Memoryless Day

by Cathy

I had a great Memorial Day weekend; it was the perfect combination of visiting with family and friends and getting in some of my own quality family time.

So there I was on Sunday, excited beyond belief that I have ONE FULL DAY to myself to do all the little things on my swelling laundry list that need to be done to usher out the cold and bring in the summer warmth. At the breakfast table that morning, I laid out the plan - who was going to tackle what jobs, etc. We indulged in our relaxed day, doing what we had to do when we wanted to do it, taking breaks and hey! deciding to grill out. We made a list and went en masse to the fruit market up the street and stocked up on veggies, fruit, corn on the cob, chiles and plenty of limes to make fresh Margaritas. Ole!

We got home, unpacked the groceries and leisurely went about preparing our meal and drinks. I went into the bedroom to soothe Ari since we had just reprimanded her for misbehaving at the store, when Joe yelled out from the kitchen. "Caaath!" There was a hint of alarm in his voice and that piqued my curiosity. Before I got a chance to answer, he called my name again, except this time, there was more urgency in his voice. What now?
"Yes!" I yelled back from the girls room as I opened the door and headed toward the kitchen, holding Ari. I saw him thumbing through his cell phone.
"Are you SURE that the Handy's barbeque is tomorrow?" he asks rather too edgy.
"Yeah," I said cautiously. "Why?"
"Cuz my boy just texted me and said, 'Where are you guys? Don't forget the girls' bathing suits.'"
"What?!"
"You're positive she said Monday, right?"
"YES! Look here I'll pull up the email."

I pulled the email up on my phone and quickly glanced at it. Sure enough, the title of the email said Memorial Day weekend get together but the context said Sunday. I hurriedly concluded that I figured that it was on Monday since she wrote 'Memorial Day'.

Anyway, we didn't have time to examine it now. We were two hours late for the party. Leisure mode quickly turned frantic and we went from zero to 60 in record time. Joe took the fastest shower in history and after changing my clothes, the girls and I were down in storage in five minutes flat, pulling out bathing suits for them to use in the kiddie pool.We were off.

Throughout the day - because Joe just couldn't forget about it and just enjoy the party now that we were there - we exchanged angry quips.
"I can't believe you didn't see that."
"Well I forwarded you the email. Why didn't YOU catch the date?"
"Remember, I even asked you specifically which day it was on?"
"Yes, but you didn't check your email."
"You never forwarded me an email."
"OH.YES.I. DID. That I DO know!"
And on it went, all the meanwhile in my head, I am questioning myself: How could I have been so off? That's not like me. Maybe I DO have too much going on? I've never made a mistake about an event before. How could I have gotten it so wrong?

Eventually, after Joe had his little fit, we ended up really enjoying the day, spending time with good friends and enjoying good food and drink.

But I, having this nagging sensation somewhere in the back of my mind, couldn't let it go. So I decided to pull up that email again and really take a good look at it. And there it was, staring at me in the face. It said, "Join us on Sunday, May 28th." Ha! May 28th is Monday! I probably just saw the date (and not the day) and penciled it right into my calendar. NOW it makes sense. I triumphantly forwarded that email on to Joe to prove to him that I am not in fact, losing my marbles.

His response? "I guess we were the only ones who assumed the wrong date."
Can't cut me the slack, eh?

No worries, though. I made damn sure that he will be copied on all future email invitations we receive from our group of friends.  The buck won't stop with me any longer. Going forward, we are sharing the stopping of the buck so that we are equally at fault for equally dropping the ball. And perhaps, losing our memory.

There, there

by Patti

When M and I were first dating, whenever I was upset or sad about something, a mere snuggle into his chest would immediately give me comfort. His chest was a magical place that smelled like lemons and Tide and home. It was that easy.

Now, years (and years. AND YEARS.) later, notsomuch. Much of the time now, if I am upset or sad, it's because he did something to make me so. And a mere snuggle into his chest is the last thing I want or need. I want understanding and an apology, damnit. And even when it's not something he did, I still want understanding. I want it on "girlfriend" level. You know: the kind of understanding a woman can get from her female friends, but rarely, if ever, from her beloved, til-death-do-you-part husband?

I remember a friend once lamented to me that her husband was the most insensitive human being on the planet. "Why?" I asked her, curious at the level of her fury.
"Well, I was standing in the kitchen last night after we finished eating dinner, and suddenly - I just started crying."
"You did? Why didn't you call me?"
"I should have! I just felt - I dunno - sad. And I needed Chris to comfort me. So he came up behind me and put his arms around me, and as I cried, he mumbled something. I thought he was being all comforting, but then I realized that he was asking me if I was going to eat that last piece of pizza!"
She then went on to tell me that she had furiously pulled out of his arms, and that he had gotten mad at HER for her reaction, telling her she was being overly sensitive. In his mind, he was killing two birds with one (big, fat awkward, insensitive) stone; in hers, he was an asshole.

I remembered this story the other night when I had my own attack of "sad for no apparent reason". And when it hit, I needed that comfort. I turned to M to find it, hoping for that magical chest. To his credit, he did put his arms around me, but then he had to go and do it. He patted me. He there, there'd me. Is there anything more patronizing, more "hurry up and get over it" than being PATTED?

Husbands around the world will unite and claim that the pats were sincere, and that what else did I want? A freakin' personal parade of non-patting, spirit-lifting clowns in my own kitchen? They might say that I am being demanding and am probably one of "those" that are simply just never satisfied. But let me tell you, husbands around the world: Never, ever PAT your wife when she is sad. And don't ask her what's for dinner while she's crying.

This is what you do: You gather your sad wife in your arms, and you say, "What can I do to make you feel better?" And then you just listen. That's it. See how easy?

And when you're done listening, you make dinner. And wash the dishes.

What's Up, Tsuts?

by Cathy

Indulge me as I vent about one of several pet peeves I have about my husband.

Let me preface this by saying that he is usually asleep when this occurs, rendering him clueless (I think) about what he does, but STILL. 

So picture this: he's fallen asleep, usually way too early for my taste. He's either laying on the living room couch with the lights off, the television now watching him instead of the other way around, or he's already in bed, mummified under the covers, which are pulled up to his nose.

Since I am always shuffling around the house until some crazy hour because of the million little things I have to do  before I can carelessly flop into bed, I am walking in and out of rooms constantly. Most of the time, I am in my own world of To Do's, so I may or may not be aware that he has fallen asleep in a particular room. Regardless, I usually try to keep the noise level down.

However, there comes a time where I HAVE to turn on a light, or check the sound on my alarm clock so that I don't oversleep the following morning, or clean up, or look for something or maybe, just turn on my bedside lamp so I can sneak in a few pages of reading before I hit the hay.

And how does he react to any one of those things? He tsutses. You know, that noise you make when you click your tongue off your upper teeth in annoyance? Yeah, that. He tsutses.

Now if I've purposely woken him up, dropped something ridiculously loud or started singing at the top of my lungs, I can see how he would react like that. But to tsuts at my cleaning the house and preparing to go to bed, I mean, come ON. I know he doesn't know the difference if he's asleep so I try to ignore it sometimes, but others, I respond with a "WHY are you tsutsing?!?" And almost always, I get no response because he's back asleep in no time.

I then chalk up his tsutsing to a mindless reaction - an instinctive reflex.
A rather annoying one.

Wings in Motion

by Patti

The strangest thing happened the other evening. I found myself at my baby's school, clutching an orange folder with S's name on it. In this folder was a neat stack of papers, listing teachers' names and schedules and electives.  Surely this can't be right, I told myself as I looked around the school library, surrounded by other mothers and an assortment of 11-year olds. I mean, I get why they are here.... but what am I doing here? And then the principal clapped her hands and welcomed us to the next chapter of our child's lives: middle school.

Oh.

Days later, I am still wondering how this happened. I mean, how can it be that I can still hear S's newborn cries in my ears; I can still see the pudgy hand in mine; I can still see her looking up at me in wonder as she discovers the world.  So how does it make sense that she is now going into junior high? JUNIOR. HIGH.
It doesn't.

But it's happening. Just like I knew it would but hoped it wouldn't. And I know it's only the beginning. Because then, just as they discussed at the middle school orientation, there is high school, and then college, and then heartaches of adulthood, and then... and then... and THEN...

S has been existing in a bubble of anticipation this past week. "I can't believe I'm going into middle school!" she sings out as she eats her cereal, or walks the dog, or brushes her teeth. "I'm SO nervous!" She has carried that orange folder, the one that holds the choices she will make as she sets the wheels of her future in motion, with her everywhere since she received it a few days ago. "Can you help me pick? I think I want drama workshop and debate! What else?" She looks down at the paper, weighing her options, already worried about making a mistake.

