and door frames we've written on, the places on the walls we made those dents and the stories that went with them, the hidden places in the furnace room and cubbies where we sharpied our names into the walls, the cement patch behind the garage where my grandfather, God rest his soul, carved out his initials.

The move was bittersweet in the sense that my parents had to move due to familial riffs and other extenuating circumstances, which had become more unbearable the past five years. For this reason, it was more of a relief for them to leave. For my sister and I, however, it was heartbreaking. We moved from Mozart Street on good terms, full of nothing but great memories that will always resonate into strings of stories that will forever weave the webs of our lives as we pass these down to our children. That is how we prefer to think of that building - the house that will forever be our home.

Seeing this home with moving boxes filled with our past, is something I never thought I would see.

Even worse, is seeing it completely empty.

But I didn't get to see that due to the timing of the move. My sister, on the other hand, did. I was jealous of her for having that closure, for allowing herself to grieve the loss of our childhood home in a way I didn't. She told me that after she walked through it, she stood in the foyer and said aloud, "Thank you and goodbye. I hope the next people treat you as good as we did."

I felt devastated that I didn't get my turn in saying goodbye and seeing it empty. On the other hand, I don't know if that was necessarily the best thing to do to myself. I am now content with remembering it full of life, memories and our things.

My mother told me if she was able to wrap her arms around the building and hug it tightly, she would. She put as much blood, sweat, tears and TLC into maintaining that building as she did in raising her children. That pride in ownership is what she will miss the most. No matter what the circumstances for leaving that place, the fact remains that these bricks and glass and wood that formed our childhood home will always be a part of who we are.

Just like the soul of a person gives us life, spirit and individuality, I believe the soul of a home are the people that reside within it. We give it life, we give it love, we give it spirit and memories. Whether we remain in that structure's shell or not, our soul will always resonate within it. Our history will remain fused with that brick and mortar of our past.

If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be that two-flat on Mozart Street where I grew up.

Thank you...and goodbye.

The Apple Family (snap! snap!)

by Cathy

We have officially become an iFamily.

This status was acheived recently with my husband's purchase of an iPhone. (Granted, he had an iPad but that doesn't count for the purpose of this post.) He was the last holdout with his puny Android My Touch and its green and grainy camera and its frustratingly slow as molasses browsing capabilities. He didn't even use half the features on it because of that reason and God forbid, didn't even think about downloading an app from its limited app marketplace button thingy.

Therefore, at my persistent urging, since I couldn't bear to hear, "I have GOT to get a new phone!" one more time and every time it shut down on him in the middle of a call or he almost threw it against the wall because he was waiting centuries for it to upload a web address, he finally crossed over into a territory most hospitable and welcoming: Appleville. Like most families, we are now on one tidyly packaged Verizon family plan.

No offense against any other type of phones/phone users; your phones are just as great and heck, maybe even better in some respects. But we really don't care, because we are Apple Fans through and through. We've never owned PCs and the two times we ventured out on a limb and went with Androids, both times were a bust. Case in point, exhibit A, my husband. Exhibit B, my tween, for whom we purchased said phone and in return, got this:
"MooooOOOOM! I can't download anything on this phone! There are no good apps! It takes forever! It's so annoying! I want an iPhone! When can I get my iPhone?!"



For her birthday in April (and for garnering some pretty awesome grades) she got her iPhone. Elation came in the form of tears of joy and a smile no one could wipe from her gorgeous face.

So as the circle of life commands, her iPod, complete with with shattered glass yet still 100% functional and loaded with game apps envied by children of all ages, was bequeathed unto a very satisfied younger sister, who has quickly and thankfully gotten past the novelty of having an iPod. (That makes only one of my kids not hooked up to a device like a life support I.V.) Until...she gets wind of how "cool" it would be to have a cell phone when the time comes for her to have a cell phone. For now, I rejoice.

As for me, I happily was the first to make the jump, the leap from a crappy old flip-phone to my iPhone almost three years ago and I haven't looked back. I am completely, 100%, fully and happily committed to my iPhone and when this one breaks down, I will probably get the newest version of it. We can (and have) spent hours at the Apple store and every time we go, we are amazed at the capability and capacity these devices have, which we aren't taking advantage of for lack of knowledge or the effort required to put forth into find these things out.

I will keep the faith - Jobs or no Jobs. No matter how far the stock falls, no matter how many cleverly humorous television commercials try to trash the "original", I will be here for it. And so, from the looks of it, will my iFamily.