Oh, Snap!

by Cathy

Have you ever known anyone who is continually cool, calm and collected? Someone who remains unnaturally calm in the face of chaos, someone who exudes confidence that no matter what, everything will be okay?

I know a couple of people like that and it always baffles me that they never let their emotions get carried away with them. For us, on the other hand, this family of Greek and Latin hot blood, yelling is our way of talking, so it's to be expected to hear cranked up shrilled voices coming from our car, our house, or whatever space we grace.

Often, I am envious of such people and think, Why can't I be more like that instead of getting all-out Greek loud and dramatically animated over things? I picture these people as examples of social anchors, living a grounded serene, stress-free life, having all their affairs in order, and consider them perfect for seeking advice and solutions from.

Then I begin to wonder. Are they repressed? Is it affecting them in some other way to not express their emotions? It must be exhausting having to be the grounding force. We are told, after all, that it is healthy and cathartic to let your emotions out, to express the way you feel inside instead of shoving things down deep within the confines of your soul to where they can build up and manifest into some toxic explosion of sorts.
Eventually, however, people snap - even these people.  I inadvertently became privy to one of these rare scenarios recently.

Apparently, this acquaintance was on the phone with some bank or credit card company (and had been for the past 45 minutes, according to what I could make out). Yes, I was eavesdropping but let's be clear that the environment we were in wasn't conducive to extreme privacy given the paper thin walls. So when I heard the shrieks through those said walls, I kinda freaked out a little bit. Was there an intruder? Was she being murdered? The more I listened, the clearer it became.

"FIVE! TWO! SEVEN!....NINE! NINE! FOUR!...." Every shrilled number became louder and louder. Then...
"PERSON! PERSON!"
(pause)
"I WANT TO SPEAK WITH A F*$#ING PERSON!!!!!!!!!!"
(long, long pause)
"WHAT IS THE F&%^ING PROBLEM?!?!?"
(pause)
"NO!! I WILL NOT BE PUT ON HOLD AGAIN! DON'T YOU DARE PUT ME ON HOLD! I AM NOT DEALING WITH YOUR AUTOMATED MACHINES ANYMORE! I'VE SPENT ALMOST AN HOUR ON THE PHONE WITH YOU PEOPLE AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS..."

Then the pacing began and her voice trailed away only to return again with vengeance.

"I GO THROUGH THIS WITH YOU PEOPLE EVERY MONTH! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!"

Her voice, which is usually evenly well-tempered and stable, was starting to give way...it was going...breaking...out. I felt so helpless because I knew exactly how she felt because, who hasn't been there?

Apparently, we all go to Snapville. And it feels so comforting to know that we are all capable of that visit.

Spring Break Flakes

by Cathy

Yesterday, my kids went back to school after almost two weeks off for spring break. We decided to forgo any trips because we are a) planning on taking one this summer b) it's just one more thing I'd have to schedule and c) we didn't want this to turn in to Spring Broke. Quite frankly, we were all looking forward to a little under-scheduling. 
 

There was going to be none of this nonsense.

So, while Florida, Hawaii and Washington D.C. were overflowing with strollers, cranky parents and even crankier kids, we decided to sit this one out and have a staycation of sorts. We decided to go local.

The week before, my husband and I were filled with fantastic ideas! Activities! Trips on the train! Museums! I was humming along making lists in my head and envisioning fun, productive days off! Oh, what we will do! Oh, what we will see! This didn't feel like scheduling - this felt like fun planning! Let's take trips to different cities in our own hometown!, we said. Chinatown! Pilsen! Greektown! Little Italy! The world was our oyster and we didn't even have to board one overcrowded plane or wait in one miserable line. Oh, were we gonna be smart. This was genius!

Apparently, we were all looking forward to that under-scheduling more than any of us thought. Each day started off with a glimmer of hope - hope that I'll get them up early enough, hope that they'll still feel like checking out that museum, hope that they'll want to do more than just veg. Alas, it didn't happen. (Not to mention that the weather was more conducive to staying in rather than hitting public transit.) On the days I had to work, I felt bad they were sitting at home, doing nothing. Little did I know, they preferred it that way. I wanted to give them a memorable spring break so when they went back to school and get asked "What did you do over spring break?" they would have a weighty, productive answer, worthy of two weeks time.

So what will they go back with after almost two weeks? ('Two weeks?!' Patti shrieked in an email to me. 'You could have gone to Greece!!') "Oh, we just hung out at home, did lots of shopping, saw a movie, got together with friends and family and just relaxed."

And you know what? That sounds like a break we all deserve.

