Quickie Books

by Cathy

Since my sixteenth birthday, I've always held jobs where I've worked for "the man"; retail chains, department stores, large ad agencies, local magazines. And now? Now I work with the man. My man, that is.

Yes, that's right.

I'm going outside my comfort zone by dipping my toe in the proverbial entrepreneurial career pool. Even more frightening, I'm electing to spend almost every waking hour with my spouse....working mostly out of our home office.

I bet you're thinking what my friend Patti is thinking. I can practically hear her skepticism sing-song-ing off the computer screen during our Gmail chats. Here are just a few of her comments:

"So...when you're home "helping joe" what do you do? Are you his hot, hot secretary?" This is Patti being subtle. So I play along.

"The boss just got back home and cracking the whip but not in the way I'd hope," I play into the fantasy.

"Perhaps if you would work in your birthday suit you could leverage some of the perks," she shoots back without missing a beat. "Drop a pencil and bend over to pick it up, if you know what i mean ;)"

Yes. This is how I dress to work at home. Duh.

I tell her that I wish it were like that, but in reality, it's a lot of payables, receivables, purchase orders and invoices. Frankly, I'm on Quickbooks more than I'm on him.

"Okay," she continues unconvinced. "I'll let you go so you can "work". WORK IT GIRL."

I can see why she would think that I'm always "working it" instead of literally working. Ideally, it would seem that a husband and wife working from home, while the kids are at school all day would provide plentiful opportunity to luxuriate in lengthy, decadent afternoon delights; massaging, feeding each other grapes and gazing deep into each others' eyes as we twirl ourselves up in silk sheets. Right. That's not us. That's the soap opera not playing on the television because it's tuned to ESPN or CNN or the 24-hour French news channel as background noise.

Sadly, this concept is something better "romanticized" in theory but not reality. Don't get me wrong; every now and then we do snap out of work mode and have a moment of clarity where we realize that the house is completely empty of kids and the distractions that follow them. There will be no knocking on doors or requests to fetch a snack or something off the top shelf, to find iPhones, iPads or chargers, to fix the television cable channel mix-up, or find a particular tank top. There will be no audible distractions either like the sound of The Suite Life of Zack & Cody reruns blaring from YouTube, or FaceTime conversations had by Ari and her friends while simultaneously playing Club Penguin online.

So do we take advantage of these rare moments at times? We are, after all, smart, grab-an-opportunity-when-you-can, humans who happen to be parents (and we know what that means when it comes to having time alone) after all. So, yeah.

- Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
- Yeah, this Quickbooks thing is a pain in the ass.

However, lest you think that you can quit your job and start a home-office business with your significant other for the anytime "perks" and "benefits" and general "woo hoo party time!!!" euphoria this will provide, think again. You might be able to randomly book a quickie, but in the end, you'll always get screwed by Quickbooks.

Do You Live Here?!

by Cathy

I had the luxury of having a girls night out recently. It's funny but although our kids are getting older and need us less, we have somehow become less available to our friends. So this night? This was rare and much needed and we were all enjoying each other's company until....

RING RING (K's cell phone goes off)

Below is her side of the convo as heard by us:
"Hi sweetie, you okay?...OK what is it....a what?...honey you know I'm not home, why are you calling me? Ask your father...he's the one who's there!...Goodbye!"

Exasperated, she hung up the phone. "WHY is she calling me about going to a sleepover when I'm not even home?"

We all nodded in agreement and proceeded to share our stories about when something similar had happened to us. We laughed, we commiserated, we vented. And then, this happened:

RING RING (K's cell phone goes off, again.)
"Hey babe, what's up?...What do you mean, what time?...Why don't you ask her?...Just talk to her and ask her what time...I don't know, you're there...I'm not...figure it out!" She clicked her husband off the line.

"Oh. My. GOD! He's calling me about what the plan is for Katie's playdate tonight. Why doesn't he just talk to his daughter and straighten out the plans for the night instead of calling me to ask me what the plans are?!"

Then it was as if the floodgates were ripped wide open because that convo morphed into these convos:

J: "Men are totally clueless. You want to know what happens at my house? I was in the middle of cooking four things at once and asked my husband to get me the cheese grater from the cabinet.
He: "Where's the cheese grater?"
J: "In the cabinet next to the colander."
He: "What the hell is a colander? And what cabinet is that in?"
J: "What?!"

Now granted, eight out of 10 guys would not know what a colander is. Hell, I didn't know myself up until a few years ago. I just called it a strainer. J picked up momentum and continued her rant.

"Then, one other time, we were getting ready to go out and he was looking for his dress shirt."
We all rolled our eyes because we knew what was coming.
He: "Hun, uh, where's my dress shirt?"
J: "In the closet where it always is."
He: "Is it ironed?"
J: "Why don't you check it?"
He: "What about the collar tabs?"
J: "What? In your sock drawer where they always are. DO YOU LIVE HERE?!"

As we screamed with laughter, K blurted out: "I once had twelve texts and four phone calls from my husband about picking up our son from after school care as he sat in carpool line! Um, hello! Do You Live Here?!"

Steven Wright knew what he was talkin' about

As we held our sides, now stitched with laughter, and wiped tears of hilarity from our eyes, we grappled with catching our breath and realized...that was it, in a nutshell. We all live with our significant others but do they truly live in the same house as us? Some are highly involved in house happenings, storage, organization and cleanliness and others are well, are just passing through each day, it seems. I think my husband's cousin, a 19-year old guy who came to stay with us for six months last year, knows our house better than my husband does.

We wondered....our husbands have run their own businesses, managed teams of people, wheeled and dealed client contracts, run national accounts, are well traveled, well-spoken and quite capable of holding down titles akin to chief operating officers. How can they not manage a school pick-up, a playdate, scheduling kids' appointments and most frustratingly, can't find their own things in their own house, specifically, collar tabs that go only into their shirts?

