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.

Finish Line

by Patti

The other day I pulled into the garage after a long day at work, excited at the prospect that, thanks to a cancelled appointment, I miraculously had zero “to dos” on my calendar. I envisioned myself sprawled across the couch, book in hand, hot tea steaming next to me. But the little dream cloud above my head went instantly “poof!” when S ran into the garage to greet me, her face frantic. The windows of my car were shut, and all I could see was her mouth moving at warp speed, her hands gesturing urgently. I flung open the door and jumped out.
“Hi, honey. What’s wrong?”
“Mom! We have to go! I signed up to participate in a race!”
"A what?"
“A race! I’m going to run the cross-country mile today, and we have to be there in 15 minutes!”

I felt my earlier fantasy dwindle even further into the blackness of There’s Always Someplace to Be. S's voice sliced into me. “MOM. Are you listening? I signed up for a race, and I just found out today that I get to be in it. Can you please take me? It’s in 15 minutes!”

The irritation of having things like this sprung on me at the last minute overrode my maternal senses, and I morphed into Mean Mother – the one who never does anything for her kids; the one who yells and never “gets it”. But then I saw the desperation in S’s face; the need to be seen and heard and understood – and I caved. I changed out of my work clothes into “going to see my kid run a mile” clothes, slapped the leash on Gaucho, and we piled into the car.

At the field, there were already hundreds of kids gathered, stretching, warming up, “networking” in the way only middle-schoolers know how to do. I spotted our group, and S ran to meet them. At the registration desk, we found out that, because she had waited until the last minute to sign up, S would have to run as somebody else. The registrar hurriedly taped the name tag across S’s chest, and she was now officially “Idina”. A dozen kids ran by in a warm-up group, their bodies athletic and easy in their form. “Honey? Are you sure you can do this? I mean – have you ever even run a whole mile?”
“Yes, mom. I do it all the time at school. I just need to warm up!”
Worried, I gave her a good luck hug and she tore away to meet her friends.

Suddenly, it was her turn to race. She would run with nearly 100 sixth and seventh grade girls – all from different schools. My stomach hurt for her; I knew a mile wasn’t much, but for somebody who doesn’t make practice of running – it can feel like 100 miles. The girls gathered at the start line, and at the sound of the horn, they exploded across the field, a rainbow of school t-shirts. S was probably among the smallest that ran, and her little legs could only carry her so far. She quickly fell behind as the taller, longer-legged girls shot ahead of her. Another mom and I stood at the sidelines, Gaucho between us, and cheered on the girls from our school as they ran by. I did my best to embarrass each one as she passed, with a jig or a “school spirit” shout. When S finally ran by, I screamed, “GO IDINA! GO!” She blushed, but her smile said it all. She was so glad I was there.

In the end, S came in 32nd place. Not bad for somebody who, though she SAID runs a mile “all the time”, probably never had. Considering there were probably 100 girls, coming in the top 1/3 of the group? Killer. The fact that she had the guts to try at all? First place in my eyes.

As she ran across the field toward me, the green ribbon that signified she crossed the finish line flapping in her hands, I silently scolded myself for almost choosing the couch over a new experience for my child. I cringed at the thought that, because I was mad she had sprung something on me at the last minute instead of opening my mind to what she was telling me, she could have missed feeling this sense of accomplishment – and I would have missed witnessing it.
“Mom! I got 32nd place!"
I hugged her and dropped a kiss atop her sweaty head. “I’m so proud of you!”
She pressed the green ribbon in my hand for safekeeping, and then she was gone - off to celebrate with her friends.

On the Razor's Edge

by Cathy

When my husband and I first got married, we had some unspoken cohabitation rules we both respected: Don't wake him if he falls asleep on the couch watching television; one bathroom will be mine and the other, his; and we never share razors.

The first rule still stands, the second went out the window when we had kids and the third - well, I guess we've gotten a little too comfortable throughout the course of our 15-year marriage.

For a long time, he had his Mach 3 razor and I had my Gillette razor, a hardcore, futuristic little number made of metal and black grips that I had since I first set a razor to my virgin skin and that could chainsaw through hair like a mofo. I never did frilly pink razors, or those silly rounded Intuition razors (no offense to singer/songwriter Jewel) or those smelly, sloppy hair removal creams (unless I found myself in one heck of a hairy situation).

