Sitting Shivers

by Cathy & Patti

Charlotte: Where are we going to go?

Ray: I'm thinking Alaska.

Charlotte: Alaska?

Ray: Yeah, it's cold and Mexicans don't like the cold. I say we act like white people and disappear and let our lawyer do the talking.

~ From the television series The Bridge, 

which in part, has to do with Mexican drug trafficking

--------------------------------------

Cathy
As our parallel universe lives would have it, we both married Latino men. Mine, J, is part Mexican. Patti's, M, is Argentinian. Latino men, apparently judging from the warm climates their ancestors hailed from, don't fare well in cold weather, as further proved by the quote above. They enter a darkness where no Happy Light can reach. In fact, they become winter beasts of sorts, that transforms them into bitter, miserable, grouchy, whiny, complaining little mean girls who consistently ask why we the hell we live here and not in Miami.

I'm not thrilled about the arctic plunges Chicago weather takes us on a consistent basis now either. I'm not enjoying my parched skin and the literal crackling of my facial wrinkles forming overnight, or the dryness of my cotton mouth which wakes me up in coughing fits, or the fireworks show that ensues via static electricity every time I move. But I deal with it. I power through it. Hell, my ancestors hail from Greece, the land of abundant islands, sea and sun and Patti is Argentinian and Italian, so same pretty much goes for her. And WE quietly deal with it. However, men being men, they can't handle it. It falls into the same category as being sick.

The other day, I walk into my living room to find this:

The Hobbit? Obe Wan Kenobi? Nomadic tribal elder?

Now clearly, the sheer over-dramatization of J's reaction to the cold is laughable. I stifled my chuckle and as it seemed fitting, I simply greeted him with a "Shabbat Shalom".  Minutes later, Patti and I were LOLing and commiserating via text at how alike our enrobed bundles of misery really are in terms of the literal mourning they go through each winter: the death of summer.

And the texts went on:

PATTI: "By the way, I don't think M and I will still be married after this winter. He is worse than ever with this weather. I cannot take his crankiness."
ME: I get the same from Rabbi Elder over here on a daily basis too, don't worry.
PATTI: They should sit shiva together!

As if luck would have it, they planned a coffee date a few days later without us girls knowing a thing until I happened to call J for something completely unrelated and lo and behold, he was commiserating and shiva-ing with M at a local coffeehouse. I promptly texted Patti to see, did she know about this?

PATTI: Of course not. I'm sure they will just sit there and kvetch about the weather.

I had no doubts about that and I'm certain they kvetched about us as well.

Patti
..as if they had any good reason whatsoever to kvetch.

I'm not quite sure how I could possibly illustrate to the fullest the life I lead from November to April. It is one in which my normally quite "macho" husband is grouchily tucked into corners of the couch and the bed and other cushion-y surfaces, blankets wrapped to the point of swaddling 'round his shivering body, and I pretty much wave a mental goodbye to the man I love and, with heavy heart, say hello to the Winter Monster. There is no light, only darkness and snow and lots and lots of f-bombs.

Here's the thing: As superficial as it may seem, I love tights and turtlenecks and cute leather boots. I love seasons with their breezy, blue-sky summers and silvery, snowy Christmases. And most importantly? I'm pale. Unlike my perpetually tanned husband, I am perpetually transparent and, rather than become golden in the sun, lean toward purple scorch. Therefore, no matter how monster-y the Winter Monster gets, I can't find it in my seasons-lovin', pale heart to up and move to 365 days of OMG I'M SWELTERING and MELANOMA-ING.

The result? I have to deal with Grandpa Bitches-a-Lot.  When Cathy sent me that picture of her own Grandpa Bitches-a-Lot, wrapped up like a Hobbit/Obe Wan Kenobi/Nomadic tribal elder, my heart swelled with kinship for my friend. She knew. She knows. She lives it just as I do. She has her own Winter Monster, one whose moans of discontent rise from within the swaddled walls of his misery for 7 months out of every year.

At first, when I heard the two Winter Monsters had gotten together, I worried. I pictured them both sitting there, scarfed and hatted and multi-coated and shivering, and I knew their shared kvetch-ing would only lead to one-way tickets to Miami - with or without their MUCH better halves. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the Winter Monsters are also Summer Mourners and, as grieving brothers, they need one another. They are their own support group, of sorts. So let them kvetch. I'll just sit here and sip on my cozy winter tea, turn up the heat, and cuddle up under the fuzzy blanket I never get to use.

Ain't Got Time for Memories

by Cathy & Patti

Our loyal readers may have noticed a trend recently in regard to our posting on this blog: it just ain't happening with as much frequency.

Aside from nurturing this blog as a way to vent and share our experiences as mothers, daughters, (working) women, wives and the million other hats we wear, we do it for posterity. How amazing is it that as our daughters get older, they can at first scoff, bristle at and be embarrassed by our posts, then later not only be able to forever cherish and relate to, but through our stories, also get to know their mothers as human - as women, pure and simple. This is something invaluable that we aim to pass down to them.

Lately, it seems, the harried pace of life doesn't allow us to revel in its memories long enough for them to be documented. Ideas for posts still come as life experiences hand them to us. Notes are taken, either physically or mentally, the latter of which can be smothered by more important to-do lists and lost forever within the confines of our overworked, overstressed minds.

Cathy
Evidence of how I'm lagging in this department became painfully evident to me recently. As we were all indulging in a rare evening of relaxation in front of the television recently - homework, baths, dishes and cleaning all done - my youngest daughter, Ari, who really can't sit still long enough to watch anything unless it's a Disney movie she hasn't seen before, enters the living room with her photo album in hand. I felt a surge of panic rise up inside of me.
"Honey, what are you doing with your album?" I asked carefully.
"Where are my baby pictures?" she answers my question with a question.
Uh oh. Did she just ignore me? Is she mad?

Well, she should be. She is the second child, which means, not everything was done with her the way it was meticulously done with my firstborn. This is universal. We all freak with our first child - make sure to wash the pacifier every single time it falls on the kitchen floor before we give it back to them; make sure to pack everything but the kitchen sink when go out for a stroll, just in case!; make sure to handle them extra gently because they may break; make sure to bathe them every night, etc.

Part of this for me was keeping photo albums journaling Bella's (my older daughter) growth, milestones, etc. In fact, I think I have three neatly arranged, chronologically ordered, beautiful photo albums for Bella. But for Ari? The one she was holding in her hands was it. I got as far as stamping her cute 'lil hand and foot on the cover and filling up the first few pages. That's it.

Overshadowed

"Um...why do you ask?" I tested her.
"Because I want to put them in my album. Bella has all of hers in her books and I want mine in my book."

 Knife...meet heart. I don't think I possibly could have felt more awful as a mother. (Well, there are other scenarios but this one loomed large at the moment.)

"Here," I offered, getting my ass up off the couch and heading towards our hallway closet, the keeper of the memories. "I'll get them for you and help you."
"No, that's okay. I can do it myself."
I felt that knife twisting.
"But you have to put them in order, like from when you are a baby and up. I can help you do that."
My stubborn Leo zodiac of a child insisted. "No, I'll just do it, okay?"
So I threw my guilty mom hands up and let her have at it.

In my defense, the technological revolution between when my two children were born (they have a five-year age difference) was extreme. I used a regular Cyber-shot camera while Bella was growing up, but with Ari, I've been using my smartphone for the most part. And who develops those? I sure haven't. But it's now something I have put at the top of my priority list, because who wants their child getting gypped of their memories simply because we don't find the time to document them? We need to find time to document those memories.

by Patti
My butt has been burning for months. This burning sends electrical shooting pains down my legs and into my feet. Various Dr. Google searches have allowed me to diagnose myself with a really, really bad case of Piriformis syndrome or maybe even a slipped disc. Either way, I know I need to have a non-Dr. Google officially diagnose me, but the thing is: I haven't had time to make an appointment. And even if I did - I don't have the time to actually honor an appointment. Between a full-time job, traveling for work, and ballet lessons coming out of my burning ass, I am time-starved.

