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.

Happy Birthday, Friend

by Patti

“A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow.” 
― William Shakespeare

It's no secret Cathy and I did not become friend immediately. After all, I kissed her husband. And I had a waist. And I was far too perky to be allowed to live.

But seven years later, here we are. Friends. Really, really good friends.

On this day, my really, really good friend's birthday, I want to not only celebrate the fact that she has been granted another year on this earth - one with a few extra grays and maybe a new line or two, but another year nonetheless - I also want to celebrate who she is as a friend.

Because Cathy is a good friend; a true friend.

She not only makes you laugh, but she will also laugh at your jokes and your ways and make you feel like the funniest person alive.

She will listen to you, offer gentle advice if asked, and, if needed, help you see things differently - without making you feel like you are wrong about it.

She will lend you a helping hand when you need it - sometimes literally.

She will tear up when you are sad, because she really feels what you are feeling.

She will light up when things go right for you, because she is really happy for you.

Yes, Cathy is a good friend; a true friend.

She is also a wife and a mother; a daughter and a sister; a cousin and an aunt - one who deeply loves her husband, her daughters, her parents, her sister, her cousins, her niece.

She is fiercely independent, yet cannot live without her family; without her friends.

Cathy with her (from left) husband, sister, and brother-in-law

Beloved daughters

A night out with some friends

She is who she is, and on this day, her birthday, I'm glad for it.

Happy Birthday, Beeyotch!

Love,
Your Friend

Secretly relieved that you're secretly relieved....

by Patti

My friends Kristin and Traci and I decided enough was enough -- we needed to plan a night out after work. So we somehow magically found a date that worked for all of us ( - we all work+we all have kids = Never Afreakingvailable. Traci, bless her insane little heart, has THREE kids -) and wrote that date into our respective calendars.

Truthfully, the date was a stretch for me. The day we picked is the day I normally take S to ballet, and S has this "thing" about changes in her routine. But I figured M could take her and she'd just have to get over it, even if meant the earth would start spinning in reverse and then fly right off its axis and go floating off into space totally untethered.

The day finally arrived. I made sure to wear my "drinking" pants, and went into work. And then... the text. The one from M that meant my plans would have to change because "something came up". That "something" was unfortunately a little more important than my doing shots after work, but it still annoyed me unto no end. Why? BECAUSE THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS, ALWAYS. Every single time I, or any of my other friends for that matter, make a plan to do something that means no kids? The kids get sick, the husband has a meeting, the babysitter gets hit by a car...the combination of disasters is endless.

I remember once when Cathy and I had exuberant plans for a night out, and after a series of canceled plans, we had what we thought was a full-proof plan. That is, until her husband Joe's plane got DELAYED OVERNIGHT IN MIAMI. Of COURSE it did. Because we had plans!

So on this day, when M put a dent in my plans with Kristin and Traci - I got nervous. Poor Kristin and Traci, frazzled working mothers that they are. I was about to ruin their plans. I was about to be a plan buster. I shot off an email to both of them, hoping they would understand; encouraging them both to still go and "tie one on" without me. Within moments, my phone rang. It was Kristin. "Hi..." I said sheepishly, fully expecting the guilt her disappointment would make me feel.
"Ohmygod, I am so secretly relieved!" she blurted out breathlessly.
"What? You ARE?"
"Because!" she told me, "Mallorie had a total meltdown this morning when I dropped her off at my mom's. I felt AWFUL knowing I was going to go out tonight instead of seeing her after work!"
"Awwww..."
"Yeah... my mom even told me she couldn't believe I was going to still go out after the way Mallorie cried. I felt so bad. But I didn't want to cancel on you guys."
I found the silver lining. "See? It all worked out for the best!"
"Plus!" she continued. "Rob and I were totally trying to figure out the logistics of how it would work if I went out."
The more she talked, the more I realized I was saving her life. I silently thanked M for ruining my plans.

And then I realized: Traci. She comes into work later than Kristin and I, and her disappointment still awaited her. "She wasn't feeling good yesterday," Kristin offered hopefully. "Maybe she'll feel like crap today!"
How sad. To save ourselves and our friend disappointment, we wished her ill. "She's here!" Kristin whispered. And then we hung up.

Five minutes later, I got an email from Traci, "No worries, guys. I feel like total crap today anyway. I was still going to go out because I really need a drink, but...." So SHE was secretly relieved, too!

In the end, it seems the whole disintegration of plans ended up oddly working in our favor: Kristin because her baby guilted the need for fun right of her; Traci because she was feeling like crap, and besides, hey! She could use that window of "alone time" to shop for her son's birthday; me because I felt bad for being the plan buster. Plus, I had been a little worried about making the earth fly off its axis with my inconsiderate ways.
And my keeping the earth from floating off into space totally untethered? For that, I'm sure we are all secretly relieved.

Forever 21

 by Cathy

“Youth is wasted on the young.” – George Bernard Shaw 

Patti’s birthday was this past Sunday.

Although I was keenly aware of it, it quietly went uncelebrated this year – without nary a balloon to be popped, a piece of cake to be relished or a glass of bubbly to be sipped. Why, you ask? How can a friend just let another friend’s birthday slide by with just a facebook wall post and a quick ‘Happy birthday, girl!’ thrown into a hectic phone conversation?

I know, I know. 

I am her other blog half and self-proclaimed female spouse. (As the enlightened Oprah had professed on her show, women need wives.) I should have done something more. However, in my defense, I couldn’t do a hair’s-width more to celebrate my dear friend’s birthday - even if I tried.

Patti’s birthday falls on national tax day – April 15^th. But this year, the looming tax deadline wasn’t the issue (not that it was an issue on any other year, but it's a stressful, deadline-induced hell of a date). This year, her birthday fell on my Easter Sunday. And because of that, although she completely understood the hectic craziness that went along with what that entailed, I didn’t want her to assume that her birthday went unnoticed or worse yet, unrecognized.

We tried in vain to plan a Saturday night out for the celebratory birthday party, but between Easter, bachelorette parties, gigs, dinner plans, errands and everyday obligations, we were now looking at a Saturday night in June. How could it be that we are as booked as Obama? In my book, you don’t officially tack that extra year onto your age until you celebrate it with your friends. Now, it seems as if Patti would remain forever…21. 

And for those of you who know Patti, (and aside from the fact that she does frequent the namesake store on occasion), how truly fitting IS this? She is the quintessential 21-year old but with the maturity and wisdom that girls that age could only hope for. Her humor, style, personality, attitude and zest for life all resonate with the youthful characteristics of a 21-year old. She loves laughing, making people laugh, music, singing, dancing, eating, cocktails just because, and just plain being and having fun. What’s more? All of these mood-boosting traits effortlessly rub off on her friends and even onto fleeting strangers who have the good fortune to cross paths with her. For all these amazing twenty-something characteristics and so many more for me to get into in one, solitary blogpost, I love my forty-something friend.

