Sitting Shivers

by Cathy & Patti

Charlotte: Where are we going to go?

Ray: I'm thinking Alaska.

Charlotte: Alaska?

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

~ From the television series The Bridge, 

which in part, has to do with Mexican drug trafficking

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

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

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

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

The Hobbit? Obe Wan Kenobi? Nomadic tribal elder?

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

And the texts went on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orientation

by Patti

Today we received in the mail a document that caused S to squeal and jump 6 feet in the air. I wondered if the Lottery Department had written me a letter informing me that, even though I hadn't purchased a ticket, I had somehow magically hit the jackpot of the century and would I please come down to headquarters and pick up my winnings?

I soon found out that equivalent to this in a 13-year girl's mind is her High School Orientation letter. She immediately ran to the refrigerator and slapped the letter under a magnet, singing joyfully to herself. "I can't believe it! DON'T FORGET!" she eyed me sternly.

But oh, how I want to forget.

How is this possible? Certainly the sudden lines that have appeared on my face - lines that no longer disappear by noon - have been trying to tell me about this passage of time, but I've been ignoring them. Because the passage of time is not something I'm handling very gracefully.

Aside from the "aging" part of it, what has gripped me most is the permanence of this passage of time. No. Matter. What. We can never get it back. And the last 13 years with my daughter, since the first earthly cries of my one and only child, are suddenly a dream-like patchwork of moments and memories, the only tangible evidence they ever happened the coltish, beautiful teenager standing in my kitchen, singing about high school.

It's strange, because I'm okay with her growing up. I love the "she" she has become; I love that we are friends and that she tells me most everything; I love that she is a hilarious companion and a quirky sidekick. I love her and all that she is. Yet, I find myself mourning the "she" she will never again be. Not because I don't adore who she is becoming, but because I will never get back who she was.

As I mark my calendar lest I DARE FORGET, I am cautiously looking forward to experiencing the energy I will no doubt absorb from all the other vibrating 13-year olds on High School Orientation Night. I will sense the jittery anticipation of all things new; I will take in the shine of young eyes as they dream about what will be. And I will look at my daughter and do my best to be present because, yes, even THIS moment, the one in which I am lamenting how she has grown up so fast, will one day be part of that dream-like patchwork of moments and memories. And I will never get it back.

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.

Therein lies the difference

by Patti

My “lady parts” doctor’s office is located in an outdoor mall. That sounds wrong, doesn’t it? It sounds like I’m getting my pap smears done at a kiosk. But no – fortunately for all the shoppers, the office is actually in a building, neatly and discreetly tucked away in the corner of the third floor. But I digress. The cool thing about having an appointment is I get to hit the Starbucks right across the way, or go to TCBY and eat a $9 yogurt, or window shop at Macy’s. Look – when you’ve had a stranger’s hand up your hoo-ha, a little retail therapy is in order, don’t you think? Yes, I think.

The other day, I had a little extra time before a scheduled appointment, and decided to stroll around the breezeways a bit. There was Table de la Sur, with its Martha Stewart-esque kitchen gadgets to make one feel like a complete domestic failure; there was Forever 21, teeming with middle-aged mothers and their gum-smacking, eye-rolling teen-aged daughters, both feeling horrified for entirely separate reasons; there was Vera Bradley, with its North Shore paisley prints splashed on Every! Single! Item! Even! Their! $20! Pens!

I realized the time, and decided to start heading to the kiosk doctor’s office for my appointment. As I walked, I noticed a man walking with his little boy. The boy was around two years old, and he did his best to keep up with this rushed dad.  As the boy hurried to catch up, he started to hobble. And that’s when I realized that the kid’s pants were sliding right off of him. Down over his diapered butt they went until they were circling his ankles and catching his every step. But the little dude muscled up and still tried to keep up. The dad? Totally oblivious. At that very moment, another lady who had been walking near me and I both piped up at the same time, pointing to the boy. “Uh, sir? His pants fell down.”

That’s when the man finally turned around, and when he saw the predicament his poor son was in, he swiftly hitched the pants right back up. “Buddy! You’re supposed to tell me when your pants fall down!”

After the man hurried away with his now clothed son, the other lady and I looked at one another and burst out laughing. We both knew that had the boy been with his mother, her motherly spidey-senses would have sensed the pants’ plan to fall long before they even fell, and the kid would have been spared diaper-flashing the shoppers.

This reminded me of when my friend, mother to three young girls at the time, left for her first vacation ever sans her children and husband. She reported to me that when she got back, her husband lovingly shared with her photos of some of the things he had done with the girls in her absence. My friend nearly fainted when she realized that most of the pictures included an outing to the top of a mountain, where he posed the girls by themselves in front of THE EDGE OF A CLIFF so he could snap a souvenir photo. Later, her older daughter told my friend that “Daddy dressed Rachel in shorts and Rachel couldn’t walk!” When my friend questioned her husband, he had no choice but to admit that he had dressed their youngest daughter for the day in shorts, and noticed throughout the day that she was walking “funny”.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that he realized he had forced both of her legs into ONE opening.  Of course, once the horror of thinking her children could have fallen to their deaths had passed, we both laughed and laughed and laughed, because, really?

