Unidentified Flying Objects

by Patti

When I was a kid, I went through a period where I was pretty sure I was going to get sucked up by a U.F.O. I didn’t fear the “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” kind of encounter where these adorable little aliens would waddle down a ramp and shyly shake my hand upon meeting me; I was more concerned about the type of encounter where I would be walking down the street, minding my own business, and then suddenly get zapped up into a flying saucer without warning and find myself lying on a table with 3-foot needles in my body and creepy, hollow-eyed aliens hovering over me. Because of this, I will admit I didn’t ride my bike outside by myself for, oh, at least a year. Somehow I felt that if I was with somebody else, the aliens might feel outnumbered and leave me alone.

The other night, those feelings all came back to me. I was on my back deck folding some pool towels and emptying out the recycling bin when suddenly, something caught my eye. I looked toward the sky and saw this amazing glowing, flame-like light floating by. It was unmistakably ethereal; it looked like a fireball with angel wings. I can’t even begin to describe it; I only know that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It was pretty high up in the sky, as high as a plane might be, but it was very obviously NOT a plane. In the back of my mind I heard the voices of countless farmers-gone-by, “It was this big, I swear! And it just floated there, I tell ya, it did! And then, dag-nabbit, if it didn’t just land right thar in front of me!”

I felt myself wanting to call M out onto the porch, but I was sort of just stuck there, unable to move, unable to form words. I just knew I was about to finally get zapped up, those long-ago childhood fears finally confirmed. Yet, I couldn’t save my own life. I watched it float over the neighbor’s house and behind a tree, and I finally realized I had to have M see this, too. I snapped awake and flung open the sliding glass door to call him off of the couch. “Come! Hurry! You HAVE to see this!” He must have sensed the urgency in my voice, because rather than continue to wallow in his ManCold, he jumped off the couch and ran outside. By the time he got there, I was already around to the front of the house, chasing the floating flame-light. He caught up to me and saw it just in time. The light seemed to hover for a moment, as if to give both of us the opportunity to take it in, to believe it was real. And then it started moving again, away from us.

At that moment, I heard M exclaim, “Look! There are two more!” and sure enough, coming from the same direction as the first flame-light had come, two more were indeed floating our way. The first one has been a fiery red-orange; these were white and pure red. They both danced the same way as the first, and had that ethereal appearance. “What IS that?” I wondered out loud to M, full-well knowing what they were. “They have to be balloons or something,” he said, satisfied with that reasoning.

But I knew: They weren’t balloons. Or airplanes. Or anything else that could be reasonably explained. We stood there for a while, watching the lights flicker and float and dance, until they finally drifted out of sight. As we walked back into the house, I looked back up to the sky and silently thanked the aliens for sparing me yet again.

(Super) Women

by Patti

It’s a thing, I know this. A man gets sick and the universe collapses all around him. Cars screech to a halt, trees stop swaying, babies stop crying, dogs stop peeing, their collective legs frozen mid-air, the EARTH STOPS SPINNING. Stop the freakin’ presses everybody, he’s got a cold! And while we are left standing there, blinking, wondering what happened, the man dramatically sneezes into the silence and retreats to his bed.

We, on the other hand? Will eventually come down with this cold. And when we do? Retreat to the bed, my ass. We will most certainly still have to make sure dinneriscooked, thehomeworkisdone, the laundryisfolded, the playdatesareplayed, the kidsaretuckedin, the dishesaredone, all while trying to breathe, stifling a sneeze, and catching a wheeze.

WHY IS THIS?

I hate to be all stereotypical 1992 Mars vs Venus about this, it does seem so trite, this observation, but from my informal completely and totally official survey of all my girlfriends, female co-workers and that random lady at Walgreens, the trite seems to be TRUE in this case.

How is it that we can multi-task not only family/friends/job, but even our health? Simple: We are built for speed, bitches. And that is our downfall.

I say we stop being able to do it all and just don’t do it at all.

In fact, right this very moment I feel a strange twinge between my eyes and a threatening little itch in my throat. I think I may be getting sick!

Oh wait. I can’t. S is having a sleepover tonite, which means the making of snacks and building of forts and general ensuring of survival.

Maybe tomorrow.

