Perfect Timing

by Cathy

Don't you sometimes marvel at the timing your kids have?

I could be washing dishes or folding laundry or making dinner, and they are contently occupied drawing, playing on the computer, watching TV or doing homework. Or they could be in their room, making goofy videos of themselves on my iPhone singing their version of Beyonce's "I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady. I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady..." while jiggling around like Shakira. Either way, they're occupied, which when realized, sets off a DING! in my head that I should take advantage of this time and get in some R&R.

So I grab a snack, settle into the big, cozy leather sectional in our living room, throw my feet up on the table, set my water glass down and pick up the remote. As the television is powering up, I situate my blanket, pillows and snack accordingly. On the remote, I scroll down the list of DVR'd programs, finding my shows nestled among the series of iCarly, Wizards of Waverly Place and Shake It Up episodes clogging my List feature. Then...jackpot. "Oooooh, Parenthood!" I say excitedly. Click and......

"Mooooom?"
Hard sigh.
"Yes?" I say, naturally annoyed, hitting pause.

The following response could be one of:

"Bella hit me"
"I need help with my homework"
"Where's the flashlight?"
"Ari won't leave me alone"
"The shower curtain rod fell down!"
"Where's papi?"
"Do we have anymore toilet paper?"
"I need help on the computer"
"Ari dropped your iPhone"
"I can't find my book/eyemask/iPod/other slipper/homework"

Once the crisis has been addressed, it doesn't stop there. Ari is now aware that I have settled into the living room couch, is bored with her sister and wants to keep me company. So while I'm trying to watch my show, now with the volume turned up to 68, she skips in and out, hums, asks me to color with her, brings in Chutes and Ladders or puzzles, flips/climbs/jumps/hurdles/straddles/leaps onto the sectional every which way and repeatedly enough so that she looks like a wind-up toy on turbo.

This doesn't only happen when I want some downtime. Like clockwork - I am not even kidding you here - my kids have a sixth sense for when Joe and I want some alone time. As soon as we starting hugging or kissing, even touching, the sound of little running feet pattering down the hallway is heard and BAM! there's Ari standing/pounding at our door. The same goes for when we settle in on the computer, ready to tackle a long overdue project, answer some work emails, or yes, even write these blog posts.

"Can I play [insert computer game here]?"
"Can I check my email?"
"I have a school project to do on the computer"
"Can  you make me some waffles for a snack?"
"Ooooh, can I see??"
"Can you call next door and see if G can have a playdate?"

To be fair, it's not only my kids, but outsiders as well, that know the exact time I have settled into my downtime/bathtime/computer time/TV time. How is it that the phone rings right at the exact second I sit down? How? I've even become paranoid that there is a little Annoyance Camera set up somewhere within our house that everyone but me is monitoring, ready to pounce on me the minute they see me get comfortable.

I'm not sure what I can do to avoid this 'perfect timing' of things, but in the meantime, I will keep trying to take a break when I get a break. And even when I don't.

Oh look! I finished this post! I only worked through eighteen interruptions, so I hope it makes sense.

The New Foreplay

by Patti


I have been following a design blog that details the DIY renovation of a young couple's house. It's been surprisingly painful, the discovery of this new jealousy that has overtaken my normally "happy for others" body. It's just that... well, the light fixtures! The appliances! The new kitchen cabinets! The backsplash! THE UNDER CABINET LIGHTING! I kind of want to make out with all of it, and worse, it makes me kind of want to totally break up with my own house.

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for my cozy little shack. And since we bought it a couple of years ago, I can even confidently say that I think I've done a pretty good job turning it from "someone else's dated ranch" to our charming, modern-with-an-antique-twist-so-that-it-looks-eclectic-and-full-of-character cozy little shack.

Still... I'M JEALOUS. I want under cabinet lighting, too! And recessed lighting, dear Lord recessed lighting! What I wouldn't do for recessed lighting.