Let’s face it: Fathers love their children just as much as mothers do. They love them fiercely, wholly, protectively. They love them to the moon and back and around the world three times. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shove two legs into one pant leg and not notice, or allow a child to streak naked through a mall, or forget to feed them breakfast because what’s wrong with marshmallows? Why? Because they’re not mothers. It’s as simple as that.

Summer Fun(k)

by Patti

When S was little and I had the luxury of being able to stay home with her, I never understood the complaints of those mothers who couldn't wait for school to start so they could get the kids out of the house. While I certainly respected their points of view, for me, there was something about the unscheduled ease of our lives during that time; the ability to come and go, and see and do, and experience and experiment. As cheesy as it sounds, being home with my daughter simply felt like a blessing to me.

As S grew into her elementary school years, I went back to work part-time, and - in the past two years - as she morphed from a still-clinging fourth grader to a, as of today, freshly-out-of-sixth grader, I went back to work full-time. Working full-time is not a new thing for me; I did it all my adult life until I had my kid. But going back to working full-time after your life has been altered by family? It's different. There is a whole new set of feelings that go along with being financially independent and feeling intellectually fulfilled. These days, even though my child is now 12 years old and most certainly does not need to hold my hand or have me pinned to her side every second of every day, I know she still needs me in even more complex ways than ever before. And most of all? I find I still need her.

Yesterday was S's last day as a sixth grader. Last night I asked her what her dreams were for this summer. "Dance, spend time with friends, and go to Jamaica." I can grant two of those wishes. My wish? Spend with her the last summer before she becomes a teenager. Do things with her. Watch her grow. Know her dreams and grant them. Cherish the moments she might still need me.  Alas, I have to work. So, with the exception of some planned vacation days, I will still have to hustle to find those days with her. And because of that, I now find myself selfishly wishing the summer away. After all, how can summer happen for her and not me? How can it not happen for us together?

The truth is? She will be fine. She will dance and spend time with her friends and her dog and have full days with her papi. She will eat ice cream and swim and spend some time with her grandmother, and she will flourish. She might even grow an inch or two. Because here is the other truth: my baby is no longer a baby. And all those summers I did have with her have made her who she is and who we are together, and as much as I might pine for those days, I now live in these days. And these days are wonderful in their own way.

Titles? Ain't nobody got time for that!

by Patti

 As you read this, just know I need my fingers to get used to the idea that they are typing something. Something other than reports and summaries and lists, that is. Plus: I got stripper nails. Typing with stripper nails is a whole new world. There is something frustratingly limiting yet deliciously freeing about stripper nails, and I've come to the conclusion that I have waited far too long in life to experience them. Also: I've been a little busy, you see. Busy with work and  life and appointments that I finally made (stripper nails!) - and kept! Like you haven't, right? So you know what I mean. But you know what? Suddenly, at the moment that I am preparing to catch a flight for a work trip, the mood struck me, and I told myself, SELF! Go with it!

So.

The kid turned 12. Last month I rented a van - a real., 12-passenger kind-of-van - and, after slapping a number of embarrassing signs on it and decking out the interior with streamers and balloons,

I stuffed 10 screaming tweens into it and cranked the tunes all the way to a hotel! With a pool! Near a mall! And those 10 screaming tweens ate pizza, and shopped, and swam, and watched movies, and had pillow fights, and sprayed whipped cream, and stayed up 'til a billion o'clock. But, oh, did they have fun. And I still cannot believe, not without feeling slightly panicky and totally melancholy and fully bewildered that my baby - my baby -  the one that came out of me screaming into the world, hair curly and damp, eyes wild and wide, hands flailing and sure - is now 12. Can I get TMI on you? I pulled her out. I did. I leaned forward with the deepest of gasps and final-est of pushes, and pulled her right out of me and onto me, and she was born. And it was magnificent. And now, 12 years later, I am pulling her out of bed, out of cars, pushing her onto buses, into classes, into life....

You know what else happened? Braces. I mean, of course, right? She's 12 now; braces are pretty much a must. They're not on her teeth just yet; that will happen in two weeks. But she's had all of the pictures done, and suffered through the mold process - which basically entails the stuffing of mushy clay into the mouth and lots and lots of gagging - and she's picked out her colors. Did you know they have colors now? They have colors. In "my day", the only "color" was metal, and there seemed to be a hell of a lot more of it in a pubescent mouth than the braces of today.

S has picked out her colors: Baby blue. Or mint. Or pink. Or neon green. I DON'T KNOW. The picking-out-of-the-colors seems to cause more stress than the actual braces. Two weeks to go, let's pray this awful world problem of what color to pick will be solved in time. God FORBID.