What is so weird is that, as she wonders and worries and anticipates, I can so clearly see myself wandering the huge halls of my own middle school. I was so short and skinny and shy; I felt swallowed up by my junior high experience. Until I disovered the things that woke me up and made me shine and broke me right out my shell.
S is different: She is short and skinny, but shy? Not in the least. She is brave and strong and outgoing. She is silly and bright and fun. She won't be swallowed up by her experience; instead, she will swallow it right up. S? Will do fine.

This weekend we will sit down and carefully go through that orange folder. She will make her own choices, and I will be there just in case she has a question or wants an opinion. And that is all. Because this will be her journey. Fly, baby.

Greekified

by Patti

My daughter wants to be Greek.

She is already Argentinean, Chilean, Italian, and Tweenian, but she seems to figure throwing another dash of somethin' in there couldn't possibly hurt. So now, she is becoming Greek.

How so?

Well, one of S's bff's (Bella) is Greek, and that bff's mom (Cathy) is one of my bff's, so we do a lot of hanging out together. Mix us all up, the Spanish and the Greek, and you got some crazy Latin spanakopita times right there.

But the hanging out together isn't the only thing causing the Greek to leak into S's veins. It's the yearly spiritual ritual of the Greek Easter that has gotten under her skin and turned some of her Latin blood into aíma. Last year S was invited for the first time to attend Greek Orthodox midnight mass over their Easter, and she was mesmerized. The chanting, the candles, the darkened church, the singing - it enveloped her and she came out begging to be Greek.  She was invited again this year, and of course she accepted. After all, no good Greek would skip mass, now would they?

It all seemed to begin with that, but she hasn't stopped there. No, now, she has chosen a good Greek boy as her first crush. I mean, being Greek-in-the-Mind and all, she has to choose a good Greek boy, no? She also throws Greek yogurt into the shopping cart when we do groceries. I dared to buy some second-rate version of Greek yogurt, but S firmly schooled me and insisted I buy the real Greek yogurt. The kind whose name looks like a typo. But isn't.

And MY LORD is it good.

However, she claims it's not nearly as good as Bella's grandmother's yogurt. Hers has chunks in it.

The other day she asked me what she might have to do to become Greek Orthodox. "So you can attend mass?" I asked her.
"I just like it... Do I have to be Greek to be Greek Orthodox?"

Stumped, I asked Cathy what one has to do to be Greek Orthodox. I mean, the phrase alone infers that one would have to be Greek to be so, right?  Yes, I know I sound embarrassingly ignorant at this moment. It's like saying one has to be Roman to be Roman Catholic. Or More of a Man to be Mormon. But in all honestly, it seemed like a fair question.

Cathy referred me to the movie, "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", where an oily, hunky John Corbett is, uh, lovingly baptised in a kiddy pool by his voluptous godmother, Nikki. Remember? Oh, I DO. And besides, how could I possibly forget? "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" is without a doubt S's favorite movie of all time. She has seen it at least 10 times, and any time she is home sick or laying around with nothing to do, she starts jonesin' to see it again.
Well, anyway: HE wasn't Greek, and he was able to somehow become Greek so he could marry in the church.

Opa! I'm now Greek!

So I guess, if S wants to be Greek, the Greekification process will come to a head in a blow-up pool.

Or she can simply continue to love Greek boys, eat Greek yogurt, attend Greek mass, hang out with her Greek peeps, and perhaps, by osmosis alone, she will one day simply FEEL in her heart as Greek as can possibly be. And feeling it in your heart is as real as you can get.

The Need to Feed

by Cathy

"Welcome to Ari's Food Pantry. We are here to serve YOU."

This is the sign that should be plastered to my younger daughter's lunch box and snack bag.

Everyday, I pack her lunchbox with a brand new bottled water, a full sandwich and a sandwich-sized bag full of some crunchy snack. Everyday after school, she brings it home completely empty. Ditto goes  for her snack bag, which I stuff to its zippered seams with all sorts of yummy snacks in case she gets hungry throughout the day or in case she has to stay in after school for any reason we can't pick her up on time.

I am Greek after all, so my main worry in life is that the people I care for have enough food to eat. The first question my kids get from me after school is, "Did you finish your lunch?" Then comes, "How about your snack?" And then, "Are you hungry now?" Then possibly a, "Well, if you're hungry just eat from the snacks you didn't have during the day." Once we are home, I start up again with, "Do you guys want to have a snack? Dinner won't be ready for another couple of hours," worried that my kids will starve to death if they aren't eating something every hour on the hour. Don't get me wrong; my kids are the perfect weight for they're size and can even stand to gain a pound or two according to my Greeky-Greek parents, but making sure my family and friends are well fed is not only in my DNA, it's in my culture.

In the beginning of the school year when Ari would bring home these empty sacks, I thought, 'Oh great! She's eating all her food!' Then as time went by and I saw that she NEVER brought any leftovers back, I  immediately got suspicious that she was just throwing stuff away. When I confronted her about this, she fully denied it.

"Nooooo! Mommy! I AM eating everything!"
"Remember I told you many times, do not throw ANY food away, okay? If you don't finish something, just put it back in your bag and bring it back, okay?"
"Mommy, I AM!"
"No you're not!" I countered. "There's never anything in your bags when you bring them home."
"Mommy!"
"Should I call your teacher and ask her if you're throwing stuff away?"
"NO! She doesn't know. She's...not there during snack and lunch." she grappled.

So the other day after school, I asked the girls to take out their lunch and snack bags and leave them on the counter for me to repack for the next day. Ever since Bella was in kindergarten, she brought back every morsel of every food item I gave her that she didn't eat at school. She never thought to throw anything away. Ari on the other hand, seemed like she was into some sneaky activity. She swung her lunchbox in front of me and said, "Mommy, here it is but don't get mad, okay?"

I opened it up and it was full of nothing but air. Then I opened her snack bag. Same.

"Where are all the snacks I packed for you today?" I asked, going after her. I had purposely packed way more than a five-year old could possibly fit in her tiny, fist-sized stomach, just to test her.

She lets out an exasperated, drawn out sigh and slumped her shoulders while looking skyward, as if she was being majorly inconvenienced by this question.

"Ari...just tell me the truth. I don't want you to lie to me because I'll be more upset then."
"But mommy, Jesus is watching."
"Exactly. That's why you can't lie. And???"
"I shared my snacks with some of the other girls. Alana ate the strawberries, Nicole at the graham crackers and I ate the granola bar."
"But why? Didn't they have their own snacks?"
"Yeah but they were hungry and didn't have enough snacks. So I shared."
"OK, that's fine," I replied. "But is that the truth? You're not throwing away food?"
"NO!"

I wondered if this was all true, all this time. Could she really, in fact, have been feeding her whole classroom with the plentiful snacks I packed every morning? Was she trading snacks? Was SHE eating anything or just dishing it out like a one-woman soup kitchen? I do know that she was, at some point, and may still be throwing stuff out since one of my small kitchen spoons never made its way back home, Tupperware had gone missing and water bottles, which she hardly drank from, were not coming back either.

"That's okay if you share but I want to make sure YOU are eating, okay? I don't want you going hungry all day by feeding everyone else in your class."

Then it hit me. She's giving food to other people? She's making sure her friends are well fed?
Ha! What can I say? I guess that cultural DNA strand is one of her Greek-dominant ones.

Snapshot: Working Girl from Then

by Patti

College straight out of high school seemed extremy unappealing to me. I mean, I had been in school for a bajillion years already - in a row. Couldn't a girl catch a break? So I decided to take a year off and escape to San Francisco, and completely corrupt my best friend in the process by forcing her to cancel her enrollment into college and come with me. And she did. Because that's what friends are for.

But before we could execute our escape plan, we needed money. My friend snagged a coveted job as "traffic and smile director" at a TCBY yogurt shop at the mall. A job at the mall gave me the shivers, so instead, I decided to audition for a job as a singing telegram girl. And I got it! My career in entertainment was off to a great start! While my friend toiled away at the mall, doling out yogurt, directions and smiles, I drove from office to office and restaurant to restaurant, dressed as a crazy "bag lady", a belly dancer, Polly Darton, the hotpink-clad country singer, and my singing telegram company's version of Mae West - Red Hot Mama. My mom or dad would often come with me - after all, there I was, crossing into foreign territorities dressed like an idiot on a daily basis. Somebody had to protect me - from myself.

Potential dangers aside, I couldn't believe the money I was earning by simply making a fool out of myself. The possibilities were endless! It was even tempting to cancel my escape plan altogether, and just stay in Oregon and sing telegrams the rest of my life, but alas, a plan was a plan, and also: I kind of made my best friend quit college, so I had to see it through. Armed with our hard-earned dough and a truckload of boxes, my parents drove my best friend and I over the border to California, and across the Golden Gate Bridge right into our dreams. We stayed the year we promised ourselves, and sick of Top Ramen and waking steep hills, I came home after that year.