Alas, I have a big ol' 80's florescent light fancily trimmed by "oak" smack dab in the middle of my kitchen ceiling.

(So wrong. So very, very wrong.)

At least it works, because my dishwasher? Yeah, right.  I mean, it's pretty. It's all stainless steel and looks good, but it doesn't work. And things keep coming up, like new glasses, dance classes, and co-pays, so for now I have Old Lady Hands from having to wash all of my dishes by hand 63 times a day, and it doesn't look like that condition is gonna get better anytime soon.

(Don't be fooled by this fraudulent, stainless steel bitch. She doesn't work.)

ANYWAY. The point of this all is that this envy, this deep envy and all of the fantasies that have swirled through my head in following this couple's Fantastic Journey in beautifying their home has made me question myself. Who is this person with the wrinkled dish-pan hands that gets all dreamy over brushed nickle light fixtures, crisp white crown molding, and kitchen faucets with fancy, high arcs? WHO AM I? Why do I get weak in the knees over under cabinet lighting, wide-planked hardwood, and slate bathroom floors? Why would I rather blow my Benjamins at Menard's than Barney's? Okay, scratch that. I've never shopped at Barney's. But you know what I mean.

I'll be honest: In the last year I have gotten a new refrigerator and a new oven. And the oven? Is a double oven. Yes, yes, I know! WHY AM I COMPLAINING? Let me be clear: I am not complaining so much as I am confessing that I now know something about myself that scares me: I am getting old. Like, really old. Because if Anderson Cooper (yes, I know I'm not his type, just go with it) was standing in tight jeans with a book in his hand and a smart-ass smirk on his face in front of a brand new, whisper quiet Kitchen Aid stainless steel dishwasher that just happened to be mounted under brand new granite countertops and flanked by brand new cherry - no, pine, no, cherry - no... okay, I'm not sure just yet, but anything other than 80's oak - well then, I'm afraid I might just rush forth, and as Anderson outstretched his arms, I might just push him right out of the way and start french kissing that new dishwasher.

I just might.

Rockin' the Cradle of Civilization

by Cathy

If you are one of the three people who haven't seen "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", then you won't relate to this.  Note: I may have made a reference to this movie before and this won't be the last time, either.

I am the old Greek man in the movie. The dad. The "everything stemmed from Greeks" Greek. Democracy. Civilization. Astronomy. Math. Medicine. The Olympic Games. Science. Philosophy. A Root Language. Oh that last one really annoys the crap outta my family. They refuse to watch the Scripps National Spelling Bee broadcast with me because when contestants ask the root of the word and the response is "Greek," I do a little dance. They almost anticipate my response to a Greek-based word. "Just tell us what it means because you're gonna tell us anyway!" And I do. Can I help it if I am proud of my heritage? My culture? My civilization?

It seems that I am gaining that reputation to all those around me now. The other day, my cousin Katrina, who is the next proud Greek I know, was over for dinner. As I was dishing out mounds of spaghetti and beef into her plate, asking her if she preferred more mitzithra, (a shredded Greek pasta cheese) and whisking plates around from the stove to the table, she said, "Wow. I feel like I'm at your mom's house."
"Of course!" I replied. "That's because I'm Greek! That's what we do - feed people!"
Katrina laughed in agreement.

Later, dinner conversation somehow shifted to my kids counting to 10 in Greek, then in French and then in Spanish. Then Katrina followed with the Spanish counting she knew. "Wow," said my husband, the Latino. "Your accent is pretty good!"
"Yeah," Bella chimed in. "You even roll your "r's"!
Before Katrina could blurt out, "It's 'cause I'm Greek!" I piped in with "Of course! She's Greek!!!"

Even my neighbor has picked up on my Greek representin' habits. The other day, my kids and I filed out of the car in the garage just as she was pulling in. She apparently saw the trunk full of grocery bags and offered to help take some upstairs. "No, that's okay," I replied. "I'll get the kids to help. What am I feeding them for??"
She burst into laughter. "Is that a Greek thing?"
"Yes! My parents used that as an incentive to get us to help constantly! How did you know?"
Still laughing, she said, "I think the Germans took a page out of their book," referencing a side of her own heritage.