Diving In

S began walking at 18 months. Because she waited so long, she never had that adorable drunken sailor weave that many toddlers have when they take those first steps. Instead, she simply got up and, well, went. Regardless, in some people’s eyes, that was scary-late, but I knew that the only reason she waited so long was because she wanted to be absolutely sure she could do it before she actually did it. She was afraid: afraid of falling, afraid of failing, afraid of not doing it “just right”……

Even after she found that delicious new freedom with her steps, S was never the type of kid to break free from me at the playground and gleefully fling herself across the jungle gym or throw herself down the slide. Instead, she stood neatly by me, her hand safely tucked in mine, where she could first scope out the scene, observe the other kids in action, and only when she felt ready did she let me lead her to the swings or slide or monkey bars. Even then, she always kept her eyes on me to be sure my eyes stayed on her.

As S has grown into the loud-laughed, long-limbed kid that she is today, she has experienced and conquered many fears along the way. Shadows? Check. Flies? Check. Sleeping in her own bed by herself? Check. Water? Check. Sand? Check.

But it seems like with every fear she has conquered, she has managed to find another one to replace it with. Today’s fears range from moths to thunder to railroad tracks. And darkness is still way up there on the list. Do you KNOW how many things hide in the dark? Lots!

I can see S visibly struggle to overcome her fears, the way she wrings her hands together, or zips hastily through a dark room before whatever-is-lurking-there comes to get her; it all kind of breaks my heart a little. I did it, too, and I remember it: Growing up is HARD.

But I’ll admit it: I lose my patience from time to time. I mean, seriously? You need me to walk you to the bathroom in your own house? Yes, she does. And I have to remind myself that she isn’t just looking for a free escort; she is truly afraid. And just because I don’t see it or feel it doesn’t make it any less real for her.

Yesterday S and I met up with a friend and her two fearless kids at the pool. Her kids are cannon-ballin', lap-swimmin', bike-ridin' daredevils, and I can’t help but clutch my heart just a little at how crazy-brave they seem to be. While I want S to try things, I also find just a bit of selfish comfort in knowing she won’t, because knowing she won’t means she can’t get hurt. But then I realize while she won’t break her leg for not trying, she may break her spirit. And that somehow seems worse. So when S climbed up onto the diving board yesterday, the one that jutted out over 12 feet of water, and stood at edge, I marveled at how small she looked. I also marveled at how big she looked. Because there she was, my daughter, the one who just last summer could not even put her head in the water, now willing to have her entire being swallowed up by it.

I watched her face, and could see the thought process. She inched closer to the edge, and then, just like that, she jumped. And so did my heart. She cheated a little, made sure she jumped sideways so that she landed as close to the edge as possible. But she jumped. And as she swam up to the surface, I could see the smile on her face – that precious childhood “I did it!” smile. I clapped and cheered wildly for her. She hadn’t done anything fancy, really – it was just a simple little jump. And honestly, there were kids smaller than her making that same leap. But I knew what it meant for her to make that jump, and in my mind, it was worth 10,000 backflips.

~Patti

Rain, Thunder Go Away, Come Again Another...DAY!

So last night marks the fourth (or fifth; I can't think straight anymore because I am so sleep deprived) night this week that we were lulled to/rocked out of bed.

If you live in Chicago, you know what I'm talking about.

Last night was probably the worst of the week. While the hubby was out at a birthday dinner for his good friend, I settled in to get a much needed night's sleep after all the lightning storms, thunder and downpours we've had almost every single night this week like clockwork around bedtime.

My stomach sank as soon as I started hearing raindrops on my window sill, but chalked it off to 'just rain' since we already had a Wizard of Oz episode earlier that morning - complete with rolling black clouds, winds and the Niagara Falls of downpours, coming down so fast and furious, I thought my windshield wipers were going to helicopter right off my car.

I forced myself to try and sleep, and RIGHT when I was starting to doze, it happened yet again. A clap of thunder so loud, it reverberated in my chest and forced my eyes to pop open like a champagne cork. I braced myself for the pitter-patter of feet from the girls' room, but nothing. So I grabbed my eye mask to shield my eyes from the lighting show that turned night into day. Two minutes later, a clap of thunder, even louder than the first, struck yet again. Now my nerves were jangled. 'Turn over and try to sleep' I told myself. But no use. I tossed and turned. About 10 minutes later, I felt the power go off. A minute after that, I heard something drag across the lawn outside by the wind, perhaps a chair or something.

I got up and grabbed a flashlight. Checked things outside, checked on the girls, checked for signs that the hubby might be coming home, searched the medicine cabinet for the Nyquil and down half a dose. I knew I was not going to get any sleep tonight AGAIN, otherwise.