I enrolled into a local college and got a job at a record store - you know, back when they STILL SOLD RECORDS. For those of you post-vinyl, they look something like this:

It was during my tenure as the Best Record Salesgirl on the Planet that CDs were becoming really popular. I still remember the buzz of awe in the store when customers came in to browse those crazy, newfangled, space-agey things called Compact Discs. I was in charge of unboxing them and would lovingly whip up creative displays to showcase new releases. I LOVED THAT JOB. But it was a local business and, well, it tanked. So, then, did I.

And that is when I went straight back to the singing telegram company to ask for my job back. By then, it had transferred to a new owner. She was a cool, young girl who lived in a huge, industrial loft in a gritty, artsy part of town. She operated the company right out of her loft, and I would often hang out with her during the day in between "appointments" just to feel immersed in her coolness. All of this made me feel even closer to my dream of being "an Artist".

During this time, I met M, and he would often accompany me on my singing telegrams ventures. Smitten by my gumption, he was happy to be my assistant, blowing up the balloons for me and serving as my "bodyguard" while I delivered my telegrams and made people laugh. He started becoming concerned by some of my appointments; the ones that had me venturing into bars late at night in the middle of hell, and always did his best to accompany me so that my chances of being murdered were somewhat lessened by his evil stare - something for which my parents were grateful. After running out of gas not once but twice while dressed as a belly dancer, he suggested I either get responsible about filling up my tank, or find another job. But nobody put baby in corner, and even though I risked my life walking down the expressway alone dressed like Jasmine from Aladdin, I refused to heed his practical advice.

One night, in the middle of a telegram, the man that I was singing to suddenly grabbed me and lifted me in the air, and started spinning me around, drunkenly singing out of tune right along with me. My company had a strict policy against customers groping us, and my boyfriend? An even stricter policy.  Except this time, M was in the car waiting for me, so I didn 't have his handy evil stare to drive away such madness. When I came out and told him the story, his eyes grew intense and his mouth became a line. He didn't have to say it again. My heart knew he was right. I had been thisclose to danger one too many times already, and I sadly had to admit to myself the end of an era had come: It was time to hang up my feather boa.

You and me, kid? The girl from then who dared to dare? We had a good run.

This is NOT How We Should Roll

by Cathy

"I gotta run," said Joe hurriedly as he crutched his way towards our front door, dressed and ready to go for his client meeting.

"Wait!" I stopped him short. "Are you picking them up and driving them to the coffee shop like you planned?" I reconfirmed, my eyes darting around the room as I thought this through.


"Yeah, that's the plan," said Joe mindlessly as he gathered his portfolios and laptop.

"In OUR car?"

"Yeah."
"Hold on," I said quickly running to get my jacket but didn't bother with my shoes. "I'm coming downstairs with you."
"Why?"
"Where are they gonna sit, in the kids' car seats? You're on crutches, you can't move anything."
"Oh yeah. Thanks."

My intention was to just move the car seats out of the back seat and stuff them in the trunk.
Then I saw this:

Backseat, Crapseat

Holy mother of messes. What's more, when I lifted up those car seats? I found Goldfish crackers, hair ties, more bunched up Kleenex, a tube of Chapstick, a winter glove, stickers stuck to the seat and a crumbs in every sunken leather seam.

Once, my cousin, who is religious about the upkeep of cars and runs a car wash to prove it, flat out told me: "Dayum. I can't believe you roll your ride like that. You have a nice car. You should take better care of it." Those words were ricocheting around in my brain as I nearly donned a hazmat suit to clean out the car. 'I can't believe it, either' I grumbled to myself.

"Jesus," Joe chimed in, gawking at the mess. "What the heck do these girls do back here?"

"Well, we're not any better," I retorted. "Did you see the passenger side?"
 Behold:

Front passenger seat

"That's all your junk," he quickly answered.
"Yeah I mostly drive the car, but that's NOT all my stuff," I said looking at what's made its way from the back to the front. The front passenger side floor seemed to be a catch basin for what doesn't fit in the back seat.

There we were, in front of our building out in the street instead of the private confines of our garage, where we normally park the car. All four doors and the trunk were sprung wide open, exposing our mess, much to the chagrin of our neighbors and passersby. There we were in all our glory: Joe standing on his one leg and crutches watching me diving into the back seat and with my stocking feet, shuffling and shoving what I could back and forth from the car into the trunk, which didn't look any better, by the way:

And lest we forget the trunk. Yes, that's an air cast.

I miraculously found space to shove the car seats in the trunk and almost had to sit on the trunk lid to lock it closed. "There!" I said triumphantly to Joe, who was already sitting in the driver's seat.

"Wait! One more thing!" I ran around the back of the car. I reached for the cylinder of wet wipes I kept in the back pocket of the passenger seat, snapped out a few and wiped the seats clean of crumbs and sticky substances.

"Now you're ready to roll this baby the way it should be," I said.
"Until tomorrow after school," he joked as he drove away.
Indeed.

 

My Week with Maryland

by Patti

For the past two months, S has had to learn everything about Maryland. She had never even given that tiny state a second thought, but thanks to a year-end school project that would be a huge part of her final grade (If I fail, I won't go to middle school, MOM!), she and Maryland had no choice but to become best friends forever.  It hasn't been easy. FOR ME. Because all I've heard for the past two months is "I HATE MARYLAND." But thanks to this never-ending school project, we now know that Frank Zappa was born in Maryland; that Billie Holiday grew up in Maryland; that there is an historical, crumbling zoo in Maryland; that blue crab abounds in Maryland; that the Black-Eyed Susan is Maryland's flower; that Maryland's manufacturing revolves around soda and soap; that Maryland's flag is red and yellow and black and really, really hard to draw..... Oh, yes! The things we have learned, all in the name of getting an A!

Even though "parental participation" was "highly encouraged", for the most part, S has been pretty independent on this project. Aside from the constant whines of "I HATE MARYLAND", she has handled it quite well. She is a wiz on the computer, and a Dr. Google just like me, so she hasn't needed much assistance.
Until... the landmark. The last assignment of this project has lived in our house for the past week, swallowing up our entire dining room, all of our evenings, and even appearing in our dreams.  For the final leg of this "Celebrate America!" journey, S had to choose a landmark from her assigned state - Maryland - and recreate it. We scoured the Internet for something landmark-y, but nothing jumped out as particularly interesting. S began to panic. "I'm going to FAIL!" She remembered a website her teacher had suggested that detailed the many landmarks across the United States, and jumped around excitedly when she saw the furniture store with the 16-foot rocking chair on its roof. Yes, I said furniture store. Since when is a furniture store a landmark?
"Are you sure you can use this as a landmark?"
"Yes! My teacher even recommeded this website!"
"But... it's a furniture store."
"SO? It's on the website!"
And furniture store it was.

Now, I'll admit this: I'm good at a lot of things. Not to sound braggy, but I kind of am. I can cook, I can draw, I can sing a song, I can find anything you could ever hope to find on the Internet, I can make a person laugh.... What I can't do? Is build. For realz. Don't ever ask me to build your house, because it will come crumbling down around you the second you sneeze. My hands are impatient, and impatience does not suit structure well. M, on the other hand? Is a bit of a genius when it comes to that stuff. His hands are steady and careful and very detail-oriented. In short: The dude is anal as hell. And while Mister Cuts All the Carrots the Same Shape and Size When He is Making a Salad makes me insane with his anal-ness, it certainly comes in handy from time to time. Even knowing all of this, I , being my competitive and hard-headed self, still wanted to be able to find a way to be the Project Master. So I decided M would handle the rocking chair, and I would do the building. Because, you know, I CAN'T BUILD.

In a few short hours, M built that rocking chair. One that actually rocks (both literally and figuratively). The hardest part out of the way, S and I got to work on the actual building - the part I had delusionally assumed I'd be able to handle with ease and flair. We had gone to the Dollar Store and Michael's, and were armed with a zillion popsicle sticks, cardboard gift boxes, poster board, and pipe cleaners. The pipe cleaners were a total "just in case"; it just seems a school project is not a school project until there are pipe cleaners involved. So, as M's expertly crafted rocking chair sat there in the corner, drying, and S stood over me, I stared at the popsicle sticks and cardboard and poster board and pipe cleaners. "What can I do?" she asked. I fumbled with the cardboard, attempting to fashion it into some semblance of a building. The laptop sat open in front of me, a picture of the real building mocking me. "Mom? Maybe we need those building bricks we saw at Michael's?"
"No - we don't need those things. They're waaaay too expensive. What we have will work great!"
"But... how are we going to build the parts that stick out?"
"Like this!" I quickly folded up a piece of posterboard, attempting to create some sort of 3-D structure. I placed it over the flat area of the cardboard, silently worried by how uneven and amateurish it appeared.
"That doesn't look good."
"Shhh! It'll be fine once it's done and painted!"

