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.

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.