The iFamily

by Cathy


Hey y'all! Yee-haw!!!!
We done leaped into the 21st century!!!
We bought an iPad.

You gotta know our backstory to know that this is kind of a big deal in our house, and apparently, a shifting of the planets' alignment in my tween's world.

First off, let me clarify that we are not like The Beverly Hillbillies ; we are forward-thinking, technology-aware, on the edge-of-trends people. I have an iPhone, Bella has an iPod and we have one Mac laptop and one iMac desktop. The problem, however, is how old these two computers are.

If it wasn't for Mac's sleek, minimalistic design, you could not tell that this is 12 years old:

That's our new, powerful, smartcased iPad wedged up tauntingly against a classic.

Or that this is seven years old - at least:

iMac G5: cool name, cool design, bad mutha(board)

My husband, a bonafide MacHead and a staunch believer in using something until you can't physically use it anymore, refuses to part with the tiny little laptop, claiming, "Are you kidding me? This is retro Apple. It's vintage! It's awesome! People at the coffee studio always ask me to check it out!"

Ya think it's 'cause it's sort of like, a relic? 

This is one of the first MacBooks Apple came out with so it is sort of a collectible and to be completely honest, if you can get past the tingy sound when it powers on or the fact that you have to connect it to the internet with an ethernet cable (GASP!) that little thing has so much power, memory, speed and form, it seems almost wrong - sort of like watching tiny toddlers start walking prematurely and how in the world can that be physically possible? It's our little workhorse, which will now be used by our tween for all of the middle school essays she was to write, so it's still being put to great use!

The desktop, however, is a whole other story. When you turn this dinosaur on, it sounds like The Gong Show. GNNNNNNnnnnnnngggggggg!!!!! One of the few goof-ups Apple made had to do with this particular iMac G5. Apparently, as we were told by MacHead repairmen, this version has a defective motherboard that will eventually cause the computer to just die. Then they went ahead and listed the "symptoms" caused by the "diseased" motherboard and wouldn't you know it, we are experiencing them now: it can't be upgraded to the newest version of Mac OS; it starts going dead on us; the cooling fan kicks in loudly when it's off, just to name a few. Oh, and our favorite? Ever since we did a slight upgrade to Leopard, it set something else askew within its sick self, whereby it shuts completely down if it's left unattended for a short amount of time. As in five minutes. Gotta go to the bathroom while you're in the middle of something? Fuggedaboutit. Gotta restart the sucker all over again. GNNNNNNnnnnnnngggggggg!!!!! 
Oh, and are you sitting? It's also NOT wireless. We don't even own a router! (DOUBLE GASP!)

So now you know why getting this iPad was such a big deal (mainly for my husband, who does a lot of work from home). For me, slightly less because I got myself an iPhone a year ago and joined the high tech masses of society. I was so excited about it, I slept with it next to me on my nightstand. Still do. But for my husband, who is still tinkering around with a T-Mobile phone, the iPad was an angelic Godsend. He's still getting used to its capabilities, nuances and little quirks, but as the days go on, his awe for the thing becomes greater and greater.

He happened to email me something while I was at the grocery store the other day so I emailed him back from my phone. Under his message, was the omnipresent, "Sent From my iPad" and under mine, "Sent From my iPhone." I didn't even realize that until he emailed me back and said, "We are an iFamily now. :)" I could almost feel the pride emanating from the screen. Until our iMac dies and we buy a new desktop.

Sweetly, Come Undone

by Cathy

I have the sweetest, most thoughtful girls on the planet. They are both kind, respectful and generous.

Last night, my six-year old, Ari, wanted to surprise my husband and I with what she called a "romantic dinner". The thought popped into her head two nights ago while I was tucking her into bed - although I have no idea what prompted that thought. Either way, she had it stuck in her head and insisted on doing it, and after some coaxing and savvy explaining, I got her to hold off until last night. And boy, did she ever remember.

She got home from school, ate, did her homework, rushed off to her bedroom, shut the door and began her planning preparations for our "date night in". She staked her claim in the living room and posted some signs (backed up by verbal warnings) that we should not, under any circumstance, enter or peek into that living room until she invited us in. After what seemed like hours of scurrying to and fro, sliding around some chairs, requesting step stools, carrying bins, writing out menus, digging up pink aprons and covering the coffee table in a fuzzy, teddy bear blanket/tablecloth, we were summoned to be seated.