Since the braces are an inevitable part of the junior-high uglies, I made a promise to my child that had her leaping over the moon: I told her she could get contacts. I mean, the kid's glasses are unbearably cute, what with their oversized frames on her undersized face. But let's be honest: Glasses AND braces? So two weeks ago, we headed to the eye doctor for her annual eye exam, where, surprise! She's a year blinder! With new prescription in hand, we determined that S was ready for contacts. Did you know that putting in contacts for the first time is pretty much as easy as shoving a frisbee into a coffee cup? That poor kid spent an HOUR AND ONE HALF trying to get in just the first contact.

But she did not give up! And today, two weeks later, she is a total pro, putting in those contacts at lightning speeds. She still has her hipster glasses, and she still loves them unabashedly, but she now at least has the option to geek it up or geek it down at will. When you're 12 and the world is perceived through the amped-up eyes of pubescent drama, options are crucial.

Guess what? I have lot's more to say. Stay tuned.....

Diagnosis: Gettin' Old

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Bill Bend Over

by Patti

Do you know that last night I saved $140? I did it by actually looking at my cell phone bill. Normally, I just get nauseous and pay my bill online, never questioning the outrageous amount that is being demanded of me month after month. I just figured it was the price I had to pay for unlimited texting and my frivolous daily visits to celebitchy.com.  Turns out? When you actually look at your bill, you find all kinds of crazy that don't come cheap.

Seeing $40 in charges I didn't understand, I called my provider and pressed the millions of buttons to get connected to somebody in India. "Good evening, Patricia - what a lovely name - how may I help you tonight?" Cut the niceties, lady. First of all, ain't nothing "lovely" about Patricia (no offense if you are a Patricia. After all, I am a Patricia. I mean, it's not a horrible name, but lovely?). More importantly: why is there a $40 charge on my bill I don't understand?

After one hour - ONE HOUR - on the phone - which included a good 30 minutes of holding while jamming to the strains of the pan flute version of "My Girl",  and then being cut off only to surprisingly have the Polite Lady in India actually calling me back - I was finally credited $140 to my account for charges that had been happening for months. Not only that, but my new monthly bills will be much cheaper, which rocks ten ways to Sunday because, as the Polite Lady in India pointed out ever-so-politely, "every penny counts, Patreesha!"

Now? I am addicted to the idea of looking through my bills. I could probably finally get the granite counter tops I long for, or even refinish my basement with all the money I will save by combing through my bills. I mean, think about it: what if I hadn't looked at my cell phone bill? Would I simply continue to pay an extra $40 a month? An extra $40 that could go towards the straightening of my kid's crooked teeth or the filling up of my fridge? Yes, yes I would have.

Do yourselves a favor people of the universe: Really look at your bills. Don't just get nauseous and dumbly pay them like I have been doing for, like, EVER. Unlike me, be smart - do your research, make those calls, and guess what? You can actually avoid looking like this every time you pay a bill:

"Patreesha" in all her glory

Ain't Got Time for Memories

by Cathy & Patti

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overshadowed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only in Nebraska

by Patti

Every day that I leave my office to go home, it never fails that I get down the stairs and out onto the parking lot, only to turn around, climb right back up the stairs, and head back to my desk to retrieve my car keys. Or wallet. Or scarf. Or sunglasses. Or cell phone. It's gotten to the point that one of my coworkers, the one who usually witnesses those sheepish trips back to my desk, now asks me as I leave for the day, "Are you sure you have everything?"

Apparently, I'm kind of famous for that. Or infamous.

The other day I was in Nebraska for business. Yes, Nebraska! I actually drove down Cornhusker Highway and everything! Once we got to the meeting, I realized I had left my cell phone in the rental car. OF COURSE. Because, I told you, I forget things! I just made a mental note to get it after the meeting, and got down to work. After the meeting, my colleague had to stay behind for a few minutes to talk to somebody, so I told him I'd meet him in the lobby. I went out to the parking lot, eager to retrieve my phone and check messages, but when I got to the car, the cell phone was not where I remembered leaving it. Slightly panicked, I re-checked my purse and my portfolio; I checked under the seats; I checked the trunk; I checked the glove compartment. Of course, I had never even opened the glove compartment, but you know when you get desperate to find something and you hope against hope that maybe, just maybe you had opened the glove compartment and put that thing inside and just forgot that you did? EVEN THOUGH YOU KNOW YOU DIDN'T? Yeah, no - it was not in the glove compartment. Confused, I even did a double-take on the car; after all, it was a rental car and I wasn't entirely familiar with it . Perhaps the real car was parked nearby, and my cell phone was safely waiting for me inside it. Alas, the rental car was electric blue, and the only electric blue car in the parking lot. In all of Nebraska, probably. So, I had the right car. Unfortunately.

Mystified, I headed back inside the office building and asked the ladies at lobby desk if anybody had turned in a cell phone. They shook their heads sadly, eyeing me with pity - that poor, screwed lady who lost her cell phone and every single contact in it - for the THIRD time in a year. I then retraced all of my steps, including visiting the bathroom, checking the stalls, the garbage can, the hand dryer... I walked the length of the building to the other side, where another lobby was located. I asked the security guard if anybody had turned in a cell phone. No, they hadn't.  Near tears, I headed back to the main lobby, and one of the lobby ladies offered to call my cell phone - you know, just in case? So she did, and as she stared hopefully at me, phone to ear, I started dumbly into my purse, waiting for it to ring. But it didn't, because my cell phone was NOT IN IT.