Time starvation means certain things have to give. This blog has been one of them. It's not as if though there are millions of people waiting in line with bated breath for my next post - this I know - it's just that the day-after-day of blank space where a by Patti should be serves to remind me that, despite the time starvation, I need to find a way to carve out a few minutes a day to observe, absorb, and reflect.

Not too long ago, S had to do a school project that required family pictures. Although I am pretty good at taking pictures with my phone, and keeping my Instagram account fat with photos, what I am not good at is taking family pictures. The three of us are rarely in one place at one time in a photo-ready mode, and, well, pictures of my dog's flat-faced, shadowy profile or of my backyard heaped with snow then treated with Instagram's "Amaro" effect don't exactly make for school-ready photos. I scoured my photo drawer for pictures from the "olden" days - the days when, like Cathy, I used a real camera and actually had photos developed - but none of them seemed apropos. And even the few pictures I had saved on my computer that could be deemed as worthy of this school project were held hostage on my hard drive by the fact my printer had run out of ink and I hadn't time to buy ink. My butt is on fire and you expect me to have time for INK? So, yeah....no. No pictures. "I ain't got time for no memories!" I lamented to Cathy over the phone.  And it's true. And sadly so.

This weekend we head out on our annual Michigan trip with four moms, seven daughters, and two dogs. The snow will probably have melted, making sledding impossible; the tubing park will have closed; the ice skating rink a degree too warm. With seven screaming tweens and two pouncing dogs, it will be chaotic, no doubt. But I will be unplugged from "harried", and plugged into the present, and damn it: I'm gonna make some memories.

My Hips Don't Glide

by Patti & Cathy

We were attempting to plan our annual mother-daughter trip to Michigan via email with Miche. Back and forth we went, trying to find that magical date that we could all pencil into our calendars. It seemed, after several exchanges, that our trip - usually done in January or February so that our girls can go sledding - would have to be delayed into March. Of course we lamented the probable lack of snow, and Miche offered up a back-up plan: ice skating! She said we'd only have to bring our own skates. However: ha, ha, and HA. We don't own ice skates. Never have, and not afraid to say it: NEVER WILL. Neither of us find particular joy in the art of ice skating, and while we both certainly admire the graceful, fluid beauty with which others seems to execute it, we also know that although ice skating may look like this for some:

It only means this for us:

Cathy:
The only activities I took as a child were piano lessons and ballet (the latter was possible at the persistent urging of my best friend at the time). But what I really wanted to do more than anything? Take ice skating lessons. I loved the gracefulness of it, the idea of floating on ice, wearing the cute 'lil outfits where the frilly skirts bounced off the back side with every glide. But alas, that was not to happen.

My mom's parenting style was very guarded. We were wrapped up so that only our eyes shown in winter so that we wouldn't get cold or sick; we were never allowed sleepovers; we weren't allowed to date until late in our teen years;  roller skates were banned when I simply tried them on, took one step and landed on my backbone on the asphalt in front of our house; and we weren't allowed to take ice skating lessons because the risk of getting injured or breaking something was just too great.

Therefore, I'm practically one of the last people on earth, it seems, who doesn't know how to skate. And I'm afraid that at my age (I'm not ancient, but let's face it, I'm not a spring chicken, either) getting up on skates and putting blades to ice is too risky for me. Perhaps this is a side effect of the caution my mother instilled in me, but I got aging hips to worry about and I'd rather they just don't glide.

Patti:
I had the misfortune to grow up with weak ankles. As if growing up isn't awkward enough, why not squeeze all the joy out of life and grow up wearing LEG BRACES? Because that's what I did to correct the weak ankle, pigeon-toed mess I was.

I grew out of it and up, and though it was apparent I would never be an Olympian of any sort, I managed to partake in gymnastics and play tag football. Yay, redemption of childhood! However. The one thing I could never manage with much aplomb was ice skating. You see, those damned skates have this way of digging violently into ones ankles, and if ones ankles are weak? They kind of turn in or out and dig right back, hence creating friction. So, yeah, it was never my favorite thing to do.

And still isn't. My poor kid, when trying to skate the very few times she has, asks me to guide her around the rink. ME. As if I could at all offer any sort of competent assistance ON ICE. That is why, when she has the opportunity to skate, I make sure to either a) bring M, who is fearless and does not have weak ankles; or, b) let S invite a friend or two along that knows how to skate. And so far? I've avoided the ice.
.........................

We've avoided the ice. We know we need to. Because if we don't, this will happen:

the dignified face plant

Come on, join us in our anti-skating anthem. (sung to the tune of Shakira's My Hips Don't Lie)

My Hips Don't Glide

Ladies up in here tonight
No skating, no skating
We got the joint pain up in here
No skating, no skating

I fear it, I fear ah

I never really knew I couldn't skate like this
It makes my kids want to act freakish
Como se llama (si), que estoy haciendo (si), (si, Shakira Shakira), en este hielo
I fear it, I fear ah

Oh baby when I wobble like that
I make my doctor go mad
So I'll be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

Why am I on skates tonight?
You know my hips don't glide
And I'm starting to feel not right
What’s the attraction, this tension
Don't see it baby, this ain’t perfection

Hey girl, I can see your body moving
Arms and legs just flailing
And I didn't have the slightest idea
Until I saw you skating

And when I walk up on the slick rink floor
Nobody cannot ignore the way I move my body
And everything so unexpected - the way I right and left it
So I can keep on breaking it

I never really knew I couldn't skate like this
It makes me look so outlandish
Como se llama (si), que estoy haciendo (si), (si, Shakira Shakira), en este hielo
I fear it, I fear ah

Oh baby when I fall like that
It makes my ass be had
So I'll be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

Why am I on skates tonight?
You know my hips don't glide
And I am starting to feel not right
Come on lets go, real slow
Don't you see baby sitting out es perfecto?

Oh yeah, I can see my body moving
Half standing, half wiping out
I don't, don't really know what I'm doing
Geez, maybe it's gout?
My will and self restraint
Have come to fail now, fail now
See, I am doing what I can, but I can't so you know
That's a bit too hard to explain

Oh baby when I try to skate like that
You know I gotta be hypnotized
So I'll be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

Senorita, feel the burn oh, let me see you move like you come from off the floor, oh

Why am I on skates tonight?
You know my hips don't glide
And I'm starting to feel not right
What’s the attraction, the tension
Don't see it baby, this ain’t perfection

No skating
No skating

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!

What NOT to Wear

by Patti & Cathy

We haven't been really good about honoring our Dual Whine Fridays, have we? I mean - we realize that the very first thing that pops into your head when you open your eyes on a Friday morning is our blog - and that you can't wait to read not one whine, but TWO - all at once! And that is why we are posting an oldie but goodie. Because we would never want to let you down.

Happy Friday!
......................

The other day we were complaining to each other about the sad state of our prospective wardrobes. We both need new clothes in the worst way; sadly, other more important things always come up which seem to put a dent in the fashion fund: Things like ballet lessons, and tennis lessons, and tuition, and Chicago-style gas bills, and weird car noises, and allergy medications, and, oh yeah, food. This got us thinking about all the creative tactics we have both put into practice in trying to figure out what the hell to put on in the mornings. We are both working girls, and although it would be fun to lounge around in yoga pants all day, it just ain’t feasible. Much to the chagrin of our closets, we must represent.

Patti:
My what-to-wear tactic involves mustering up an outfit in my head as I fall asleep. Once it is completely put together in the Fantasia Land of my brain, I can then happily fall asleep relaxed, knowing it’s all taken care of. The next morning, since I know it’s all taken care of, I press the “snooze” button a few too many times because, hey! I already know what I’m wearing, and that is ¾ of the morning battle. Of course, once I finally get around to getting out of bed and I actually put on the dreamed-up outfit, it is inevitably a total disaster. What was I thinking, putting together an outfit as I am falling asleep? WHO THINKS CLEARLY AT THE THRESHOLD OF CONSCIOUSNESS?