As it seems, on and on the gender gap wheel will spin, in the same universe that holds both Mars and Venus. We may be from two different planets but we're stuck in the same solar system, and most importantly, in the same house. Let's remember where we live.

Hives and Lows

by Cathy

NOTE: This post was dangerously close to being called The Farts and the Pimps. You have S, Patti's daughter, to thank for the much more refined title above. :-) 
I also thought this to be scary enough to merit a Halloween day post. 

Happy Halloween!!

One of the many Sour Grapes listed on our homepage is "The Collapse of the Universe When a Man Gets Sick". I'd like to clarify: this refers to the collapse of the universe inside said man's head. The actual, entire universe literally collapsing? That is what happens when a woman (the wife, mom, homemaker and CEO of any household) gets sick.

But what happens when both parents get sick? At the same time? That my dear readers, is fodder worthy of a blog post.

A scary situation (and sight)

Several weeks ago, I contracted what was some form of the stomach flu by way of having my seven-year old vomit all over everything in our king-size bed. (This in itself? A post for another time.) I say "some form" because this virus was unlike any other stomach flu virus I've had, which usually lasts 24 hours and done. My kid had a fever after her initial vomit attack and was out for a day or two with occasional diarrhea.

Me? No vomiting, and aggressive nausea and pains in my stomach that led to nowhere except one horrific episode of diarrhea whereby my extremities stiffened and froze up rigor-mortis style, my guess, due to dehydration. As frightening as that was, what came next was even worse and completely unexpected: a rash of tiny red bumps that exploded all over my arms and legs with a spattering on my torso and back, that itched like a mother and lasted four days.

After several frantic Google searches and calls to family, I discovered that apparently it's completely normal for a virus to expel itself from your system via a rash. Since I had no vomiting and very little diarrhea, the rash is what my body went to. And me? I went crazy.

My husband had to step-up and basically take over all of my household tasks. He washed dishes (he wasn't sure how to load the dishwasher), he packed lunches (and included a hand-written note in each bag, and "Moooom...how come you never do that??"), he packed snacks (he plopped an entire peanut-encrusted taffy apple, still in the packaging, into my second grader's snack bag to be brought into a classroom with nut allergies galore), he cooked frozen foods for the kids and did the best he could....considering...that the flu virus was creeping its way into his system.

"I'm fading," he moaned as he came into the bedroom where I was breathing heavy with stomach pains. I was half munching on Saltines and looked like death warmed over. He fell onto the bed in shivers and began trying to psyche himself out. "It's all in your head," he murmured between gasps. "You're fine." But he wasn't, God bless his delusional soul. He was being hit by yet another version of this chameleon-like virus/monster that entered our home. And we both knew it was taking over.
 
For two days, we shuffled around the house burping, expelling gas, sipping Coke or some other carbonated drink. We looked (and felt) like zombies: me, pimply-rashed and hunched over in nausea, shivering from the urge to resist scratching my skin off, and he, holding himself through fits of chills and fever. We bumped mindlessly into one another, taking turns quasi-tackling the necessary everyday tasks, tossing coins for who was going to chauffeur the kids to and fro school or pack lunches (I'm really not sure what the kids ate those couple of days), overextending our very necessary bathroom visits as a form of exhausted escapism and crawling under the bed covers in hopes the other wouldn't notice. It was a nightmare to say the least and brought to mind the dreadful conundrum of parenthood: How do you take care of your kids when you cannot take care of yourself?

Somehow, as all parents do, we literally muddled through it and came out on the other side. No physical scars remain yet the emotional scars we all endured as a family will be with us always - and that is more frightening than All Hallows Eve.

Mwuah ha ha ha ha!!!

The Ties that Bind Us

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Building Fences

by Patti

Christ has risen. So has my fence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll Stress Tonight, You Worry Tomorrow

by Cathy

I've always been jealous of the fact that my husband has been a good sleeper. And by this, I don't mean that he sleeps through the night without wailing himself awake because he's sick or has to go to the bathroom or he had a bad dream. That's covered by my kids on the occasional blue moon. What I mean is, no matter how bad a day he's had, no matter what happened right before he put his head down on that pillow, he instantly falls asleep. How many nights have I laid there next to him, exasperated, sighing loudly and cursing under my breath that he has the ability to do this? Countless.

For me, apparently, bedtime somehow translates into "Let's get this party started!" in my brain. That is when I think/stress about to-do lists, done lists, projects, bills, family, work and every other big thing that looms gargantuan, shadowing me in the still and dark of night to the point where I slide under my covers, squeeze my eyes shut and wish it away. So I toss and turn and get up to use the bathroom, check to make sure doors are locked, check on the kids, fluff my pillow countless times, put on some socks, take the socks off, nudge Joe to stop snoring (because honestly, is that really helping me here?!) turn the blinds totally shut in my room, and finally physically get pen and paper to jot down the eight million random thoughts that have found their way to me via Insomnia Road. All I need is confetti and a drink (which I've been very tempted to have depending on how long I've been stressing over stuff when I should be sleeping) and I can have myself a one-woman party!

I've always been aware, however, that Joe wakes up much earlier than I do. I always thought, for obvious reasons, that it was because he falls asleep much sooner than me and also, because when I met him, he boasted about how he likes getting up early enough to watch the sunrise and what a productive day you can have when you're an early riser! Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. I like to sleep in because when I finally DO fall asleep, I wanna milk that cow for all it's worth. Plus, watching the sunset isn't a shabby second option.

So I was amazed when I recently discovered that he gets up thinking about work and "stuff". He wakes up worried which is just as bad as going to sleep stressed. Was I a little relieved and, dare I say, secretly happy that I wasn't the only one stressing over things, making mountains out of mountains? I would lie if I said I wasn't. It's sadly comforting to know that he worries and stresses about everything I do. It makes me feel not-so-neurotic and strangely, that we are on the same page with things. His mind just jumpstarts the process at a different time of day.