I decided to go outside and check the car just one more time because I apparently simply cannot face reality. Once again, I scoured the clearly empty rental car, and... nothing. Sighing, I slammed shut the door and began to head back, defeated. As I walked, I looked longingly back at the car, bidding a sad farewell to my obviously lost phone. And that's when I saw it: There, perched proudly on the roof of the rental car, glistening in the clear Nebraska sun, was my cell phone. It had sat there, silently, strongly, hopefully, all through my two-hour meeting and desperate, fruitless searches, waiting for me to claim it. Thrilled, I raced back to it, feeling like those lovers who run toward one another in slow motion in movies, and I grabbed my beloved off the roof, cradling it in my hands. We did a happy spin, my phone and I, in our own Nicolas Sparks movie. I ran back inside, laughing now, shaking my head at the sheer lunacy of it all. "You will NOT believe where I found my phone! I told the lobby ladies. "On the ROOF OF MY CAR!" We all shared a laugh, and I said to them, "You know, if I had left my cell phone on the roof of my car in Chicago? It would have been gone in ten seconds flat! Only in Nebraska!"

And then I got back on Cornhusker Highway and headed back to the airport, drawing a big, fat heart around Nebraska in my head.

Sunday: The Day of Restless

by Patti

Sun·day  

/ˈsəndā/

Noun The day of the week before Monday and following Saturday, observed by Christians as a day of rest and religious worship.

Let me start out by saying that I am not particularly religious. You won't find me kneeling all reverent-like in church on a Sunday, and you won't find me resting because I'm "supposed" to. However, when it comes to Sunday, I don't mind adopting what Christians observe to be the Day of Rest because, quite frankly, it makes sense. After all, I work my butt off at a full-time job all week while also making sure my house and family don't self-destruct, and I spend Saturdays hauling the kid around and running errands, and if I am lucky, throwing in a lunch with a friend. By the time Sunday rolls around, I need to rest.

However.

Uh-oh

I think there was an oversight on this whole Day of Rest business. Somebody somewhere forgot that people need clean clothes, that a kitchen floor becomes in desperate need of scrubbing, that a dog runs out of food, that refrigerators become mysteriously empty, that bills need paying - and because there is school and work and other time-suckers like that which also need doing, Sunday suddenly becomes the only day to get all of it done before Monday comes rudely barreling into your Day of Rest again.

I'm not going to lie: by the time Sunday rolls around, I kind of start feeling a little grouchy. I love sleeping in on Sundays and enjoying our leisurely, traditional Sunday family breakfast; I love cuddling with the kid and the dog on the couch while I attempt to snatch a few paragraphs of a good book, but somewhere inside, I feel those nagging grumps. I feel gloomy knowing Monday is coming, like it or not, and before I know it, the alarm will scream into my ear while it is still dark outside and I will once again begin the week-long shuffle of figuring out what to wear and what to eat. And then my day of rest? Becomes the day of restless. World problems, I know!

Sure, I could be one of those people who gleefully say, "Eff it! The dishes will still be there!" and just not bother with the growing pile in my kitchen sink. I could throw my hands up playfully and shout, "Tonight? It's Cap'n Crunch for dinner!" I could simply lie down in my bed and cover myself with sheets that haven't seen soap in three weeks. Why not? It's natural!

Alas, I just can't. So, I guess it is what it is, and I should be so lucky that I have that extra day in the week to take care of business. Perhaps I am committing some sort of sin by making Sunday my day of restless, but I, together with all those other pinch-faced people I see pushing their carts in Target on Sundays, am willing to take that risk. As for the rest of you, the ones ever-so-smartly lounging in that recliner, can you move your feet? I need to vacuum.

My Hips Don't Glide

by Patti & Cathy

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

It only means this for us:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the dignified face plant

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

My Hips Don't Glide

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

I fear it, I fear ah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No skating
No skating

Anatomy Lesson Gone Wrong

by Patti

A few months ago, Gaucho got his balls chopped off. Before you roll your eyes and think, "Oh, great! She hardly ever posts anymore, and when she does, it's to talk about her dog's balls?" fear not. This is not about my dog's balls at all. My dog's balls only serve as a backdrop to the story I am about to tell you. You see, Gaucho had a pretty, uh, obvious set of cojones, and they were the perfect opportunity to teach S about anatomy. "What are those?" she gasped.
And I, always one to get straight to the point, answered, "Honey, those are balls."