My kids don't get this now, but my constant references to all things Greek - the language, the cultural nuances - will stay with them as they grow and learn.  My garage door may not be painted as the Greek flag, I may not have Parthenon-like columns supporting my deck or statues of Aphrodite adorning my garden, but my ties to my culture are firm and unbreakable and that is what I want for my kids.

I take pride in telling people what my ancestors have contributed to the world, and I truly appreciate it when others give me historical tidbits about their cultures as well. After all, I may be Greek, but I don't have xenophobia. (As if you thought I would let this opportunity slip by...that's a Greek word meaning a fear of foreigners,  Xeno = foreign(ers) and Phobia = fear.) 

 Just rockin' it, baby!

Sheepy

by Patti


When S was born, my father gave her a little stuffed sheep. That little sheep sat perched on her dresser, stitched black eyes steady and unblinking, until she was old enough to start actually appreciating her stuffed animals. Ever since that day, that sheep, who became "Sheepy", has been S's best friend.

Sheepy went with S to her first day of preschool, safely clutched in S's scared little hands to safeguard her, and then he accompanied her every day thereafter, all the way through kindergarten, through every snack time, play time, and most importantly, nap time, and he never let her down.

We were always careful with Sheepy, ensuring he was tucked into bed with S every night, and, unless we were on a trip away from home, that he only went to school with her and then right back home. We could never risk losing Sheepy, after all; he was S's universe, and losing him would tear that universe apart.

When S was 7 years old, we took a family trip to Costa Rica, and of course, Sheepy came along with us. At the airport in Chicago, S was feeling sleepy, and whenever she feels sleepy, she needs to hold Sheepy. I warned S that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to take Sheepy out of her little carry-on; after all, what if something happened to him? But she insisted she would NEVER let ANYTHING happen to Sheepy, so out he came. There was a last minute gate change, and we all scrambled to get our things together and raced through the aiport to find our new gate and get on the plane.

Once we were all settled in on the plane, S proceeded to build her "nest": 2 blankets - Pooh and Bunny - and Sheepy, who would be cozily wrapped in Pooh while Bunny covered S. She began digging through her carry-on, and looked up at me, pale. "Mommy, I can't find Sheepy!"
"Are you sure?" I helped her dig through the bag, my stomach flipping just a little. Sure enough, Sheepy was nowhere to be found. I looked up at S, helpless. She could see by my expression that Sheepy was not on the plane with us. Her lip began to quiver, her eyes watering, and within seconds, she began to wail. Her cry twisted my heart violently; I had never seen her so devastated. I pulled her to me. "Oh, my baby... I'm so sorry!"

M kept looking through S's bag to see if he could somehow magically rustle up Sheepy by sheer will alone, and she was crying so loudly that the flight attendant actually came over to see what was going on. I explained to her that she had lost her beloved "sleeping buddy", and she must have been a mom, because she gave me such a look of understanding, I felt like I needed for her to hug me.

Then my mom was standing there, pulled from 15 rows away by her granddaughter's cry. "What is wrong?"she asked, panicked. S was wrapped around me, sobbing, and I mouthed the tragedy to her over S's sweaty, heartbroken little head. Suddenly my father was there, too. My father could never stand to hear S cry, not even for a single second, and seeing his "cookie-cookie" like this was almost more than he could bear. My mom looked at my dad and told him, and he bent into our row, practically climbing over M, desperate to take away her sadness. Alas, the plane was about to take off, and my parents were ushered back to their seats, leaving us with the loss of Sheepy in our laps.