Now that we know how each is hardwired, we will continue to share the burden of our stress while we attempt to put out these monstrous, sleep-stealing fires and work on preventing others from starting. We will take shifts and bear the weight of our worries on each of our respective shoulders, as the other revels in sweet, much-needed slumber. After all, we would be useless zombies if we were both on the same stress schedule. Funny how nature works, eh? But for us, this works. And that stress-sharing accommodation? That's just part of what marriage is all about.

On the Razor's Edge

by Cathy

When my husband and I first got married, we had some unspoken cohabitation rules we both respected: Don't wake him if he falls asleep on the couch watching television; one bathroom will be mine and the other, his; and we never share razors.

The first rule still stands, the second went out the window when we had kids and the third - well, I guess we've gotten a little too comfortable throughout the course of our 15-year marriage.

For a long time, he had his Mach 3 razor and I had my Gillette razor, a hardcore, futuristic little number made of metal and black grips that I had since I first set a razor to my virgin skin and that could chainsaw through hair like a mofo. I never did frilly pink razors, or those silly rounded Intuition razors (no offense to singer/songwriter Jewel) or those smelly, sloppy hair removal creams (unless I found myself in one heck of a hairy situation).

Is this for shaving or for gardening?

But when he ran out of blades, instead of going to the store to shop for more, (or rather when I stopped buying them for him) he started using mine. You should know that besides his Aveda hair gel, which he makes sure he is stocked up on religiously and consistently, he doesn't bother to really go out and buy any other toiletry of his own, which means, I am the one buying them. And if I stop, the only thing that would make him go buy them himself is when his toothbrush was ground down to a bristly nub, or he couldn't stand his own stench, or doesn't want to walk around with hair smelling of chamomile lavender rose gardens, or use potpourri essence body soap, or when he started resembling one of the ZZ Top brothers. Yet he was now shaving his face with a razor that had been near some unmentionable body parts of my own.

Not only does he use my razor and wears down the $8,000 blades faster than the speed of light, but he has taken to showering in the other bathroom - the one I don't use. (The kids still use both.) There have been many a times when I've slathered myself up for a good shavedown and waaahhh waaaaaaaahhhh. No razor. Having been too lazy/cold/dripping like a human sprinkler to go fetch it mid-shower, or because I just wouldn't think that screaming over the running water, closed door and three rooms away would get me anywhere, I have lately been emerging from my showers not quite as polished as I'd like. And between bringing it back only to have it disappear by the next morning or forgetting to bring it back altogether, I fear that in a mere few weeks, I will emerge from that shower ready to climb the Empire State Building.

I don't know how long this game will go on but one thing I do know for sure is that I am about to take a razor to some unmentionables of his own if this doesn't stop...'cause I'm on the edge.

Date Night

by Patti


This past couple of weeks has taken me on an unexpected ride of revelations. My baby girl has suddenly morphed into a full-fledged little lady, complete with long legs, a defined waist, and opinions much different than my own. In short: She is growing up. And with that growing up, I have learned rather quickly, comes not only tangle of emotions that only a mother who has to come to terms with the gradual letting go of her babies can truly understand, but also the startling realization that: OH, YEAH. Once these babies leave? You're kinda stuck with that person you chose to be with for the rest of, like, ever.

When your kids start growing up, you realize with a start that they will eventually leave, and that all those what-feels-like-a-million years that you spent nurturing and loving and guiding and doing-for and being-there-for... well, those years have suddenly cumulated into this one moment, and you realize that they have kind of conditioned you to be a mother and think like a mother and love with the laser-like focus and intensity of a mother; and though you truly loved your husband through it all, you may have inadvertently forgotten to kiss him good night a few times. Multiply "a few times" by a million years, and that can equal one big, fat uh-oh.

All of these thoughts swirled in my already jammed-up head this past week, and, during a lunchtime check-in with M at work one day, I brought all of this crazy up to him. "We have to do it," I told him. "As much as I hate even the phrase 'date night', we need to start making them happen." He agreed it would be nice; though, in true M style, his idea of a date night was a week in Italy.
"Let's just start with dinner out once a month, okay? Just you and me."
I felt much better after our little chat. The kid was growing up, and M and I had the time and space between us that virtually every couple experiences after becoming parents, but plans were in place. That alone made me feel hopeful.

And then, like magic, a mere few days after "our talk", I got a text: "Dinner Saturday night, 9 pm. You and yo."  I couldn't believe it. I asked and I received. The night of our dinner, M donned a crisp shirt and cologne. I wore a black dress and heels. And we talked over candlelight (well, yelled, really. The restaurant was obviously a very popular choice and was jam-packed with other 'date night-ers'.) about stuff that didn't have anything to do with being parents, or bills, or groceries, or things that needed to get done right now or else the house might just fall down. It was just... stuff. The stuff we used to talk about when we were getting to know each other. And though our candle kept going out, and we had to keep saying "WHAT?" to one another because we coudn't hear, it was still really fun, and a really good first date night.

And as we, together, see our baby off into womanhood, and experience the bittersweetness of letting her go, there will be many more to come. Just him and yo.

There, there

by Patti

When M and I were first dating, whenever I was upset or sad about something, a mere snuggle into his chest would immediately give me comfort. His chest was a magical place that smelled like lemons and Tide and home. It was that easy.

Now, years (and years. AND YEARS.) later, notsomuch. Much of the time now, if I am upset or sad, it's because he did something to make me so. And a mere snuggle into his chest is the last thing I want or need. I want understanding and an apology, damnit. And even when it's not something he did, I still want understanding. I want it on "girlfriend" level. You know: the kind of understanding a woman can get from her female friends, but rarely, if ever, from her beloved, til-death-do-you-part husband?