Flash forward to present day. S and I met my mom for coffee and sandwiches at Starbucks, when my mom asked me what was in my sandwich.
"Oh, some tomatoes and cheese, and it's toasted.."
My mom suddenly leaned in, her eyes wide. "Testicles?" she whispered discreetly.
"No, mom. TOASTED."
S began to laugh, 'Nono, you don't have to whisper it. It's no big deal! See? Testicles! Testicles! TESTICLES!" she shouted out freely, her arms waving above her head for dramatic effect.
I, in wonder at the lack of embarassment most 11-year olds would feel to even THINK such a word, much less shout it out in pubilc, joined in gleefully. "Testicles! Testicles! Testicles!" And then, feeling adventurous, I threw in a "Boobs! VAGINA!"

At that, S's face grew horrified and she gave me a swift, scolding punch to my arm. "MOM! STOP! That's so EMBARRASSING!"
Confused, I cocked my head at her. "Honey, I don't get it. You were just shouting out testicles. If that is not embarrassing, how is vagina embarrassing?"
Her face grew blank as she pondered this. And then, ever so carefully, "Wait. What's testicles?"
Recalling Gaucho and the anatomy lessons around his pair, I knew what I had to tell her to make it clear. "Balls."
And then her face flushed a deep purple as her hands flew over her mouth in horror. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT OCTOPUS ARMS!"

Let's get it straight: TENTACLES.

The Mother of Invention

by Patti


Have you ever had what you thought was a stunningly originally idea; the kind of idea that makes you think, “I can’t believe nobody has ever thought of this before?” There you are, feeling all smug and clever, you and your idea. And then, something or someone makes you realize that, uh, that “original” idea has actually been around forever, and wow! You are JUST discovering this?

My mom was over at our house the other night, and she was keeping me company at the breakfast bar while I peeled zucchini. Yes, we eat zucchini. My kid is weird. Remind me to sometime tell you about the time when she was five years old and complained at a birthday party that pepperoni pizza was being served because COME ON, isn’t there any ASPARAGUS around here?  So, yes. We eat lots of healthy things at home because my kid – through no work of mine and only sheer luck – loves them.

Anyway. So there I was peeling away with my potato peeler, when my mom leaned in and said, “You know what?” She had a twinkle in her eye – one that told me she was about to share a very valuable secret with me. “I use that to peel potatoes instead of a knife!” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, completely satisfied with herself. Confused, I looked around, looking for something other than the potato peeler in my hand that would be a significant discovery to ease the peeling of potatoes.
Seeing nothing, I motioned to the potato peeler in my hand. “What…this?”
“Yes!” she threw her arms up in a can-you-believe-it kind of way.

And this is where I had to be careful. Because there she was, so proud of her obvious resourcefulness; so willing to share her secret tips with her daughter; so sorry for me and my own sad lack of cleverness. I was missing out on so much. But I couldn’t help it: I was about to be one of those “ruiners”; those people who delight in setting others straight.
“Uh…mom?”
“Yes?”
“This? Is a potato peeler. You’re supposed to use it to peel potatoes."

The next Big Thing

She looked confused for a moment. I had in one simple sentence rendered her completely incapable of comprehension. And then, as it dawned on her, she started laughing - and could not stop. And I joined her. Because, really? How freaking cute is she?

In Memoriam

by Patti

I have a dead hamster in my freezer.

Remember Gus? Oh, Gus, may he rest in peace. Early last summer, Gus started acting strange. We'd find him oblong against the side of his cage, his furry little body gasping for air. Several times we thought "this was it"; that Gus had gone to run the big hamster wheel in the sky. But Gus stubbornly lingered. One day my mom came over, and she held vigil with us as we waited for the inevitable. Finally, knowing that S was not giving Gus the kind of attention he needed in this now frail state, especially now that we had Gaucho, I offered my mom the opportunity to take him into her own special brand of hospice. She at first declined. After all, she had adopted S's goldfish and her guinea pig, falling in love with each of them, only to find her self heartbroken at their respective demises. No way was she prepared to do this again. One hour later, she was headed home with a cage, a hamster wheel, and a dying hamster.

But Gus flourished. Under my mom's care, Gus's coat became once again shiny, he had a new pep in his tiny little steps, his precious, twitchy rodent hands once again eagerly foraged the seeds out of the mix my mom fed him every day. Gus was, to our collective amazement, miraculously on the mend, and it now seemed he would live forever. All through the summer he rallied, running that hamster wheel, delighting in the special freedoms my mom allowed him as she let him explore her bed while she cleaned out his cage.And so, we kind of forgot about the inevitable.

Then came the call. I was at Target buying snacks for S's sleepover. It had been a long work week, I felt a migraine coming on, and I was bracing for a tween scream fest as I threw packages of preservatives and red dye no. 4 into my cart.
"Hi, mom."
Sob. Sob. Sob.
"Mom, what's wrong?"
"I think Gus is dead!"
"Oh, no!"
"He's not moving! I was only gone for a couple of hours; he was fine before I left. I can't touch him. COME OVER."
"But... S is having a sleepover..."
"Please! This is more important!"