Once in bed again, my eyes blinked wide open when I heard..."Beep"...30 seconds later..."Beep"...thirty seconds later..."Beep." I mumbled, 'You gotta be kidding me' as I whipped the quilt off me and got up. I pressed some numbers on our alarm key pad and waited. Silence. Ahhhh... I settled back in, eye mask in place and waited for the Nyquil to work its magic. Amazingly, the kids were sound asleep. I was so jealous.

While in bed, a mere two minutes later, I heard, "Drip...drip...drip...drip." My stomach sank for a second time that night. 'Oh no. Not the living room again.' So I grabbed my flashlight and set out to investigate. It was coming from our furnace room - you know, the one we keep open to mooch the A/C off the upstairs and downstairs units? I looked inside and I didn't SEE any water, just heard it. It sounded like it was dripping inside a pipe. 'As long as it's not dripping outside the pipe,' I said to my weary self, 'we're good.' So I tightly closed those doors (we had no power anyway, so no use in keeping them open) and half-stumbled back to the bedroom.

We may not have had power, but at this point, lying in bed, I could feel electricity running through my body; a combination of rattled nerves, lack of sleep and the effects of the Nyquil working its magic. Slowly...slowly...I felt my body succumbing to the magic sleeping potion and a smile crossed my face. Somewhere in the faint distance, I heard a door unlock and knew that the hubby had come home. But I was finally heading towards the land of nod. I only felt him climb into bed, feeling his way in because it was so dark, patting my butt because it was in his way, me scooching over to give him room, and I woke up at almost NOON the next morning.

Finally...a blissful night of sleep. So please dear rain, deafening claps of thunder, incessant lightning shows, please, if you want to visit us again, do it during the day when we are up. I can't take another night of this. Thank you.

-Cathy

Yes...about that A/C

Patti's latest blog post does not merely warrant a comment but a return post.

Because, you see, in another coincidental, parallel universe kind of way, my husband too (let's call him Old Man Joe for the sake of this posting) has the same kind of aversion to A/C as Patti's conga-fied husband. In fact, mine has maracas in hand and a fruit basket on his head, to boot.

So I bring this up because not only am I living the same humid reality as Patti, but a few nights ago, OMJ's actions took the cake.

You have to know that since we live in a multi-unit condo building, our unit is sandwiched between two other meat-locker units that run their A/C day and night. We really have no need to turn on the A/C. We simply swing open the furnace doors, and voila! The house is as cool as a cucumber. Yes at times we crank up the A/C, like when I have to turn the stove on or when the cool air simply isn't traveling as well as we'd like it to throughout the house because it's 1,462 degrees in the shade, but at night, we always leave it off.

The other night, OMJ comes home late and decides he wants to watch some television. So he proceeds to courteously shut our bedroom door so as not to disturb me while he watches TV in the living room.

At 5:45a.m., I wake up with my tongue literally glued to the roof of my mouth and my esophagus seemingly lit on fire from my chest up. I wondered why in the hell I felt this way, while tossing and turning trying to simultaneously jar myself out of a nightmare (there was a wild boar loose in our house), and forcing some much needed sleep time in. After much tossing and turning, I awoke to still find our bedroom door closed.

After I pried my tongue loose, had a pitcher of water and TURNED ON THE A/C, I too sunk back into my cool bed, determined to resume my sleep all while cursing OMJ's actions under my breath and laughing at the prospect of his shivering ass waking up to turn off the A/C, oh...in about...5...4...3...2...

-Cathy

Turn it Up / Turn it Down

Here’s the thing about air conditioning: I’m not normally a fan of A/C blowing my face into frozen oblivion, but when the thermometer outside goes over 80, I kind of need it on. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need it cranked to “Blizzard”. In fact, it annoys the hell out of me when I have to wear a sweater and a scarf in July at my desk because the building’s A/C is set to “Frozen Tundra”, and people are still fanning themselves. No, that actually really pisses me off. But I DO want to be comfortable and not feel the sweat trickle between by boobs.

M on the other hand has an almost exorcist-like aversion to A/C, no matter how close to the sun it feels. He is so tropical one might expect to hear congas when he walks by. He is not even a fan of… FANS. “My chest!” he wheezes, clutching said chest like a 90-year old. So although he graciously “allows” us the luxury of some A/C air during the day in the summer, at night, he prefers open windows and a thin sheet. Many a night I have tossed and turned, trying to find comfort somewhere inside the haze of heat hovering in our bedroom, MY chest wet from heatstroke. But he always wins out because we wouldn’t want him to catch cold now would we?