I remember a friend once lamented to me that her husband was the most insensitive human being on the planet. "Why?" I asked her, curious at the level of her fury.
"Well, I was standing in the kitchen last night after we finished eating dinner, and suddenly - I just started crying."
"You did? Why didn't you call me?"
"I should have! I just felt - I dunno - sad. And I needed Chris to comfort me. So he came up behind me and put his arms around me, and as I cried, he mumbled something. I thought he was being all comforting, but then I realized that he was asking me if I was going to eat that last piece of pizza!"
She then went on to tell me that she had furiously pulled out of his arms, and that he had gotten mad at HER for her reaction, telling her she was being overly sensitive. In his mind, he was killing two birds with one (big, fat awkward, insensitive) stone; in hers, he was an asshole.

I remembered this story the other night when I had my own attack of "sad for no apparent reason". And when it hit, I needed that comfort. I turned to M to find it, hoping for that magical chest. To his credit, he did put his arms around me, but then he had to go and do it. He patted me. He there, there'd me. Is there anything more patronizing, more "hurry up and get over it" than being PATTED?

Husbands around the world will unite and claim that the pats were sincere, and that what else did I want? A freakin' personal parade of non-patting, spirit-lifting clowns in my own kitchen? They might say that I am being demanding and am probably one of "those" that are simply just never satisfied. But let me tell you, husbands around the world: Never, ever PAT your wife when she is sad. And don't ask her what's for dinner while she's crying.

This is what you do: You gather your sad wife in your arms, and you say, "What can I do to make you feel better?" And then you just listen. That's it. See how easy?

And when you're done listening, you make dinner. And wash the dishes.

What's Up, Tsuts?

by Cathy

Indulge me as I vent about one of several pet peeves I have about my husband.

Let me preface this by saying that he is usually asleep when this occurs, rendering him clueless (I think) about what he does, but STILL. 

So picture this: he's fallen asleep, usually way too early for my taste. He's either laying on the living room couch with the lights off, the television now watching him instead of the other way around, or he's already in bed, mummified under the covers, which are pulled up to his nose.

Since I am always shuffling around the house until some crazy hour because of the million little things I have to do  before I can carelessly flop into bed, I am walking in and out of rooms constantly. Most of the time, I am in my own world of To Do's, so I may or may not be aware that he has fallen asleep in a particular room. Regardless, I usually try to keep the noise level down.

However, there comes a time where I HAVE to turn on a light, or check the sound on my alarm clock so that I don't oversleep the following morning, or clean up, or look for something or maybe, just turn on my bedside lamp so I can sneak in a few pages of reading before I hit the hay.

And how does he react to any one of those things? He tsutses. You know, that noise you make when you click your tongue off your upper teeth in annoyance? Yeah, that. He tsutses.

Now if I've purposely woken him up, dropped something ridiculously loud or started singing at the top of my lungs, I can see how he would react like that. But to tsuts at my cleaning the house and preparing to go to bed, I mean, come ON. I know he doesn't know the difference if he's asleep so I try to ignore it sometimes, but others, I respond with a "WHY are you tsutsing?!?" And almost always, I get no response because he's back asleep in no time.

I then chalk up his tsutsing to a mindless reaction - an instinctive reflex.
A rather annoying one.

Trading Places

by Patti


My husband makes a mean oatmeal. How do I know this? Because S tells me so. "Papi puts bananas in it! And he doesn't use the microwave! He makes it in a pot and stirs it for a long time!"

After nearly 8 years of getting my kid ready for school and dropping her off, I have turned my esteemed position of "get her ready-er" over to M. Let's face it, the kid is 11 years old now; she can do everything a kid needs to do to get ready on her own now. She gets up on her own, she dresses herself, she grooms herself, she makes her own breakfast (even fries her own eggs), she packs her own lunch and snack. Yet, being an only child, she has always liked the companionship in the morning, and I have always provided it.

Recently, there have been some changes at work and I am now working full-time. Part of it was necessity, as M's hands are on their last legs. (Sorry. I couldn't resist.) He has been grooming the heads of Chicago for the past 15 years, and before that, he was grooming the heads of Oregon, and before that, the heads of Argentina. In short: all that grooming has left his hands, arms, shoulders, legs, done-for. And if he has any hope of keeping them useful, he needs to cut it out for a while. (Sorry. I couldn't resist.) Since the opportunity to work full-time and, as a result, have full benefits presented itself conveniently at the same time my husband was falling apart, and the opportunity was something kind of cool, it was an absolute no-freakin'-brainer to grab it.

So I did.

Soon, M is going to reduce his hours at work, and I have already ramped up mine. And the roles we have known so comfortably for the past bajillion years are now going to be reversed. He is now getting her off to school, and as soon as his reduced hours kick in, he will also see her after school for a bit, and once I get home, he will go to work. And during all of her summers and Spring Breaks and holidays, it will be him that takes her to the pool, or to the museum, or to the park.

I thought I might be sad, or even a little jealous, but when I think about it, I'm not. I realize how lucky I am that I got to stay home exclusively with S all through her baby and little kidhood. And even after she started school, I got to try all different kinds of jobs, projects, ideas.... all because I always had a back-up: M. He was working responsibly and steadily and making sure we had health insurance, he was bringing home the fatty bacon, he was cutting hair that never stops growing - all so that I didn't have to take S to a babysitter and sob in my car on the way to work.

And now, I guess it's his turn. His body needs a break, his mind needs a break, and maybe he needs the opportunity to try on a few ideas - just as I had the chance to do. And in the meantime, he will get to spend a lot more time with our daughter. And she with him.