How could I say no? After all, she had taken Gus into hospice; she had given him life and joy for seven months. Gus had been ours for nearly two years before that. Wasn't his final resting place my ultimate responsibility? So I promised to be there as soon as possible, paid for enough junk to sufficiently poison S and her friends into comas later that night, and raced to my mom's. On the way there, I called S to explain that Gus had died, and she called my mother to promise her she and her friends would give him an appropriate funeral that night.

Once there, I approached the cage, and there was Gus - a furry lump. Ironically, he looked more plump and healthy than ever, except for that he was perfectly still and stiff and you know, not breathing?  As my mom sniffled in the background, I wrapped the plastic bag she had given me around my hand, and gingerly attempted to pick him up. Sufficiently freaked out, I may have accidentally flung him from my grip and back into the cage, inadvertently causing him to tumble into the fluff and onto his back, his stiff feet now skyward. Once again, I dipped my hand into the cage, and willed myself to muscle up and pick him up for CRYING OUT LOUD. After three mini-seizures, four screams, and five attempts that ended with hamster flinging, I finally managed to successfully transport Gus from his cage to the makeshift coffin my mom had made him: an empty check box now filled with fluff and a few of his favorite seeds.  We said a small goodbye, then closed the "coffin" with the lid, tied it with ribbon, wrapped it in a plastic bag, placed it in a shoebox, wrapped that in another plastic bag, and I headed home, a dead hamster in my passenger seat.

At home, I hosted a small "viewing" for S and her friends, then respectfully re-wrapped Gus back into his coffin, but not before, I'll admit, snapping a picture for memory's sake  Just as I was about to announce burial time, M reminded me that the ground was frozen solid and did we really think we'd be able to bury him? I could hear my mom's voice, "Please don't throw him away!", and my mind raced for solutions.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up with a dead hamster in my freezer. There he sits, among the Freschetta naturally rising pizza and Hot Pockets, patiently waiting for his proper send-off. You'll get your day, Gus - I promise.

R.I.P., Gus

Christmas is coming, my ass is getting fat!

by Patti

Re-posting an old favorite by request. 

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

I'm being pelted by treats falling from the sky. It's not my fault.

It’s the Most! Wonderful! Time! Of the year! You know, that time when treats magically fall out of the sky and land in your mouth, over and over again? Especially if you work in an office environment, like I do. Suddenly people put on their Baker Extraordinaire hats and they are shoving brownies and snowman cookies and red and green sprinkled sugar bars down your throat. And you just sit there and take it like a man. A fat man.

Oh, no?

Well, THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING.

They look innocent, but are evil, evil, evil.

This whole month of December has been an exercise in, well, not much exercise and WAAAAY too many chocolate reindeer balls. What is it about December that leads me to believe that it is okay to shove 13 cookies in my craw and that there won’t be any consequences as a result? I mean, it’s as if I am sugar-shocked into thinking that December Calories aren’t real.

But by the end of December, when I am slowly exiting my sugar fog and find I can’t zip up my pants, I realize: Ohhhh, they were real. And then I frantically make New Year’s Resolutions that include the gym and fat-free cottage cheese for the rest of ever.

Stop. The. Madness.

So today, right now, as I type this, I am swearing up and down that that 3^rd Styrofoam cup of cheese/caramel/regular popcorn I just ate as a “tide me over ‘til lunch” snack will be the last. I WILL NOT EAT ANYMORE POPCORN FROM FESTIVALLY DECORATED TINS.  I will also forego reindeer- shaped anything, and sparkly, sprinkly, sugary stuff that pretends to be snowmen, and Christmas tree brownies with adorable mini M&M’s as ornaments, and marshmallow-stuffed bars of gooey heaven, and pretty  much anything that isn’t grown from the ground or a tree.

And I swear I’ll do it as SOON as December ends.

Preoccpoopied

by Patti

When S was born, I was somewhat amazed by the level of poop that suddenly came into my life. Not only was I amazed by the level of poop, I was also amazed at how it didn't gross me out. Instead, I was actually fascinated by the many colors and consistencies, shapes and sizes. I was completely and totally preoccpoopied by poop.

Now? Those days are long gone. I am no longer fascinated by my kid's poop, as my kid is now 11 years old and her poop has lost its glow. I'm back to being disgusted by poop, in general, and I feel like that is 100% totally normal and expected and okay. Because let's face it: poop is disgusting. Which is why what I am about to tell you deserves a little warning. What? You say I should have warned you earlier? You say that it is too early to be discussing poop, and that poop should pretty much not ever be discussed, like, ever? Well, sorry - but if you come here, there's gonna be poop. Consider yourself warned.