Because I now do not have enough time, I am then propelled into bionic get-ready mode, and one can find me in my closet tossing shirts into the air, flinging pants and skirts around, and sniffing stuff to check if it’s dirty. The end result? Pants pulled from the Dredges of the Misfits, put on with creative attempts at trying to make them not look so like hell: The cuffs might be rolled up in an attempt to make them look “edgy” instead of “high-watery”; the waist, which is now baggy, is cinched with a sparkly belt in an attempt to make them look “trendy” instead of “stretched out and misshapen”. That sparkly belt? Actually belongs to my 10-year old daughter.

Then come the shoes. Oh, the shoes. All of my shoes are in desperate need of cobbler care. The heel tips are all worn and raggedy, and although I have creatively Sharpied the shit out of some of those heels, I also dig into the Dredges of Misfits for shoes that don’t look like I wore them to travel to Italy 2 years ago - BY FOOT. Of course I end up with shoes I have never worn before, and for good reason: The heels are 5-inch heels, and your co-workers end up commenting all day on how tall you suddenly seem, which is subtle speak for "you look like a hooker."

Cathy:
Like Patti, I too mentally scour my closet at night as I am drifting off to the land of nod. (I had no idea she did this until now. Which got me to thinking, how many other women lay in their beds at night dreaming up the 853rd creative way to wear those same clothes or even dig way back in the corners of their mental closets in desperation to introduce something old as new again?) The process helps me relax and forget about the stressful day I've had or the one awaiting me tomorrow. It's something I do for myself. Of course half the time I never complete the whole ensemble in my head because I get too exhausted trying to re-work the unworkable and make it look fresh. I just conk out and deal with it the next morning.

Dealing with it consists of the following: Standing in front of my open closet, assembling outfits in my head with every piece of clothing I haven't ruled out yet. This eventually leads to Closet Eyelock, a condition that occurs when you've been standing there longer than it takes to MAKE the clothes, until your eyes glaze over and before you know it, you are daydreaming about what to eat for lunch. By then, you have 2.3 minutes to get ready and the end result is some mismatched, ridiculously thrown together outfit we desperately try to make look halfway cool. If we don't get 'out with the old and in with the new' soon we'll be dangerously inching towards the slippery slope of clothing disasters known as Midwestern Moda.
……………………….

Yes, our closets are in sad, shapeless shape. Our staples are actually stapled, our basics are boring, our shoes are shot. But the good news is? Damn, we are some creative bitches.

This Is How We Do It

by Cathy and Patti

We are the ultimate multi-taskers.

Since we are both so busy with work, kids, husbands and life (and we only see each other at our kids' ballet class once a week if we're lucky), we've found that the easiest way to communicate is via Gmail chat. It's not as time-intensive or restricting as a phone call and it allows easier flow than a text. And bonus! It's instant. You hear the "bleep" and the flashing "Name says" sign in your email tab and you know to respond. In the meantime? We can go about doing our "work" work. We told you we were some resourceful beeyotches!

Patti:
I work 40+ hours a week, have a daughter with activities, bathrooms that won't stay clean, clothes that somehow keep getting dirty, beds that don't make themselves, a refrigerator that yearns to stay full, activities of my own, and a husband and friends I kind of dig. The time-suck that is my life most days means that somethin's got to give. And unfortunately, most of the time, it's plans with my friends. I realize I'm not a 21-year old with a social life that must be nurtured or I'll DIE I'll simply DIE - but! I've always said: Women NEED women in their lives; we have got to have those girlfriends to get us through when our husbands make us feel murderous, our children make us feel mad, our parents make us feel drained, our jobs makes us feel strained, and we are going insane.

I have found time and again that trying to have dinner together as grown women takes more than a phone call and a "Done!"; it literally takes a master's degree in the Science of Timeology. Let me tell you: G-chatting is about 4,000 credits in the earning of that master's, and in my friendship with Cathy, it' actually served as a surrogate to getting together for coffee, dinner, or a GNO.  We have had deep, philosophical discussions over G-chat; we've made difficult decisions together; we've planned parties and had business meetings; we've cyber-laughed together over the dumbest things. G-chat is the lifeine that ensures our friendship stays a friendship.

Now I just have to get the rest of my friends - all who work 40+ hours a week and are raising children, keeping husbands happy and running a home - onboard this G-train.

CHOO-CHOO!
(or is that: CU-CKOO!)

Cathy:
We thought we would share with you a transcript of one of our chats from last week, when Patti, Michelle and I were trying in vain to plan my birthday dinner outing at a restaurant named, ironically, YOLO. Oh, when was my birthday, you ask? August 22nd. And when is the dinner planned? The last weekend in September; if we're lucky. Here's a little glimpse into our harried, over-scheduled world and how we, well...do it.

Note: there will be typos, grammatical errors, trending internet lingo and acronyms that make us sound like teenagers. Again, it's all just part of how we do it.

Cathy:
hey girl! sorry crazy mornin. yes i saw Michelle's  response and i replied to her - did you see that? Poor Miche. She has her days all confused!

Patti:
yes, just haven't responded yet. i figured she probably wouldn't be able to make it. so do you still wanna go?

Cathy:
well if it's to celebrate my birthday i would like her to be there, kwim? im sure she contributed to a gift, etc. and i would like her to be there too

Patti:
okay, we will reschedule, then.
i have no saturdays after this available until end of this month, and then only 2 in October. :o(

Cathy:
how about a friday?

(long pause)
Patti:
sorry - working on several things at once. i have the last friday of this month available and 2 in october (as i am traveling). so same deal >;(

Cathy:
dang gurl and you call ME miss social queen!!
don't know what to do

Patti:
it ain't social - it's gig or work
so basically - work lol

Cathy:
i would really not rather push my b-day celebration into october - it just seems so...eh....
let's find a way to do it this month and arrange it with miche.

Patti:
okay, so you are okay with waiting til the last weekend in september? cuz that's all i got, gurrrl. unless we do an early weekday dinner.

Cathy:
this is pathetic
i don't really want to do an early weekday dinner but don't have many options i guess. which saturday this month do you have open again?

Patti:
oh shoot - saturday the 29th is the night we are supposed to do the drive-in movie nite. how about friday the 28th? and hopefully, miche is available! lol!

Cathy:
bella has snow guide nutcracker rehearsal that night until 6:15 so by the time i get home, drop her off and come it won't be until 7:30ish if that works. plus i have to see if joe is traveling that weekend. he is going to atlanta on the 20th and the 21st but not sure about that weekend

Patti:
we can do 8 pm - works for me. can joe take her to rehearsal? or pick her up?
so you aren't all rushy-rush?
[pause]
oooh! i just looked at my calendar and have the 21st open after all. but now you're saying joe is out of town. see? it ain't just me. lol.

Cathy:
he is returning on the 21st so i just have to find out what time he is scheduled to return. if it's early then we're good - if its evening then no....lemme check. plus we need to find out if miche is available too

Patti:
michelle just emailed me and told me she is available the 28th and already put it on her calendar as confirmed.

Cathy:
can you have her also check on the 21st just in case?

Patti:
okay, but i think we need to not hold both nights. which do you prefer?

Cathy:
i would prefer the earlier date but let me make sure joe is going to be here. i just texted him

[pause]
ok so his flight gets in at 6. let's do the 28th...and my the force be with us

[TEN MINUTES LATER.....]
Patti:
lol.... oh boy... miche just emailed me and said the 21st works better cuz she has to get a sitter for the 28th. lol. i told her the 28th works better cuz joe is outta town the 21st, and she said she will make it work no matter what on the 28th. i told her to sharpie it onto her calendar.