S cried for a good hour, eventually falling asleep, shuttering and exhausted with grief. She slept on my lap most of the flight, and I stroked her hair, I myself devastated. It felt like the end of so much, and I was just as sad as S. We finally landed, and S woke, somber. We gathered our bags, took a shuttle to the car rental place, and all settled into the car, ready for our Costa Rican adventure. Before we took off in the car, I wanted to grab something from my bag, and reached into the cargo space to dig through it. I unzipped my bag, and out popped a furry little leg. I quickly unzipped it the rest of the way, and laying there, a patient look on his round little face, was Sheepy! I pulled him from my bag and held him up in the air, yelling out jubilantly to the car, "SHEEPY! I FOUND SHEEPY! HERE IS SHEEPY! SHEEPY IS HERE!" S lunged for Sheepy, pulling him from my hands to her chest, rocking back and forth with gratitude and excitement.  My parents broke out in a joyous chorus of cheers, and M turned to me,  his eyes wide.
"WHERE WAS HE?"
"IN MY BAG!"
"IN YOUR BAG?"
"YES! IN MY BAG!"
Yes, we were shouting, we were that hysterical. To think he had been IN MY BAG THE WHOLE TIME, through all of S's miserable cries, throughout the entire 6-hour flight. To think of how much sorrow we could have avoided if ONLY I had checked MY bag, and not just hers.  My mind spun back to the airport, and suddenly, there I was, grabbing Sheepy hastily and shoving him in my bag. How had I not remembered this?

Today, nearly 4 years later, Sheepy is still with us. He is dirty, matted, old, and absolutely loved. S still sleeps with him every night, his worn little body tucked safely under her chin. Sheepy forgave us that near-miss, continuing to guard over S and her swiftly dwindling childhood, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Needacoupleitis

by Cathy & Patti


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seduced by Velcro

by Cathy

It seems that we are constantly rushing through our tasks, doesn't it? We have so much to do, that we don't do things carefully enough. Things like making sure to triple-check your emails before you hit SEND and propel them into outer space where they can always be retrieved by someone at any given time. Scary, huh? Today I almost sent out a work email to a fashion designer in the industry. I meant to say, "I'm sure you'll go far" and at the very last minute, my eye caught it: I had written, "I'm sure you'll go fart."

If I can stop myself from laughing at my own carelessness long enough, I'd like to share with you another close call that would've been disastrous if not caught. It happened the other day in the midst of school-prepping morning madness. We were running late as we do every single morning, and my husband grabbed Bella's coat off the coat rack, where I had sleepily hung it the night before, freshly washed and dried and smelling like lavender-scented pine trees. He hurriedly tugged in onto her shoulders, she zipped it up and they were ready to go.

"Uhhh, mommy," said my husband slowly in his parenting voice, screeching the brakes on our Morning Rush Hour. "Aren't you going to need these?"

He turned Bella towards me and there she stood, oblivious to the look she would be sporting at school today. From two of the front velcro close tabs on her coat were hanging one Men's Jockey low-rise briefs and one of my black thongs. NO. JOKE. He quickly ripped them off and handed them to me while we all broke down in a belly laugh of belly laughs.

To make things worse, this wasn't the first time underwear decorated my kids' coats like a tricked-out Christmas tree. It happened the last time I washed their coats. That time, it was on Ari's bright, white coat, and from it was another one of MY thongs - this one in chartreuse green.  Thank Victoria's Secret, folks.

Here's what I don't get: why is it that only underwear - and only my husband's and my underwear - gets attracted to the velcro tabs?? Why couldn't it have been a sock or one of the girls' little undershirts or even a mitten? Those are all small enough to latch on. But why the parents' underwear? Why is that this velcro, which is soooo easily seduced, is determined to send my kids to school looking slutty-fied?

I'm not sure why, but hopefully, we will never be too rushed to realize that we are sending our kids off to school with Jockey briefs and thongs dangling from their coats. Hopefully...


P.S. A picture would've been worth a thousand laughs but alas, I forgot to take one. And plus, who wants to air their (at least it was clean) laundry out there? T.M.I., people.