Diagnosis: Gettin' Old

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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

Trash or Treasure?

by Cathy

The other evening, my six-year old walks determinately into the living room where my husband and I were engrossed in an episode of Southland, and asks in a rather demanding tone:

"Mommy, why are my school papers in the garbage?"

I stop short of the formerly captivating television show to deal with the drama unfolding in my living room.

I look over at her, one hand pinned just so on her hip, the other hand thrust forward holding the accordion-folded stack of papers I had just hours ago, unsuccessfully disposed of in our kitchen garbage bin.
Oh crap. I thought I hid those!
"Why do you always throw my school papers away?" she persisted as my mind reeled about how to respond.

Fumbling over what to say, I look over at my husband to find his face buried in the crook of his elbow, head bobbing up and down with silent, but apparently uncontrollable laughter. I shot him the look of death and turned to face my daughter, who was shooting me the look of death.

Why does she automatically assume it's me?!? Maybe because this isn't the first time this has happened. My excuse of, "Oh no! They must have accidentally fallen into the garbage!" barely passed muster the first time and didn't cut the mustard at all on the second. So after that, I learned my lesson and began folding up the papers and tucking sideways under banana peels and coffee grinds so that they couldn't be seen. This day, I apparently forgot to be sneaky.

It's not that I don't love keeping every cute, meaningful little art project, note and drawing from my children; in fact, I have stacks in the storage from each school grade for each kid. (And even those I had to riffle through alone in the confines of my dungeon storage, away from the prying eyes of my hoarding family.) As much as they want me to, I just can't keep every scribble of scrap paper and every puppet made out of a brown paper bag; I just keep what I perceive to be the milestones, the special, the unique items.

All of this cannot - and will not - be saved

My husband, on the other hand? He keeps every. little. scrap. of. paper. Where does one draw the line?

I turned to look my six-year old straight in the eyes and said, "Oh honey, we don't need all of those. I already kept your important papers."

Before her look of mortification could be expressed verbally, my husband jumps in in the form of Captain Dad, to apparently save the day.
"Honey, you can put those on my nightstand. I'll file them away."
Ta da da DA!

"No," I stopped his rescue mission flat. "Just go put them with the other papers under the computer desk and I'll take care of them," I directed her.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen to complete her task.

My husband turns to me, and says rather matter-of-factly: "Wow. You deserve the mother of the year award. Nice going."
"I'm not going to apologize for being practical," I retorted."I keep what I need to keep. I can't keep everything. I'm not a hoarder."
He looked at me, shaking his head.

This whole scenario reminded me of an episode of The Middle in which Brick, the youngest of three kids, finds the handmade card he lovingly created for his mother (and which she had just gushed over mere hours before) mockingly teetering atop a pile of garbage in their kitchen trash. After confronting her, Brick dared her to produce past projects of his, which she swears up and down she has kept. Needless to say, after ransacking her garage and even bribing a fellow neighbor to use one of her kids' projects as a stand-in, she was found guilty on all charges. Feeling horrible, she creates a beautiful heart-shaped card with a thoughtful, tearjerker of an apology and places it on Brick's bed. Guess where that ended up.

While I would never throw away a handmade card from my kids, I wouldn't think twice about ditching math tests or spelling quizzes. After all, one person's "treasure" can be another person's hoarding nightmare.

Building Fences

by Patti

Christ has risen. So has my fence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill Bend Over

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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

"Patreesha" in all her glory

Word to Your Grandmother

by Cathy

After picking up the girls from his parents' house one evening last week, my husband briskly walked into the living room with his coat still on, and asked: "Did you request for me to pick up some milk?"

"Ummmm...nooo," I said, my eyes still glued to Grey's Anatomy. "That was random. I didn't text you or anything."

"My dad said you texted him and asked him to ask me to bring home milk."

"What? Why on earth would I text your dad? He doesn't ever carry his cell phone. That thing still works?"

He shot me a look and headed into the kitchen to promptly call his dad and get to the bottom of this mystery text. I could hear him clear across the house.

"Dad, Cathy said she didn't text you. Can you check your phone again?" [pause]

"Check to make sure it was from Cathy. Just click on the text itself. Click. [pause] What time did she send it?"

[pause]

"Are you sure?" he chuckles. "Dad. Dad? Check the date. When was it sent?"

[pause]

"Just click it and it should tell you," he said.

[loooooong pause]

Suddenly, Joe's hearty laugh boomed through the house; a continuous cacophony of high-pitched howls and throaty, breathless gasps. I walk in to see him wiping tears of laughter from his eyes before he hung up. He took one deep, focused breath, looked me straight in the eyes and blurted out, "Turns out that text was from two years ago," he emphasized. 