Cathy:
O.M.G. this is totes ridik that it's such a production to schedule a simple dinner. we'll be so stressed by the time we get together that we will dive head first into some major margarita glasses at YYYYYOOOOOLLLLOOOO!!!
and how ironic is it that we are going to a place called YOLO and we can't even throw caution to the wind to live up to the name of the restaurant. LOL. we should be going to LOLO, (as in LOL, how funny you are trying to plan a girls night out) not YOLO

Patti:
Lol! Or: NOLO!  (cuz NO it ain't gonna happen!)
...................
Let's just hope ternderly braised Mexican ribs taste the same online.

Sleepless in Chicago

by Patti and Cathy

We are years out of babyhood with our kids now, and this means alot more sleep.

Or does it?

See, the thing is: we are also years into our lives, and with these years comes plenty of changes. Some of them, such as a sharper, more confident sense of "who gives a crap?", are welcome changes. Some of them? Not.

One of those unwelcome changes includes the cray-cray that has become of our respective hormonal makeups. I mean, yes - we are older, but we can still recall with crippling clarity the days of awkward coming-of-age that brought pimples and cramps and mood swings that normally belong to serial killers.

Awkward

Thankfully, we made our way out of that hellstorm, but then slid right into postpartum madness and years of sleeplessness as new mothers. And now? NOW? We're ba-ack. Except this time? We have managed to combine puberty with the glory days of postpartum cuckoo when we are neither 13 years old nor nursing a newborn. And as we muddle through this madness, we drag into the sludge of insanity our husbands....

Patti
I'm so tired. I get up at ridiculous-o'clock five days a week for work, and I tend to be a night owl who gets her second wind at 11 pm, so that alone should make me tired. But no - I'm tired because no matter what time I hit the hay, I simply cannot sleep. No matter how exhausted I am from the exhausting day I may have had, my eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts lighting my brain on fire, my body....sweating?
Wait a minute. Unless I'm running my fourth mile in a row without stopping, I don't sweat. But lately? To borrow from Da Bruce, at night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet, and a freight running through the middle of my head...

I'm a-comin'!

The other night I woke up at 3 a.m., once again soaking wet, that damned freight train doing its thing to jar me even further awake, and surprise! There was M beside me, just as he has been for over two decades, but he, too, apparently had a freight train running through the middle of his head, because I could hear his eyes blinking with each thought that ate away at his brain as he stared up, comatose, at the ceiling.
"Are you okay?" I asked him as I attempted to undo the sheets that were twisted around my body.
"Are YOU? You woke me up because you won't stop moving."
"I know. I can't get comfortable. And I'm so HOT." I flapped my nightgown against my damp skin.
As if to further cement my lunacy, he snuggled deeper into the covers.
"You're not HOT?"
"It's freezing."
"I"m soaking wet; how are you not hot?" I threw the twisted sheets off my body.
"What's going on with you? The sheets are wet!"
"I'M HOT!"

And that has been our romantic middle-of-the-night banter for the past several months. I'm sure M, who has always been my constant companion in the hatred of over-the-top air conditioning, feels a tad betrayed. After all, he has recently lost his temperature buddy. A strong marriage is based on mutual respect, love, and a shared loathing of air conditioning. I get it, I do. And I ain't happy about it.

In fact, I feel the slide into Old Ladyville more than ever, and M,with his aching bones, his 2 a.m. trips to the bathroom, and his weary thoughts, seems to be making that journey with me.

15 years ago, M and I made vows to each other: For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part, we promised to love and honor one another. They forgot something: For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in sleeplesness and in slumber, 'til death do us part.

At this rate, we may be partin' sooner than we think.

Cathy
Unlike Patti's situation with M, my husband seems to be the only one snoring to the heavens here. In fact, he is so completely overcome with slumber stupor, that when I purposely wake him (yes, purposely because he is either snoring so loud that I have to flip him on his side or annoying the crap out of me because he's sleeping so soundly and deeply, whereas I am spinning like a top in place, causing the sheets to mummify me in my own insomniac-induced psychosis) he can't even muster up the strength to form one. word. It's as if sleep has drugged him. And I need to get me some of that drug.

If you've already read up on my hormone stitch, you'll know that I have been battling the effects of their absence for quite some time now. I've gone through every possible pre-menopausal symptom out there, including what Suzanne Somers, the self-proclaimed hormone queen, listed in one of her books as the "Seven Dwarfs of Menopause": Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful and All-Dried-Up. Sorry, guys. The truth hurts.

Yes, "All-Dried-Up" will make you Psycho.

The other day I woke up and felt itchy sparks all over my body for no apparent reason. I hadn't felt this in quite some time. Despite the suggestions by Patti (a.k.a Dr. Google) that "itchiness is a sign of liver problems...have you looked into that?" I knew in my hormonally deprived heart that it was NOT a liver problem. This has been going on for two days now and I am so irritated, walking around slapping my itchy skin to make it stop - not a pretty picture. I am hoping it subsides with this month's flow cycle, otherwise my God help my family.

As luck would have it, on the other side of my friend Patti/Dr. Google, stands my Husband/Mother, Joe. Every morning, out of courtesy, he asks how I've slept that night, even though he can tell just by looking at my face. Are the black wells under my eyes dead giveaways? So after I casually mention that I didn't sleep so well -- because of your snoring, because you were sound asleep and therefore mocking my insomnia and being insensitive to my inability to sleep by sleeping  -- he THEN, goes on to offer me any of the following reasons why:

"It's 'cause you're up Facebooking until all hours," and makes a hungry, desperate looking face while pretending to swipe through an imaginary iPhone.
"It's 'cause you are staying up waaaaaay too late. You gotta go to bed earlier."
"It's 'cause you're reading before bed. That stimulates your mind too much."
"It's 'cause you're up watching television before bed. That stimulates your mind too much."

Little does he know that while I'm laying there, desperately beckoning the slumber gods to come and whisk me away, my body is buzzing with energy and electricity that I can almost hear and I can't shut my mind off - even when I am supposedly asleep. I hear every. little. sound. I think about every. little. thing I have to do. And one of those things on my to-do list? Buy some Nyquil Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz......

TWWW's First (Annual?) Ghetto-Que

by Cathy & Patti

How many years have we known each other? Seven.
How many times have we marveled at the fact that we live parallel lives? Lots.

Aside from having girls the same age that could probably pass for sisters, we are both married to stubborn, strong-willed Latin men. And considering all of this, how many times have we planned family get togethers? Let's just say you could count them on one hand. How ridiculous is that?

Don't get us wrong - it's not that we don't want to, it's just that we never think about that. Why? Because we met while us moms were taking our daughters to ballet class, and it slowly became this "girl" day thing every Saturday; coffee chat while the girls pirouetted and twirled in dance class, followed by lunch chat and perhaps a mall excursion. It was a win-win!

We began having more frequent get-togethers at each other's houses but again, those were usually planned when one of our husbands was working late or out of town. Thus, husbands never fully got integrated into the scene except for a few rare occasions, where they indeed hit it off. Amazingly. So it would make sense that we would get together as families, right? But we really hadn't. This realization came as a shock to us one day several weeks ago when we were Gmail-chatting and the topic came up. WHY haven't we gotten the whole family together sooner?

Amazed at how shockingly ridiculous this was, we promptly agreed on a date and time right then and there that day on G-chat. We penciled it in, and by God we were going to get our families together. So was scheduled, the first ever Barbeque de Familia de TWWW, or as we lovingly refer to it as - Ghettoque.

Cathy
Of course we didn't intend for it to turn into a Ghettoque - 'cuz ya know, we strive to always be all klassy and shiat. Everything was very nice and proper from the minute we set foot into Patti and M's backyard. The patio table sat prepared with beautiful tableware, the shiny new umbrella sat tilted just so to protect us from the blazing sun and the meat was marinating in some yummy Argentinian concoction. The girls immediately took to their basement and the four of us spent the afternoon chatting, sipping and stuffing our faces with choripan, chicken, steak and Greek salad...until...the girls came out for air.