So…regardless of when we celebrate her birthday, it won’t matter. Because even though her birthday has come and gone, celebrated or not, she will always remain forever 21.

Cheers to you, beeyotch and happy birthday!!

P.S. I love you enough to post this crappy pic of myself, but as usual, you are rockin' it. It's a damn, foolish shame that youth in fact belongs to the young, but it will always belong to the young at heart. Stay forever young, my friend. xoxoxo

Sooner or Later Came Much Too Soon

by Cathy

We live in a six-unit building. Our condo shares the same deck space with our next door neighbors. These neighbors of ours have lived next door to us for 13 years. I have watched as they went from a single woman living alone and working ungodly hours, to a couple, to getting married and having her husband move in with her, to getting pregnant and having a baby. That baby, Grace, is now eight years old. My daughters are almost 11 and six.

My neighbors and we have watched our girls grow up together, as close as sisters can be. Playdates have consisted of knocking on each other's door at any hour of any day. Oh, the convenience of it all!

One particular playdate, years ago when Grace was about two or three and in the midst of being potty-trained, will never be forgotten. As we adults chatted, drank and laughed away out on the deck one beautiful summer night after having barbequed some serious gourmet burgers, our girls played Barbies in their room, in our house. Suddenly, Bella ran out and frantically announced, "Gracie just went poo-poo on the carpet!" All four chairs slid back across the deck at once and Traci, Grace's mom, was already heading to her house to grab her portable steamer-vac.

Side note: What you must know about Traci is that she is the perfect neighbor. Correction, she is the perfect Martha Stewarty neighbor. She's my go-to person when someone gets sick, when I needed help with a DIY project around the house, when I needed an ingredient, a tool, a dutch oven, tacky glue, books, corn syrup, carpet cleaner, a lemon zester/garlic press, fresh parsley, soil fertilizer, or when I needed to shred some papers.  So it makes sense that she does have a steamer vac and many other practical appliances and ingredients and cleansers and doodads that we would never think of buying, just in case.

When we got to the girls' room, we found not only poop smeared on the carpet but apparently, Gracie had stuffed a Barbie doll down her pants to prevent the poop from coming out at such an inconvenient time. Princess Barbie was now sporting a poop coat and matching poop hat. I looked over at Traci, who is always so prim, proper and polite, and thought she would faint out of sheer shock. Her horrified look and wide eyes said it all, but that didn't deter her from mechanically settling in and attacking the problem step by painstakingly, methodical step. A half-hour later, despite my pleading to 'just leave it be' and it was 'more than clean' Traci had pretty much steam vac-ed the entire bedroom crouched down on her knees while the men were yucking it up on the deck enjoying their third bottle of wine, when clearly, we should have been the ones having some shots.

We have not only shared poop but houses, cars, decks, toys, garage space, disagreements, parenting skills, recipes, decorating tips, business advice, secrets, several bottles of good wine drunk out of Waterford glasses (because, as they would say, "What are we saving them for?"), laughter, tears and the Magic Box (a small, lidded yard shed filled with balls, games, play-doh, mats, cute fold-up chairs, scooters, and the magic blanket, always laid out so our girls can make a fort out of umbrellas or sprawl out the million little Polly Pocket pieces and American Girl doll accessories comfortably). Hell, we would have shared ONE HOUSE if we knocked down that firewall and installed a revolving door and time-shared our husbands out as we had always joked.

Since they were in diapers, our girls have waddled around on our deck, splashed around in a kiddie pool which Traci and I filled with countless buckets of water hoisted from our bathtubs, decorated cookies, ran through sprinklers, had snowball fights, planted flowers, swung on swings hung from our deck beams and had scooter races in our alley . We knew we wouldn't live next to each other forever and that sooner or later, this blissful convenience of having this "perfect extended family" next door would have to end. And that time came one month ago when they announced that they would be putting their condo on the market. 'Okay,' I thought. 'That should take some time.' But it didn't. Two weeks later, they got an offer and have set the closing date for mid-April. Just. Like. That.

These neighbors of ours have taught me many things, helped us through many things and cannot ever be replaced. What other neighbor would offer to drop off and pick up Bella from school in the middle of an arctic winter every day for months so that I wouldn't have to take my newborn, Ari, out in the frigid temps?

The other day, Traci called to tell me that she will leave the Magic Box out on the deck for us. That is when it hit me. Blubbering through the phone, I thanked her. Then she began to cry. Together, for a long, lingering while, we quietly had a moment that summed up the 13 years of life we have shared -  which was more than any words could ever say.`

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.

Miche-again!

by Patti and Cathy

This weekend, we are headed to Michigan for what has become an annual tradition. We crash our friend Michelle’s vacation house, pile on the daughters, and celebrate a weekend of estrogen, both new and used, with s’mores, fires, sledding, guitars, and wine. Oh, and whine!

 The first time we went three years ago, our daughters were set loose into Miche’s beautiful vacation home, and promptly began to run in circles, screaming at decibels so high, all of the neighboring states’ dogs came a-callin. Miche has a loft that overlooks the living room, and it wasn’t long before various dolls, stuffed animals, and other kid paraphernalia came soaring over the loft and onto the living room floor below. Some of these dolls came scaling down the wall of the loft on rope, while others, not as lucky, were simply flung to their dolly deaths.

In the past couple of years, our girls have calmed down a bit, and have now started gathering, slumber party-style, in the upstairs loft to tell secrets, watch movies, or play games. This gives us times to gather in our own slumber party-style downstairs, cozy on the couches, wine in hand, the fireplace crackling, to share our own secrets, to play music, to laugh that crazy silent, shoulder-shaking laugh, and sometimes, to cry.

Of course, these weekends can never be without some sort of drama. After all, it’s all estrogen, all the time, and anytime one sleeps away from home - especially with others - there are adjustments to make, sleeping styles to harmonize with, and general chaos that is always a promise away...

Patti
Have you ever heard a bed chirp? Yes, you may have heard one creak or bounce or boing, but chirp?

Well, I have. And the culprit was poor Cathy, tossing and turning all night long with a sleep mask slapped on her face, and a useless bottle of Nyquil mocking her from her nightstand. I was in the twin bed across from her, saddled with a migraine I'd had since the day before, and trying to ignore the “Chirp! Chirp!” that emanated from her bed each and every time she dared to even breathe. And this is how it went all. night. long, until the morning came and I glanced over to see Cathy, all bleary-eyed and gray from exhaustion, staring up at the ceiling, the bed chirping each time she blinked. "I couldn’t sleep at ALL!” she lamented.

“Me neither,” I commiserated."There is something wrong with your bed. It....chirps!"

"I know! I heard it all night!"