My husband and I sat across from each other, literally on the edges of our seats due to fluffy couch pillows placed lovingly against the dining room chair seatbacks for comfort. No matter that our knees were crouched up against the sharp edges of the coffee table - we were on a romantic date and nothing was going to spoil this fun. Pretend tea was served to us in Ari's plastic, princess Disney tea set as we perused our hand-written menus, courtesy of Ari's Cafaye.

My menu had Brecfist and Dusrte as such:
wofols
eggs
meteu (meat)
spgedey
cack
SunDay
ice screme
cokese

Joe's had Lunch and Dinnr as such:
eggs
Hot Dogs
chiginugit
friyse
spgedye
brede
meteu
salide

Ari dutifully stood guard, decked up in an adult-sized pink apron which was tied all the way up under her underarms and mentally took note of our orders. She set up some tunes on a keyboard and for full effect, we unsealed the plastic film from around our fireplace for the first time since they were toddlers and fired that baby up. Ari even entertained us with a puppet show from behind our couch called "The Frog Who Won't Leave the Puppy Alone," complete with intermissions where she allowed us our "privaseat" and "funny talk".

Towards the end of our hot date, I asked if I could personally thank the owner of Ari's Cafaye and she shyly said, "That's me!" So I grabbed her, tickled her and plopped her on my lap, whereupon I smothered her with millions of thankful mommy hugs and kisses. Worried as to her father's potential jealousy, she looked over her shoulder mid-tickle and gestured to him that she will come to him next.

Later that night, once we had tucked both girls into bed, I cleaned up the living room and collected the menus and signs posted outside the living room. Then my eye caught a welcome sign that I missed on my way in:

The sentiment; the spelling; the innocence. I've come undone.

And that, my dear friends, is when I lost it. I don't even know where all of this emotion was coming from and was baffled that all it took was to read this sign, the catalyst in my mommy meltdown. I began sobbing - the type of sobbing where your body is racked with heaving sighs and multiple attempts at catching your breath. I was drowning in tears and my face was so contorted with wails that I now know why they call it the "ugly cry". And it just kept coming. My eyes became puffy, my nose filled up with snot and I was wailing like a baby.

My husband shuffles into our bedroom half-asleep. "Are you okay? What's wrong?!"
And there I stood, hand wrist-deep in a tissue box, face beet-red, puffy and smeared in makeup-infused tears, and replied, "My babies are growing up!!!!"
"Of course they're growing up," he says, totally unhelpful and setting himself up to be punched by his lunatic wife/mother of his kids.
"Pretty soon she's gonna grow up and figure out how to spell and we'll be done with this phase of our kids! Look!" I said, shoving the sign under his nose. "It's the cutest most innocent thing and that is going to come to an end. SOOOONNN!!" I fell apart again.
What was wrong with me?!?! Why was this hitting me so hard? It's not like I haven't seen this writing before; I must have looked insane.
"Yes, but when they do, we'll still get written letters, just of a different kind," he tried hard to reassure me.
"But I like these!!" I cried back, slamming her hand-written note down on the bed.
After a long pause filled with lots of sniffing, nose-blowing and heaved sighs, I turned back to Joe.
"Just wait. You'll experience this too. For me, it was this letter. For you, it will be something else very seemingly insignificant yet monumental in some way and it will hit you out of nowhere. Just wait," I taunted. "You'll see."

And with that, I drifted off to sleep with sweet thoughts of my sweet girls in sweet, unforgettable moments that I hold onto with the tenacity that only a mother could take in, hold dear and never let go of.

Insane in the Mane

by Cathy

Last week was picture day at school, (also known as the psycho-drama-meltdown-running late morning at my house).  I have two girls and because I have learned some hard lessons about preparation in past years, this year, I was determined  to nip that madness in the bud.

The night before, I made sure their uniforms were washed, pressed and spot-free. Then I actually sat with each one of them to discuss...their hair. Yes, we had hair consultations for school picture day. Ari's was easy: braided pigtails. Neat, clean, great! I made her choose which twisty ties she wanted to use and had her keep those on her nightstand until morning so as not to get lost in the toy and knick-knack rubbles that have formed various piles throughout her room.