The day was hot and humid and since we didn't have the luxury of traipsing around the backyard with our bathing suits on like the girls, we had to sweat it out. While enjoying 95 degrees in the shade of the table umbrella, the girls began using the garden hose to fill up water balloons. If you've ever tried to fill up water balloons, you'll know that the only problem with that was that the hose can become a slippery little sucker when trying to fill those teeny tiny balloons. So guess where most of that water was ending up? You guessed it. All over us. After several scoldings by the Latino dads to basta! and cientate! they had enough. Into the garage they went to plan their revenge...


Patti
...suddenly, the menfolk burst out of the garage - completely wrapped in thick, black Glad bags. M had MacGyvered protective warrior gear for Joe and himself, cutting arm and head holes at lighting speed into the trash bags with who-knows-what-tool he pulled off the shelves in there. They were ready for water. Water war. Upon seeing their dads, the girls shu-RIEKED at decibels that caused the neighborhood dogs to bark themselves into a frenzy.

Note my newly-purchased beach ball in the corner. 

But let me rewind for a moment. (Cue the scratching of a record.)

When I informed M that Cathy and her family would be coming over for a long-time-comin' barbeque, at first he was confused. "Her WHOLE family?" Cathy is Greek. He pictured her parents, her sister and brother-in-law, and other assembled loud Greeks crashing our shack. I explained that I meant Cathy's family - as in: Husband? Kids? Relief flooded his anti-social face, and plans were miraculously cemented.

M likes to act all tough and macho, but underneath is a lil' pussycat who actually truly cares about making an impression. He diced and sliced and chopped up his homemade chimichurri, prepared the flan for postre, and scrubbed a wall or two for good measure.Since he cares so much about being a good host, I nearly gasped at the level of ghetto that was bedazzling our tree in the backyard when I stepped outside to prepare the patio. "What the - What IS that?" There, dangling with absolutely not a modecum of shame from that tree, was our old, green garden hose. And it was spraying water in a trailer park-y way all over the grass.

"It's a sprinkler," he said, AS IF IT WAS.
"No, it's not!" I retorted. "It's a HOSE twisted around a tree!"
Since we hadn't gotten around to buying a sprinkler attachment for the hose, and it was a scorchingly hot day, M thought he would create a "sprinkler" by wrapping our old garden hose a few times around the thickest branches of our half-chopped tree, and fashioning it into a shower head of sorts. "The girls will love it!"
"This has GOT to go!" I said, and I began to undo the monstrosity that was spewing water everywhere. I then promptly ran to CVS and bought a beach ball sprinkler, and felt instantly more civilzed. "I don't know why you spent that money," M scolded when he saw me return with the monster ball, "my idea was perfect!"

That whole incident set the entire tone for the water fight that was to be. And boy, did it be. Back to the present, as the menfolk ripped through the yard donned in black plastic, I couldn't help but wonder, at well, the wonder of it all.

Here were our husbands, practically two ships passing in the night for seven years, in complete and total solidarity against the girls who had brought us moms together so long ago:

And they were ALL screaming up a storm - even our "macho" men. Those screams combined with the flying water, the black plastic garbage bag get-ups, the neighbor's barking dog, and the chain link fence -- I mean, M might as well have left that twisted, rubbery, green "sprinkler" dangling from the tree. Indeed, our little Sunday afternoon barbeque had very quickly been taken down a few notches from  fashionable to Ghet. To.

And you know what? We wouldn't have had it any other way.

A Year in Our Lives

by Cathy & Patti

This blog post is dedicated to our dear, sweet, big-hearted Texan beauty: Michelle. Without you, this would not be.

Today marks the one year anniversary of our blog.

On May 7th, 2011, we took They Whine We Wine live with its quirky and humorous name and equally quirky and humorous stories from our lives, and brought it all to you - our loyal supporters, readers and the now many new friends. 

Cathy's sip:

Some people need to talk things through with a professional to figure things out.
They have psychiatrists, therapists and counselors.
Other people need to write things out as a means to work things through or keep records of their thoughts and experiences.
They keep a daily journal.
Us?
We have this blog.

This blog started out as a fluke; a crazy suggestion offered up by our BFF, Michelle. (Yes, THE Michelle referred to as Miche or Miche-again repeatedly in our posts.) Anyway, Miche suggested in jest that because Patti and I are just too dang funny and entertaining, (no modesty here) and have similar, crazy, thoughtful stories to constantly share with people, that we should start a dueling blog.

"What's that?" we asked.

"You know," she offered up, not so much in jest anymore. "You could each post stories and the other one gets to respond and back and forth and so on!"

Ooooooh. Now that sounded fun. After going back and forth on ideas, strategies, deciding on a name (this blog was almost called Cheerios In My Bra), and finally setting a start date and sticking to it - we did it. Of course we had to work out the kinks along the way like who would post on what days, the addition of our dual (not duel) posts every Friday, themes and cultural nuances, the ongoing sprucing up of our homepage, and excuses to hold WineWhine parties at each other's houses to "strategize" on the blog.

Here, one year later, I want to share with you what this blog has meant for me:

I have learned that what really leaves an imprint on your heart's memory, are the little moments within the big moments like the sweet tidbits of information that gets revealed to you when you tuck your kids in at night, the reaction to a surprise, the curl of your child's fist when they're asleep, the unsolicited compliment by your significant other, the first time your toddler was able to read a sentence, write a word or draw a picture of you, or the size of their tears as they drip down their face when they come to you for comfort.

I have discovered that life has a lesson to offer in EVERYTHING that happens to you, whether it be tragic, humorous, mundane, dramatic, unplanned, life-changing, eventful or boring. What matters is that you find out what that is. So for me, in trying to discover that, I found that this blog has been my proverbial rose-colored glasses: I use it to choose to find the humor or lesson in the scenes and scenarios in my life rather than the disdain and annoyance.

This blog has allowed me to understand myself, my kids, my friends, my husband, my family and my life better than before, since I take the time to dismantle scenarios and write them out. And in doing so, I have found that life is, in the end, rather funny in its own obvious and mysteriously hidden ways.

Through this blog, I have uncovered the layers within myself, to expose parts of me I never thought I'd show myself, let alone others. I have learned to trust my inner voice, to take better care of ME, to consciously be present in the moments of every day and make a cognizant effort to keep a positive attitude not only for myself, but more so, for my family. And that the bottom line, is that really? I have everything to be thankful for.

Pattis' sip:

When I tell people that, as a child, I was so shy my brother had to speak for me, they look at me like they’re waiting for the punch line. It’s true: I was painfully, heartbreakingly shy. And still can be.

That’s why, when Miche, who was probably tired of being the solo audience to our combined neurosis, suggested this whole blog thing -- well, it was a little scary for me. Because then, you know, I’d be sharing things like feelings. I’d be writing things that were true. Things that were real. And then people would know things.  And that would make those things more true and more real.

But I did it anyway. (Because that is the motto Cathy and I are sharing this year: Do it anyway.) And guess what? The world didn't go and get all crazy-like and implode. Instead, as time has gone on, I have found something kind of liberating in this whole sharing thing. Yes, it is scary; but it is also wonderful to know that when I put myself on the line, somebody else out there is being touched, moved, comforted. Somebody feels less...alone.

It hasn’t only been a cathartic journey for me; it has also been a deepening of friendship. Doing this by myself would not have been nearly as fun. It’s a bit like jumping of a diving board with a friend. You both stand there, your toes playing with the edge, holding hands, and then you both plug your noses and count to three. And then? You both jump, together, hands encircled, trusting each other. And somehow, that makes the jump much less scary, and much, much more fun. And that is what Cathy has been to me in this journey: My jumping partner. She would say I’m much more “out there” than she is, but she is a little more brave than I when it comes to taking a chance. She has what I call “delusional confidence”, and that confidence has carried us both.