The bed chirped again, giving us its middle finger, and we broke out into the kind of delirious laughter that only completey exhausted people can summon up, then we dragged our asses out of bed and got ready for the day. We were vacationing at Miche's house - Miche and our other friend, Enza, were downstairs having breakfast, probably fully-rested and ready to seize the day, and we joined them, our eyes glazed and glassy from lack of sleep. But once we got coffee in, and realized with mounting glee that this time we had come WITHOUT THE KIDS WITHOUT THE KIDS WITHOUT THE KIDS, we were wide awake. The whole day languished before us, and in it there was to be wine tasting, the beach, going to a fancy restaurant that served cocktails, shopping... oh, the FREEDOM!

So we hit the winding Michigan roads and flirted with the Wine Boy (who said he was really a comedian sommelier-ing for cash, but somehow, we were the ones making him laugh. Or maybe he was laughing at us?) at the first vineyard, and got tipsy off samples. Maybe a little too tipsy, because while Miche and Enza sampled it up in proper grown-up style, Cathy and I were huddled face-to-face laughing so hard we literally almost peed out all that wine. And if I told you what were laughing at us you might just cluck your tongue sympathetically at us and pat our heads with a "there, there" normally reserved for the truly insane. After annoying every single person in the place, we headed to another vineyard and were served by a hot-but-not-hot Jersey Shore reject. The buff-armed buttah face gave us sample after sample, and by the time we left the place, full of wine and giggles, we were ready for a nap on the beach.

We spent the rest of the day lounging on the beach, sipping more wine from some klassy plastic cups, and planning the night ahead of us. And how glorious it was to take our time putting on make-up, hoochin' up our hair, and slippin' on our skinny jeans, without having to open up a juice box, tell a kid to get dressed, or force a brush through a daughter's rat's nest.

That night was magical, but the magic didn't begin at the restaurant or at any club (because they must not believe in dancing in New Buffalo, Michigan) -- it all began after we got home, washed off our make-up, and threw on our sweats. We sat on the back deck and made s'mores, drank champagne, and laughed so hard it hurt for days. And on the drive home we got a little nostalgic for what had just passed, because we realized, next time we came back it wouldn't be the same. No, not at all. Because next time, as they did every time before, the daughters would descend....

Cathy
And descending upon Michigan is what we are doing this weekend. It's time once again for our annual mother/daughter trip up to Tallgrass Cottage, like we've been doing for the last three years now. Every year, our daughters' anticipation mounts as we get closer to our planned outing but the incessant questions about the timing and details of this trip begin with the season's first snowfall.

Since that first uproarious trip up there three years ago, armed with a trunk full of sleds in every size and shape imaginable and the promising backdrop of a fluffy yet thickly packed layer of snow gripped firmly to the ground, we look forward to sledding the weekend away like they do in those heart-tugging Michigan commercials. However, last year, there was only a sprinkling of snow to be had, so instead of woo-hooing! our way down a steep, slippery hill, red-faced, arms stretched to the sky and our souls satiated with fun and laughter, we found ourselves catching the 4:15pm showing of Justin Beiber: Never Say Never...in 3D.

With the girls seated comfortably two rows in front of us, we four women plopped our tired, disappointed asses in the back row, slipped on our thankfully dark 3D shades, and settled in for a nice, long nap. But there was no napping to be had. Dare I say the movie was...interesting? Enjoyable, even? By the very end of the movie, after we cheered, fist-pumped, sang, clapped and did some pretty top-notch swirly seat dancing, we sang Never Say Never at the top of our lungs while sporting our shades and dishing out some pretty dang good arm dancing/seat bumpin' choreography. Needless to say, our daughters had practically crawled under their seats. What can we say? We're just good at finding the fun. 

There is nary a speck of snow to be found on the ground this weekend and no Justin Beiber movie on the silver screen radar. At first we were stressing about what to do. How will the girls keep occupied and not hound us with constant kidterruptions of every variety? (Mom! We're hungry! Mom! Watch this! Mom! Do we have any movies? Mom! I'm not tired! Mom! We're bored! Can we go somewhere? Can we go shopping? Can we make s'mores? Can you play Apples to Apples with Then we remembered that the house is big enough for each group to play separately and strong enough to handle the estrogen that will be bulging at the cedar siding seams and that no matter what, we will find the fun. Again. Because that's what we do. Even though we swore we would never lock ourselves in a house for the weekend with a bunch of pre-hormonal tween girls and their post-hormonal, R&R-seeking mothers with no solid gameplan on tap.  

But as they say, never say never.

Pimp My Ride

by Cathy & Patti

Everyone has their own driving routine. Each of us keeps our mirrors at a certain level, our seats in a comfortable driving position and our climate controlled to the temperature we desire.  We keep our favorite CDs at arms length and our radio stations pre-programmed to our taste in music. We designate our favorite cup holder and an alcove for loose change. Never out of reach are our sunglasses, hand sanitizers and Kleenex. (What? We have kids, okay?) Some of us keep our cars smelling Mountain Breezy and others, well... more Mountain Goaty. The point is, it's our car and we drive it the way we like.

What makes for interesting dynamics is when your car, your intimate home on wheels, becomes invaded by driver-side passengers. They've entered your personal car space, and by doing so, seated right up in front with you, have access to everything you do. You could tell them to sit back there with the Wet Wipes, empty Cheetos bags and countless water bottles rolling around the floor mats. You could ask them to wedge themselves in between your kids' car seats, which are encrusted with stale McDonald's french fries or cheesy rainbow colored Goldfish. But you don't. You let them ride up front with you and as such, surrender your domain to violations of all kinds. Not fun.

But you know what else isn't fun? If you are the driver-side passenger, subjected to the car owner's preferences.

Cathy:
When I first step into Patti's car, I am usually overtaken by the just-sprayed scent of citrus. Oranges, usually. Sometimes lemons. Either way, it smells like I wandered into a Bounce commercial. But I know this about Patti - her house is very scenty too - and I personally appreciate that she is the Breezy type.

When we decide to take "one car" it's usually Patti's since she prefers to have her own car and be in the driver's seat. This works out great for me because my family has one car and that would leave my husband S.O.L when we go on weekend trips to Michigan or spa getaways in Wisconsin. Besides, I can sit back, enjoy the scenery and take on the role of co-pilot. It's a win-win!

I've been called an "air traffic controller" while in the driver's seat before. I am constantly fiddling around with the air vents, the temperature (I'm cold!! It's too hot! Now my feet are freezing!) And the radio? That's what I'm known for. I have a button on my steering wheel - as if my car was made just for me - that allows me to easily and constantly change the station with the slight movement of my index finger. This annoys the living crap out of anyone who gets into my car, including now, my kids.