We're a little more than a week into this new "thing", and I asked S if she misses me in the morning. "Papi makes me lunch. AND he makes me breakfast. He made me oatmeal again!"

Guess not. And I couldn't be happier.

When the Cat's Away....

by Patti

I'm getting ready to hang a new chandelier and maybe even spray paint a blackboard onto my kid's bedroom wall, and I'm going to do it because my husband is out of the country.

I have this thing: whenever M goes out of town, I simply have to redecorate in some way. Sometimes it is something as simple as buying an old, $4 desk from Salvation Army, slapping some stain on it, and decking out my dining room with the "new wine glass hutch that looks expensive":

Sometimes, it can be as elaborate as buying and assembling a new bed - complete with bedding - a new rug, hanging new curtains, and sanding and repainting an old dresser - all in one day.

It's not that I can't do these things while M is around, but when he is, I have to deal with the Questions. "Why are you doing that?" "Are you sure you're doing that right?" "Why don't you pick this color instead?" "Are you going to leave that there?" When M is around, he is privy to my process - which I will readily admit ain't always pretty - so I get where those questions and doubts come from. But I know my process; I know that although it might appear during that process that a creative bomb exploded its overzealous guts all over whichever room was victim to my whims...

in the end - it will look amazing. And that is why I prefer to do these things while he is gone. I can just "process" away without having the constant interruptions of his annoying doubt.

Poor M - the second he booked his ticket, he saw that gleam in my eye. He gave me The Look, the one that begs me not to knock down any walls. But I reassured him I only planned to change out a few light fixtures (with the help of my roof thatchin' Greek), stain some wood to yank its grainy self out of the 80's and into the 2012's, and try to re-purpose an old table into a TV console. That's all! And I might paint a wall turquoise. (Well, he doesn't know about the turquoise wall - yet. But, you know, process!)

I remember years ago when M was out of town, I suddenly hated, but hated, our pewter wrought iron bed. There it stood, rather un-majestically, in the middle our bedroom sticking out its tongue at me. So I immediately ran out and bought some black spray paint, came home and disassembled the bed, laid out some drop cloths, and went insane with "Jet Black". Never mind we lived in a condo on the 19th floor and the windows in our bedroom did not open and our carpet was cream colored, I sprayed the shit out of that wrought iron bed right then and there in our bedroom and, completely high on fumes, transformed that pewter nothingness into a glorious, glossy masterpiece of black. And while I was at it, I kind of spray painted our cream carpet black, too. Once I realized what I had done, I died a few thousand deaths, hearing M's scolding, "Oh, Lucy!" voice in my head, and desperately tried to figure out a way to cover it up. Laundry basket on top? Too obvious. A plant? I kill plants; we all knew that. A fake plant? Too retired-in-Florida. OH GOD WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO? So I called M and told him how amazing and incredible our "new" bed looked, and then I casually slipped in the tiny little speck of black I'd gotten on the carpet, ha ha ha, oops, isn't that hilarious?  He did not think it was hilarious. He "Oh, Lucy'd" me to death, and I nodded along, knowing he'd get over it once he saw how incredible our bed looked.

And he did get over it, as he has gotten over many other of my redecorating mishaps, because he has no choice but to admit that I kind of kick ass at coming up with ways to reinvent the old into new, over and over again.

I am shaking a can of spray paint as I type this, the familiar sound of "beads in a can" like music to me. You see, M is already gone, and I only have two weeks to tackle this round of "husband's away" redecorating. I'm going to miss that man, but I have my kid and the promise of a turquoise wall to keep me company.

Or maybe orange?

Process!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

by Patti


So, my car misses the mechanic, apparently. The bitch has started whining again - literally. Now, whenever I drive her, a high-pitched "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" accompanies my every mile. "MOM! That is so ANNOYING!" Sofia shrieks from the backseat. As if THAT isn't annoying.

But, yes, it is annoying, this "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE". I told M about it, since he is my husband and "the man" and responsible for car stuff. But can I be frank for a moment? I have single-handedly diagnosed and fixed car troubles in the past. I put my Dr. Google skills to work, and once again am totally amazed at the information I can find online. Try it: Google ANY symptom - car or human - and somebody else in the world has already searched it, experienced it, or found the answer to the problem. But this time around, I just wanted "the man" to handle it. I don't know, I was busy baking brownies, or washing the dishes, or shuttling the kid, or checking her homework, or having cramps, but I just couldn't do it this time.

He immediately denied I was hearing an "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE", even though HE WASN'T EVER IN THE CAR TO HAVE NOT HEARD IT. But you know, I guess his "man ears" are bionic or psychic, or something, because he just knew I hadn't heard it. Like any good mother does, I put the kid in the middle as my witness. "YES!" she confirmed. "There is this HORRIBLE sound; I can barely stand it!" Apparently, she hadn't heard it, either. Look at us two crazy girls, hearing things for the fun of it. Such women.

The other night I picked up M and S to go out to dinner. "Where is 'the noise'?", M asked, his voice tinged with an annoying "I told you so" delight.  I had completely forgotten about the "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE". You see, it has this weird way of only happening when it wants to, and for some reason, at this very moment, it was apparently otherwise occupied, because it wasn't there. OF COURSE.
"It happens, I swear!"
"Yes!" Sofia piped in. "It does, Papi!"
M just smiled his Ricky Ricardo "Oh Lucy" smile, smug in his absolute certainty we were just crazy.
We ate dinner, and then on the way home, my car finally decided to take my side. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she cried, almost more loudly than ever. Even she was annoyed by my husband's macho certainty. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she added, for good measure.
"SEE!" S and I shouted in unison.

My car continued to "EEEEEEEEEEE", "EEEEEEEEEEE", "EEEEEEEEEEE", all the way home, and M finally jumped out and had me pop the hood. "It looks like the timing belt". His voice was muffled as he poked around underneath the hood. "We can just spray it with a special oil and it will be fine. It's no big deal."
He got back in the car, satisfied with his genius. "AND?" I demanded. "Aren't you going to apologize?"
"For what?"
"For not believing me!"
"It'll be fine."
???