Oh, hello there...

by Patti


...it's been a while.

You see, I was in a car for 539583950342 hours, which was not necessarily conducive to blogging. But I loved every torturous second, and now I can blog all about it in endless prose! Lucky you!

There is no better way to start off a fresh, new year then to get in a car and just drive. And that is exactly what we did. Literally. On January 1st, M, S, and I all piled into the fully loaded car, put it in "Drive", and, well, drove. All the way to Texas! Yee-haw!

The plan was to visit my cousin in Houston. But first! We had to make a few requisite stops at Middle of Nowhere gas stations, and let me tell you: the first day of 2012 in Illinois was WIN. DY.  You don't believe me? You think I'm being dramatic? ME? DRAMATIC?!?!?!? Behold the PROOF:

Once I screwed my head back onto my neck, we had to make a very special pit-stop as we continued our way down Illinois. Remember my post a couple of weeks ago about Homie? Well, I was right. AS USUAL. Homie worked his magic on M's heart, and, after a visit to see this....

....we will no longer be dog-less as of February 12th. That's right, our very own version of Homie, who shall be named Gaucho, will be peeing on our floors, and farting in our family room, and snoring loudly yet cozily in our laps very, VERY soon! I swear, S shivered her way across the rest of Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas and Texas, she was that excited. She IS that excited. Road trips with special pit-stops are magical like that.

After that life-changing pit-stop, which ended up being so not a pit-stop but a 2.5 hour visit that included chasing dogs, petting ponies, and holding newborn puppies - what kind of Heaven all wrapped up in one place is that for a kid? - we continued our way down Illinois in utter darkness. It felt like we had just started our trip - I mean, we were still in the same STATE for crying out loud - yet...we were already tired. And STARVING. And the number of restaurants and that were available for us to choose from to satiate that starvation was exactly zero. So we drove, and drove, and drove, and ended up in Missouri and still drove, until I finally spotted a familiar site: DENNY'S! Oh, Savior of Road Trips!

We wearily pulled into the parking lot, S still vibrating with excitement, and literally shuffled our way into the saddest Denny's I've ever been in. The customers all looked on the brink of death, on crack, or severely suicidal, and there was apparently only one waitress working the joint. But we were desperate and starving and No Way in Hell were going to keep driving, so we grabbed one of the booths and waited what seemed a thousand years to place our order. M jokingly asked the waitress if the food he ordered was going to like the picture? She cocked her head and smiled vacantly. Our food finally came - and it actually did look like the picture! -  and we scarfed it down in 3.5 seconds, paid and bolted to the beyond. We drove for another zillion years and finally found a hotel that wasn't run by Norman Bates, and proceeded to sleep like....shit. There was some weird dripping outside the window all. night. long. And people kept walking by our door all. night. long. And some man on another floor was snoring and we could actually HEAR HIM snoring all. night. long, and ohmygod it was a total nightmare.

But the next day dawned fresh and beautiful, and though we missed the "free, hot breakfast!" because we finally fell asleep only a few hours before the end of the breakfast deadline, we still felt excited, despite the lack of sleep. Since we missed breakfast, and worrying we'd hit another stretch of food desert, we took advantage of the McDonald's that was right next to the hotel and hit the drive-thru. Here was our order, and pay close attention, because it's critical to this absolutely compelling story I am telling you:
Egg McMuffin
2 Coffees
1 Large Orange Juice
Fruit & Yogurt Parfait

Got it? Good. We pulled up to the window to pay and get our stuff, and the woman handed us one bag and 1 coffee. "Y'all have a nice day!"  Call me gifted, but I somehow knew the other coffee and the juice were not in the bag. "We ordered TWO coffees, and a juice..."
"Oh! Sorry 'bout that!" Oh, those Missourians. Missourans?  She disappeared for a minute and then handed us another coffee and a juice. I peeked inside the bag and noticed the Fruit & Yogurt parfait was also missing. "The yogurt?" I asked.
"....OH! Oh, sorry 'bout that!" She once again disappeared, but this time? It was FOR. EH. VER. I'm not even kidding when I tell you that a full five minutes - which, come on, let's face it, in drive-thru time is forever - passed before she came back and popped her head out to give us an update. "She's still workin' on it, sorry!"