Anyway, it took me years to figure out how to change the pre-programmed stations in Patti's car. But I think I got it down now, so I am constantly poking that scanner on the dashboard. When she gets annoyed enough to pop in a CD, things get interesting. You see, Patti has about three or four selected CDs which are pretty much cemented into her disc-changer. These are Michael Jackson, Rihanna, 80s ballads, some remakes and some songs she has written on her guitar. That's it. It's either that or the radio. I love Rihanna so I can handle that - I'm a top-forty, club dancing kinda girl. But the rest? I tune out while Patti sings (that's something she does well, thankfully) her Lionel Ritchie songs. All of a sudden, the ride has taken on the feel of an Oprah & Gayle roadtrip.

I like all kinds of music depending on the mood I'm in. I love Journey, Stevie Nicks, Prince, Sting, Madonna, Fiona Apple and others along those lines but after you've heard the same songs playing on a loop for years in your friend's car, it's time for a change. After politely listening to her tunes (it is her car after all) and before I have to hear, "If you don't dance to this song, you're dead!" one more time as she Sits-n-Spins her hips in the driver's seat to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough," I throw the tuner into KISS-FM and start bobbing my shoulders to "Mr. Saxobeat"

Patti:
I am very scenty. It's only because I have a bionic nose and can smell the fish that was fried 20 years ago in my kitchen, or the milk that was spilled in my car seven years ago. Never mind I didn't own the car seven years ago; it was spilled and I do smell it. Hence, the scenty-ness! If Cathy steps into my car and feels like she is being raped by fruit, I consider it a compliment.

But let's get something straight: I like scenty; I don't like 50-centy. I'm not a fan of Euro house music or Katy Perry or "nn-ch-nn-ch-nn-ch-nn-ch" bass rattling my windows while my car bops to to the beat at a red light. Give me some CS&N, Joni Mitchell, Journey, Fleetwood Mac, or old school Elton. If I wanna get down in the car, I want Jackson 5, or good ol' Sly.

Cathy? Is a B96 club beeyotch. And when she gets in my car, I know she does her "good friend" best to tolerate my scenty 70's vibe ride, but she inevitably gets itchy and suddenly her fingers are flyin' over my radio buttons, and she is "bzz. bzz. bzz-ing" her seat into the "right" position, and she is shoving my ac/heat vents left and right, and she is opening and closing the window and/or visor mirror. By the time we get to where ever it is we are going, I am exhausted.

On the rare occasions I am the passenger in her ride, I'm fascinated by the apparent tune ADD she suffers. That button on her steering wheel is the most abused button on the planet. I don't think I have ever heard a song in its entirety in her car. Those poor songs don't stand a chance under her fickle, push-button fingers. Unfortunately, even though she B96's the crap out of my car every time she is in it, I don't get the chance to Carol Kinganize her car, since she is in sole control with that damned button. Not only that, but Cathy, much like my husband M, seems to have an aversion to a/c in the car. "It's gorgeous out!" she yells through the wind that screams in through the open windows as I glare at her through the hair that has been viciously whipped into my eyes.

But that's okay. I know there is much she tolerates about my ride, from its anally-retentive clean interior to the smooth strains of the Commodores when all she wants is some thumping Greek house music. Putting up with my ride means she accepts me the way I am, and for that, she can pimp my ride anytime.

Needacoupleitis

by Cathy & Patti


If you're married, or even paired off in a married kind-of-way, you know how hard it is to find other couples that you can have fun with.  You adore the wife; you think the husband is an ass. Your husband hit it off with the other husband; thinks the wife is a bitch. Your husband loves your friend; you both think the husband is a jerk. You both feel sorry for the husband because the wife is insufferable.

The possibilities of incompatibility are endless! So most of the time, you end up going out with your friends and your husband with his. Once in a while, though, you find another couple that you BOTH like; they both like YOU back, and miracle of miracles! You have somebody to play with!

Throw kids into the mix and things immediately get complicated. You can only hope their kids get along with your kids and vice-a-freakin'-versa. Otherwise, you are almost always back to square one in finding "That Couple".

We call this phenomenon "Needacoupleitis". We believe it is a true disorder that occurs in nearly all the social lives of couples. Once you pair up, you are suddenly making friends for two.

Cathy
Take the situation of me and my husband, for example. When I married him, I married his friends, no question. He has been tight with most of these friends since kindergarten. His friends for life are now my friends for life. And what do I think about these friends and their wives/girlfriends, the group which Patti affectionately refers to as "the A-List" friends? I've come to love them like I've known them my whole life.

Granted, this "gang" hasn't been without its drama. Divorces. Separations. Near break-ups. Reconciliations. And they have all held tight together. I liked all of his friends immediately, which is pretty rare from a woman's perspective to take such a strong liking to this culturally and characteristically diverse group; one is Korean, one is Croation, one is Ecuadorian, one is Puerto Rican. How does a Greek girl fit into all of these colors and countries? Well seeing as I married outside my nationality...just fine.

Ethnicity has nothing to do with anything, let me make that clear. I was worried more about the egos and the strong personalities and the monopolizing of my husband's time and focus, and the testing of his drinking limits and what can come of that, than anything else. I was worried that they would come between the views we have as a couple - I mean, he will always know these guys longer than he'll ever know me. And I'm fine with that. As long as he understood where the limits of friends versus wife are drawn. Thankfully, that was never, ever an issue. And what's sweeter, is that all of the 'wives' as the female counterparts are referred to in this gang, get along swimmingly. Seriously. That may be the biggest miracle of all. Can you imagine how uncomfortable it would be for the gang if that weren't the case?

As for Joe getting along with my friends and their husbands, whether he has been uncomfortable or bored or annoyed, he has never shown it. He is like me - we can get along with just about anyone as long as they are not a blatant bitch/asshole or disrespectful. It comes with the territory, this infusion of friendships among couples. You learn to accept, make due and eventually, maybe even like them. Just like a marriage.

Patti:
Look up "Loner" in the dictionary and you will see M's intense, dark face. How I ended up with a man who needs his space in doses the size of the galaxy is one of life's biggest mysteries. Anybody who knows me knows I am the Julie McCoy of Real Life. I am social, outgoing, friendly, chatty, and have plenty of friends I can call on. M, on the other hand, is a corner dweller, and observer, a thinker. He is the kind that likes taking vacations alone, that prefers nights at home, and that keeps his friendships down to not only one hand, but a few fingers. Don't get me wrong, M is hilarious, not shy in the least, and will start up a conversation with pretty much anybody. He is also super curious and adventurous, and if it wasn't for him I'd probably not have nearly the number of stamps on my passport that I do. But, aside from his adventurous, charming ways, he is also intensely private. Very, very few will ever know what is really going on his head. He also simply doesn't need a lot of human interaction. So while my friends, to me, are oxygen, friends, to him, can feel like a "burden" - yet another thing to tackle on his "to do" list when he'd rather just be on his motorcycle.