My car did the "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" again this weekend, and I called M from the road to ask him about that "special oil". "It's not a big deal," he said. "Nothing will happen if you don't fix it."
"Yeah, but I want to fix it 'cuz it's annoying as hell."
"Okay, I'll fix it. But it might also be the alternator."
I knew that word from all of my Googling, and  knew it meant trouble. "And if it's the alternator?"
"Then the car will die and never start again."

So hard to choose between these choices, "No Big Deal", or "Will Die and Never Start Again"!

So as M apologizes to me under his macho breath while he is spraying the crap out of that timing belt, I'm gonna cross the crap out of my fingers and pray for "No Big Deal".

No pasa nada!

by Patti


I had a conversation with M the other day that left me completely and totally frustrated. Yes, I realize that I am a wife, and that I was having a conversation with my husband, and that it is not uncommon for that equation right there: wife + husband + conversation to have the result of = frustration.  But in this case, the frustration was borne out of sheer, well, the pure fact that my  husband has no idea what he's talking about.


It all began when I received a phone call from the vet telling me that Gaucho's poop test came back positive for a very common parasite in puppies, and that the treatment was super simple and inexpensive. I of course immediately began to Google the diagnosis, and called M to tell him that our new "son" needed drugs, and that I would be home late as  I was going to stop by the vet to pick up the medicine.
"He's not taking medicine," he told me, quite plainly.
"What do you mean? He's got parasites! He needs the medicine!"
"No he doesn't. He's a dog; he has to be tough. Besides, you are falling for the trick."
"The trick?"
"Yes, the doctor is tricking you into buying medicine. It's all just a business. Just leave him alone - he'll be fine. Nothing's gonna happen."

This is SO him, this whole "doubt authority" and "no pasa nada" attitude. I blame it on Argentina, the Land of "No Pasa Nada". Undercooked meat? No pasa nada. Strep throat? No pada nada. Your arm is dangling from its socket? No pasa nada.  

.....

Years ago, on a family trip to Argentina, we rented a beach house. S was just learning to walk, and she was having so much fun toddling around the universe, making me a psychotic chaser after-er. One afternoon, after a day at the beach and a string of showers to wash away that beach, I was in one of the upstairs bedrooms organizing stuff when I heard a strange sound. "Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzz." I looked around, up and down, wondering where the hell that noise was coming from. I knew I recognized the sound, I just didn't know how or why. At that moment, M appeared in the doorway with an devil-eyed S on his hip. "SHHH!" I shouted. Yes, I shouted a "Shhh".
"What? What's wrong?"
"Listen! Do you hear that?"
We stood still, craning our necks towards the silence, waiting.
Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzz-Bzzzzz.
"THERE!" I pointed to the air frantically. "Do you hear it?"
M put S down and strode further into the room, S toddling behind him. I lunged for S, suddenly remembering that sound. "IT'S ELECTRICITY!" I screamed. S kicked her legs angrily, annoyed that I had roadblocked her in such an inconsiderate way.
"What? No, it's not." M looked around quickly, as if the electricity was hiding coyly behind the curtains, waiting to jump out with a "mega-watt" smile on its face, shouting, "GOTCHA!"
"YES, IT IS!" Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. "You HAVE to call the electrician!"
"Where am I going to find an electrician? It's Sunday. We're at the beach! Everyone is sleeping!" Ah, yes, the all-important siesta. The whole country  had just eaten pasta and guzzled an industrial-sized bottle of wine. Of course they were sleeping. But I told him to wake them all up, and to his credit, to appease me, he called the landlord, who called an electrician.

One half-hour later, a sleepy-eyed man showed up, the makeshift box of tools he was carrying apparently enough to make him an electrician. He marched upstairs, tapping the wall as he went, trying to look official. We followed behind - M, M's mom and dad, and me, S in my arms. M and his dad, the fearless macho Argentinian men that they are, followed him all the way into the room, while M's mom and I stayed on the fringes, preferring to live. The man walked around the room a little aimlessly, tapping the wall here and there, and then he went into the en suite bathroom, making a few official sounding clanking noises to put the finishing touches on his act. He walked out, looked at all of us, and announced (in Spanish), "It's just a little electrical current running through the floors. Just make sure you don't walk on the floor with wet feet. Nothing's gonna happen. No pasa nada!" And then, just like that, he left, the electrical current crackling ominously in the background - the perfect exit music.

We moved out that afternoon to another beach house, as even M, the consummate "no pasa nada" man, had to admit that the man had gone overboard in his lackadaisical attitude. M's dad, an Argentinian thoroughbred of machismo and doubt, came along with us, but maintained that, indeed, "nothing would have happened" if we had stayed. But I knew better. I could picture S toddling into that electrical  box of a room, her tiny feet soaking in the currents and shooting them straight up into her curly-haired head. No pasa nada, my ass.

......

After our little "debate" about Gaucho and his need for medication, I reminded M of the day we could have died from electrical shock, the whole lot of us, thanks to the "no pasa nada" way of thinking. Did he really want to take that risk with his own "son"? Stubborn as ever, he still maintained I was being naive and falling victim to "the system", and I had to feel sorry for him for just one second, wondering just how crowded it must be in his head with all that paranoia living there. Then I snapped out of my temporary pity and told him he'd better suck it up and get on board, because if he didn't, I could pretty much guarantee that tonight? No pasa nada.

Flim Flanned

by Patti

My car, high-maintenance bitch that she has become, decided to spring an oil leak, and M found me a reputable mechanic who would fix it right and for cheap. My favorite combination! The only caveat? His was a Cash Only enterprise. So as M and I drove through a somewhat questionable neighborhood to pick up my car the other night, I remembered that I had no cash on me.