From Bella, I got a special request.
"Mom, can I get my hair straightened for picture day?"
"Why do you want to do that? You have such beautiful, wavy hair!"
"I just want it to look...different," she replied, her eyes pleading.
I looked over her thick mane and replied, "Okay Bella but we either do it now or you have to wake up earlier tomorrow so we have time and we're not rushed. Okay?"
Her posture deflated a smidge. "Oh, but I'm so tired now. I'll wake up early to do it tomorrow morning, I promise. Like, what time do I have to be up, around six?"
If my sleepyhead of a daughter proposed such a far-fetched time, I knew she was excited about the prospect of straightening her hair. I also knew that there was no way in hayul she was getting up at the ass crack of dawn to even do this.
"No, it's not necessary to get up that early," I replied. "I'll get you up at seven sharp but you gotta get up."
"I will, I will!" she said excitedly.

As a young girl growing up with thick, curly, unruly, half-frizzy, half-crimped, bushy, unrelenting European hair, I could totally relate to my daughter's request in straightening it. Granted hers is much more manageable than mine, but oh, how I desperately wanted limp, lifeless, pin-straight, thin hair like the rest of my non-ethnic friends. Oh, how I desperately wanted feathered hair but all mine would do is just frizz out and mock me. How I feared rain and humidity like the grim reaper himself. How many times did I cry tears of frustration in front of my mirror as my hair did what it wanted, totally oblivious to the societal and adolescent pressures I faced.  No one at that age strives to be different, but fortunately, with age comes wisdom and embracing what you have and soon, the rebellious, individualistic side of us emerges to set us free.

Where were flat-irons when I was a tween?!?

The morning of picture day went as smooth as can be, despite the fact that Bella got up at 7:18 and rushed at the speed of light to get dressed so as not to miss her opportunity to sleek up her hair. She got to the bathroom in record time, where I was waiting with flat-iron in hand, buzzing and burning the air. She chatted excitedly about random things while I smoked her stubborn hair into smooth silky tresses. I could literally feel her mood shift with every straightened clump of hair I released onto her tiny shoulders. By the time I let the last strands lay against her cheek, she physically looked and emotionally felt like a brand new girl. Her face was glowing and there was an ear-to-ear grin on her face that worked its way up to her eyes and made them twinkle. Her chatter was lighter, happier, peppier. (If only I knew that all it took was a straight-iron to also work out the kinks in my daughter's personality, I'd have resorted to this many struggles ago.)

She left the house that morning, on time and spiffy, in about the best mood ever. I couldn't help but think about how for us women, a great outfit or a perfect hair day can literally boost our confidence, our  mood, or even our outlook on life, and how even though we never think about it, it can work the same magic for our growing girls, trying to find their place in the spaces between children and teenagers. That is the power of a good hair day - never underestimate it, no matter how shallow it may sound. And I am thankful that my daughters can experience this at a time in their lives when they need it most.

Chips Ahoy!

by Patti

There are many things about motherhood veteran moms try to warn you about before you become a mother for the first time. "Get sleep before the baby comes!" "Sleep when the baby sleeps!" "Prepare to die during childbirth!" I mean, really, the list goes on and on, and it's a wonder any woman ever decides to get pregnant and have a kid at all.

But we do. And we inevitably find out for ourselves what they so desperately tried to tell us - times a million. One of things I was sure I wanted to do once I found out I was pregnant was breastfeed. I had heard the stories about how my boobs would swell into horrifyingly huge, hard, round aliens with minds of their own - tethered to my chest, I heard about the circles of doom that would appear without warning on my shirt by simply thinking about my baby - or even hearing another baby cry. I heard about the cracked, bloody nipples and the searing pain of trying to get a baby to latch on. Oh yes, the veterans made sure I heard it all. Yet, being the stubborn, "let me see for myself" kind of person I am, I still wanted to do it.

And I did. After S was born, I faced many of the things I had been warned about while learning the ropes of nursing a newborn. That coupled with sleep deprivation brought to me courtesy of HELL and the hair that fell out in clumps until I was certain I needed to order a wig STAT and the jello-y mess that had been left of my once taut stomach... well, the mixed bag of torture was not so surprising thanks to the countless warnings - though let me just say that the level of crazy is one that can never be properly explained. Nope. You simply cannot understand it until it happens to you.

One of the things the veterans forgot to mention when it comes to breastfeeding was the "holy crap, where'd that come from?" effect. After a while, the boobs work out a rather intricate, miraculous schedule around demand, and once this schedule is set, you are "booby" trapped into trusting it. Ha. Ha. HA HA HA. Picture this: There you are, in bed with your husband, getting all snuggly and, uh, intimate, which - after the miracle of childbirth - we all know is another miracle to behold, when suddenly? Your morph from MILF to MILK. That's right - you become Bessie in da Bed.