We fumbled with the popsicle sticks and cardboard and poster board and pipe cleaners for three days. All the while, M hovered over me, micromanaging my incomptence, as I stubbornly continued to try to - in the words of Tim Gunn - "make it work". But it wasn't working. At all. And that is when M elbowed his way into the project, taking over. He grabbed the piece of foam board I had bought to use as the base, and swiftly folded it, instantly creating the building's facade and base.
"OH MY GOD!" S screamed. "IT LOOKS SO REAL NOW!"
I hung my head in defeat. "What do we need from the store?"
M rattled off a list of items, and I drove to Michael's at 7:30 pm on a Monday night to buy my "start all a-freaking-over" supplies. While there, I saw a few other harried parents buying foam board and popsicle sticks, and wondered if they, too, were starting all over.

When I got home, S excitedly greeted me at the door. "Look what Papi did!" There was M at the dining room table, holding the magically crafted front of the building, windows already cut out, the swinging doors covered in wood, complete with tiny little handmade handles.
I took the building bricks out of the Michael's bag and S whooped with glee. "This is going to be the best landmark EVER!"

The project, now coming together beautifully, is still underway, and Supervisor M has delegated the remaining tasks to us. But not before he managed to MAKE TINY FURNITURE for the inside of the furniture store.

I hate Maryland.

Mother's Day Melee

by Cathy

Aaaahhhh, Mother's Day.

This holiday is by no means excluded from the expectations of every other holiday - that things will go swimmingly, that there will be no disappointments, fights or general not-getting-alongness. But these expectations are once again proven to have been set too high when reality kicks in.

I was looking forward to a wondrous Mother's Day, alone with my two beautiful girls since Joe was out of town. The plan was to get up, make them pancakes, spend some quality time, then go see my own mother and have my sister (a recent first-time mommy) meet us there with her new bundle of joy.

After we had pancakes, shared some laughs and all of my gifts had been presented, opened and appreciated via the usual slew of hugs and kisses, my kids set out to do their own thing while I took care of some things before we set out to grandma's house. Of course, whenever my two kids are put in the same room together without a game plan and are left to their own devices, fights will ensue, voices will be raised, tattling will be dished and an overall uneasiness will take over the moment. I could deal with all of that. But what I didn't expect, on this glorious Mother's Day, a day of "rest" and "relaxation" and "pampering" and "free time" and "my day" celebrations, was the following:

- Bella running into the kitchen, panting, holding half a broken light bulb (you know, the new ones that are supposedly toxic if broken) and apologizing profusely. Then, an "Owwwwww!" from Ari, who apparently had stepped on one of the million pieces shattered onto the carpet in their room from the broken bulb - the other half of which was still stuck inside Bella's desk lamp. Apparently, the bouncy ball (which is the size of the moon) she was volleying around the room, bounced off the desk lamp, infracting the bulb and sending the series of events into motion. It also set me into motion:
"Why can't you guys just sit still?"
"I told you no ball playing in your room!"
"Can't you just sit down and read a book?"
"This is suppose to be MY day! Now I have to do this!"
Out came the vacuum. I swept their entire room, hearing the crunching of the glass being sucked into the Hoover. Since I was on a roll, what the heck!?! I did the runners in the hallway and my bedroom, cussing under my breath the whole time, while Bella was sulking in the living room and Ari was crying at the little pin-sized cut on her foot.

- If that wasn't enough, somehow Bella managed to spill Liquid Paper on the cozy, plum-colored fabric chair in her room. Walking past and catching her scrubbing her little heart away in the hopes of avoiding a confrontation with me, I noticed her efforts were futile. I attempted more of the same fruitless scrubbing, but to no avail. Now there were three large splatters of white Liquid Paper front and center on her chair.
"Just cover it up!" said Ari, honing her resourceful skills at the ripe age of five.
"I don't understand why this is all happening today! Today of all days! I've told you many times to be careful about your stuff! This all costs money and we can't replace things that easily and besides, you need to start learning to appreciate and take better care of your things!" More sulking followed.

- Then Ari wanted to play with Bella and in order to get her attention, she decided to come running into the room and whack her with the dress she just took off. The only problem (the only?) was that a button on the dress ended up hitting Bella in the eye, causing her to break down into tears and Ari to get a reprimanding from me. Yet more crying.

- If all this wasn't enough? I cracked my back tooth. While eating a Snickers mini. Serves me right. I had to endure almost two days of that jagged edge cutting into the inside of my cheek until I got to the dentist, who told me I now need a crown that apparently will cost a bazillion dollars. F.M.L.

However, despite all of these extraordinary, unpleasant events, I thoroughly enjoyed the best parts of my day which outnumbered and outweighed the bad overall:

- I received a homemade scrapbook from Bella filled with pictures of the two of us.

Isn't it cute that Bella purposely spells 'Mommy' like she did when she was four?

- I got a beautiful silver pendant that said MOM with a tiny flower and diamond. I added it to my charm bracelet.
- I got a paper mache flower pot complete with homemade flowers made out of construction paper.
- I received several homemade notes and cards.
- I was attributed not one but TWO window drawings wishing me a Happy Mother's Day.

- I got to read each of them a book at bedtime.
- And I got plenty of sweet hugs and kisses and cuddles as they slept in my king sized bed that night.


In short, my day was filled with memorable ups and annoying downs.

A pretty fitting tribute to motherhood in general, wouldn't you say?

Gone to Heaven in a Handbag

by Patti

S has been working her way through the money and gift cards she received for her birthday last month. She is 11 now - that magical age where not only do your eyeballs practically fall out of their sockets from rolling them so fiercely at the sheer audacity of those others around you to even exist, but also the age where you prefer cha-ching! over Polly Pockets as a gift.

So yesterday, as part of the pretty wonderful Mother's Day that I had, I hit Target with S and my mom. My mom and I needed boring things like toilet paper and snacks for the week, but S had a plan: SPEND THOSE GIFTCARDS.  I'll admit: S is a lucky kid. She's got everything a kid could ever need, plus a lot of things a kid could ever hope for. I know this because whenever she's got a gift card or cash to blow, she kind of stands there and suffers. "I don't know what to BUY!" Oh, the world problems. But this time around, she had her heart set on a purse. Not a sparkly, kid-ish one, either; a real, live, cool, grown-up purse.

I remember when I got my first real, live purse. My aunt bought it for me when I was 12. It was the "in" purse of the moment -- a "Jet" bag with zillions of zippers, parachute-like material, and a rough, canvas strap. I loved that purse more than I loved Shaun Cassidy. I still recall the feeling of hearing the zipper unzip, and how I constantly found an excuse to rummage through the crap I wrangled up to throw in there in order to make that purse feel "official". This is how I knew how excited S was to have that same experience.

When we walked into Target, we immediately happened upon the purse area. S browsed through the aisles, lovingly stroking the diffirent types of leather, pleather, fabric and various faux materials that made up the many types of bags. She finally found one that made her squeal, and slung it over her shoulder. It was a slouchy brown pleather number with panels of Native American Indian designs on each side of the bag. "I LOVE this! It looks really hippy-ish!" She strode up and down the aisle, the bag swallowing her up whole. "I just wish it was a different color." She wore it as she browsed the other available purses, hoping to find one that made her squeal again. My mom and I took turns fruitlessly holding up alternatives, but she just rolled her eyes at them. Clearly, we had no taste. I finally found one buried among the "ugly" options that caught my eye. It was fabric and had funky designs all over it. It looked very "S". Slouchy? Check. Hippy-ish? Check. Long strap? Check.  "How about this one?" S let out an "ooooh" of approval, and I handed it to her. She was now more confused than ever.
"I love them BOTH!"
"Ah, but you can only get one."
"What do I do?"
My mom suggested that she walk up and down the aisle past the mirror, and glance at herself as she strode by so that she could see how each purse looked in action. So she did. Many, many times. And she still couldn't decide

Fully aware that we actually had real things to buy, I suggested that she walk around the store with both purses on, and get a feel for them in the real world. We pushed the cart around, my mom buying her things, me buying mine, all while S struggled out loud about her looming decision. In the soup aisle, I saw a woman with a funky sense of style -- the kind I knew S would respect -- so I approached her. "My daughter is buying her first real purse today, and she is having trouble deciding between two. May I ask your opinion?" The woman analyzed S, a gleam in her eye, and then quickly pointed at the one I had chosen.
"Love that one! I mean, they're both cute, but that one is just more... playful." S immediately nodded, relieved to be done with the choice.
"Thank you!" S smiled widely at the woman as she removed the brown purse from her shoulder.
"You're welcome. And... congratulations!" The woman smiled back at her, then looked at me and winked as she continued down the aisle, her job done.
S tore the tag off of the chosen purse and handed it to me, then placed her gift card in the bag, christening it with new weight. She then proceeded to float the rest of her way through Target, the purse grazing her thigh.