"Bwahahahaha!!" We both busted out in hysterical laughter. And right there in our kitchen that night, we sealed our karmic fate in that this, will in fact, happen to us one day.

Could this be my future grandkid?

It's true our parents' and grandparents' generations didn't grow up in the technologically booming era we did. Therefore, they had to make the effort to acquaint themselves with computers, smartphones, even regular, plain 'ol flip cell phones. Their fingers aren't as adept as ours, their motor skills not as fluid and their reflexes not as quick. It takes them a little longer to get the hang of "this stuff". And those are the brave ones; the rest are too intimidated or feel too far behind to even attempt a try.

I give props to them there elders that try to keep up. I wonder if I will have the patience and wherewithal to keep up with the leaping advances of technology when I am their age. And if not, I know the younger generations will be waiting to pounce on our lack of technological knowledge, ready to "Bwahahahaha!!"away at our expense.

Oh...wait. My kids already do that.

Enjoy the Ride

by Cathy

If you read this blog enough (which I hope you do!) you know that my family, we of Greek and Latin descent, are always running late. Part of it is innate due to stereotypical tardy traits within our cultures and the rest is, well, we tend to be a little slow.

Since this tardiness would be expected in our respective countries, it's not very well accepted here by my kids' school, and with very good reason. Despite what is accepted elsewhere, we need to be respectful of peoples' schedules and time in general. It's a horrible habit to fall into and extremely difficult to break once in the cycle - a cycle which I must say I was drawn into by my husband after we got married. No matter how ready and on time you are, if the person you are with is late, you are BOTH late and your efforts are for crap.

That said, I have declared a sense of urgency in our house in the mornings. I gave my kids a specific time to be in the kitchen for breakfast; I explained that they had to work backwards from there to determine how much time they need to lollygag, get dressed, fight over hair accessories, put on earrings, find matching socks, pack their bags, make their beds, and set their alarm accordingly, which, by the way, includes two nine-minutes snooze sessions built in to make it feel as though they "got more sleep".

We did well for a few days until yesterday morning. We ALL had to be out of the house at the same time, (which normally doesn't happen) so my husband and I had to get ready while the girls went on with their schedules without being reminded a bajillion times to watch the clock or go eat breakfast and "What time is it, girls??!!" Naturally, we ended up leaving the house later than our newly appointed non-late time deadline so it was a race to get to school before they closed those doors.

Needless to say, I was upset. And grumpy. And annoyed. And just plain frustrated. Therefore, I was short-tempered with everyone in the car while I imagined the tsk-tsk, shaking-my-head looks my kids would be receiving by their teachers. Adding to my mood was the fact that traffic was extraordinarily backed-up and we encountered a garbage truck inching its way in front of us down the side street we took, only to put on its flashers, pop into reverse and BEEP BEEP BEEP its backside into an alley with more three-point turns than an ice skating routine.

Right when I thought I was going to jump out of the car and run my kids to school on piggyback, I heard the laughter of the girls in the back seat as they volleyed a pink balloon that was found in the car. Ari started reciting lines from Despicable Me (one of the girls' favorite movies) in Gru's Russian accent and Bella joined in. They were actually pretty funny and as they went on, the act got funnier as the accents got stronger and more animated.

Suddenly, I found myself laughing. Laughing at how goofy my daughters can be; laughing because of course we have the world's slowest garbage truck driven by a first-timer in front of us on the way to school; laughing that we have blown-up balloons sitting in our car willy-nilly; laughing that said balloon lurched forward into the windshield, floating around in our faces as we screeched up to the school door yet again and the girls scurried out, yelling their goodbyes through the open door; laughing at the funny irony of it all.

I let go of the anger and the frustration and what I could not control in that moment and just went with the flow. It reminded me of that scene in Parenthood (one of MY favorite movies and a must-see for all parents) when Steve Martin allows himself to get whisked away in the thrill of going with life's flow - like being on a roller coaster, after grandma tells him:

"You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster. Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride! I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it."

Closing your eyes and fighting it isn't as much fun as throwing your hands up in the air and enjoying the ride.

Ain't Got Time for Memories

by Cathy & Patti

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overshadowed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWWW's Second Annual Cathy Takes Oscar

by Cathy

"Hey, look! It's Bobby Brady! What's he doing there?"

That was the comment uttered by my husband as the first trumpeted strains of the 85th annual Oscars came across our television screen, opening up to the most beautiful stage set I have ever seen. On that stage, stood Seth McFarland, all dapper and hopeful. And it was Peter Brady (Christopher Knight), not Bobby, my husband and almost everyone else I spoke to, are reminded of when we see Seth.