Oops! Did I do that?

Suddenly, there is milk everywhere and it's just so not sexy. Or romantic. Or hot. Unless you count fresh off the farm milk. Because it is surprisingly hot - as in, literally.

Fortunately, though my dignity had flown out the window, my sense of humor remained intact. As did M's. Because as the baby shrieks in the background and milk drips down your chest onto your husband's face, what can you do but laugh?

Not too long after that first dairy debacle, I shuffled into our bedroom one night after putting S down in her crib. M was waiting for me in bed with a big grin on his face. In his hands? A big box of cookies.

Can I join the party?

Hey, no use in crying over spilled milk.

Cutting the Rope

by Cathy

Today, Bella, my 11-year old, will return from her first solo away-trip - a school excursion to Lake Geneva, WI., a trip the school has aptly named, "Ropes Course", a program involving a variety of activities designed to provide both individual challenges and opportunities for group cooperative problem solving.

The trip is a tradition and a rite of passage for all the sixth graders at her school, not only to prepare them for how to handle the obstacles they will face in life, but also to prepare them for life's bigger picture as well - taking baby steps away from the comfort of their family/home and towards new experiences.

Undoubtedly, I had my doubts. The sheltering motherly side of me immediately reared itself upon receiving news of this trip. I immediately emailed the teacher and asked if parent chaperones were allowed (and also because I knew this was going to be the first question out of Bella's mouth.)
The teacher's reply? "No. You are off the hook!!!"
As if this was supposed to be some inconvenience that we don't need to be bothered with. As if we don't have time for this and we are free to go off and do the countless trivial things on our to-do list, made to seem much more important than this.

The night before the trip, she was mixed bag of emotions while packing - excitement peppered with bouts of sadness, nervousness and anxiety. Sad because she will miss us; nervous because she doesn't know what to expect; anxious because what if she can't handle taking an exercise challenge in front of her friends? She is not a fan of being away from us and would much rather prefer the safety and comfort of her own bed. She rarely ever partakes in sleepovers, much less take an overnight trip in another state without the comfort of having a family member accompany her. This was her first big "grow-up" moment.

I quelled her feelings by telling her that it was completely normal to feel all of these emotions and that the anticipation of thinking you will miss your family is much greater at this point than what she will experience. But that she will see, if she lets herself fall into the moments, the experiences, the fun and the challenges, those will take precedence over her thoughts of missing us.

There goes my 'lil girl, tentative feelings packed neatly in with her belongings.

So then it all made sense. The teacher was trying to let me down easy; to spin this experience in a positive way, which it really is. Once I forced my brain to switch gears and try to see it from his point of view, I understood that not only was it important to her growth and development to do this by herself but also for mine.  It was a "Ropes Course" for both of us - a lesson on learning how to cut the ropes that tether us to our children. And even though that rope is tightly knotted in the case of my first-born, we are both slowly working together on loosening it while still holding on.

Little Lolita

by Patti

Those who know me know I am a little on the liberal side. I tend to be free with expression and thought and am pretty accepting of other people's choices. I'm also a little...opinionated. I will argue with a rude cab driver, tell somebody to bleep off, and stand up for the underdog over and over. Mostly? I just want to be free to be me. After all - this is the girl who wore black garbage bags to school with a studded belt around my waist, and even now, any perception that I am being held back from wearing a black garbage bag to school if I wanna does not sit well with me.

I want my daughter to grow up with the same sense of independent thought and freedom of choice. I want her to be able to fend for herself, fight for what's right, and not be afraid to stand out. And, if she happens to fall in love with someone like her papi - a strong, also opinionated, somewhat conservative ball of fire, I want her to be able to able to love him back while still holding her own and staying true to who she is.

And it all begins with shoes.

I bought S a pair of wedge booties for the fall.  In my eyes, they were totally adorable, totally harmless, totally fashionable. See?

But in M's eyes? They looked like this:

And because he felt he was sending his daughter off to work the streets instead of into the halls of middle school, he refused to let her wear them. We actually had an argument about ANKLE BOOTS.
"She is too young to wear high heels!"
"They are NOT high heels - they are wedges. They look like HIKING boots, for crying out loud; how is that high heels?"
"She wore them with these pink pants that looked like stripper pants!"
"Stripper pants? My daughter does NOT own stripper pants - what are you talking about?"