We hunted down an ATM and I withdrew $200. Then I remembered the bill was actually $237, and tried to withdraw $40 more. But when I did, the machine told me I had "exceeded my daily withdrawal limit". Now, I knew  I had enough money in my account, so I tried again, and got the same message. Worried, I tried withdrawing $20. Still, the same message. Concerned my account would somehow freeze up, I gave up and ran to the car where M was waiting. "The machine wouldn't let me take out more than $200! It's as if it knows I shouldn't be spending money!" I lamented. "What am I gonna do? It's cash only!"  M told me had $40 on him but that it was to buy a flan he had eaten when we had dropped off the car two nights before.
"$40 for FLAN?" 
"I want to buy the whole thing," he told me. "It's the best flan I have ever eaten in my life!"
What "the whole thing" meant, I didn't know, but for $40 it had better give a neck massage as its being eaten. Oh wow, that sounds so porny.

Anyway.

I was supremely annoyed that M was actually telling me that a) he was spending $40 on flan; and, b) he was choosing to BUY FLAN instead of forking over his cash to me so that I could remove my car from mechanic purgatory. I told him to use his debit card, but alas, the flan place was also a Cash Only enterprise. "Just write a check for the rest," he told me, as if this made perfect sense.
"BUT HE ONLY TAKES CASH! And you have the exact amount I need! What if he doesn't give me my car back?"
M just drove calmly towards the mechanic's "shop", which was actually located in a garage in the back of his house, and assured me he would take a check for the difference.

But before we got there, he actually did it: he stopped at the bakery to buy that flan! And some bread! I still could not believe he was choosing flan over saving my car. When he got in the car, all glowy with anticipation over the damned flan - which was the size of a HOUSE - he had just put in the trunk, I told him he'd better be prepared to fork over the cash from his account (Yes, we have separate accounts. One less thing to argue about!) if the mechanic refused my check. He just nodded, not really listening to me as he was already consumed with what was to come later - his precious flan quivering on a spoon - and continued on to the mechanic's.

Once we got there, M hopped out of the car and explained to the mechanic that we had the majority of the bill due in cash, and would he accept a check for the rest? I saw the mechanic shift his eyes my way, wondering if he was a fool to trust me. I wondered if I should offer him the flan as collateral? And then I saw him reluctantly shake his head in agreement.  I quickly wrote out a check for the rest, got my car, and we were on our way.

Just as we were pulling out of the mechanic's alley, my car following M's, my cell phone rang. "Hello?"
"This is Chase Bank," stated a robotic woman's voice. "We have reason to believe there is fraud with your checking account," she continued, her stilted voice attempting suspense. "Please confirm your identity by answering the following questions...."  I wasn't at all surprised, considering the amount of times I ignored the ATM's warnings to me, so I curiously listened as "the voice" asked me to select which car I was driving, to choose a street I have lived on, and finally, she asked me to pick a person I have lived with. She gave me a "Tracy", an "Amy", a "Shawn", and finally.... M. She said his name so seductively, I had to wonder if she had lived with him, too. If she only knew he spends $40 on flan. I fully expected "the voice" to ask me when was the last time I had, uh, relations with my husband, but she apparently felt satisfied with my answers, and finally agreed that it was okay to let me continue to withdraw money from my checking account.

When we got home, I told M about the Chase call, alternately impressed with its "quick response" system and freaked out by the "big brother-ness" of it all. As he listened, he cut himself a 15-foot slice of flan and set it on the counter, his eyes looking a bit like this:

It jiggled invitingly on the plate, challenging my ever having questioned M's choice to pick it over my car. I took a bite, and within seconds a Hallelujah! chorus broke out in my  mouth. This was magic flan! It was firm yet creamy, sweet yet balanced. The way it played in my mouth, I knew that it knew it was worth every damned cent. Thank God for husbands with poor judgment and mechanics who take checks! And it's a good thing my checking account is now unfrozen. You know, just in case I had to go and buy some more of that flan. Or something.

If Obama Does It...I Guess It's Okay

by Cathy

When Barack Obama was first elected President, I remember watching snippets of a television interview - I believe it was Barbara Walters at the helm - where the First Lady was asked some real down-to-earth questions about the President and the relationship the two of them had. (Come to think of it, only Barbara Walters could get away with those questions.)

At one point within that segment, I remember Michelle Obama mentioning that Barack never puts his dirty laundry in the hamper, but just puts sets them on top of the hamper.  This must have been brought up based on a quote from the Michelle's book, which she co-authored, called Michelle Obama: In Her Own Words. Here is her exact quote:

"The Barack Obama who lives in my house is not as impressive. He still has trouble 

putting his socks actually in the dirty clothes [hamper], and he still doesn't do a better 

job than Sasha at making his bed, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm a little stunned 

at this whole Barack Obama thing." - Associated Press, May 29, 2007

Women around the world must have let out a collective sigh.

Here, all along, they thought they were the only ones that couldn't get their husbands to put their clothes IN the hamper or hang the towels ON the towel rod. My husband, as a matter of fact, is guilty of both of those household infractions. Witness here, Exhibit A.

Just inches away, a towel rod is aching to serve its purpose.

Now I guess I shouldn't complain because at least he's not just throwing the towel on the floor or balling it up on top of the hamper. He is taking the effort to throw it over the rod so it has the opportunity to dry. Somewhat.

But if you can answer me this, I will nominate YOU as President of the United States:

Why, in the name of this great land of ours, does he not just throw it over the towel rod it belongs on rather than throw it over the curtain rod?? What is the justification for this? The physical act of folding it and throwing it over is exactly the same - just on a different surface!