However.

It has been a billion degrees here every day for the past week. The bunnies in my backyard seem to have lost their spunk, weakly hopping by; their little cotton tails wilted and even a little charred.

The park across the street has been a ghost town; the swings ominously empty and still, the slide too boiling burning blazing hot to even touch. The basketball court has that little wavy mirage thing happening over it, and there isn’t a single playah flinging his sweat across the court.

In short: It’s hot. Damn hot.

Because of this, I do feel it is a reasonable expectation to have the A/C on day AND night. I mean, is there anything worse than trying to sleep in wet sheets? Is there anything worse than feeling dehydrated in your dreams? Is there anything worse than waking up with heatstroke?

Because even the Scary News People have warned us that it is probably too hot to live, Mr. Tropical has caved, and the A/C has been blowin’ us to sleep every night this week. But he seems to have come down with some sort of strange ailment brought on by the continual hum of that A/C. He has an A/C-induced cough, and he feels weak and crabby, and he might even be close to collapse from some sort of undetected A/C pneumonia. I, on the other hand, have thoroughly enjoyed snuggling down into the comforter, feeling the cool fake breeze on my skin, waking up dry and rested.

Hey, it’s what marriage is all about! Compromise! Today his pneumonia, tomorrow my heatstroke!

~Patti

Tug O' War

The title of this blog post perfectly describes how I am feeling (and have been feeling for a couple of weeks now) regarding many aspects of my life. More about that later. But today, I want to express, and bring full circle, my thoughts on my kids and how this recent time alone has affected how I view my relationship with them.

To backtrack, the last time I blogged, I was living the temporary "single" life and preparing to fly out and meet up with my family for the continuation of our summer vacation. You might recall that I was grappling with my feelings, trying to come to terms with missing my children and reveling in the freedom.

So here I was, on the morning of my flight, preparing to travel solo for the first time in almost a decade. I woke up and felt strangely calm. I mean, sooooo strangely calm; like either there was something I am surely forgetting because I wasn't running around frantically packing last minute items or checking off lists, or someone had slipped me a tranquilizer. THAT kind of calm.

Throughout the course of the day (I had to take two flights with a stopover in Dallas) I found myself getting more and more giddy. Anxious. Even nervous. In fact I had such a myriad of thoughts and emotions running through me that I found myself journaling them frantically.

I witnessed other families with children, their interactions when they thought no one was observing them, and I compared them to how I would react in those situations. How much patience do they have? Do they make eye contact with them when they speak or just blurt out words without connecting? Did they laugh together? Were they frustrated or annoyed? Then I started thinking about my parents, my sister and her husband, my husband and myself. Needless to say, traveling solo resulted in tons of soul searching and discoveries for me, which I welcomed like a tall glass of cold, sweet lemonade on a hot summer day.

As a result of all of this, by the time I saw my kids, the anticipation was unbearable. I welcomed their little arms around my neck like lifesavers, holding on to them seemingly for dear life and seeing my relationship with them in a new light.

Fast forward, two weeks later, post vacation and currently in real life. I still make a conscious effort to be present with them, to observe them while they are doing little things and take in every facial expression and mannerism, to make note of every quirky comment, to laugh with them, to give them a break. OF COURSE I get all exorcist when they drive me crazy and OF COURSE I long for a break.

This is one tug o' war that will never end. But now I feel like I at least have a point of hindsight reference to keep me in check, so as not to take the rules of the game so seriously.

-Cathy

He Works Hard for the Muscle

Dear Gym Dude:

We get it. You have muscles. We can see them. And you can, too. It is easy to do when you keep staring at yourself in the mirror. And I know why you keep lifting your shirt. You want to make sure your 12-pack is still there, right? That it hasn’t somehow been horrifying reduced to a mere 6-pack in the past five seconds, or worse yet: a zilch-pack. Oh God, NO.

Gym Dude, I know you work hard. We all know, because we can hear your grunts and your loud, sweaty exhales as you do your millionth crunch. It is obvious you keep breaking your own personal records with that bench press, Gym Dude. Good for you. But is it really necessary to HACK WORK-OUT INDUCED PHLEGM INTO THE GARBAGE CAN? Gym Dude, that is just really unacceptable. I mean, once, okay. It happens. You get overworked, and it’s got to go somewhere, right? But Gym Dude, SIX TIMES?