Is this for shaving or for gardening?

But when he ran out of blades, instead of going to the store to shop for more, (or rather when I stopped buying them for him) he started using mine. You should know that besides his Aveda hair gel, which he makes sure he is stocked up on religiously and consistently, he doesn't bother to really go out and buy any other toiletry of his own, which means, I am the one buying them. And if I stop, the only thing that would make him go buy them himself is when his toothbrush was ground down to a bristly nub, or he couldn't stand his own stench, or doesn't want to walk around with hair smelling of chamomile lavender rose gardens, or use potpourri essence body soap, or when he started resembling one of the ZZ Top brothers. Yet he was now shaving his face with a razor that had been near some unmentionable body parts of my own.

Not only does he use my razor and wears down the $8,000 blades faster than the speed of light, but he has taken to showering in the other bathroom - the one I don't use. (The kids still use both.) There have been many a times when I've slathered myself up for a good shavedown and waaahhh waaaaaaaahhhh. No razor. Having been too lazy/cold/dripping like a human sprinkler to go fetch it mid-shower, or because I just wouldn't think that screaming over the running water, closed door and three rooms away would get me anywhere, I have lately been emerging from my showers not quite as polished as I'd like. And between bringing it back only to have it disappear by the next morning or forgetting to bring it back altogether, I fear that in a mere few weeks, I will emerge from that shower ready to climb the Empire State Building.

I don't know how long this game will go on but one thing I do know for sure is that I am about to take a razor to some unmentionables of his own if this doesn't stop...'cause I'm on the edge.

Separating Dogs

by Patti

I just spent 4 days and nights separating dogs.

We took in Gaucho's brother Bento while his owners vacationed, and the two dogs' brotherly love bordered on Fatal Attraction. If they weren't rolling around in circles on top of each other, they were pawing at each other's faces; if they weren't pawing each other's faces, they were stealing each other's food; if they weren't stealing each other's food, they were chasing each other and skidding headfirst into walls; if they weren't chasing each other and skidding headfirst into walls, they were humping each other. Brokeback Brothers.

Needless to say, the fear that Gaucho's heft would crush Bento, or that Bento's playful yet aggressive nips would leave a hole in the side of Gaucho's face, meant that I spent 4 days and nights playing referee, and all I did all the time was separate them. Exhausting, I tell you!

One night, after a long day at work and then an entire rest-of-the-day spent separating the shit out of those dogs, M came home from work in a lively mood. I was laying on the couch, the dogs snoring in their respective crates (at last!), and M began clanking around in the kitchen, heating up the dinner I had left for him. Suddenly I heard salsa music bouncing out of the kitchen, and I rose frantically from the couch. "SHHHHH!"
M looked at me, surprised. "Why, SHHHHH?"
I gestured desperately to the crates, shout-whispering. "The dogs are ASLEEP!"
M paused, a look of complete disbelief sliding slowly across his face. "Are you kidding me?"
"NO, I'M NOT!" I knew I sounded ridiculous, but my biggest fear at that moment was that dogs would wake up and start their annoying quest to Must! Hump! Each! Other! NOW!

M simply stared at me, wondering who this crazyperson was and what had she, with her crazy eyes and flailing arms and shout-whisper, done with his wife? But HE hadn't been the one that had taken the dogs out one at a time at 6:30 a.m. that morning in work heels, hefting them back and forth, obsessively careful not to let the other dog know that I was holding his brother, otherwise a symphony of whines and barks and snorts would commence, and the whole house would be woken up and I was TRYING TO BE CONSIDERATE, OKAY? And then? HE hadn't been the one who had come home from work and had to help with homework and after-school snacks and engage in constant Brokeback Brothers break-ups while doing all of that.

And that's when I realized: I'm not sure I would have been cut out for raising siblings. Because siblings? Argue. And though they might not hump each other with the shameless glee of the canine variety of siblings - or: at all, even - they bicker and take things from each other and complain that "she won't stop TOUCHING ME!", and the whole idea of that is just stressful to me. And when they do argue, fuss and fight, you can't necessarily lock human siblings in separate crates and leave the house for a couple of hours. So there's that.