Working on it? What is there to work on? It's a Fruit & Yogurt Parfait not an art project. We looked behind us and noticed that a line of cars was starting to build. All because of a Fruit & Freakin' Yogurt Parfait! She finally came back and stuck her head out the window, but M's head was blocking my view and I couldn't see anything. I heard him exclaim, "THAT'S HUGE!" Since I couldn't see anything, I could only imagine that it actually  MUST have been a work of art, a HUGE work of art that was worth all the time we had been made to wait. And that is when he turned towards S and I with this in his hands:

I'm not sure I can effectively show you with this picture just how TINY this Fruit & Yogurt Parfait was. I mean, it must have come off the Shrunken Munchkin Menu, because it was microfuckingscopic, and it most certainly did NOT look like the picture, and I could not believe that we had waited THAT LONG for this. And that she had given us UPDATES on its progress. Oh, but how we laughed. And laughed. And laughed pretty  much all the way through Missouri up to the Arkansas state line.

We finally  made it to Houston, and entering the city was a little surreal. You see, I left the city 27 years ago for the great green pastures of Oregon, and I had not been back since. We had a nice, albeit bionic, visit with my cousin. We ate Texas Bar-B-Q and Southwestern Mexican food, and best of all? I got to visit my old neighborhood house, the one in front of which I was kissed by my first "Great Love". And as we passed the front porch I could almost see myself there, standing on tiptoes, being kissed. I showed S my old high school - the one I went to for 2 years before leaving for good, and she practically blew my ear drums out with her "OHMYGOD IT'S HUMONGOUS!" And you know what? It was. I thought it would look smaller now that I'm all bitter and jaded, but it looked even bigger than I remembered it to be. And it was pretty neat to share a piece of my past with S like that.

After we left Houston, we impulsively decided to take the "long way home", and swung through New Orleans. We arrived just in time for dinner, and feasted on some gumbo and crusty french  bread and Cajun beer right in the heart of the French Quarter. We drove through the streets a while, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the adorable houses that were all adorned with flickering hanging lanterns for porch lights, drove past countless bars with jazz bands playing in the open windows, saw a man doing clap push-ups on the sidewalk, and then deemed ourselves to have "seen New Orleans".

The next day, we detoured through Memphis to visit Graceland. We didn't really have time to tour the mansion and all its tacky glory, but we were able to see the grounds and even sign our names on the giant stone wall that surrounds the mansion. I whipped out a red marker and we added our greetings to the millions of others. We even saw one woman crying. Oh, how she had loved Elvis Aaron Presley.

And then, just like that, it was time to head home. Sure, there are more bad hotel stories to tell, and a few "Mo-OM! I'm BORED!" moments that made M and I want to throw S out the window of our speeding car. But I won't torture you with those details. Because the truth is, all those many miles of road, and those bad hotels, and yes, even those "Mo-OM! I'm BORED"s all add up to the three of us simply making memories together.

And there's nothing better than that.

Brain Leaks

by Cathy

CAUTION***THOUGHTS ESCAPING***CAUTION***THOUGHTS ESCAPING

LOOK OUT!
DUCK!

Whew! That was close. You almost got nailed by one of my escaping thoughts, which consistently attempt to abandon the confines of my otherwise "sane" mind!

Once free, these thoughts bolt like bats outta hell - and how fitting, since they enter some cosmically black hole - the same place that hair twisties, and matches to pairs of socks and gloves go to, never to be reached, seen or heard from again. My thoughts just aimlessly wander out there in the Lost Things Milky Way, partying it up and having a cocktail, dressed to the nines in those hair ties, gloves and socks, while pointing and laughing back down here on Earth at me, who is left in a trance-like state, just blinking. Thoughtlessly. <enter cricket sounds> Blink. Blink. Blink.