(Apparently, Children's Place is now in the business of selling hooker wear? Did you know this? I did not know this.)

We discussed her gray ankle boots for nearly an hour. I tried to pinpoint what was causing my anxiety over his disdain for the harmless shoes, and I realized that I was kind of projecting my own fear of being stifled into the matter - and he was projecting his own fear of his daughter growing up. We were both projecting our neuroses onto S, and all the poor kid wanted to do was wear her I STILL SAY TOTALLY HARMLESS boots in peace.

A couple of days after our conversation, I spotted the boots on the shoe rack by our door and picked them up, marveling at how even MORE conservative they appeared to me under the shadow of "slut wear!" that had so unfairly been cast upon them. M was watching TV and I held one of the shoes up to his face. "Really? REALLY? THIS is what you were freaking out about?"

In the end, she will wear her boots, but she will wear them with non-stripper pants to appease her father. And to satisfy me, she will wear them with a confident smile on her face that says, "I won this battle; I will one day win the war."

What NOT to Wear

by Patti & Cathy

We haven't been really good about honoring our Dual Whine Fridays, have we? I mean - we realize that the very first thing that pops into your head when you open your eyes on a Friday morning is our blog - and that you can't wait to read not one whine, but TWO - all at once! And that is why we are posting an oldie but goodie. Because we would never want to let you down.

Happy Friday!
......................

The other day we were complaining to each other about the sad state of our prospective wardrobes. We both need new clothes in the worst way; sadly, other more important things always come up which seem to put a dent in the fashion fund: Things like ballet lessons, and tennis lessons, and tuition, and Chicago-style gas bills, and weird car noises, and allergy medications, and, oh yeah, food. This got us thinking about all the creative tactics we have both put into practice in trying to figure out what the hell to put on in the mornings. We are both working girls, and although it would be fun to lounge around in yoga pants all day, it just ain’t feasible. Much to the chagrin of our closets, we must represent.

Patti:
My what-to-wear tactic involves mustering up an outfit in my head as I fall asleep. Once it is completely put together in the Fantasia Land of my brain, I can then happily fall asleep relaxed, knowing it’s all taken care of. The next morning, since I know it’s all taken care of, I press the “snooze” button a few too many times because, hey! I already know what I’m wearing, and that is ¾ of the morning battle. Of course, once I finally get around to getting out of bed and I actually put on the dreamed-up outfit, it is inevitably a total disaster. What was I thinking, putting together an outfit as I am falling asleep? WHO THINKS CLEARLY AT THE THRESHOLD OF CONSCIOUSNESS?

Because I now do not have enough time, I am then propelled into bionic get-ready mode, and one can find me in my closet tossing shirts into the air, flinging pants and skirts around, and sniffing stuff to check if it’s dirty. The end result? Pants pulled from the Dredges of the Misfits, put on with creative attempts at trying to make them not look so like hell: The cuffs might be rolled up in an attempt to make them look “edgy” instead of “high-watery”; the waist, which is now baggy, is cinched with a sparkly belt in an attempt to make them look “trendy” instead of “stretched out and misshapen”. That sparkly belt? Actually belongs to my 10-year old daughter.

Then come the shoes. Oh, the shoes. All of my shoes are in desperate need of cobbler care. The heel tips are all worn and raggedy, and although I have creatively Sharpied the shit out of some of those heels, I also dig into the Dredges of Misfits for shoes that don’t look like I wore them to travel to Italy 2 years ago - BY FOOT. Of course I end up with shoes I have never worn before, and for good reason: The heels are 5-inch heels, and your co-workers end up commenting all day on how tall you suddenly seem, which is subtle speak for "you look like a hooker."

Cathy:
Like Patti, I too mentally scour my closet at night as I am drifting off to the land of nod. (I had no idea she did this until now. Which got me to thinking, how many other women lay in their beds at night dreaming up the 853rd creative way to wear those same clothes or even dig way back in the corners of their mental closets in desperation to introduce something old as new again?) The process helps me relax and forget about the stressful day I've had or the one awaiting me tomorrow. It's something I do for myself. Of course half the time I never complete the whole ensemble in my head because I get too exhausted trying to re-work the unworkable and make it look fresh. I just conk out and deal with it the next morning.