Last night, as I gave her her nightly good-night kiss, she asked me to sit with her for two minutes so that she could tell me what she had put in her purse. "....chapstick, my glasses case, lip gloss, my phone, a notebook with a pen - cuz you know how you're always telling me stuff I forget - my wallet, some suckers and some gum....I just wish I could sleep with my purse!" I congratulated her again on her new score, and tucked her in.  She rolled over and closed her eyes, the smile on her face carrying her into her dreams.

Delicate Veins

by Patti

S has been in life for 4,049 days. And of those 4,049 days, it seems that 3,832 have consisted of her waking up in the night screaming for me for one reason or another.  The other night was one of those nights. "MO-OM! MY NOSE IS BLEEDING!"

Bleary-eyed and feeling rather put-upon, I shuffled to the bathroom and fumbled with the toilet paper dispenser. I knew she would need a whole roll. She has this thing about blowing her nose more than once into a tissue. That child has murdered a million trees during her short time on earth  -- all in the name of snot.

S is prone to nosebleeds.  The doctor says she has "delicate veins". I imagine them in her nose, fanning themselves with lacey victorian fans, coping with the vapors that inevitably come with being so delicate.

Those delicate veins? Are most inconsiderate. With the change of the weather always come the nosebleeds: In the car when I am fresh out of napkins and going 70 miles per hour on the highway. At school where the nurse fawns over her, "tsk"ing away those inconsiderate veins. And most often of all, at night, deep into the night, between the hours of 2-4 am. Nice goin', veins.

And it is always I that gets up (because it is always me she yells for) to comfort her, to tame those veins, to keep handing to her yet another fresh piece of toilet paper because god forbid she should have to blow into one more than once. And as she lays back, her eyes beady from exhaustion, to try to stop the blood, I notice the smoothness of her forehead, and I remember....

I remember studying that same forehead between the hours of 2 and 4 am when she was new to me. She woke me every night for milk, and I would cradle her while she nursed and study the tiny little veins that were so exquisitely scrawled across her forehead and temples. They were so... perfect. They work, I would whisper to myself in full wonder. This little creature that came out of me actually worked. Life was running through her, and it just blew me away.

And on this 3,832nd night that I was awake when I shouldn't be, I handed my daughter another piece of toilet paper and knew that I was doing so because life is running through her, and because of her, through me.

Happy Mother's Day to all the put-upon mothers in this world. 

You know you wouldn't have it any other way.

No Brains? At Least We Have Legs (Sort Of)

by Cathy

This past Sunday was the only "day off" we had in a long time: no birthday parties, no visitors, no visits elsewhere, no errands, no Costco, no nothing. Just me and my DVR. I knew the only thing we had to do was run out and get something notarized before Joe left for Mexico on Monday.

So around noon, when I saw the clouds of doom start to roll in overhead, I urged Joe to head out and get this over with before it gets late and we're stuck in a potential typhoon. We shuffled into the car, Joe still on his crutches, papers in hand, and set off to run our 10-minute task at the local Currency Exchange.

As I pulled into the rear parking lot of the neighborhood C.E., Joe says, "I always forget they have a parking lot here. That's awesome."

"Yeah, but what's not awesome is that every time I come here, they never have what I need. No international stamps, no plate stickers...but they've got to have a notary. Every C.E. has a notary," I said, sure of myself.

It started to drizzle as we hobbled our way in. It was empty except for one lone girl behind the bulletproof glass. "Hi, we just want to get something notarized," I said cautiously.

"Oh no, we don't have a notary here," she quickly replied.
"SEE? What did I tell you?" I said loudly, turning to Joe. "They never have anything you need here. I don't know why I bother to even keep coming back. This is the last time..." my voice trailed off as I headed to the door.

"Where do you recommend we go?" Joe calmly asked the girl.
"There's one up the street on Clark and Lunt," she had her answer at the ready. Of course.

We got in and drove up the street, found the C.E. she suggested with no parking lot, and this time I had Joe sit in the car while I ran in to see if they had a notary. This C.E. was so huge, it looked like an amusement park, complete with line ropes to keep the bevy of customers in order as they waited their turn. 'They must have a notary here,' I thought a little too presumptuously.

"No, I'm sorry," said the Latino behind the the 'Next Window Please' sign propped up against the bulletproof glass. "Next one up the street you can try is on Dodge and Dempster."

"What?!" I practically shrieked, thinking at how ridiculous it is that I have to go OUTSIDE the city limits to find a C.E. with a notary.

I jogged back to the car in the rain which was coming down more steadily now.
"Nope," I said to Joe as I got in. He looked at me incredulously.
"This is fucking ridiculous. Isn't this their JOB? Where the hell are we going to go to now?"
"I know the C.E. by my parent's house has a notary, let's just go there," I suggested.
"All the way over there?!?! That's crazy!"
"You have a better idea?" I said.
Pause.
"How about the Mexican dude at the place near our house? He does faxing, UPS, Fed Ex, he has to do notary. Let's stop there. It's on the way to your parent's neighborhood anyway."

I guess he did have a better idea.

I pulled up across the street from the brightly lit store and ran across the street shielding my eyes from the incessant rain. I stopped short: Closed. I ran back and got in the car. "Closed," I repeated, almost wanting to laugh at this point.

"You gotta be shitting me!" he said. "How can it be closed? The place is lit up like they're having a Christmas party in there! Why do people do that? Can you imagine how much he's paying for electricity by doing that?!" he asked, now going off on tangents. "Now we still gotta go all the way to your parent's neighborhood," he said pointedly.

"Dude, it's not that far," I said trying to calm myself down before we both lost it. "We might as well keep going...we're on a roll!" I said, cranking up my Greek music and going with the flow.

As we were waiting to turn down the street towards my parent's C.E., Joe remembered that there's a C.E. on the corner, going in the other direction, a few blocks away.
"Oh yeah!" I said happily. "That's a good one too!" I wondered why all the good C.E.'s were near my parent's house.

We snagged a spot in the tiny parking lot, made our way past the solicitors outside the Dunkin' Donuts and passed a squabbling couple on the way in.

"Do you have a notary here?" I asked hopefully, pulling my now curly, wet hair out of my eyes.
"Yeah, uh, Paula..." said the guy towards a girl at the last window. "You're a notary, right?"
"Yes," she said quietly.

HALLELUJAH!! I practically screamed with joy.

As we got to the window, the slouchy-panted, wool cap-wearing Eminem-looking dude at the next window was shuffling uneasily and hopping around from foot to foot. "Yo dog," he tells the guy behind the bulletproof glass. "You saw this, right? I just came in to pay my bill, right? I could hear her outside lying her ass off right now," he continued.

Ooooh! Something was going down! I, being my naturally nosy self, had to find out what that was. I turned to look outside and realized he was talking about the couple we passed on the way in, whose voices were getting so loud, they could be heard inside. Suddenly, a police car rolls up and an equally slouchy looking, bed-headed cop comes dragging out and shuffles towards the couple. After a lot of hand gesturing and choice words caught here and there, the cop enters the C.E.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" he lazily asked the Eminem dude.

"Yo, listen man. These people here can vouch for me. I was just coming in here to pay my bills like a good citizen," he stressed as his hands alternately hit his chest and went shooting out full length in front of him almost poking the cop. "I might have walked past his girlfriend a little too close but he came after ME dog! I swear he went to his truck and pulled out what looked like a gun and then put it back in his glove compartment, man!"

I was getting a wee bit nervous now. The cop looked unfazed. Looking around the C.E., he asks, "Anyone here see anything?"

I fully expected someone to come forth since they all saw this, but apparently, some invisible money must have fallen from the sky because everyone was looking down, searching the floor while keeping mute.

"I was helping a customer," offered up our girl, Paula.
The C.E. guy was careful not to say too much either "No, I didn't see much."
"C'mon dog!" said Eminem. "You were right here!" he implored.
Joe and I just looked at each other and buried our faces into our business. At least we really didn't see anything.

"I could let you see the video cameras if you want. That's the best I can do," the guy offered up behind the bulletproof glass, which was being wiped down to within an inch of its life by the obliviously steadfast cleaning guy, who worked through all of this commotion as if it happens on a daily basis.

Meanwhile, our girl says, "Are you sure you need these notarized? I don't see a space on here for that."
Joe and I grabbed the documents and stared at them dumbly.
"B-B-but, I thought that's what THIS was for," I said pointing to a bunch of lines for signatures.
"No..." said Joe slowly reading it. "That's for the recipient of these documents."

Loooooong silence. All we could here was the fighting of the couple outside, Eminem trying to convince the cop he was minding his own business and now, booming claps of thunder and rain crashing down. THEN, my cell phone rings.