This post has been in the works for a couple of months now. I started it and then..SURPRISE...I forgot about it. And I know that there were specific occurrences that prompted me to begin this post, but for the life of me, guess what? I can't remember what they were.

Just the other day - and I'm surprised I am remembering this - I called my mom with two items to talk about. One was asking her to watch the kids. And the other? What was it? I knew it had nothing to do with the kids but I had mentally filed it under 'Phone call to Mom'. So there I sat on the phone, forcing my mom to endure long awkward silences as I "ummmed" and "hmmmmed" my way through the dark, dusty corners of my mind. Sure enough, I couldn't recall it so I hung up and promised to call her back when I remembered. Well, eventually, I remembered. But did I call her back? Nope. I forgot.

Last night as I was in the midst of post-Costco shuffle, putting groceries away, packing, breaking down boxes, organizing the pantry and fridge, while making dinner for the kids, I heard the microwave beep. I was sitting on the floor in front of the open fridge organizing the year-supply of chocolate milk cartons, when I heard the beep, beep, beeeeeep. What the?

"Honey, " I asked my husband, who was standing nearby. "Can you check to see what's in the microwave?" I thought I just put something in there but don't remember what it was.

"Dude," he eloquently responds. "You just put the tea in there to warm it up. Don't you remember?"

Oh yeah. It was only 30 seconds ago. I did remember, but not until he mentioned it.

Oh my God, is this bad?? It is, isn't it. Am I going senile waaaaay before my time? Could it be dimentia? Maybe it's early onset Alzheimers. Maybe I'm going Loco. Loopy. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Yeah. That'll be my new nick name. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs Cathy.
 
The thing about this post that I DO remember wanting to say is that getting old sucks. That having 3,631,953 things on my mind and doing 183 things at once doesn't help. That multitasking is great if you can actually see every task through. That beginning something and not finishing it just adds to the problem. That there will constantly be distractions that interfere with everything. And all of this, messes with the normal, human thought process - no matter what your age is.


Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go call my mother back.

 

You Want It? Go Get It.

Many of you have undoubtedly made resolutions for 2012. This will be the year you will lose weight, find a (perfect) job, meet that special someone, etc. Since we are still on holiday mode, we thought we would repost one of our past Dual Whine posts, that seems to be oh so fitting as we start off the year resolved. Enjoy!

by Cathy & Patti

We were talking the other day about life, reflecting on our own and those of the people we know, and we came to a rather depressing conclusion: In order for you to get anything done in life, you must whore yourself out. Yes, we said it. Men and women, rich and poor, young and old - we are all whores.

Think about it: Life is a little bit like a whore line-up at a brothel. You pull yourself together, put yourself out there, and hope you get picked. This can be applied to almost every aspect of one's life:

Want your kid to go to the best school? Find an "in" and kiss their ass or throw money their way. (They are whores too.) Hope you get picked.

Want to get into the best college? Start kissing ass in those "best schools" - beginning in preschool. Apply to colleges. Hope you get picked.

Looking to get married? Gussy yourself up, lift the boobs and ass, slather yourself in makeup and douse yourself in perfume/cologne, slick that combover just so to cover up that bald spot, and head out. Hope you get picked.

Into parties and social media? Hang with the "right" circles. Sign up with Facebook and Twitter, find your friends, make new ones. Hope you get invited. Hope you get picked.

Looking for a job? Gather every shred of your self-confidence, jot down all that experience in the most complicated, technologically advanced way, submit it to 234,675 job postings. Hope you get picked.

We have watched a very frustrated and discouraged friend of ours job hunt for over a year now. During this time, despite a million carefully crafted cover letters, she has barely even been able to land an interview, much less a job. Now that we have had our "life revelation" and  know what it takes to not only play the game but also win it, we re-wrote her cover letter:

........................................
Dear Hiring Director:

I'm going to be straight with you.