Before watching Ted, I had no idea who he was. I had to Google him. Then I said, "Is that Peter Brady?"
He looked the part and definitely sounded the part, all those years of voiceover work angling in his favor - and who knew he (and Kristin Chenoweth) could sing like that? However, the opening was ridiculous. Captain Kirk, coming back from the future, giving advice on how to host the Oscars?? What? I found myself searching for the remote several times so that I can fast-forward it but sadly remembered, I was watching it live. The only highlight was watching Charlize and Channing dance. Seth's jokes throughout were a little inappropriate, occasionally funny and downright boring at times. Although his self-deprecating comments certainly helped echo the sentiments of the audience and viewers.

Now on to the real reason we watch the Oscars. The two looks dominating this year were metallics and pastel pales. My choices in each category for best-dressed are:

Naomi Watts. Photo courtesy of Glamour.com

Jennifer Lawrence. Photo courtesy of Glamour.com

Naomi looked as if she was dipped in shimmery, liquid silver and the dress design was uniquely gorgeous with the avant garde cut-out. And JenLa. The quirky, unfiltered personality of this twenty-something kept the pretentiousness of the Oscars in check. She doesn't even attempt to hide her true self - from her practically graceful fall up the stairs to the remark about the standing ovation she received upon getting to the microphone. I absolutely love everything about her. The haute couture Dior fit-to-flare gown was youthful, fun and glam on her. Although I was a little perplexed on the back chain she wore around her neck. Didn't seem like it fit the style of the dress, in my opinion.

Worst dressed:

Anne Hathaway. Photo courtesy of Glamour.com

Oh, Anne. I have a bridesmaid dress just like this one in the back of my closet my closet from about ten years ago. It wasn't made by Prade like yours, but it sure as heck could have been since it looks identical except without the pronounced darts causing you to look like you had nipple hard-ons the entire evening. And the back was not a party, as you say. It was a mish-mosh: criss-crossing, wide, tied ribbons, and back jewelry. There was nothing about this look I liked and it was way too similar to her Golden Globes dress. I would have loved to see her in something more striking and youthful. Wah wahhhh.

• Babs, you know we all love you and it's been a while since we've seen you perform on stage. I get your loyalty to Donna Karan and she is a sensibly chic designer, however you were channeling Stevie Nicks out there with your lengthy, flowy sleeves and layers of gold chains. The Hindi slave bracelet was amusing, but not your thing, my dear. Stevie would've rocked it fittingly but classic befits you best.

"I'll be your gypsy..."

• FLOTUS: What was Harvey Weinstein thinking when he asked you to infringe upon Hollywood's king, Jack Nicholson, and announce the Best Picture winner standing in a room at the White House with uniformed army officers? It looked as if you were inappropriately disturbed whilst mingling with them to awkwardly present an Oscar and drag a political agenda into a glitzy, fluffy awards show. Sorry, but it didn't fit.Oh, and bit too heavy on the bangs this time, too.

• Kristen Stewart. There are no words except that you are dangerously speeding towards Lindsay Lohanville and you best put those brakes on soon. If you busted your toe and were on crutches, why not forgo the stage hobbling and ask the Academy to give you the courtesy of placing yourself at the mic beforehand? You were a skipping mess in lace applique and bruises, channeling a meth addict who just rolled out of her homewrecking bed. Sorry, I'm just not that into you.
• Adele - You are a bombshell. I don't care what they say about your choice of supposed matronly dress or lack of stylist. You know what works for your curvy figure and you work with it. We know it's not easy to expose parts of your body you may be self-conscious about and good for you for sticking to what makes you comfortable. Your performance rocked and you were smoldering, sexy and shimmeringly gorgeous throughout it. Thank you for putting some much-needed umph into these dreadfully boring Oscars.
  

Other highlights for me were the acceptance speeches of Daniel Day Lewis, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lawrence (fall and all); Charlize's pixie 'do looks gorgeous on her; Bradley Cooper's mom showed up in a feather boa and sneakers? Really? And I loved that Ted made an appearance as well. As for Seth, we'll see if he makes one again next year.

Runners up for best dressed were Stacy Keibler:

Art deco metalli-glam

And the metallic monochromatic maven Jessica Chastain:

Runner up for worst dressed:

This looks like three different dresses were moshed up to create this belted number. But wait. This is nothing new for Zoe. She wore the cabbage dress to the Oscars last year. Right.

I hope you enjoyed my review. What did you think?