I also know this: in the moments when Gaucho and Bento forgot to annoy each other (and me in the process), there was this amazing sense of unity that sang from their bodies. From behind, they were the same shape, the same color, with the same curve of spine and cock of head. They lay together under the shade of the bright yellow bench in our backyard, their noses touching, their paws joined. It was clear: They weren't just friends - they were brothers. And that's when I knew that though the mothers I had inwardly tipped my hat to may spend their days "separating dogs", they also had the privilege of  witnessing the magic of heads joined over a board game, hands held running through sprinklers, locks of hair falling the same way over matching eyes.

I'll never see that with S - her head bent in conspiracy with a sister or brother; her arm consoling, her laugh knowing. And though sometimes, when I have little revelations like this, it makes me just a little sad, I also know that we have something incredibly special, too. Something that days spent separating dogs might just take away from. So, in reverence of that, I am careful not to wish for what never will be, and to hold fast and gratefully to what is.

Dream Boating

by Cathy

It has always beffudled me that as a true Chicago native, born and raised, I have yet to know anyone who owns a boat here. Maybe it's because those people are few and far between, given that owning a boat is an incredible investment to make since Chi-town's temperatures don't allow for boating nine months out of the year.

Now, I've been on my share of boats, ships, catamarans, water taxis, fisherman's boats, speedboats, paddleboats and even kayaks, but not once, ever, have I boated my way out of a Chicago harbor. Until this past weekend.

We were invited to come aboard by the parents of my daughter's classmates. We'll just call the dad (and owner of the boat) Dr. DJ because although he's a dentist by day, he moonlights as a casual DJ, playing gigs at our school functions, on his boat or at his house. In his past life, he must have been Jimmy Buffet although he resembles an older version of Sean Cassidy with long, sun-blonde, streaked hair.

As we prepared for cruising, we made sure all coolers were secured in place, all kids had their vests on and all hands were on deck. Literally. Once out of Diversey harbor's safe walls, Dr. DJ punched it to full throttle ahead. Our hair whipped around us wildly as Lake Shore Drive was zipping by and the skyline became a watery blur. Although the jet skiers were loving the hilly waves we were leaving in our wake, my girls were a little freaked. This was the first time on a speedboat for both of them and after wailing the entire way up the shoreline past Navy Pier, Ari finally settled down enough to go from frantic to clutching scared:

to first captain:

Come aboard. We're expecting you.

After the whirlwind fly-by lake tour, we turned the boat around and headed to where we were going to drop anchor for the afternoon - a quiet, shallow spot further north, off the beaten waters and away from the beachgoers. We tethered our boat to another boat, (a friend of Dr. DJ) and spent the day frolicking San Tropez style. The kids took turns jumping into the water off the bow; they went paddleboarding:

they went kayaking:

And the adults took in the precious last rays of summer, with a drink in our hand, a smile on our lips and a sway in our stance as we danced to tunes courtesy of Dr DJ. Think I'm kidding? Behold:

Yes, that is a mirror ball.

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "This is a serious party boat."
"Aren't all boats party boats?" Dr. DJ yelled back over PitBull's drumbeats and raps.

I guess they are. After all, isn't that what Charo was doing on The Love Boat?

Capten Estubean! Cuchi Cuchi Coo!!

While we might have been one Charo short of a true Love Boat experience, we had no shortage of Captain Stubings, Isaac the bartenders or even Gophers, as we waded back and forth between the boats sharing libations and laughs.

Towards the end of our stay, I sprawled on the spacious, custom-made bow cushions, closed my eyes and imagined I was boating off the coast of France somewhere, and if I squinted hard enough, my imagination turned the skyline's buildings into majestic mountains hugging the waters. I let the waves rock me into their rhythm as I took in nature's wonders above and below me. What a beautiful day to dreamboat.

Unreasonably Happy

by Patti

I never had a dishwasher in my adult life. As a result, my hands look years beyond their already-aging selves. When I look down at them, I see this:

Holy crap, when did THIS happen?

In reality, they're probably not that old, but all those years of tragic washing-dishes-by-hand (world problems!) have left them gasping for air - and it shows.

When we bought this house three years ago, I was over the moon to finally have a dishwasher - a stainless steel one, to boot!  I felt an inappropriate glee at the opportunity to load it, sprinkle that lemony Cascade into it, and hear its cozy hum washing the crust away - handsfree! Until..... it broke. I Dr. Googled the crap out of the Internet, looking for a fix. Alas, it seemed it was totally kerplunk, and it would cost more to fix it than was truly worth it.