Dealing with it consists of the following: Standing in front of my open closet, assembling outfits in my head with every piece of clothing I haven't ruled out yet. This eventually leads to Closet Eyelock, a condition that occurs when you've been standing there longer than it takes to MAKE the clothes, until your eyes glaze over and before you know it, you are daydreaming about what to eat for lunch. By then, you have 2.3 minutes to get ready and the end result is some mismatched, ridiculously thrown together outfit we desperately try to make look halfway cool. If we don't get 'out with the old and in with the new' soon we'll be dangerously inching towards the slippery slope of clothing disasters known as Midwestern Moda.
……………………….

Yes, our closets are in sad, shapeless shape. Our staples are actually stapled, our basics are boring, our shoes are shot. But the good news is? Damn, we are some creative bitches.

Size DOES Matter

by Cathy

In the words of Salt n' Pepa: 
Ladies, all the ladies, louder now, help me out, c'mon, all the ladies!
Salt n' Who? you ask?

I don't care if I've just aged myself, because ladies, the truth must be told. The lies are over.  I am here to tell you to stop frontin' and fakin' it. We all know that size really does matter and that we get no pleasure in fooling ourselves to believe otherwise.

Women come in vast shapes and sizes - big, small, narrow, wide, long, short and a trillion combinations of all of the above. So why do we settle? Yes, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Clothes.

You're lying to yourself if you think otherwise, okaaayy?

Before the European Invasion of clothing stores hit the U.S., (H&M, Zara, TopShop, et al) we were perfectly content with the deceptive yet confidence-boosting sizing tactics created by savvy marketers to make us think our waistlines were shrinking, when in fact? They were NOT.  Everyone miraculously went down at least one or two sizes while remaining the same physical size. We wonderingly yet gleefully emerged from fitting rooms ready to exchange the size we thought we were for a smaller size. I'm shopping here from now on, we all thought. And we did. At this store, I'm a size 4! But we weren't.

Then? Those starkly pragmatic tell-it-like-it-is Europeans, with their highfalutin designers, ostentatious fashion shows, and a waif-like fan following (because apparently, no one in Europe eats) have decided to not be so kind. In fact, they have gone one step beyond true sizing in the opposite direction, and cut their clothing slimmer and tighter than the wardrobe of a streetwalker. 

I went shopping at Zara recently. Part of my husband's birthday gift to me was a shopping excursion to a place of my choice. Armed with his credit card, a day to myself and that world-is-my-oyster feeling, I opened the doors to Zara on Michigan Avenue and breathed in the smell of all that leather, that fashion, that "I'm gonna get me some new clothes!" energy.

Like any fashion-conscious woman, I had a punch list of some basics I needed: something with a leopard print, another pair of skinnies, and for good measure, a black leather jacket. So I began browsing through a table of neatly folded skinny jeans in an array of muted colors. "OOOOh, these are cute!" I mused aloud, feeling my pulse accelerating. (Yes, this does happen when I shop.) So I filed through the color of my choice and only saw a slew of 0s, 2s and 4s. There was one size 6 and I reluctantly grabbed it while knowing full-well I would look much less hookerish in a size 8. So I asked the petite (of course) sales associate.

"Do you have any other sizes besides what's out?"
"What size are you looking for?"
"An 8," I replied cautiously.
"Ooooh. I don't know if they go up that high," she replied matter-of-factly as she started filing through the other colors.
That high?!?! Was she kidding me?!
"Really?" I replied, feeling my blood boil. "You consider size 8s high? Hmpf. I guess you do."

How about the fact that all of the average-sized women may have already grabbed all the bigger sizes and left all the small sizes for the much less smaller demographic? Or do they purposely order more of the smaller sizes to weed out anyone over a size 6? The embarrassed sales associate now buried her nose in the skinnies stacks while shuffling around trying to find something that would accommodate me and get me on my merry way. She finally handed me a size 8 in another style. I grabbed it along with a cute peplum leopard top I noticed, turned on my heel and headed towards the fitting room, my good shopping mood now downgraded to annoyed.

The pants fit me just fine but the top? I realized, I as shimmied my way into the size medium top that there was no room allotted for women with breasts bigger than an A cup size. As I sized up the way my once full boobs looked, now plastered down and oblong-shaped in this otherwise cute top, my mood was officially killed.