To make things worse, the above picture was taken in the kids' bathroom. So, because it's up so high, guess what happens when they need to take it down? A big curtain/towel/rod/curtain ring explosion on the floor. That's what.

We may never find logical answers to explain the illogical things men do. So we sit back and witness it, tidy it and move on. After all, if the President of the United States gets away with this stuff, what makes our husbands any more special?

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.

For Better or for Worse

by Patti


I have a confession to make: I complain about my husband more than I should. Truth of the matter is, he is actually a pretty good guy. Yes, he is a Grinch during the holidays, he acts like snow freezes his very soul, he is quick with a judgment and slow with a compliment, he is a perfectionist, and he can quite easily be a total pain in the ass.

He also takes care of his family, he makes me laugh, he loves our daughter fiercely, he is responsible and smart and resourceful; he is highly independent and confident and without a doubt follows his own rules and nobody else's. For all these reasons, I love him.

I also love the fact that, as masculine and macho as he is, he can iron the shit out of a shirt, he knows how to sew, he cleans better than I do times a thousand, and, whenever he is from off work and I am not, I come home to something like this:

Why am I saying all of this? Because, having been with M for 22 (Twenty! Two!) years -- 12 of those married -- I can easily fall into a state of forgetting to appreciate. Yes, he may be guilty of the same, but I can only speak for myself here -- and I will.

This weekend, after M and S had already gone to bed, I was relishing my late-night alone time, watching bad television all by myself, when suddenly my left foot started acting possessed. My toes started doing that crazy, uncontrolled "spread out" kind of thing, where they get really straight and start moving apart, and, if it wasn't so damned painful, you might just simply stare at those toes and enjoy the show. This has happened before; it usually happens after a particularly intense workout and not enough water, and, having worked out that day, I figured that's what it was.

But then I saw this giant lump form on the top of my foot, and no matter how I stretched that foot, or bent my toes backward and forward, my foot felt more and more stuck and painful, and that lump started looking kind of... black. That's when I accepted that I was probably thisclose to death; that that lump was a blood clot that was moments from dislodging and making its speedy journey towards my lungs, or better yet! My brain! And I hastily limped my way to our bedroom, snapped on the light and woke M from a deep slumber to make him promise that, if I died, he was to celebrate Christmas with our daughter in a non-Grinchy way.

M sat up in bed and humored me. He studied the offending black lump, he poked at it, massaged it, and made me put my feet up on the wall and stretch my calves. He also reminded me I hadn't worked out in a couple of weeks and had probably overdone it at the gym. He also pointed out that I always sat in my special "deformed" manner that meant my foot was suffocated by my ass for far longer than was appropriate for a foot be suffocated by an ass, and that, like it or not, that ugly black lump was actually on both of my feet... see? Right there! I studied my feet and saw that he was right: I had some pretty ugly feet. My toes started to calm down and the lump relaxed. For the moment, I was spared.

Relieved, I kissed him good night and headed back for the living room to turn off the lights and the television and Dr. Google The Lump, and I thought about it: For 22 years this man has been by my side. He's made my cry, he's made me laugh, he's disappointed me, he's surprised me, he's taken care of me and I've taken care of him. I've loved him, I've hated him, I've needed him, I couldn't stand him. Because of it, despite it, we made a family, we are a family, and no matter how often I kind of want to kill him, this remains the one constant: We're in it together, for better or for worse.

My Papi Needs a Little Miami

by Patti

There's no denying it: In his former life, M swung from the vines in a jungle in the Amazon. I have mentioned before how tropical that man is; how much he hates the cold and needs, but NEEDS, to feel the sun on his skin. And not just any sun, no; it has to be that fierce, tropical sun that calls for linen Cabana Boy shirts and a little salsa and merengue in the background. So, naturally, we live in Chicago, where your nose hairs freeze into tiny crystals of ice every time you dare take a breath for 6 months of out every year, and the only background music is "FUCK, it's FREEZING out der, youz guyz!"

This means that M? Is a Winter Monster. The minute October hits, he starts getting "irritated". By December and its wistful 4:00 pm darkness, he is full-on psychotic. By February, he is catatonic with misery, robotically shoveling snow and then returning to the comfort of the couch to wait for the sun... someday. Around late May, although there is still a chill in the air, he starts to shed the Winter Monster and the life begins to return to his eyes. The motorcycle might even get dusted off for a few afternoon spins around the city, and suddenly, the lake is sparkling and there are thousands of "released-from-prison" joggers along the bike path, and the scowl on his face might even be replaced from time-to-time with a genuine smile.

But here's the thing: I am the one who has to live with this Winter Monster. M is so unbearably miserable the whole winter long, I am tempted to grab the shovel out of his hands and conk him over the head to put him out of his misery. Alright, let's be honest: I am tempted to conk him over the head and put MYSELF out of MY misery.

Sadly, I know the cure: My papi? Needs a little Miami. "What do you mean, 'sadly'?" you may be asking. "What is wrong with Miami?" Well, technically, there's nothing wrong with Miami. It has beaches and good food and it's always warm,and I like visiting there.  But M, being the surpreme latino that he is, thinks Miami is the perfect alternative to Argentina and doesn't want to just visit there; he wants to LIVE there. "We're still in the U.S.! They speak Spanish!" he tries to convince me. But Miami has pink houses and flying bugs the sizes of Volkswagens and hurricanes and, well, it's Florida. I'm sorry, but there is no reason to go to Florida other than to die. Plus! A humid Christmas? No more turtlenecks? No more buttery leather boots? I cannot live in flip flops alone. I need cute patterned tights and skinny vanilla lattes and the smell of autumn. Real autumn, not the manufactured kind.

At the same time, I need M to not be miserable. So I guess when the sun disappears and the snow starts to fly, my papi's gonna have to get himself a little Miami. And then he better come home and get himself a little mami.

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.