And also, as you are admiring yourself once more in the mirror, can you please keep in mind that if you are going to keep lifting up your shirt we don’t want to see your treasure trail, Gym Dude. You might consider, I don’t know, waxing it or something because… just… no. I mean, I can see you’ve waxed your eyebrows so why not your treasure trail? Consider it, okay?

Please know that this all said with the utmost respect. After all, you are a manly, treasure-trailed Gym Dude God, WE ALL KNOW THIS, so why wouldn’t I respect you? You command it, damn it, you deserve it. You have worked hours upon hours upon hours on yourself, sculpting each muscle within an inch of its life, single-handedly creating mountains and valleys on your own body. Oh, you are so magical, Gym Dude, aren’t you? Because of this, why shouldn’t you get to hack your gold-flecked phlegm wherever you feel like it? Why shouldn’t you inspirationally grace us more flabby folks with your fur-trimmed rock-hard abs over and over again (we are so lucky!)? Why shouldn’t you get to hog the mirror for a full hour to ensure your precious 12-pack is still intact (even though I just need it for a few minutes to make sure I don’t have camel toe)?

What was I thinking, Gym Dude? Carry on. I will be the one with the camel toe, over here on the stair climber. Yes, you will see me shoving my earphones even further into my ears, to the point they might have to be surgically removed later, but I am having trouble hearing my music over the Hallelujah Chorus that plays in your head every time you look at yourself.

No offense, k?

~Patti

Nobody Goes Home Anymore

by Patti


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.

Freedom is Exhausting and Expensive

In a strange, earth-off-its-axis twist of fate, Patti and I both remain "family-less" this week. BOTH of our Latino husbands, took our kids to their homeland to visit family, while BOTH of us remain alone...and free!!!!

This is, you should know, the first time we have BOTH lived alone, ever. We've always lived with parents/roommates/friends/husbands/kids at every point in our lives. SO as you can imagine, it has been quite the experience thus far.

Granted, for me, it's only been two whole days. I woke my weary ass up at 3:30am to drive my family to the airport on Sunday, dropped them off, waved goodbye to ALL of them at once, drove back in a delirious sleep-deprived ugly cry the whole way home, and went back to sleep at 6am clutching an ugly ass doll that my little one handed to me before she left and told me to "Keep her in a safe place." I didn't care what the doll looked like at that point, I just knew what it represented.

But when I awoke from my second sleep cycle in the same night/morning, I had a strange feeling of calm. I tried to feel sad but didn't really. I was actually starting to get excited. I had a busy day planned (I'm sure this had everything to do with my mood) and it was a beautiful day outside (ditto).

Fast forward to today. I am still trying to sort out my feelings. Shouldn't I feel more sad than this? Shouldn't I go sniff the pillows on their bed or the clothes in their drawers to feel closer to them? Shouldn't i sleep on their beds at night? Shouldn't I miss them more? Even now, all alone, the innate motherly guilt finds a way to rear its ugly head into my life. Of course, it's only been two days. I know I would never want to handle something like this for a long period of time. I thought back to how my dad did it when we were little and my mom used to take us to Greece for MONTHS at a time.

But...I am trying to make the most of my selfish, all-about-me, lack of responsibility to others freedom ride I am on right now. How, you ask? By booking as much stuff into these days as possible to keep me occupied. Things I've been wanting to do, (shopping, working out, catching up with friends, random errands), watching shows and movies I've been wanting to watch, redecorating and cleaning out the house without any "WHY are you throwing my (enter meaningless chachki item name here) away???"

However, I am finding that all of this newfound freedom comes with a cost.
Want to go out and shop? Need money. Want to go see a movie? Money. Want to go out for dinner? Money. Want to redecorate the house? Money. Want to meet a friend for drinks? Money. Anything worth doing when you have the chance to do it takes money. OF COURSE i can have friends over or I can go to their house, but that is what we always have to end up doing when we have our kids with us. This is our chance to go OUT, dammit! To dust off our cobwebbed "going out" clothes, strap on our high heels and go OUT in style!

Not to mention, in our heads, the booked itineraries sound completely doable. "Let's do something EVERY night/minute of the day!" Sounds good in theory, but not realistic in practicality. We are just bone tired: from working, working out, assembling beds from IKEA, dinners, shopping, drinks. The good life is EXHAUSTING and EXPENSIVE.

Nonetheless, for now, we are totally enjoying replacing our motherly/spousal chores with ME chores. It's so much more fun being tired and broke putting yourself first than tired and broke putting yourself last.

-Cathy