In the nearly 23 years we have been together, I have seen him consistently keep contact with 3 friends: only one of which lives in the United States, and that friend, the one he considers his "best friend" and would do anything for, doesn't even live in our state. So, yeah, while I of course get along with those guys' "better halves", it's not as if we really get the chance to just "hang out". After all, while it would be fun to be able to jet to Argentina for a double date, our kid need clothes and food, that demanding little brat. And I have wonderful female friends I adore, and M has hung out with their better halves, but he isn't the type that will reach out to them and say, "Hey! Let's go have a beer together".  I mean, sure, if I plan something, and insist that he come along, he will, and will even have fun against his will. But for the most part, we are couple-less much of the time.

So, just as much as M respects my need to socialize and go out with my girlfriends, and be somebody other than Mother and Wife, I've also learned to be okay with M and his loner ways. Just because we're married doesn't mean we have to have the same tastes, hobbies, and, yes, friends. We are together but we are also separate, and there is no reason that being couple-less should impact the value of the friendships we do have, whether together - or alone.

Finding the Fun

by Cathy and Patti

This summer, we got an opportunity to have a girls weekend at the infamous Kohler spa up in Wisconsin. When we think back to that glorious, luxurious, utterly heavenly weekend, all we can do is siiiiiigggggghhhh.

We knew it was going to be one hell of a It's-All-Been-Taken-Care-Of-Weekend when we were handed a glass of chilled champagne upon check-in. Once we got settled into our our spacious room and plopped ourselves down for a luxuriously long while on the plush beds made of puffy clouds and beams of warm sunlight, we took it upon ourselves to take a tour of the building.

A workout room! A two-floor spa! An indoor swimming pool with a waterfall! Hot tubs in the locker rooms! Fresh, crisp beverages with slices of lemon! Homemade (and healthy!) granola bars from heaven! A rooftop sundeck with enclosed pool and hot tub! A beauty salon! A bistro seating area complete with spa-goers, flush faced and tranquil, eating clad in only their velvety robes and comfy slippers!

As we hurriedly shuffled from one delightful discovery to the next, our frenetic excitement seemed to jar the relaxed patrons out of their tranquility trances - disrupting the atmosphere of calm and serenity. But the spa-goers knowingly glanced at one another; they knew that soon, we too would be like them....

Cathy:
By the time we had dinner and got back to our room that first night, it was about nine o'clock. We were full on gourmet food and rich libations. We began to excitedly review the menu of spa services we were to receive the next day, while reveling at the onset of our new state of contentment.

Then it hit us: Hey! Let's go up and take advantage of that rooftop indoor pool and hot tub! Yeah! So we hurriedly donned our bathing suits, slipped into our our robes and slippers, grabbed some towels, and headed to the special 007 elevator that took you to the top floor. We pressed the button and waited. And waited. And waited. NOTHING. Are there stairs? A fire escape? Another secret elevator? We have to get up there!

After much waitin' and hopin' and prayin' we finally found the sign of doom that told us that the rooftop deck closes at 9pm each night. 'Now what?' we sat there asking each other, gussied up like we were ready to hit a Mexican beach. So, we decided to do what we do best: be resourceful and tackle the issue MacGyver style.

I mean, we were at Kohler Spa for God's sake! We could find something to do! Sure enough, the answer was right under our noses. Our room was a veritable spa within a spa. Two sinks with fancy Kohler-style fixtures and a deep, rectangular hot tub big enough to sit two comfortably. Hallelujah! Since our resourcefulness knows no limits, we grabbed the bottle of champagne that was chilling in the mini-bar and cranked the iPod Bose player - both brought from home - filled the giant tub, revved up the jets and we were a 'spa-in' in the tub!

We sat in there for almost two hours - laughing, singing, gossiping, drinking, laughing, storytelling, reminiscing, laughing, and maybe...even crying. The stress was escaping our pruned up bodies by the minute...

Patti:
When we first climbed into that tub, it felt a little porny. But we have been known to embrace the whole Moms Gone Wild attitude with shameless zest, and this weekend? Away from our children and style- crampin' husbands? Was not the time to change that. Now don't go gettin' all dirty in the mind; it was not like that. When we say, "Moms Gone Wild", we mean that we are willing and able to step outside of our roles as wives and mothers and, if even for just one weekend like this, be who we once were -- before becoming a wife. Before becoming a mother. Before becoming responsible and practical. To reconcile your old self with your present self is such a delicious feeling, and boy do I ever highly recommend it.

Once in the tub, we each settled our heads back, cranked the music and the jets to "eleven", and sank into the liquid beauty of that warm, bubbly water. In our hands, of course, was a another type of liquid bubbly beauty: champagne! We marveled at how clever we were, able to make our own fun when the fun was nowhere to be found. As we water danced to Madonna, Cathy snapped a pic of us in the tub, champagne in hands, and texted it to her husband. He can be one of those frustrating "takes too long to respond" texters, but this time? When he saw his wife and wife's friend in bikinis in a hot tub? He immediately responded. "More, please!"

We spent the next 2 hours sipping on champagne in our makeshift spa, splashing like 2-year olds, behaving like teenagers, talking like women. The symphony of people, past and present, in that homemade hot tub in a hotel bathroom reminded me that it's never too late to have fun; that, no matter what, fun is where you to find it, and who you find it with.

My cell phone was flashing on the bathroom counter; a reminder of home. I considered checking it; maybe it was S, missing me. But for the moment, I poured myself another glass of champagne and sank deeper into the water.
.......

The Night Justin Timberlake Crashed Our Playdate

by Cathy & Patti


Before our babies are even born, we wonder about their futures: Will they be happy, will they be successful, will they get married, will they have friends? Indeed, worrying about their social lives is a surprisingly heavy concern. Of course we want our kids to be liked, to have friends - so the moment they are capable of acknowledging there is another human being in the room, we start hooking them up on play dates.

At first those play dates are accompanied by us, which can sometimes be torturous when your kid's new friend has a mother with the personality of a plant. But as they grow older and more self-sufficient, the playdates become of the "dump and run" variety, and we take advantage of that sudden glorious free-time while our kids develop friendships. Win-win!

But once in a while, you hit the social jackpot: Not only is your kid making a new friend, you also happen to really like that friend's mom. Suddenly, these play dates become a total 2-for-1! The kids play with the kids! The moms play with the .... wait. That sounds a bit porny and Moms Gone Wild.

But you know what? Moms sometimes DO go wild.