Our blog is still tiny. Our traffic can be embarrassing some days. And though we at one time obsessed with getting those hits, we now just write to write. If they come, they come. It matters not, because we love doing it. For ourselves, for you.

Thank you for reading.

................................



We look forward to another year of ruminations, discoveries, surprises, milestones, and all of the little moments in between to share with you all. 

This is Your Life!

by Patti and Cathy


Have you ever wiled the hours away at a mall by simply sitting in one place, watching people go by? And when you do, have you ever found yourself imagining how long that couple has been dating; why that girl looks sad; why that man is in such a hurry?

We do. All the time.

No person, place or thing is safe from our grand delusions assumptions. And those assumptions, in our minds, are completely and totally the way it is.


Patti
When my brother and I were kids, we used to sit on the ledge of the low brick wall that surrounded the park, and simply watch people all day long. The stories we came up with for each person's life were the stuff only movies were made of, but for us, those stories were real.

As I've grown older, that habit of creating lives for others has never died; instead, those stories have only grown grander and richer. As my life gets more complicated, so do the lives of others. It's not uncommon for me to upset myself into believing that the man with the frown is frowning because his wife is dying of cancer, or that woman with bitter face is only bitter because she can't have a baby.

It's not always gloom and doom, though. That couple looks so happy because they just won the lottery! And they are zipping through Costco with glee because they can now buy that trampoline if they want to!

One day, Cathy and I were driving down a very trafficky street on a hot, sticky day, trying to get to the ballet studio on time to pick up our daughters. A honkin' big pick-up truck suddenly appeared next to us, music blaring from the rolled-down windows, horn blaring at us, as if we had done something wrong. The driver, a woman with flying, scraggly hair, screamed obsenities at us, and then promptly gave us the finger. Then she screeched away, but not before we noticed that she had a gaggle of kids in the truck with her.
"What the HELL?" Cathy yelled.
"I KNOW! And she had KIDS in the car!"
"What was WRONG with her? We didn't even DO anything! SHE is the one who cut us off!"
"What a bitch! She must be really angry at the world," I concluded.
"Yeah. She looked really  upset," Cathy agreed.
"She's probably pissed off because her husband left her."
"I know," Cathy said, "and with so many kids, too."
"Yeah. On top of that, he was hitting her!"
"But she probably still loved him."
"Of COURSE she did. She has no self-esteem! I mean, LOOK at her!"
"Riiight? She stopped taking care of herself."
"Yeah, because her husband made her feel worthless!"
"What an asshole."
"I kind of feel sorry for her.
"Me, too. Especially since she's doing drugs."
"Those poor kids."
"I know."

And then, absolutely convinced that this poor woman was broke, drug-addicted, and abandoned - and that her kids were neglected and sad - we both fell silent, and wished her well.

Cathy
You know how in romantic comedies, the couple goes on a date and sits on a ledge of a beautiful street fountain, sharing an ice cream sundae, watching people go by and making up stories about their life? Then they go off on a story tangent and it becomes so unbelievable, that they crack themselves up, nearly falling back into that fountain?

Yeah, well our version of sizing up people's lives isn't quite so Hollywood-like. We are dead serious with our stories, so much so, that they deeply affect us because we SO believe what we are making up about them. We just know that what we create in our heads, these Mini Mind Movies, just have to be the case with these people. We make them out to be martyrs, desolates, schizophrenics, poverty-stricken, ill, wealthy, celebrities, strippers and every other dramatic scenario we can conjure up to justify what we see.

On occasion, I happen to find out the real truth about those people who I've clearly known just in my head - exactly the way I only know them. Then, I am floored. Because as much as I want to believe that what I've made up in my head about someone is really true, because HOW ELSE could it all flow so well together and make such sense given what I'm given to work with? How could there be any other scenario of what their lives are? Oh, but I am pretty much always wrong. And dare I say, it's disappointing.

Almost always, the truth is not nearly as dramatic as what I've envisioned. It's disheartening to find out how boring these people really are. So you know what? I'd prefer to not know the truth, because obviously, I can't handle the truth. We can't all be Jack Nicholson. So I'll stick to listening to the voices in my head because maybe I'm the schizophrenic one. Because, really? That's so much more fun.

There's No Use in Planning

by Cathy and Patti

Making plans. Keeping a schedule.
It's the trademark of a super organized person, and by far,  it's the biggest, if not the most important, component of parenting. You learn quickly from your mistakes - not keeping to a nap schedule, forgetting diapers, a pacifier, a change of clothes, snacks, water bottles, books, crafts, toys - that once a vital item is forgotten or overlooked, you will make damn sure to plan ahead so it doesn't happen again.

After a decade of this planning and scheduling and staying on a routine, we now have it down to a science. This way of life has crept over from parenting territory into our personal territory. We are now much more responsible, thoughtful, cautionary and seasoned when it comes to managing our personal lives. We plan ahead. We plan every detail. We plan for the unexpected, for the what-ifs, for per chances, for the rare occurrences. In fact, we have at least two plans for every necessary plan-making occasion.

This past week, in the midst of our daily Gmail chatting routine, we remembered that the birthday of our good girlfriend Michelle is approaching, and wouldn't it be fun if we plan a night to take her out?

So naturally, we start doing what we do best: Start laying some stellar action plans.

Cathy:
The only problem was? That these plans involved other people besides us. And those people? Had no idea we were weaving them into our web of evening-crashing, yet well-intended planning. After some trigger-fingered online chatting, we agreed that Patti would send the email to Michelle to set the date and cc me. Once that was done, she hopped back on chat.

Immediately, we start setting up scenarios for the different possible dates and nights we were considering for the outing. It went something like this:

Patti: "If we do it on Friday night, I'll have to ask my mom to sleep over since M won't be home."
Cathy: "Oooooor," I tossed back, "you could drop off S at our house along with the dog and Joe can watch them all!"
Patti: "Ooooh, that would work and would be fun for the girls!"
Cathy: "Of course! Either way we have a plan."

But do we?

Patti: "How funny, we are making all these plans and Michelle hasn't even confirmed. So us."
Cathy: "LOL. Indeed. Joe has no clue either."

Patti: "Of course not. SO US. Funny, too, cuz we make all these grand delusional plans, and then we end up flying by the seat of our pants anyway."
Cathy: "Yes, that is so true! Why IS that? See just goes to show there's no use in planning."

Sometimes, there really IS no use in planning. Haven't you ever had a well-laid out plan for an evening out but everything ends up going to shit? It just wasn't meant to happen the way you planned it, and then you force it and then it ends up being the disaster it was meant to be. But we plan anyway, because that's just how we're wired.

Patti:
I'm not the best planner. Never have been. I "planned" my wedding via a few phone calls and emails and showed up to get hitched on a ship 1,000 miles from home, never having laid eyes on my flowers, my cake, or my officiant. But it worked. Obviously. Hell, even my kid was left to chance. And that worked out better than I could have ever expected. So, yes, I leave a lot to "it'll all work out!", and, thankfully, it usually does.

However, I have become much, much more "planful" since becoming a mother, and I amaze even myself at how grown-up that makes me feel. Yes, I realize I'm kind of old and that I probably should feel like a grown-up by now, but do you ever feel, like, so totally 16 in your head, and then you look in the mirror, and JESUS! WHAT HAPPENED? No? Well, that happens to me all the time, hence the "Wow! I'm a grown-up!" realizations. It feels so weird to plan events weeks in advance, because I have to, to line up baby-sitters, and plan Spring Break activities, and work my vacations around school vacations. All so grown up!

But apparently, despite my new grown-uppy status, I have yet to master planning. I must be doing something wrong, because I either get all crazy-delirious with my planning and start including people that have NO idea that they are being planned for within an inch of their lives, or I totally underplan and suddenly find myself with 10 guests in my house and not enough forks.