Last week I was traveling for work and was waiting to board my fight in Indianapolis. First of all, I have to say: Indianoplis? You're cuter than I expected. And your airport is quite lovely. So, here I was at the airport, and I decided to hit the bathroom. The moment I entered, I was hit by a wall of poop. The smell was unbearable; it was as if somebody had taken a poop on the floor instead of in the toilet. Which made no sense because just a few hours before, I had been in that very bathroom on my way into Indy, and the bathroom was so clean and sparkly and fresh. So why the smell? That's when I saw this young girl, about 19 years old, on the floor with a baby, about 6 months old. The baby was as naked as if he had just been born right then and there, and the girl was trying to lay him on the hard, cold floor, as he wiggled furiously under her hands. She was surrounded by about 5,689 baby wipes, all used and crumpled up, and another 9,431 paper towels. I eyed her quietly as I washed my hands, and wondered why she was trying to change the baby on the floor instead of the changing table. That's when I noticed the changing table directly above her. It was COVERED in poop. It was a Picasso of poop. It was a poopsplosion of poop! It was - okay, okay, I'll stop.

It was clear there had been an accident of outstanding pooportions, and though every fiber of my being told me to RUN RUN out of the bacteria-infested bathroom, the mother's heart in me made me ask, "Do you need help?"
The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide. She was perspiring and red as she attempted to juggle her baby, the wipes, the diapers, the POOP. "My baby's got a tummy bug. I was changing him and it went everywhere. I feel so bad - it got on the changing table, all over the floor, all over...." she gestured around her desperately as her baby continued to wiggle wildly.

I immediately began to pull paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them with warm water, then handed them to her. "First, let's get your baby off the floor. Clean him with these and I'll take care of the changing table." She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say, Really? You're willing to touch my kid's POOP? Which. Yeah. I actually was.

As she wiped down her baby, I began the task of wiping down the changing table. She wasn't kidding. The kid had gone to town. That's right: he had painted the town brown. Amazingly, I didn't gag or even flinch. I simply got down to the business of doing what needed to be done. Several thousand paper towels and a bionic dosing of sanitzer later, I presented the clean table to her. "I can't believe you did this for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH!"
"I'm a mom, too," I told her, "I would hope that if I needed the help, somebody would offer it to me."

And then I washed my hands for about nine hours and left the bathroom, smiling. It really does take a village, I thought to myself. And a few thousand paper towels.

The Candyman CAN'T

by Patti

One night earlier this week, after peering for the 10th time into the refrigerator and exclaiming dramatically that there was nothing to eat, M suddenly decided that right then, that very second, at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, it was time to do the groceries. M is a pretty domestic guy. He irons his own pants, and even knows how to make those fancy creases; he does laundry; he gets the kid ready for school; he cooks a mean breakfast and simmers a fantastic stew. This is why it irritates me endlessly when he looks into the refrigerator, is able to summarize there is "nothing to eat", takes the actual initiative to go to the grocery store - but asks me to "write the list". For all his domesticity, he suffers the mysterious ailment known as "refrigerator blindness". Yes, he can SEE we have no food, but he can't seem to SEE just what might be missing. Odd.

So I, relieved to be relieved of having to schlep to the store, began to write things on a scrap of paper: apples, bananas, grapes, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, eggs, milk, english muffins, granola bars. I then got bored of writing down the OBVIOUS and told him to please just figure out the rest. So, with my half-finished list in hand, out the door he went.

When he returned, laden with those annoyingly tiny plastic bags, I began to unpack the groceries. There were the apples, a measly three. Oh, look! Some carrots. A nice bag of plump grapes. Ah, lovely tomatoes. Bananas? No. But, here was some carrot cake. And rice pudding. And flan. And a tube of frozen sugar cookie dough. And a package of pre-cut chocolate chip cookie dough. And an industrial sized jug of hazelnut coffee creamer. And a giant box of chocolates that may have been Russian. Or Greek. Or Polish? And a can of "real" whipped cream. And a bag of gooey apple-cinnamon bread.

And just as I went into a sugar coma by sheer osmosis, I was somewhat saved by three tins of croissant dough. But not really. Because, where was the healthy stuff? My "list" was in one bag. The rest of the bags were filled with sugar and boxes of who knows what the hell because the labels were in RUSSIAN.
"What IS this?" I asked M.
"I don't know, but doesn't it look good?"
Apparently, M's grocery list is "sugar and stuff with cool pictures on it".

At least the picture had broccoli in it?

As I unpacked the "groceries", half laughing, half cursing, S jumped around me in glee, shouting out that her papi should always do the groceries. Then, apparently intoxicated by the sugar dust that now filled the air, she promptly made herself a bedtime snack: a waffle sandwich stuffed with Nutella, sprinkled with 1/2 cup of Ovaltine chocolate powder, and then topped off with the last banana left in our house.

And then, as my sugar beast daughter put her head together with her sugar beast papi to figure out how to bring the picture on the box to life, I put away the rest of the groceries, stuffing sugary treats into every crevice of the refrigerator, vowing to buy some celery.

Ritz Carlton gone RONG!

by Patti & Cathy

From the moment we start school, it seems our lives are constantly interrupted by alarm clocks. We have all, at one time or another, slept through an alarm, or woken frantically to a blinking alarm, or even just plain forgot to set an alarm.

Whatever the case, we don't set alarms for kicks. Most of the time, we set alarms because we need to get yanked out of our sleep for a good reason. How that "yanking" occurs - or whether or not it occurs it all - can set the tone for an entire day.