Patti:
When S was about seven years old, her friendship with Bella, Cathy's daughter and S's bestie, was in full bloom. We had recently started a fun Friday night play date tradition, which entailed pizza and the girls playing "school" and "fashion show", and other various girly games, while Cathy and I would catch up on our respective weeks and swig wine. Yes, we drink wine. IN FRONT OF OUR CHILDREN, CALL THE POLICE. These Friday night play dates (FNPD) usually began around 6 pm, and would end around 10 pm. But as the Friday nights came and went, our FNPDs began to go later and later. We figured, "Eh. She's Greek. She's Latin. It's what we do." And so we did.

One night, Cathy and I got into a discussion about music. Cathy is a very B96 kind of girl. Me? Give me a guitar and I'll sing you some songs I wrote. So we got into a bit of a debate about Justin Timberlake, who, at the time, I considered to be strictly B96 material. As the girls ran screaming up and down the long hallway in Cathy's condo, and circled the couch chasing each other in poofy, sparkly princess things, we discussed the pros and cons of Justin Timberlake.
"I just think he is sexy..." Cathy sighed.
"Eeeew, no. He is... just not. Plus: I hate his music."
"You HATE his MUSIC?" Cathy looked at me, horrified, reconsidering our friendship. "You can't hate his music..."
Seeing my unmoving face, Cathy popped up from the couch. "Okay, look, I'm gonna show you something of his that there is no way you can not like!" She turned on the television as the girls, spent from running around, flung themselves onto Cathy's futon. She searched through her DVR'd shows, and came upon a frozen-on-the-screen Justin Timberlake, wearing a fedora and all decked out in white. "Look. At. THIS." She pressed play, and Justin began to gyrate ever-so-slightly. He seemed to look right at me and sang, "Hey girl, is he everything you wanted in a man? You know I gave you my world. You had me in the palm of your hand..."

Although turned off by the "palm of your hand" lyric - even Cathy knows my aversion to all things cliche -  I found myself strangely turned ON by the haunting melody and Justin's sure gaze. I moved closer to the edge of the couch and, against my very will, suddenly found myself standing up, dancing along to Justin's words, "Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to think about it. I'm just so sick about it." What was WRONG with me? Did everything I ever held to be true suddenly blow up?

As soon as the song ended, I felt something inside of me had shifted. But Cathy didn't stop her immersion-to-conversion therapy there, no. She pulled out her iPod and some headphones, stuck one bud into her ear, and the other into mine, and suddenly Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" was caressing my ear. I looked at Cathy and she smiled slyly at me; she knew her plan was working. The next thing we knew, we were bumping hips and gyrating, our arms in the air, singing out loud as Justin Timberlake seduced each one of us, together and separately, song by song.

That is, until I saw it. Or, should I say, them. We had totally forgotten about our kids. Our exhausted, up-since 7am-and-gone-to-school kids. There they were, both face-planted into the futon, completely knocked out. I looked at the clock. It was 1 o'clock in the morning! Who has play dates that last until 1 o'clock in the morning?!?

Thanks to Justin, we did.

Cathy:
Oooh, those FNPDs. Like Patti mentioned, it was the best of both worlds; girls occupied and playing, moms having a girls night out (GNO) in the comfort of their own home. We often cranked up the iTunes on my Mac, conveniently located in the kitchen, where all the creature comforts of a GNO would be - food and wine.

And when ABBA's Mamma Mia soundtrack came on - look out! The girls would run in squealing and whirling while Patti and I spun them and swung them, all of us singing at the top of our lungs (much to the chagrin of my neighbors) while Patti videotaped the whole lively fiasco on her phone.  So when the party moved into the living room and J.T. was singing and swaying right to us through the television (I had his Madison Square Gardens concert recorded live on cable! Hours and hours of entertainment!), the party was taken to a whole other level. Well, for us big girls, at least.

Our daughters, (Ari was three at the time) would be running in and out of the living room, dodging and darting between us as Patti and I busted the clubbiest dance moves we could muster from our back-in-the-day nights. Our legs were sore for days afterward.

In the midst of all this hoopla but before the kids tumbled over all around us in a heap of exhaustion, my husband came home. His look - a combination of intrigue, laughter, shock and bewilderment - said it all. After the obligatory greetings and questions were exchanged, before he knew it, he got over the fact that the kids weren't in bed and since he couldn't beat us, he decided to join us. He grabbed a glass of wine and crashed our J.T. play date.

Perhaps the most memorable scenario of the night - as if what was ensuing was not memorable enough - was when Ari decided she wanted some of what us big people were drinking. So without any warning and quick as lightning, she stuck her little finger in Joe's glass and darted it back into her mouth. I lunged towards Joe. "Don't let her have any of that! She's on antibiotics!" Really?

That night - the night J.T. gave a private, command performance just for us Dancing Queens in my living room - was better than any concert or club we could have gone to. It was a spontaneous, memorable time that we got to share with our children and still talk and laugh about.
...........

Now, when we hear one of his songs play on the radio, we're immediately transported back to the night that Justin Timberlake crashed our daughters' play date. And then we smile and turn up the radio.

Nobody Goes Home Anymore

by Patti

Since we are taking off the next few days to be with our families, I am re-posting one of my old favorites.

The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving has always been one of the "Biggest Party Nights of the Year". I remember when my husband and I used to own that night, sleeping in until well past noon on Thanksgiving day, and then moseying on over to my parents' for the Thanksgiving feast. These days, the moseying is done by others to my house, and the only thing I'm doing on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is hoisting frozen turkeys into my cart.  But once in a while, I can try to relive it -- even if it's just any ol' Wednesday. 

Happy Thanksgiving!
.......

I am still on this glorious stretch of freedom with the kid and M out of the country, so when a friend of mine invited me to join her and a few of her other friends at this supposedly totally hot and happening place in a hip part of town (is “hip” even a word anymore?) for after-work drinks, how could I not go? And when Cathy, who is beginning her descent into the end of her own Glory Days of Freedom, heard where we were going, she was all “I’m in like Flynn!” (And if you think I’m kidding that she actually said that you are wrong. She actually said that.)

So we met up at Cathy's house for a little strategic pre-champagne champagne. Cathy's sister, Sophia, also met us there, and as we sipped our pre-champagne champagne, she suggested we might want to hit the road, as it would probably be impossible to get a table.

I, in my charmingly innocent oblivion, reminded her that it was Wednesday night and nobody goes out on Wednesday nights, so we didn’t need to rush.

But Sophia, a semi-newlywed and kid-less, is still in that sweet spot where every day has the potential to be a total spur-of-the-moment “let’s go to ___________ (fill in the blank with whatever the hell you want because YOU CAN).” And because she is still in the sweet spot, her dates with her husband do not consist of $1 Redbox movie rentals and a trying-to-be-fancy frozen pizza. No, her dates are the real kind, the kind where you put on hooch heels and perfume and actually try new restaurants that don’t have the word “pancake” or “house” in its name. This means Sophia knows things I apparently no longer know.