It just seems that even if I do find the right balance with my planning, it matters not. I will still find “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.” In other words, ha! Why did I bother? I can't even begin to tell you how many of my carefully laid plans just blew up in my face. Dare I say, it seems that things somehow always turn out better when I don't plan? Sure, there have been times that The Plan Gods totally called me out on my disrespect for the art of planning - like that one time when M and I flew to Italy and then walked around the country, dragging our suitcases behind us, with no place to stay because we hadn't reserved a hotel. But I can honestly say that for the most part? There's no use in planning! All it does is set up expectations that then only lead to disillusion and disappointment.

So! I hereby declare NOT planning the new planning. Let's put down our calendars, our itineraries, our to-do lists... and dare to just go with the flow.

And let's hope Michelle is okay with that.

Slum-thing's Got to Give

by Patti and Cathy


If there is one thing we don't mind saying about ourselves it is that we are some highly resourceful beeyotches. Let's face it: life is dynamic, and sometimes you find yourself in a situation where all you can do is ask yourself, "now what?" For some, those "now whats" are easy to fix. Maybe they have the time. Maybe they have the money. But for us? Time and money are often the scarcest of commodities, and that is when we are forced to MacGyver our way right on through those "what nows".

If we don't get resourceful, it doesn't get done, it doesn't happen, it doesn't change.  And that is how each of our own personal Book of Solutions was written -- out of sheer need, will, must. Sometimes we will go back and read some of the chapters in our books, and even WE cannot believe what has been written -- even though we wrote the stories. Indeed, sometimes these "solutions" of ours end up being more like slumlutions.

Patti
My dear friend Janie and I sang for years together in a society band. The gigs called for formal wear, from flirty cocktail wear to trendy evening dresses. We were working a lot, which meant a lot of outfits that I simply did not have. This is where my resourcefulness came to the rescue. I had a velvet (what? it was the 90's!) top that served me well for a good couple of years, but it was starting to get stale. So I took a needle and thread and created a va-va-voom low-cut neckline by scrunching the fabric into a cleavage-baring masterpiece. When I showed up at the gig, Janie couldn't believe it was the same top I'd been wearing for the past two years. "It looks amazing!" she marveled. Perhaps - but I could only hope Janie didn't lean in too closely. If she did, she might see the multiple colors of thread I'd had to use, and the amateur zig-zag sewing methods I'd used to create this "scrunch". One wrong move and I'd go from va-va-voom right back to Victorian librarian.

A few weeks later, I showed up in a brand new pair of gold strappy sandals. Except - they were actually three-year old black strappy sandals that were worn and tired and reincarnated into sparkly gold sandals via a can of "Hammered Gold" spray paint purchased at Home Depot. "What?" Janie declared me a fashion genius, and I just shrugged my shoulders, knowing that such "genius" was merely a creative flash of resourcefulness that struck my fancy at the last minute. Of course, had I taken off my shoes, she might have seen the "hammered gold" paint crusted onto the soles of my feet. I had spray-painted my sandals in such a hurry, I got paint in all the wrong places. And then, of course, because the paint job has been a last-minute flash of "genius", the sandals hadn't had time to dry. Hence, hammered gold toes.

And I don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed to say this resourcefulness? Runs in the family. M is the King of Resourcefulness. He pulls it off with a bit more finesse than I do, though; being raised in Argentina and having ridden a bicycle with no seat growing up forced him to get pretty creative in life.

Last summer, M and S left the country for two weeks together, leaving me at home. He was a little nervous about leaving me here by myself, and, for his own peace of mind, decided to install an alarm system before he left. Behold:

It's an old-school transistor radio hung by a neon green cord from the outdoor light fixture on our back porch. That radio has been playing day and night since July of last year. Sometimes I come home late at night after a  gig, and as I am walking up the sidewalk to my house, I hear an "Ah - ya - yi!" coming from  my back porch.  As I get closer, I realize it's the "alarm system", set to some Best! Of! Latino! station, blaring out merengues, salsas, and cumbias all night long. M insists this is without a doubt the most genius invention ever, this homemade alarm system, and we are safe as long as Elvis Crespo keeps singing away those intruders.

We may be safe from those intruders, but who is going to save us from ourselves?


Cathy
We had a four poster bed. You know, those Victorian, regal looking beds made of deep, cherry wood with scroll detail on the headboard that sit about four feet off the ground? I say 'had' because that is how our bed started out when we purchased it almost 15 years ago while I was in my antiquey stage.

When Bella was five years old, she discovered that the posts can double as exercise equipment! Onto our monstrous bed she would hoist her little body every spare minute of the day, first using her knee to climb onto the bench at the foot of the bed and then again, leveraging that little knee to help haul herself over onto the fluffy duvet. Then she would grab onto that pole (that's what we called it) for dear life and start swirling around it and climbing it like a rope, her little feet gripped tightly to the beautifully engraved etchings. And every time I would see her do this, I would warn, "Honey, that's gonna break. That's gonna break! You're gonna get hurt!" my voice would rise.

Sure enough, one day as she was twirling around it, the pole broke. It snapped. And of course, Bella got hurt. And of course she cried. And of course I had to tell her so.  The fourth pole had broken right at the base of the footboard and a sad, puny little fitted piece was all that was left. After I lamented the death of my four poster bed, I took charge. I grabbed a hacksaw (my neighbor had this) and sawed that little sucker right off. I then sanded down the stump gave it a few good coats of wood stain. Voila!

I stepped back and admired my...limpy three poster bed. I knew what I had to do. I secured myself into my gym shoes, stepped back and let at it. Tae Bo had never come in so handy. My roundhouse kicks were the bomb and my ass was getting a good workout to boot! I switched legs for an even workout, loosening that third post, cracking away, by the second. Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am. Down it went. I repeated the process on the other side and now admired my symmetrical bed. I was happy and well, proud.

What I wasn't so proud of? The time I came home from midnight mass one chilly Easter. It was a challenge just to bring the lit candle home, as that is our tradition on the night of the Resurrection; we bring the light of Jesus back to our house and keep it burning all night. What I didn't count on was not being able to find a suitable candle holder - or even A candle holder - at 1am and half asleep. Looking around my kitchen, I spotted my food processor. Ding! I unscrewed the lid and popped that candle in there for the night. Done and done.

It took me a while to get all that hardened wax unglued from my kitchen appliance, but you know what? Whether we are faced with half-sewed Victorian shirts or half-posted Victorian poster beds, we make it work. And it works.

Once Again, Miche-again!

by Cathy and Patti

We know, we know...we've bombarded you with so many Michigan stories this past week that you want to pull that unassuming, innocent little state off the map. But if you can indulge us in a follow-up post about how our recent trip up there this past weekend went, we promise you...it will be worth your time.

The comedy of errors that ensued before we even hit the road should have been a sign. We all agreed we would leave after our Saturday afternoon ballet lesson, where we would all be gathered, overnight bags and lunch coolers in tow. We decided to take two cars since we couldn't cram so many people, duffle bags, vats of cheeseballs, purses and winter gear all in one car. After class, we piled into our respective cars for the almost hour and-a-half drive.

What did that consist of on our part? Situating two adults, two girls, two bulbous ballet bags, coats, winter accessories, four overnight bags ("I want my bag IN the car!"), three separate trips back to the trunk, opening and sprawling out lunches (we agreed we would pack lunches to save time, which consisted of sandwiches, chips, pickles, sugar snap peas, apples, Doritos, pretzels, and cheese balls), opening water bottles, balancing coffee cups in broken cup holders, positioning our phones for easy access and GPS capabilities, deciding on music selection and interior climate control, and opening a box of Kleenex for Bella, who was sick and blowing her nose every second as opposed to her usual every minute.