That stainless steel con artist sat there mocking me endlessly for almost two years. We needed a new air conditioner, a new refrigerator, a new stove, a new microwave - and a new dishwasher kept getting pushed to the end of the priority list. I mean, was it really necessary when there were hands? So I carried on, washing the old school way, and then piling the dishes onto a towel on my kitchen counter top to dry - a mountain of glass and ceramic and silver. Kind of pretty IF IT WASN'T SO ANNOYING. AND MADE OF STUFF THAT HAD TO BE PUT AWAY.

This weekend, my hands were given the glorious opportunity to go all Benjamin Button! Because, it finally happened; its turn finally came: We got a new dishwasher!

Hello, lover

I know I sound like a spoiled brat. I mean, really? People have way worse problems than dishpan hands. Some people have THIS for a bathroom:

And I'm complaining about having to wash dishes BY HAND?

Yes, yes I was.

But not anymore!

The minute the dishwasher was installed by my MacGyver can do-anything-husband, I put on this shirt:

I didn't really, but if I owned this I would have. 

and drank my orange juice from four different glasses just to build up that dirty dish inventory. I made pancakes and eggs with TWO different pans! I used a spoon only once, which only meant I had to keep using new spoons, lots and lots of spoons! I couldn't believe how much work it took to fill my sink with dirty dishes. I mean, how come it seemed when I didn't have a dishwasher my sink was ALWAYS FULL?When the sink was finally full enough, I eagerly filled my new dishwasher and prepared to inaugurate it - and couldn't figure out how to use it. It's one of those sleek numbers with no buttons on its exterior. They're all cleverly hidden so that all anybody sees is a smooth, stainless steel face. What, me DO something? I'm just here to look pretty, y'all. I finally figured out that the buttons have to be pressed and the dishwasher door shut within three seconds, otherwise the things starts to pout via a series of "beep, beep, beeps". At last, the door was shut, and the machine began to sing.

I took a picture of my new love and texted my cousin. "Is it wrong that I want to make out with it?" I asked her. She wrote me back. "That's how I feel about my juicer. I understand." And then, because that's just the kind of girl I am, I Googled, "word for being attracted to appliances". And though I couldn't find a specific word for such a fetish, I did stumble upon a group that was welcoming new members. A very, uh, unique group that made my undying love for my new dishwasher look like stale indifference. These people were very, VERY fond of their appliances, and I will just leave it at that.

I am looking forward to our relationship - one that is protected by a 3 Year Warranty and based on a mutual love of sparkling glasses and sterilized dishes.

And one that, after that single kiss, is strictly platonic. 

This Is How We Do It

by Cathy and Patti

We are the ultimate multi-taskers.

Since we are both so busy with work, kids, husbands and life (and we only see each other at our kids' ballet class once a week if we're lucky), we've found that the easiest way to communicate is via Gmail chat. It's not as time-intensive or restricting as a phone call and it allows easier flow than a text. And bonus! It's instant. You hear the "bleep" and the flashing "Name says" sign in your email tab and you know to respond. In the meantime? We can go about doing our "work" work. We told you we were some resourceful beeyotches!

Patti:
I work 40+ hours a week, have a daughter with activities, bathrooms that won't stay clean, clothes that somehow keep getting dirty, beds that don't make themselves, a refrigerator that yearns to stay full, activities of my own, and a husband and friends I kind of dig. The time-suck that is my life most days means that somethin's got to give. And unfortunately, most of the time, it's plans with my friends. I realize I'm not a 21-year old with a social life that must be nurtured or I'll DIE I'll simply DIE - but! I've always said: Women NEED women in their lives; we have got to have those girlfriends to get us through when our husbands make us feel murderous, our children make us feel mad, our parents make us feel drained, our jobs makes us feel strained, and we are going insane.

I have found time and again that trying to have dinner together as grown women takes more than a phone call and a "Done!"; it literally takes a master's degree in the Science of Timeology. Let me tell you: G-chatting is about 4,000 credits in the earning of that master's, and in my friendship with Cathy, it' actually served as a surrogate to getting together for coffee, dinner, or a GNO.  We have had deep, philosophical discussions over G-chat; we've made difficult decisions together; we've planned parties and had business meetings; we've cyber-laughed together over the dumbest things. G-chat is the lifeine that ensures our friendship stays a friendship.