“Nobody goes home anymore”, she told us. “The place will be packed!”

I still didn’t believe her, but since we were meeting people there, we took our Sex and the City’d asses off of the comfortable kitchen chairs and headed out.

Once there, we parked and started our 2 block walk to the restaurant. It was a beautiful evening, the kind that totally makes the 7 months of hell that is a Chicago winter totally worth sticking it out. Along the way, I realized I was all wide-eyed, my neck craning to take in the skyline and the buildings around me as if I had just stepped off my very first plane ride from my farm in Iowa, brushing hay off of my denim overalls. I had lived in the city for 15 years, WHY DID IT ALL LOOK SO NEW TO ME?

Because it was new. Seemingly overnight, a whole new slew of hot spots had sprung up from the concrete; the sidewalks were teeming with after-work evening revelers, club doors were crowded with people hoping to be lucky enough to be let in.

This is crazy, I thought, it’s Wednesday night!

We reached our destination, and I already knew we were in trouble, because there were zillions of people waiting outside the door for their turn at a table. We found our party inside, and as we shouted over the din to each other, I looked around. Oh, it was a scene alright, a total See and Be Seen scene, and I realized that Sophia was right: Nobody goes home anymore.

Cathy jabbed me in the ribs and asked me if I smelled the pee. The PEE? Yes, the PEE.
Sophia smelled it, too, and the slide from totally excited to completely and totally disillusioned began.

We decided to leave the restaurant, the one we had anticipated for days, and headed down the street to a quieter, less crowded spot.

And we had a great time, we did. We ate things like bacon-wrapped dates and fancy pizza that went by a different name, and drank crisp, bubbly Prosecco, and felt happy and blessed to be out on such a beautiful night in such a beautiful city.

And when the night ended, we considered cramming another hotspot into our night because, really, when would we get the chance again? After all, it was Wednesday night!

But you know what? We were tired. And suddenly Cathy’s back deck seemed like the place to see and be seen. The line to get in was short, there was no cover charge, and we didn’t have to yell over music or Happy Hour Drunks to be heard. And once we got there, as I sipped on a sweet glass of velvety red wine and breathed in the air and the stars and the night, I realized: Yeah I’m getting old and I’m married and I’m a mother, and I certainly don’t know what the hot spots are anymore, and I say words like “hip” and “happening”, and I had no idea that Wednesday was the new Saturday….. but I liked going home, and this, right here, is exactly where I wanted to be.

Thankful

Most of you are probably at the grocery store right this very minute, hoisting frozen turkeys into your cart, and wrestling over the last bag of stuffing as you elbow your way through packed aisles of frenzied, frowning women. We know this, because this is what we do every year before Thanksgiving -- last minute, of course.

Not only is November a stressful joyful month for many mothers and wives, this November happens to also mark the the six-month anniversary of this blog. We wanted to take this time to express our thanks to you, our readers, for being loyal and supportive. We look forward to and truly appreciate every one of your comments, "likes" and emails. We want you to know that none of it goes unnoticed.

This blog had its humble beginnings as a creative outlet for us - a place where we could log our thoughts, frustrations, and laughs -  but we have discovered that what initially started out as something for "just us" has turned into something for all of us. This journey of motherhood, marriage, friendship -- this journey of life -- is one that we all share. We are in it together, and for that? We are thankful. Giving thanks wouldn't be complete without including our families, who unknowingly provide us with limitless fodder for this blog, and of course, who we are extremely thankful to have - despite the whining.

We are going to take the next few days off to be with our families/get fat/buy "doorbusters!" flat screen TVs, but we will each re-post a personal favorite tomorrow and Friday -- which, by the way, if you have time between The Muppets movie, eating turkey sandwiches, and re-heating leftovers, feel free to check them out. You can find lots of good whines under "The Whine Cellar" to the left of the post.

Thanks again to each and every one of you for your support.  We look forward to uncorking many more friendships with all of you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cathy and Patti

Proud Mary

by Cathy

Last Friday, I attended a memorial service of a woman whom I wasn't close to, but had made an impression on me so much so, that I maintained contact with her throughout the last 11 years. Everyone referred to her as Mary Kay. She was 88 years old.

Mary was the receptionist at the very first magazine I ever went to work for. The office had a colorful crew of employees to say the least. We always joked about how we should have written a sitcom television pilot about our office - and how it would be one of a kind. Mary was the office bulldog - the tough-as-nails yet always diplomatically composed woman you would get on the phone when you called our offices. She handled the chaotic, often crazy office antics with such eloquence and grace.

She was about 76 years old when I met her - of course I had to figure this out because she never revealed her age. There was never a day that you would catch Mary without her impeccable application of makeup, manicured nails and perfectly coiffed 'do. Her stylishly chic clothes were always spot on - a great fit and always pressed. Oftentimes - only if really necessary - she used a cane, but had it decorated with sumptuous scarves to jazz it up. And her voice. What can one say about Mary's voice. Her low, raspy yet smooth dulcet tones were as unique to our office as she was. One caller thought she was a bombshell divorcee that smoked two packs a day. She called everyone 'dear'. She never gossiped or had a bad thing to say about anyone. And when someone complained to her about another person, her answer would always be a simple, "It's in their nature, dear."

I had kept in touch with Mary every holiday season when I would mail her a holiday card with a picture of my girls (she was never married, nor had children) and I would always await that phone call a few days later. "Cathy, dear. I got your card and your girls look gorgeously divine. Straight out of a European film noir." She had the most uncanny ability to string together beautiful words about anything, on the spot. Her mind was razor sharp and she was very quick witted up until the day she died, from what I heard. 'A thriving mind in a place of diminished ones' was how her nursing home caretaker referred to her. She attended plays. She wrote poetry (you would always get one on your birthday) and screenplays. She never watched television yet knew everything that was going on. Up until a couple of years ago, she had me update her resume and was calling me to see if I knew of a job for her - she even wanted to take a computer class to 'be up with the times'. She was a determined, feisty hardballer who was fiercely independent.

I sat at her memorial service awestruck, taking in her early years from the collage of pictures pasted methodically on a large white posterboard. (Funny how one's life can fit neatly on a large posterboard.) She was gorgeous. She could have easily been a movie star - the epitome of glamour and sophistication at every turn - her hair blowing beautifully in the wind on the Eiffel Tower over Paris or climbing whitewashed steps in her caftan mini in France.

Two particular pictures caught my attention because they were positioned starkly next to each other: one of her and her two sisters in their 20s, she wearing an off-the-shoulder, black cocktail dress revealing her youthful decolletage and hair flowing like a black mane to one side, she struck an eerie resemblance to Greta Garbo; the other was a recent picture of her, of course primped to the nines, yet hunched over in a chair, lipsticked mouth ajar, veined hands decorated with large, fabulous accessories, reaching up towards her grand-nephew. The juxtaposition of these two pictures was startling; startling at how the vibrancy of youth is fleeting; a look at how we once were, and how we will become. However, I also knew that inside that body, ravaged by age and its side effects, laid the mind and heart of a 20-year old - in every sense of the word.