"Hi, this is Mrs. Holly, Bella's guitar teacher?" said the voice chirpily. You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. NOW?
"Yes?" I asked impatiently.
"Can we reschedule her lesson this week? I...."
"Can I call you back? I'll send you an email, okay? Talk soon!" I ended the call.

"So, you mean to tell me we didn't even need to get these notarized?" asked Joe of me incredulously.
"Dude, you reviewed these papers more times than me! YOU didn't notice this? I just glanced at it."
Joe takes a deep breath and turns to Paula.

"Let's just do it anyway. We're here."
"Great. That will be $2.00," she said as she signed and stamped away.

"Do you have any cash on you?" Joe turned to me.
"No, just my debit. Do you?"
"No. I have a debit and a credit card only."
"That'll be an extra $3.00 charge to use your card, sir," quipped Paula behind the now truly justified bulletproof glass.
"Wonderful," whined Joe, whose injured foot had now swollen to a crimson pink. "Five dollars for a notary we didn't even need."

He slides his debit card through and...nothing. Confused, he then slides his credit card through. Nothing.
"Crap," muttered Joe, utterly defeated. "When I called Citibank this morning to tell them I would be traveling I think they deactivated my cards for use here."
"WHAT?" I asked. Could this day get any worse? "Did you tell them to do that?"
"Of course not," he says. But what else could it be?? I KNOW I have money in these accounts. Jesus...what else?" said Joe, shaking his head. "Now I gotta call them back."

I slid my card through, paid $5.00 for a stamp and a signature we didn't need to begin with, and by then, fortunately, the House of Pain situation outside had dispersed.

We chalked up this entire dramatic comedy of errors to one simple Greek saying:
"Those who don't have a brain, have legs."
(And we barely had that going for us since Hoppy Chulo is still on one leg.)

Yes. It's that simple. Had we used our brains to read the documents properly, we wouldn't need to run/crutch around half of Chicago, and practically be witness to an assault that may/may not have included a gun.

Secretly relieved that you're secretly relieved....

by Patti

My friends Kristin and Traci and I decided enough was enough -- we needed to plan a night out after work. So we somehow magically found a date that worked for all of us ( - we all work+we all have kids = Never Afreakingvailable. Traci, bless her insane little heart, has THREE kids -) and wrote that date into our respective calendars.

Truthfully, the date was a stretch for me. The day we picked is the day I normally take S to ballet, and S has this "thing" about changes in her routine. But I figured M could take her and she'd just have to get over it, even if meant the earth would start spinning in reverse and then fly right off its axis and go floating off into space totally untethered.

The day finally arrived. I made sure to wear my "drinking" pants, and went into work. And then... the text. The one from M that meant my plans would have to change because "something came up". That "something" was unfortunately a little more important than my doing shots after work, but it still annoyed me unto no end. Why? BECAUSE THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS, ALWAYS. Every single time I, or any of my other friends for that matter, make a plan to do something that means no kids? The kids get sick, the husband has a meeting, the babysitter gets hit by a car...the combination of disasters is endless.

I remember once when Cathy and I had exuberant plans for a night out, and after a series of canceled plans, we had what we thought was a full-proof plan. That is, until her husband Joe's plane got DELAYED OVERNIGHT IN MIAMI. Of COURSE it did. Because we had plans!

So on this day, when M put a dent in my plans with Kristin and Traci - I got nervous. Poor Kristin and Traci, frazzled working mothers that they are. I was about to ruin their plans. I was about to be a plan buster. I shot off an email to both of them, hoping they would understand; encouraging them both to still go and "tie one on" without me. Within moments, my phone rang. It was Kristin. "Hi..." I said sheepishly, fully expecting the guilt her disappointment would make me feel.
"Ohmygod, I am so secretly relieved!" she blurted out breathlessly.
"What? You ARE?"
"Because!" she told me, "Mallorie had a total meltdown this morning when I dropped her off at my mom's. I felt AWFUL knowing I was going to go out tonight instead of seeing her after work!"
"Awwww..."
"Yeah... my mom even told me she couldn't believe I was going to still go out after the way Mallorie cried. I felt so bad. But I didn't want to cancel on you guys."
I found the silver lining. "See? It all worked out for the best!"
"Plus!" she continued. "Rob and I were totally trying to figure out the logistics of how it would work if I went out."
The more she talked, the more I realized I was saving her life. I silently thanked M for ruining my plans.

And then I realized: Traci. She comes into work later than Kristin and I, and her disappointment still awaited her. "She wasn't feeling good yesterday," Kristin offered hopefully. "Maybe she'll feel like crap today!"
How sad. To save ourselves and our friend disappointment, we wished her ill. "She's here!" Kristin whispered. And then we hung up.

Five minutes later, I got an email from Traci, "No worries, guys. I feel like total crap today anyway. I was still going to go out because I really need a drink, but...." So SHE was secretly relieved, too!

In the end, it seems the whole disintegration of plans ended up oddly working in our favor: Kristin because her baby guilted the need for fun right of her; Traci because she was feeling like crap, and besides, hey! She could use that window of "alone time" to shop for her son's birthday; me because I felt bad for being the plan buster. Plus, I had been a little worried about making the earth fly off its axis with my inconsiderate ways.
And my keeping the earth from floating off into space totally untethered? For that, I'm sure we are all secretly relieved.

Royal Pains in my Seat

by Cathy

One night last week, Bella prepared her evening snack as usual and sat down at the kitchen table to eat it. This time, however, she sat in Ari's chair. We have designated chairs at our kitchen table for dinner and ever since the girls were old enough to sit in a chair with their booster seats, they each sat in their assigned chair of choice.

On this night, as Bella was happily chomping on her Cheerios and me on my Honeycomb (what can I say? It brings back my childhood memories) Ari strolled into the kitchen to get some water. And so it began.

"Bella! Why are you sitting in my seat?!"
"Because mommy is sitting in mine," she pointed over at me, my left cheek stuffed with those huge Honeycomb wheels.
"Bella!! I don't want you to sit in my seat!"
Silence.
"Mommy! Bella is sitting in my seat!"
"Honey, it's okay. She's just having her snack. She'll be almost done."
"But I want to sit there?"
"Now? But you're not eating."
"I still want to sit there."
"Honey, just let her finish and she'll get up, okay?"
"NOOOOOOO!"

On this went until I moved out of Bella's seat so she can sit there and free up Ari's seat. But Bella didn't budge.
"She has to learn that she can't always get what she wants."

Hmph. Here was the student teaching the master. She had a good point. So we both ignored her until she stomped off and came back with this note, which she prodded into our personal face space and proceeded to then tape to her chair after Bella got up:

She wrote this same thing three different times, spelling it three different ways. And if you'll notice, she taped up ALL THREE versions on each side of her chair. She clearly marked her territory and claimed her stake at the kitchen table, that's for dang sure.

So that evening, Bella decided to do the same, but she one-upped her by simply just putting her nickname, Queen Isabella, on her chair, in the fanciest font she could find:

And Ari, in true Leo fashion and never wanting to be outdone, had her papi help her create the following to add to her chair, but first, not without changing her mind and allowing someone to sit in her chair for an allotted period of time:

The 30 minute restriction overpowers the throne name

So all these little scraps of paper are still taped to these two chairs in our kitchen, lest anyone forgets which chair they're about to plop their own seat on.

See? Some ground rules are always needed...even when you think you'll never need them.

A Year in Our Lives

by Cathy & Patti

This blog post is dedicated to our dear, sweet, big-hearted Texan beauty: Michelle. Without you, this would not be.

Today marks the one year anniversary of our blog.

On May 7th, 2011, we took They Whine We Wine live with its quirky and humorous name and equally quirky and humorous stories from our lives, and brought it all to you - our loyal supporters, readers and the now many new friends. 

Cathy's sip:

Some people need to talk things through with a professional to figure things out.
They have psychiatrists, therapists and counselors.
Other people need to write things out as a means to work things through or keep records of their thoughts and experiences.
They keep a daily journal.
Us?
We have this blog.

This blog started out as a fluke; a crazy suggestion offered up by our BFF, Michelle. (Yes, THE Michelle referred to as Miche or Miche-again repeatedly in our posts.) Anyway, Miche suggested in jest that because Patti and I are just too dang funny and entertaining, (no modesty here) and have similar, crazy, thoughtful stories to constantly share with people, that we should start a dueling blog.

"What's that?" we asked.

"You know," she offered up, not so much in jest anymore. "You could each post stories and the other one gets to respond and back and forth and so on!"

Ooooooh. Now that sounded fun. After going back and forth on ideas, strategies, deciding on a name (this blog was almost called Cheerios In My Bra), and finally setting a start date and sticking to it - we did it. Of course we had to work out the kinks along the way like who would post on what days, the addition of our dual (not duel) posts every Friday, themes and cultural nuances, the ongoing sprucing up of our homepage, and excuses to hold WineWhine parties at each other's houses to "strategize" on the blog.