Now I just have to get the rest of my friends - all who work 40+ hours a week and are raising children, keeping husbands happy and running a home - onboard this G-train.

CHOO-CHOO!
(or is that: CU-CKOO!)

Cathy:
We thought we would share with you a transcript of one of our chats from last week, when Patti, Michelle and I were trying in vain to plan my birthday dinner outing at a restaurant named, ironically, YOLO. Oh, when was my birthday, you ask? August 22nd. And when is the dinner planned? The last weekend in September; if we're lucky. Here's a little glimpse into our harried, over-scheduled world and how we, well...do it.

Note: there will be typos, grammatical errors, trending internet lingo and acronyms that make us sound like teenagers. Again, it's all just part of how we do it.

Cathy:
hey girl! sorry crazy mornin. yes i saw Michelle's  response and i replied to her - did you see that? Poor Miche. She has her days all confused!

Patti:
yes, just haven't responded yet. i figured she probably wouldn't be able to make it. so do you still wanna go?

Cathy:
well if it's to celebrate my birthday i would like her to be there, kwim? im sure she contributed to a gift, etc. and i would like her to be there too

Patti:
okay, we will reschedule, then.
i have no saturdays after this available until end of this month, and then only 2 in October. :o(

Cathy:
how about a friday?

(long pause)
Patti:
sorry - working on several things at once. i have the last friday of this month available and 2 in october (as i am traveling). so same deal >;(

Cathy:
dang gurl and you call ME miss social queen!!
don't know what to do

Patti:
it ain't social - it's gig or work
so basically - work lol

Cathy:
i would really not rather push my b-day celebration into october - it just seems so...eh....
let's find a way to do it this month and arrange it with miche.

Patti:
okay, so you are okay with waiting til the last weekend in september? cuz that's all i got, gurrrl. unless we do an early weekday dinner.

Cathy:
this is pathetic
i don't really want to do an early weekday dinner but don't have many options i guess. which saturday this month do you have open again?

Patti:
oh shoot - saturday the 29th is the night we are supposed to do the drive-in movie nite. how about friday the 28th? and hopefully, miche is available! lol!

Cathy:
bella has snow guide nutcracker rehearsal that night until 6:15 so by the time i get home, drop her off and come it won't be until 7:30ish if that works. plus i have to see if joe is traveling that weekend. he is going to atlanta on the 20th and the 21st but not sure about that weekend

Patti:
we can do 8 pm - works for me. can joe take her to rehearsal? or pick her up?
so you aren't all rushy-rush?
[pause]
oooh! i just looked at my calendar and have the 21st open after all. but now you're saying joe is out of town. see? it ain't just me. lol.

Cathy:
he is returning on the 21st so i just have to find out what time he is scheduled to return. if it's early then we're good - if its evening then no....lemme check. plus we need to find out if miche is available too

Patti:
michelle just emailed me and told me she is available the 28th and already put it on her calendar as confirmed.

Cathy:
can you have her also check on the 21st just in case?

Patti:
okay, but i think we need to not hold both nights. which do you prefer?

Cathy:
i would prefer the earlier date but let me make sure joe is going to be here. i just texted him

[pause]
ok so his flight gets in at 6. let's do the 28th...and my the force be with us

[TEN MINUTES LATER.....]
Patti:
lol.... oh boy... miche just emailed me and said the 21st works better cuz she has to get a sitter for the 28th. lol. i told her the 28th works better cuz joe is outta town the 21st, and she said she will make it work no matter what on the 28th. i told her to sharpie it onto her calendar.

Cathy:
O.M.G. this is totes ridik that it's such a production to schedule a simple dinner. we'll be so stressed by the time we get together that we will dive head first into some major margarita glasses at YYYYYOOOOOLLLLOOOO!!!
and how ironic is it that we are going to a place called YOLO and we can't even throw caution to the wind to live up to the name of the restaurant. LOL. we should be going to LOLO, (as in LOL, how funny you are trying to plan a girls night out) not YOLO

Patti:
Lol! Or: NOLO!  (cuz NO it ain't gonna happen!)
...................
Let's just hope ternderly braised Mexican ribs taste the same online.