Cathy:
I've scheduled my share of hotel room wake-up calls in my lifetime, (that sounds way worse than implied) but never did I experience what I did on this recent trip to Aruba. I relied on my cell phone to wake me up for three of the four mornings I was there, but decided that I should use the wake-up service on the morning of my departure as a back-up. You know, in case I overslept and waaaahhhh, waaaahhhh, I was stuck in Aruba.

As I had been doing every morning I was there, I woke up before my alarm was set to go off. Well aware I was about to leave paradise, I was luxuriating in the giant, cloud-like bed, desperately trying to cling to the chillaxed vacation mode I easily cultivated the past few days. As I relished the sun's beams streaming in on my face and the sounds of the waterfall coming from the pool below, the phone RONGED. Not rang, but more of a ringing GONG. (I get that they need to be loud enough to wake the heaviest of lead sleepers, but I always experience a mini heart attack when this happens.)

The Gong gone Rong.

Grumbling at the interruption and cursing at myself for not remembering to cancel the wake-up call, I slid across the fluffiness and picked up the phone. From across the line came the Caribbean accent of a chirpy woman. "Ms. Demetropopoboulos," she stumbled. "This is your seven o'clock..."
Yeah, yeah. I know.
I hung up the phone.
Immediately upon hang-up, it RONGED again.
What the...?
"Hello?"
"This is your seven o'clock wake..."
Click. Yes, I got it.
And then? Then, it RONGED again.
Holy Caribbean Islands, I was being stalked by the wake-up woman.
"HeLLO," I said flatly.
 "Ms. Demetropopoboulos," I let her struggle. "Are you aware that this is your wake-up call?" she inquired authoritatively.
Are you aware that I have no choice BUT to wake up since you've called me three times back to back? Who was this lady, my mother?!
"Uh...yes. Yes, I am," I replied, wondering if she was that serious about her job or was this a power struggle at this point. "Thank you for your diligence." Click.

I stared at the phone sideways, ready to pounce on it like a tiger to its prey, if it ronged again. But it didn't. The wake-up lady done did her job and woke my luxuriating ass up. Goodbye, vacation. Hello? Reality. RONG!!!

Patti
I'm going to confess something right here: I have trust issues. Yep, I said it. In the words of Tony Montana, "Who do I trust? ME." It's horrible, I know, but it is what it is. I have just witnessed so much incompetence in my life (NO, I'm not a perfectionist, why do you ask?) that I have kind of learned to not trust people to get the job done right. I'm a suspicious, cynical, side-eye givin' girl, and I know that about myself. WHICH is why it is so very strange that several weeks ago, when I had the luxury of sleeping at the Ritz! Carlton! for several nights by! my! self!, I chose to use the Ritz! Carlton's! wake-up call service to rouse me out of bed my first morning.

I had a meeting "first thing", and the day before had been a long one that consisted of a 6 am airport arrival, bumpy flight, and getting settled in for days of meetings, so needless to say, I was tired, and I knew I was tired, yet, because it was the Ritz! Carlton! I had an innate sense they would not screw it up.

"Good evening, Ms. Pudaydah" greeted the silky voice that probably had to audition for the job as the Ritz! Carlton! wake-up call lady. And no, that is not how you spell my last name, but apparently, my wake-up call lady, much like Cathy's, has trouble pronouncing last names with Latin flare. Mattered not, though; I was just impressed she knew who I was. That alone led me to believe I could certainly trust the Ritz! Carlton! to do their job.
"Yes, I need a wake-up call for 6:30 am, please."
"Why certainly, Ms. Pudaydah. Have a nice night!"
"I will!"

And I did. I attempted to watch a little television, as somehow the same shows that I might watch at home are far more entertaining when watched from a bed laden with 4,000 ergonomic pillows and covered in ten billion count cotton sheets. Ah, Ritz! Carlton! Feeling my eyes grow heavy, I briefly debated setting a back-up alarm on my cell phone, and then decided that the Ritz! Carlton! was all about customer service, and would never in a million years NOT perform a wake-up call as requested. Satisfied, and wrapped in my cozy, fluffy Ritz! Carlton! robe, I soon fell blissfully asleep.

These things seep drugs into your pores. 

Before I knew it, my eyes flew open. Light streamed in through the gauzy Ritz! Carlton! curtains, and I felt immediate panic. WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE. I flung my body toward my charging cell phone: 7:00 am. Can it BE? Had the Ritz! Carlton! FAILED ME? I threw off the fluffy white comforter and darted to the shower. As I hurriedly shampooed and soaped and tried to blink awake under the perfect water pressure of the Ritz! Carlton! shower head, I concluded that, indeed - Ritz! Carlton! or not, who do I trust? ME.

I hurried through the rest of my "getting ready", annoyed that I had allowed a plush name wrapped in a tricky, sleep-inducing robe to do me in. Apparently, my Ritz! Carlton! had gone wrong instead of RONG!