Here, one year later, I want to share with you what this blog has meant for me:

I have learned that what really leaves an imprint on your heart's memory, are the little moments within the big moments like the sweet tidbits of information that gets revealed to you when you tuck your kids in at night, the reaction to a surprise, the curl of your child's fist when they're asleep, the unsolicited compliment by your significant other, the first time your toddler was able to read a sentence, write a word or draw a picture of you, or the size of their tears as they drip down their face when they come to you for comfort.

I have discovered that life has a lesson to offer in EVERYTHING that happens to you, whether it be tragic, humorous, mundane, dramatic, unplanned, life-changing, eventful or boring. What matters is that you find out what that is. So for me, in trying to discover that, I found that this blog has been my proverbial rose-colored glasses: I use it to choose to find the humor or lesson in the scenes and scenarios in my life rather than the disdain and annoyance.

This blog has allowed me to understand myself, my kids, my friends, my husband, my family and my life better than before, since I take the time to dismantle scenarios and write them out. And in doing so, I have found that life is, in the end, rather funny in its own obvious and mysteriously hidden ways.

Through this blog, I have uncovered the layers within myself, to expose parts of me I never thought I'd show myself, let alone others. I have learned to trust my inner voice, to take better care of ME, to consciously be present in the moments of every day and make a cognizant effort to keep a positive attitude not only for myself, but more so, for my family. And that the bottom line, is that really? I have everything to be thankful for.

Pattis' sip:

When I tell people that, as a child, I was so shy my brother had to speak for me, they look at me like they’re waiting for the punch line. It’s true: I was painfully, heartbreakingly shy. And still can be.

That’s why, when Miche, who was probably tired of being the solo audience to our combined neurosis, suggested this whole blog thing -- well, it was a little scary for me. Because then, you know, I’d be sharing things like feelings. I’d be writing things that were true. Things that were real. And then people would know things.  And that would make those things more true and more real.

But I did it anyway. (Because that is the motto Cathy and I are sharing this year: Do it anyway.) And guess what? The world didn't go and get all crazy-like and implode. Instead, as time has gone on, I have found something kind of liberating in this whole sharing thing. Yes, it is scary; but it is also wonderful to know that when I put myself on the line, somebody else out there is being touched, moved, comforted. Somebody feels less...alone.

It hasn’t only been a cathartic journey for me; it has also been a deepening of friendship. Doing this by myself would not have been nearly as fun. It’s a bit like jumping of a diving board with a friend. You both stand there, your toes playing with the edge, holding hands, and then you both plug your noses and count to three. And then? You both jump, together, hands encircled, trusting each other. And somehow, that makes the jump much less scary, and much, much more fun. And that is what Cathy has been to me in this journey: My jumping partner. She would say I’m much more “out there” than she is, but she is a little more brave than I when it comes to taking a chance. She has what I call “delusional confidence”, and that confidence has carried us both.

Our blog is still tiny. Our traffic can be embarrassing some days. And though we at one time obsessed with getting those hits, we now just write to write. If they come, they come. It matters not, because we love doing it. For ourselves, for you.

Thank you for reading.

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We look forward to another year of ruminations, discoveries, surprises, milestones, and all of the little moments in between to share with you all. 

Death by Disposal

by Patti

Last night, as the thunder roared and the lighting did its little flashdance outside, M washed the dishes as we talked about our respective days. I was sitting at the kitchen counter across from him as he scrubbed, my head barely propped up by my hands. This getting up at 5:30 AM crap is literally for the birds, not humans who get caught up in back episodes of Celebrity Apprentice. Yes, I realize I could go to bed earlier, but when your kid goes to bed at 9 PM, and your husband gets home just before 10 PM, you tend to live your life on the Night Owl side. Plus: Celebrity Apprentice is addicting. That Donald is such an instigator.

So, as M scrubbed and I swayed to the lullaby in my head, and the thunder clapped and the lightning danced, and the dog snored in his bed, and the waterfall waterfalled... Wait. WHAT? The waterfall? M suddenly let out a string of Ricky Ricardoisms and jumped back, flinging the sponge in his hand across the room. "Chuta, que paso? Que es esto?" That's when I saw a hearty stream of water snaking its way across the kitchen floor, and then, within seconds, that stream became a river and then a lake and then an ocean. Our entire kitchen was covered in water. And that water was seeping under the breakfast bar out onto the dining / great room area. It was under the refrigerator, the oven, and making its way into the formal dining room.

As I sat there dumbly, watching the water work its devious magic, M sprang into action, lifting our 900-lb utility rug off the kitchen like the Incredible Hulk lifting a car off a kid. He grabbed all of the dish towels out from under the cabinet and plastered them all over the floor, trying to stop the water. "Towels!" he yelled, and I finally woke from my stupor and ran for the basement to get extra towels. As I ran past S's room, she popped her head up from the pillow. "What's going on?" I responded with some gibberish about water and broken things, and trampled down the stairs. Once in the basement, I noticed that the water was dripping down from upstairs onto the laundry room floor. I grabbed one of the 396 foil roasting pans I keep stored down there just in case and stuck it under the leak, grabbed a handful of towels,and sprinted back up the stairs. "What's going ON?" S demanded again as I raced past her door.

In the kitchen, every countertop was covered with what had been under the sink. Oh, there's the oven spray. Scanning all of the items, I was amazed that all of that had fit under the sink. I was also amazed at how quickly M managed to dismantle our entire kitchen. "It was the garbage disposal", he told me. "It broke."
"There's water in the basement."
"Of course there is. It'll dry. Help me take this rug out."
We lifted the 900-lb rug and stood there, both realizing it was pouring outside, thus reducing the chances of the rug drying outside by a few hundred percent. And then we continued to stand there, also realizing ther was no place for it to dry inside, either. So, we rearranged our covered back deck and laid the rug across the table. Klassy. All we needed was an old couch and a tire to complete the look.

Back inside, M plugged in an industrial fan that blew the bajeezus out of the air around us, and then  he instructed me that we could not use the kitchen sink until Sunday, when he would finally have time to fix it.
"Are you insane?"
So, to round out the klass, he stuck a metal bucket under the sink and called it fixed. 'Til Sunday.

Then, we went to bed and fell asleep, the fan screaming, the rain falling, the water dripping.

Sleepovers & Secrets

by Cathy

This past weekend, Bella had her 11th birthday party. She was particularly ecstatic because a) we got her a cell phone for her birthday a few days before the party, b) this was the first sleepover party she's hosted at our house and c) well, because she's a kid and it's her birthday party!

So for three days and three nights, we cleaned, vacuumed, prepped the sleepover room/bedroom, shopped and put together goody boxes, climbed ladders to twist purple and green streamers from all corners of her bedroom, hung a puffy, pink pom-pom looking thing from the ceiling fan in our living room, went to Costco and bought pizzas, chips, salsa, snacks, ice cream, chocolate milk, fruit, pancake mix, water, juice boxes and a bajillion other things that apparently we need to have on hand for a birthday sleepover party, organized and decluttered little areas in our house that needed to look more presentable, made sure I had Ferris Bueller's Day Off mailed to our house by Netflix in time, entertained, shuffled, chaperoned and chauffeured seven girls from our home, to the movie theater, to the nail salon and back.

Surprisingly, it all went very smooth, despite the 'You guys are crazy' undertones heard in the voices of the parents dropping off their kids, as they said things like, "Have fuuuuun..."  and "Good luuuuuck.." Luckily, everything turned out much better than we all anticipated. The demeanor, camaraderie and well-behaved manners of the girls were pleasantly surprising. They are, after all, blooming into young ladies and it's amazing to see how their maturity level is growing into that role as well.

After all of the shuffling and home activities were completed, the girls were off to the bedroom to claim their stake on the floor and lay out their sleeping bags, blankets, pillows and sweetly enough, even their favorite stuffed animals and pillow pets.

The plan was to get Ari, my five-year old, to sleep with me and Joe in our bed and offer up her bed to one of the girls. But there were two problems here: 1) no one wanted to sleep in the bed ("I never get to sleep on the floor!!" and "It's so much more fun on the floor!") and 2) Ari refused to leave her bed, even though she was beyond exhausted since having awakened at 7am that morning and would never get close to even shutting her eyes in a room brimming over with prepubescent, hormone-charged, high-pitched squealy girls. She desperately still wanted to be a part of what the Big Girls were doing. Thankfully, one of the girls came to her senses and requested the bed after all, which required plenty of coaxing and bribery on my part to get Ari to come into our bedroom.