I ended up buying those size 8 skinnies, went home and told my husband about the experience.
"Don't feel bad," he said. "That's why I don't even bother shopping outside the brands I already know fit me," he continued. "Those European places cut their men's clothes super slim too. There's no way a man with a chest can actually fit into any of their clothes." I realized he was right. All of those male models now look like you could snap them in half, all manorexic, deflated and wilted - just like their female counterparts.


It wasn't just me. Or just women, for that matter. Men are facing the same issues with size. Apparently, size matters to everybody. Just remember that the next time you hear about another European brand slinking its way across the Atlantic and into our psyches. And pray that you are in the mood. To shop.

Two Years

by Patti

Two years. So much can happen in that span of time. A baby learns to walk and talk, a seed becomes a tree, a moment becomes a memory. When looking back over two years, it can seem like a long time. It can also feel like a sigh.

Tomorrow will mark two years since my father's death. There are parts of my dad that seem distant to me now:  the way he danced on the street corner with my daughter to the tinny music of the ice cream truck; the way he laughed so loud the room shook; the way he looked at me with unbridled pride. There are also parts I wish would become distant: the way he cried when he learned he would soon leave this earth; the way he twisted in his bed as he lay dying; the way his face was wiped clean of expression after he took his last breath.

One would think two years would be enough time to close the gap between the awful memories and the good ones, but somehow - it's not. Somehow, the awful memories still take precedence; still tend to hold down the good ones and smother them into submission.

One day, I know the gap will close, and the awful memories will seem distant and painless.  Until then, when the good memories fight to allow themselves in, I hold fast to them. And then I pray that somewhere out there, my father has found peace.

Atilio C. Voglino
1939-2010
Husband, Father, Grandfather, Brother, Uncle, Son

Building a New Chicago, All At Once

by Cathy

God created the world in one week.  Seven days.
How long is it taking to beautify, renew and repave the streets of Chicago? Infinity.

Yes, I realize that we are not God and simply cannot will something to be done and thus so it shall be done.  It's just that our city? It has already been built - not once, but twice, thanks to Mrs. O' Leary's cow.

Chicagoans have a saying: There are two seasons in Chicago - winter and construction. Chicago streets, just like the cars that ride them, must be maintained more often than not, simply due to the fact that the temperature here fluctuates in digits ranging from the arctic to the Sahara. That can take a toll on any infrastructure. Then there's the salt that is thrown by the truckload every winter. Then there's the expected wear and tear asphalt takes when accommodating tons of weight. So I completely understand the fact that our streets need upkeep.

But why, oh why, must all the beautifying, repaving and renewing need to happen AT THE SAME TIME and on every street I need to take in the city? Lake Shore Drive? Check. All main streets and side streets leading to, from, in and around my kids' school? Check. Peterson Avenue, the main thoroughfare connecting the 90/94 Edens with LSD and the main avenue leading to my place of work? Check. Virtually every road I turn down, I am greeted with this:

Greetings and welcome to driving hell

As if this sign, dutifully, rationally yet mockingly, explaining the purpose for all of this traffic havoc, is supposed to nip our road rage in the bud before it blooms into hysteria. As if this is supposed to make us understand; to make it all better. Ohhhhhhh, well they are building a new Chicago; on every road and expressway at the same time. Ahhhhh, well that makes sense. I'll just sit in yet more traffic here while I belly breathe to keep from losing my mind and eventually have to pee in my purse. Once you've passed the sign that signals the imminent driving hell awaiting you up ahead, you plunge headfirst into traffic purgatory, in the form of an endless sea of red brake lights and virtual parking lots on the streets.

Construction junction, what's your function?!?

I now have to allow as much time to get from point A to point B in the city as the suburbanites do coming from outside the city limits. Does that make sense? And all of this construction suddenly sprung up after three summer months of Chicagoans being on vacation, out of school and off the streets for the most part - just in time for back to school. Does that makes sense? What, praytell, were they doing all summer? Perhaps they were on the same schedule as CPS teachers.

This is Chicago, the city with the highest sales tax in the country; the city of mobsters and gangsters; the city of corrupt politicians. (Note: I am not implying anything here about our current administration.) But we are also a city of genuine, hardworking Midwesterners with places to go and people to see. We just want to get to those places without drowning in orange traffic cones and bombarded by barricades.

Rome wasn't built in a day, but it is known that all roads lead to Rome. Right? So at this rate, we'd sure as hell better be able to drive to Rome once all of this repaving is done...and started again.