This letter serves as a clear cut attempt to whore myself out to you. I won't waste your time with my qualifications; what does it matter? I have none. At least not in the way you think I should; those listed under “Job Requirements”.  I mean; I can DO what you need me to do, and I can do it quite well, oh, hell-to-the-yes, I can.  I just don’t have the piece of paper stamped “Degree” to prove it.

All I can tell you is this: I am a Hustler and Bustler and a Whore of the Highest Degree. I earned my Ph.D. from the School of Life, yo. Better than that, you won't find. Offended by my use of the world “whore”? Please don’t be. I don’t mean it like that. We all know that to get ahead these days, we must all tap into our Inner Whore. And when I say “tap”, don’t get all excited. Again, I don’t mean it like that. I mean: access, find, unearth.

So don't bother will all those other "official" cover letters and fancy resumes littered with degrees and experience and superfluous stuff like that. Instead, let’s speed things up and just pick me: The One Who Admits She is Totally Pimping Herself Out to You.  This way? We get off on the right foot together. We start out honest. We both know exactly where we stand.

And best of all? I'll get the job done, mofo. Give me a chance and you'll see.

Best Regards,

Hopin’, Prayin’, Pimpin’
............................................

Think she'll get picked?

Resolutions

New Year's Eve celebration headbands made by my daughters. 

 

by Cathy

New Year's Eve is an emotionally taxing holiday. The celebratory expectations revolved around how one will spend the very last minute of the current year, but most importantly, the first minute of the next year, seem to take on a desperate feel. One must get dressed up; have somewhere fun to go; have someone to share it with; someone to hug; someone to kiss; someone to have a glass of champagne with.They say, after all,  that with whom you kick in a new year is whom you will be with the rest of the year.


I spent this New Year's Eve with my husband and two daughters. We drove downtown to check out the windows at Macy's, the lights down Michigan Avenue, people-watched as dressed-up crowds laughed and rushed through the chilly yet unseasonably mild night and naturally, ended up at the Rock N' Roll McDonald's before we headed home to celebrate together. We danced in feather boas and glittery pink scarves, drank champagne, had some sweets, snapped pictures and even threw homemade confetti. In classic Greek and Latin style, my kids stayed up until 1:30am and showed no signs of settling down to bed until forced to do so.

As part of Greek tradition/superstition, I clean my house from top to bottom every New Year's Eve as a way of ridding the house of the old, dusty and dirty - and welcoming in a new, fresh, clean year. Additionally, upon entering your house for the first time in the new year, you must enter with the right foot, to ensure that the year starts on 'the right foot'.


Every January, hope springs eternal and gives us a new opportunity to erase our past mistakes and rid ourselves of toxic people or unpleasant situations. We do this by dedicating and disciplining ourselves and setting new, different, big, challenging, life-changing, aspiring, success-oriented goals for ourselves. I'd like to share with you some of mine:

- To truly put myself first in every sense of the word. This will be the overall theme and objective that all of my other resolutions will revolve around.

- To be more intuitive to what my mind, body and soul are telling me.

- To be more intuitive in terms of my relationship with my family.

- To meditate and make yoga a bigger part of daily routine.

- To set higher personal and professional goals for myself and see them through.

- To be dedicated to these goals and aspirations. In the famous words of Oprah, if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that no one will give you anything in life. If there is something you want for yourself, you have to get out there and do it for yourself. NO ONE else will do it for you.



As I can personally attest, none of these superstitious rituals or traditions guarantees anything. Doing them doesn't guarantee that the year will go 'right', or that you will end up spending the year with the people who were there with you at midnight.  Because no matter how badly we want these rituals to be true, and cling to the hope that they might, they don't. But we do them anyway because they give us hope. And if we don't have hope, then we have nothing.

Here is hoping that 2012 will bring you and your families everything you are hoping for.