I scooped her up with her pillow and Mo, her stuffed lamb, and carried her into our room, promising her a cuddly, snuggly time with mommy and papi. Joe greeted her with a sweet, "Hi mommy! You come here and sleep with us tonight, okay?" I tucked her little body in while she clutched PillowMo, slipped under the covers and cozied up right next to her. As I watched Ari doze off next to me, I thought about how Bella was in her room gossiping, sharing secrets, talking about boys, texting other girls in the room on her new phone, and how she was already growing up and away from us. I missed her already.

Exhausted, I started to doze off myself, when I was awakened by a quick kiss and a loudly whispered, "Good night mommy!"
I startled awake and found Bella's face right over mine. I hugged and kissed her goodnight. After about what seemed like another hour and the voices trailing from the girls' room were starting to lose power, I heard the quick, tip-toed shuffling of feet and waited for Bella to turn the corner into our room again. I smiled to myself as she came in.
 "I just want to give you another kiss and a hug before I go to sleep," she said tiredly. I wondered if she had snuck out of the room to do this and I smiled to myself again. I squeezed her tight and gave her another goodnight kiss.
"Thanks for everything mommy. Love you!" she said softly as she ran back to her room.

I fell back asleep, smiling contentedly. No matter how old she is, she will always be my 'lil girl, and that will always be our little secret.

Happy 11th birthday, my 'lil girl!!

She can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell! (My bell! Ding-a-ling-a-ling!)

by Patti


S has been sick the past few days, lounging in bed with a sore throat and a cold and recovering from a conk to the head that left her with a bump on the back of her head the size of, well, a head.

The first day of her sickness, she stayed home from school and I stayed home from work. In an attempt to make being sick fun, I set her up in our bed with fluffed-up pillows, her Kindle, some movies, and a bell. Yes, I gave her a bell - the kind you see dainty ladies in dainty sleeping gowns ring daintily from their dainty, frilly beds to call for their tea. "What's this?" S's eyes lit up.
"It's a bell. Since your throat hurts, instead of calling for me, you can just ring it when you need me."
"COOL!" She took the bell from me and gave it a test drive. "I LOVE THIS!"

I left the room and headed for the kitchen to do dishes. BY HAND. Because, you know, we still don't have a new dishwasher. Mid-pot scrub, I heard it. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!" I ran to the bedroom dramatically, slid in on my socks and bowed deeply. "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?" S laughed with delight. She couldn't believe her good fortune and the power of the bell.
"I'm thirsty. Can I have some water?"
"Sure, honey!"
I went back to the kitchen and filled a water bottle with ice and water and lots of love, and took it right back to her. "Here you go, ma'am."
"Thanks, mommy."
"You're welcome, moodge."

I headed back to the kitchen to finish the dishes, and within moments..."Jingle, jingle, jingle!" I once again shut off the water, peeled off my neon green Glam Gloves (yes, that is what they are called. Don't believe me? You can see them right here.), and went back to my bedroom. "Hi, sweetie. What is it?"
"Mommy? Can you find me 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding' on YouTube?"
"Don't you want to watch something different? You've seen it, like, nine times."
"No, I love that movie, especially when I'm sick." And then she coughed for good effect.
"Okay..." I bent over her Kindle and expertly surfed YouTube until I found the movie. "Here you go!"
"Thanks, Mommy!"

Back at the sink again, the bell rang within minutes. This time I walked only half way to the bedroom. "What is it, sweetheart?"
"Mommy, that was only part one. I can't find part two."
I shuffled back into the bedroom, feeling a slight twinge of annoyance. I once again did my YouTube magic and managed to find the entire movie, set it up for her, and left the room. Again.
When I got back to the kitchen, M came home from running errands. "How is she?"
"She's - " Before I had the chance to answer, the familiar ringing filled the air.
"What's that?" M cocked his head towards the sound, his eyes searching the air.
"Oh. That. I gave her a bell."
M rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"
"I thought it would be fun." The bell continued to ring in the distance, it's once delightful chime now mocking my decision. This time M went into the room, and I heard her giggle as he no doubt tickled her.

He was back within minutes and I had finally finished the dishes. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!" Not wanting to admit I had made a mistake, I sailed past M, an eager smile pasted on my face. "Fun! See?"
"Mommy? I'm hungry. But for something good." Because, you know, we normally crave something disgusting when we are hungry.
"What do you want?"
"Something...cozy."
Oh, brother. I went back into the kitchen and toasted some cinnamon bread, slathered it with butter and cinnamon, and cut up some fruit in a little bowl, then put it all on a tray. "How's this?" I set the tray onto the bed with flourish as she propped herself up and gave me a nod of approval.

I joined M in the kitchen where we started going over some bills. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!"  I decided to pretend I didn't hear the bell, but the more M and I tried to talk over it, the louder it seemed to get. I didn't understand just how her SUPPOSEDLY SICK LITTLE HAND managed to ring that thing with such fervor and stamina. Finally; I snapped. "WHAT?" I yelled from the kitchen. The bell stopped suddenly, as if hurt by my tone. And then, it started ringing again, this time with more persistence.

I ran into the room, "WHAT IS IT, HONEEEEEEY?"
S looked all tiny and pale, propped up against the pillows, surrounded by Kleenex and stuffed animals, the movie's now all-too-familiar dialogue in the background. "I need tea. With cream. Please?"

Suddenly overcome with crazy love for this little pain-in-the-ass with a bell that was my daughter, I leaped onto the bed and gathered her into my arms. "Do you KNOW how much I love you? DO YOU?"
She nodded and laughed a muffled laugh into my chest. "Yesth."
And then I got up and went to make her that damned tea. With bells on.

It's Just What Mothers Do

by Cathy

The other morning as we were shuffling around the house trying to make it to school on time, Bella was whispering her items checklist under her breath (softball bag, lunch, snacks) and then shot out an, "Ooooh! I need five dollars." She immediately made a beeline to the piggy bank in her room while Joe and I looked at each other quizzically.

"What do you need five dollars for, sweety?" I called after her while looking at Joe. I walked towards her room. "Are they having a bagel and juice sale at school again?"

"No, I'm gonna buy some jewelry," she stated matter-of-factly, like, duh, that was something she does at school all the time.

"Oh," I said. "Who's selling jewelry?"

"My friend Abbey," she said. "She makes these really cool bracelets and barrettes using bottle caps!"

"Oh, that's nice. Isn't that a little expensive for bottle caps?"

"Yeah, I know," she agreed back, "but they are so cute and cool so I'm gonna buy one."

She kept overturning her piggy bank full of change and tried to fish out her dollars while the clock was ticking closer to tardiness.

"Here I think I have a few dollars," I offered to speed things up. "Just take them." Turns out, I only did have a few dollars. I was two dollars short.

"Can't you just give Abbey the three dollars today and tell her you'll give her the other two tomorrow so I can get some change? The only other bill I have is a 10."

Bella didn't answer. I repeated it four times and clearly, her silence indicated that she didn't want to do that. She didn't feel honest doing that and didn't want to offend her friend in any way.

"I'm sure she'll be okay with it," offered Joe. But Bella wasn't content with that.

"Okay, here," I said, offering up the $10 bill. "But make sure you get change, okay? And if she doesn't have change, ask one of the teachers to break the $10. DON'T lose it!"

Apparently, that last part didn't sit well with Bella. "I'm NOT gonna lose it! Gosh! Why do you always say that when you give me something? You make me sound totally irresponsible!!"

Now I love my Bella, my little Mini Me. And because I know me, I know her. And whether she will admit it or not - heck, it took me forever to admit this for myself - she is a bit of a scatterbrain - JUST LIKE ME.

Did I accidentally mail $50 in an envelope once and made one mailman a really happy dude?
Yes.
Have I left my purse in several restaurants?
Yes.
Did I lose an envelope which contained a copy of my mother's drivers license which she Next Day shipped from Europe via DHL for a kajillion dollars so I can get her international driver's license processed and sent back?
Yes.

And by the way, I get this flightiness from my mother, who has left her keys in fitting rooms, forgotten bills and other important paperwork on top of her car as she's driven away and has lost countless pairs of gloves getting out of her car as they tumble out of her lap and onto the street.

Bella was lucky enough to have inherited this flighty flaw from my side of the family, so do I trust her 100% with not losing things? Heck to the no. But I did try to ease her anxiety about me being on her case about losing things. I didn't tell her that I say these things because she has the propensity to lose things like me. Instead, I told her it's because, "It's just what mothers do."

It's their job to say these things to their kids - not because they think they will lose stuff (ahem) but because this is the way they discipline their kids into becoming responsible adults, and even though she'll be MY age one day, I'll still say these things to her.  I also told her that my mother, still to this day, tells me the same thing when she hands me something.

Bella seemed more content when she heard that and I noticeably felt her relief as the burden shifted from her tiny shoulders. Because she knows, my mother knows and I know.
It's just what mothers do.