Ahhh...there. All settled in. In our post-chaotic moment of stillness, we caught sight of Michelle waiting up ahead, her car sideways, eyes riveted in our direction. We busted out in laughter just thinking what was going through her mind as she was watching our clown car-ish circus act unfold before her very eyes. We drove up to her car, agreed on the quickest route and set out on our mini roadtrip.

Cathy
That quickest route decision turned out to be taking the Skyway instead of staying on 94 the whole way up. We've taken both routes before but for some reason, not only did we feel we spent $1,394 dollars on tolls this time around, but had to contend with some major traffic - which was partly to blame for those tolls. Ever take a ride up towards Indiana recently? Traffic in the toll lanes was virtually inching along. 'What the heck?' we mused aloud in our car, which was bogged down with so much stuff I swear I heard the back bumper scraping the ground.

When we finally got to the toll booth, I screamed, "NO WONDER! There's no person here! It's a machine!"
"HUH?" echoed Patti, just as baffled.
So obligingly, we stuffed the equivalent of our life savings down that money-sucker while bitching out loud that it's no wonder our economy is going to shit. So many jobs were eliminated to bring in these toll machines that take four times as long, cost more to justify the toll increases and snarl traffic to a halt. Nice job, government.

After going through two more of these, we were driving along quite comfortably, the kids content in the back seat, Patti and I gossiping and singing in the front seat. I casually mentioned that it seemed like it was taking forever and we thought nothing of it, until twenty minutes later, with a steady eye on my watch, announced more decisively that we must have missed the exit. "It's taking way too long," I said.

"Pull up our location on your phone," Patti agreed. After punching in some directional points, I declared out loud, "We are 22 miles out of our way...but good news! The next exit will take us back the way we need to go!" 

Patti was more than ecstatic to hear this news since she had to pee so bad; I told her to just do it old-school style on the side of the road between the opened up front and back doors. But, no. Instead, she preferred to go at a truck stop restroom. But not before we encountered the toll booth machine from hell.

That exit smacked us with yet another toll booth machine and by now, since Patti had been paying at all the toll booth stops with the cash she happened to have on hand, I felt bad and offered up my Mastercard debit, the only form of 'cash' I had on me. "Here! Pop that in. I insist!" I demanded in my Greek way.

In it went and there it got stuck. It wouldn't go in all the way but it wasn't far out enough to be grasped. Only then did we see a paper sign that was taped up top that read: Attention Mastercard debit card users. This machine does not accept that form of payment. "There's a button to press here for help. Hold on," offered a calm Patti, realizing the onset of my panic. Moments later, a woman's recorded voice came blaring through the maniacal toll booth machine:  "No one is available to take your call at this moment. Please hold until the next available representative." As Patti and I turned to stare at each other with our mouths agape, the clincher kicked in: Music. Not just any music, but a jacked up, static version of some Shania Twain song. Really? As cars behind us started backing up and poking into neighboring crawling lanes, I concluded then and there that not only would be stuck here for a while but that I would never get my debit card, my financial connection to the world, back.

Patti

Why didn't I use my debit card? Because I had lost it a few days before our Miche-Again! trip, OF COURSE, and the bank takes it sweet-ass time mailing replacement debit cards. So I was traveling old school style: WITH CASH. And that cash? Was about to disappear. So Cathy offered up her own debit card, which was now dangerously close to being eaten by the toll booth machine. 

Finally! A real, live, non-Shania Twain voice came crackling out of the speaker. "How may I help you?" it slurred. So, wait - the state cut all the toll booth worker jobs, but hired at-home drunks to answer emergency toll booth calls? I explained to the at-home drunk that the machine had eaten Cathy's debit card, and she put me on hold while she "worked" on the problem (aka, grabbed herself another beer). Within seconds, the card came mercifully spitting out of the machine, and we all cheered. I once again dug into my rapidly emptying wallet, and pulled out two singles. I leaned out of the car window to start feeding the machine, and a sudden gust of wind snatched the money from my hands and carried it away. "MY  MONEY!" I screamed. Yes, it was only a couple of dollars, but all of the tolls had eaten up my reserves, and I NEEDED those dollars. Cathy, never one to waste a precious penny, gallantly threw open her door and started galloping after my flying dollars. Yes. She was literally CHASING MONEY. She sprinted across the toll booth lanes and was able to rescue a dollar, which she then held triumphantly above her head while doing a victory jig. Right there. At the top of the expressway. 

We finally arrived to Miche's, whereupon Miche and our friend Enza, who had arrived a full hour before, came bouncing out of the house. "You made it! You made it!" they sang as they danced around us, and then offered to help bring our stuff in. I was traveling with Gaucho, who we had just brought home the weekend before, and I have to make a confession right here, right now: When S was a baby, I only traveled with diapers and my boobs. For Gaucho? My 8.5 week old puppy? I traveled with a crate, a pen, a bag of chew toys, a bag of food, medication, potty pads, a harness, a leash, a collar, two blankets, Desitin for a face rash, two stainless steel bowls, baby wipes.... Miche and Enza made trip after trip lugging all the crap I had brought - FOR A DOG. Cathy, Bella, S and I? Had one bag each. Oh! And of course, there was the food, and the star of that food was the TUB-O-CHEESE BALLS Cathy had brought along for the car ride. Those balls could have fed an entire country, and there still would have been leftovers. So. Many. Balls!

After a tedious shuffle back and forth to and from the car into the house, and the pandemonium of setting up Gaucho's crate and pen, I finally flopped down on the couch and looked out the window to see this:

Yes, there was a lone roll of toilet paper under my car. Because that's how we "roll". 

We hung out the rest of the day, and then went out for dinner that night. By the time we got home, we realized just how exhausted we all were, and hit the hay around midnight. Since I had a "newborn" with me (Gaucho), I offered to sleep on the couch in the living room so that I could hear him whine and take him out without disturbing anybody else. Cathy claimed she had a hacking cough that attacked at night, and was granted the guest room so that she could cough in isolation. Miche shared her bed with Enza, and the four girls made a cozy slumber-party  style set-up upstairs. Then, all lights were out.

1 am: The girls are still making noise upstairs --  I call from my cell phone to them and tell them to keep it quiet. Then I hear Enza and Miche giggling like ten-year olds themselves, and I march down the hallway and ask them to keep it down. I am killing the joy left and right. 

2 am: The girls are still being annoying, I call them again.

3 am: I am tossing and turning on the couch, amazed that the girls upstairs are STILL making noise. I am also nervous that Gaucho will begin his antics of crying all night, as he had been doing all week since we brought him home, and, though he is actually completely quiet, I am anxious waiting for it to happen. 

3:30 am: I am still awake, now thoroughly convinced that Gaucho is likely in a coma in his crate - why else the utter quiet?

4:00 am: A shadowy figure comes darting down the stairs and into the hallway. I hear a little commotion by Miche's room, then another commotion by Cathy's room, and then, within minutes, all is quiet again.

4:15 am: Hear coughing coming from upstairs.

4:20 am: Hear coughing coming from Michelle's room.

4:25 am: Don't hear any coughing coming from Cathy's room and wonder if she made up whole "coughing attack" thing just to get the guest room to herself.

4:30 am: Begin Googling "puppy coma" on my cell phone. Part of me wants to wake Gaucho to make sure he is, well, ALIVE; the other part of me is terrified to wake him and then have him become a yowling monster and wake up the whole house. 

6 am: Wake Gaucho. He stares at me grumpily, as if to say, "I cry, you complain. I sleep, you complain. What do you WANT for me, lady?" I force-feed him in the case he actually is suffering from hypoglycemia, wait for him to do his business outside, and then put him back in his crate at 6:30 am. 

7 am: Finally fall asleep.

9:30 am: The girls wake up.

Yes, that night was a complete and total nightmare, but you know what? I can't wait 'til next year to do Miche-again!all over again. Because the memories we have created on these trips for our daughters, for ourselves, are worth every missed exit, every lost dollar, every sleepless night.