Rest in peace, dear Mary. Heaven is now surely a more fabulous place with you there.

First Impressions

by Cathy

By now you must have read what prompted this baby of ours - this blog. The Uncorking of a Friendship explained how Patti and I met and how this all came to fruition.

Granted, I couldn't really stand her when I first met her back in January of 2006 - me, all pregnant and hormonal and she, all skinny and chirpy. But as Patti pointed out in that first blog post, as my belly expanded, so did our friendship and that of our daughters.

In every new friendship, there is always the memorable point in time when the relationship takes on a new form - a new meaning. Most notably, this is when one friend is invited/invites the other to enter their humble abode, their personal living space - their house.  The first time this happened for us was when Patti came over to see my new real baby - my second daughter, Ari - the one I had been hormonally pregnant with the entire duration of our friendship thus far. And what's shocking to me now as I think back on it, is that this happened a mind-boggling seven months after Patti and I met.

I had only been back from the hospital a few weeks when Patti and her daughter S came over to see the baby. I was appropriately sleep deprived and still sporting the tell-tale jelly belly. Wobbling around in my stretched out maternity gauchos and flowy top, I was eyeball-deep in new mommy mode. The kitchen was a nursery military zone - hardly a spot of counter or table was visible through all of the burp cloths, bottles, cans of formula, pacifiers, warming pots, bibs, blankets, napkins, towels, plates and utensils. Even the comfy loveseat in our kitchen was strewn with quilts, cloths and a giant boppy pillow. The floor in front of the couch was properly booby trapped with a bouncy seat.

When Patti first arrived, the baby was asleep so we had some time to sit out on my deck and enjoy the warm August night. We had no adult food or drink readily available in the house, which I didn't realize until we were chatting it up on the deck. Since I wasn't thinking straight, my husband was rummaging around our kitchen trying to find something to offer our new guest. Upon offering her a drink of cranberry/vodka, he quickly realized, after scraping around our freezer for a while, that we didn't even have a speck of ice. So Patti courteously sat there and drank her stacked, warm cocktail.

A few minutes went by and Joe slides the screen door open and pops his head out.

"Do you want a hard-boiled egg?"

Trying to keep her cheeks from exploding from laughter, Patti politely declined the tempting offer as I sat there with my eyes bulged out of my head, horrified. Of course if I were of sound body and mind, the Greek in me would have come out and I would have whipped up something from nothing. But for now, we had to contend with my sweet husband, (God love him) trying so hard to be a proper, respectable host. And he was doing the best he could considering the circumstances.

A few more minutes went by and out comes Joe. He plops a tub of industrial-sized hummus on the table and a plate of pita chips that were collected from the bottom 1/4 of the bag. Surprisingly, Patti didn't flinch. She happily sipped her flat cocktail and munched on the crumbs that she dipped into the big tub o' hummo. As if that weren't enough, considering how I looked and felt, she actually complimented me on how great I was rocking my mommy cleavage and how my hair looked like a lion's mane - all full, healthy and shiny. And that made me see myself in a whole, new, much-needed light.

I said to myself that night, that if a friend puts up with all of that and compliments me to boot, that is a friend well worth keeping. And I'm so glad I did.

Disco Cab

by Patti

I have this annual gig in Chinatown where I sing for a company holiday party. The man that hires me is Asian, and he hires me to sing all of the "American Pop" music, and also hires this beautiful Chinese singer, Li, to perform the traditional music.

The host of the party always insists that I bring along a friend to partake in the festivities, and a couple of years ago I dragged along Cathy to do just that. After the gig was over, Cathy and I stepped out into the frozen December air and briskly walked to my car. We were full and happy and I had a nice chunk of change in my pocket for the job just done. But when we got to my car, it wasn't there. We both just stood there and stared at the empty spot, as if by staring at it the car would magically reappear. But it didn't. Instead, the sign I had not seen before suddenly appeared: "NO PARKING. WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE."

It was 478305 degrees below zero outside, and we were screwed. Well, I was screwed; Cathy was screwed by association. Once I realized that staring at the now empty parking spot was never going to bring my car back, I snapped to attention. It was after midnight. We were in Chinatown.  It was fuhREEZING. Teeth chattering, we ran back to the restaurant to do what, I don't know, but it felt like progress, however delusional. On the way in, we ran into Li, who was bundled up and ready to bolt.  She must have seen our "screwed" expressions, because she caught my arm and asked me what was wrong. I explained to her that my car had been towed.

She clucked sympathetically. "What you going to do? No cabs now."

"I don't know." And I didn't. The only thing I could think to do was cry. But that wouldn't get us home, either, so I was out of ideas. The el rumbled in the distance. "I know! We will just take the train home, and then I can go and pick up my car tomorrow."

Li looked at me very seriously and leaned forward, her finger wagging. "Oh, no, no. You too pretty for train."

I'd never been told I was too pretty for anything, much less a train.

Li continued. "You too pretty for train. You get kill on train."

Man, pretty people have it rough, don't they? Li must have seen my desperation and offered, "Okay, I drive you, but not all the way home. I drive you to where I live in downtown, then you take cab to tow place."
Cathy and I looked at each other, relieved. We wouldn't be stranded in Chinatown, after all, AND we were saved from having to take that train that we were too pretty for. We hopped in Li's car and she drove us to her building, and then we hopped in a cab to the tow lot.

The ride to the tow lot took about 392 years, and at first, we were quiet, wrapped sullenly in our bad fortune, but then the cab driver turned on the music and suddenly the cab was transformed from a plain ol' boring taxi to a full-on Disco Cab! We were jamming to the extended dance mix of Lady Gaga and I could swear a disco ball descended from the cab's ceiling. We did some top-notch seat dancing and sang out loud to each other and snapped self-portraits on our phones, and laughed about how we were "too pretty for train", and for a while, I totally forgot that my car had been towed and that we were actually on our way to the Scariest Part of the Universe to pick it up. Instead, we were in our very own private club, glamorous and free and clicking pretend champagne glasses while glitter rained down on our heads.

By the time we got there, we were high on life again and all was good in the world. We paid the driver and then I turned to find myself facing a small shack with a little window covered in prison-like bars. I approached the window and shelled out a large chunk of the money I had just earned to get my car back. As I handed the man holding my car hostage the money, I realized then that even when the ride of life gets bumpy and goes off course, as long as you have good friends, a sense of humor, and some change in your pocket, you can still sing out loud to the music, dance in your seats, and enjoy the ride in your very own Disco Cab. And that? Is what makes it all worth it.