2015

by Cathy

2015...

This is the year that I turn 45, celebrate my 18th wedding anniversary and see my first-born enter high school.

It sounds like someone else's life; someone much older than me. Those are some serious double-digit milestones, the kind reserved for "old" people I used to hear about when I was in the prime of my youth and all of this seemed light years away. Nonetheless, this is where I am in my life right now, crazy numbers and all, so I am here to face it and yes, embrace it.

It still doesn't make sense to me that we are in the year 2015. It still sounds ridiculously futuristic, as if we are living in another dimension. It was, after all, the year Marty traveled to in Back to the Future Part II.

Back to the Future is now

Back in the day, the decades had real sounding names with now marked events and characteristics that defined them for each of us, from the 1920s through to the 1990s. Each decade felt like it meant something, like each had its own representation and weight.

Then it all started sounding strange. How do we refer to the decades after the 90s? The zeroes? The two-thousands? What about the decade we're in now? Are we in the 10s? The 2010s? You don't hear people referring to decades like they once did because there's no non-awkward sounding, all encompassing way to refer to them. They all sound futuristic, even though we've been "in the future" for now, fifteen years. And if you ask me to define the marked characteristics of the last two decades since 2000, I'd venture to say that it's one big reality television show whirred into a technologically frenzied blur. Maybe I just don't care enough to distinguish these decades and acknowledge their own weight because they don't have a cool sounding name that warrants it. That's just me.

There is something, however, about the number and year, 2015, that compelled me to write about it. It's not an even-numbered year, yet it stands out because of the milestone simplicity it represents. It falls directly in the center of this decade, neatly separating the polar (and literal) opposites of what decades start/end, bring/take for people facing, dare I say, middle age.

Writing that statement was very sobering, as were writing the statements that follow...

This year, I am at equal distance from age 30 as I am from age 60. That stark calculation was made by me after an eye-opening statement made by Bella as we sat at home on this past blistery cold New Year's Eve 2014.
"Did you know that right now, at 2015, we are at equal distance from the year 2030 as we are from the year 2000?"
She wasn't even alive in 2000. So, again, those damned numbers. Why do they represent so much?

Well, they do and it's up to us to make these number mean something. God willing, this year like always, we intend to do so. Therefore, in addition to the wedding anniversary, high school milestone and 45th birthdays my husband and I will celebrate in 2015, we've also set goals. Goals put less pressure on results as they are plans to strive towards, not non-resolute resolutions.

We have goals to grow our business, to move into a single family home if plans take us in that direction, (and then maybe get a puppy to round out that American dream altogether), to buy a second car, and to travel to a place we haven't been before. Our personal goal, besides the ever-present "aim-to-salvage-what's-left-of-our-quasi-youthful-physique" goal, is to learn a new language and constantly strive to learn more and network more (Joe's) and for me, to finally embark on my lifelong dream.

We will continue to pray for our good health and those of our friends and family, to take in every minute of the crazy rate at which our girls are blossoming, maturing, molding their personalities, smoothing their rough edges and keeping sharp the ones that should stay that way, and to spend as much time with our parents as possible. The most challenging though for me, will be to make it through Bella's grammar school graduation and high school entrance without becoming a complete blubbering, broken down mess. Kids are, after all, the barometer against which the speediness of passing years is measured.

So please, 2015, seeing as you're right smack in the middle of this unnamed decade, do us a solid and slow down to let us take it all in.

---------------------------

Happy, healthy, prosperous New Year to our dedicated readers, followers, believers, supporters, fans and visitors from around the world. 

Running Scared

by Cathy

Last week, I had lined up a workday downtown with various store visits and meetings. Before entering one of these meetings, I had about 25 minutes of reprieve, which allowed me to sneak in a quick lunch in the form of a McDonald's Premium McWrap. I entered the waiting room/lobby of my next meeting early and as I was helping myself to a cup of water, with my lunch sprawled out across the counter and bags half-falling off my shoulder, I noticed a woman behind me waiting patiently for me and my exploded belongings to make way.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I replied, hurriedly scooping up my unraveling McWrap, careful not to spill my teetering cup of water. "I'll be out of your way in a second."

"Don't worry about it," she said with a flick of her wrist. "I know how it is. Always going, going,
going,"she laughed knowingly. "I'll tell you, you know, we're always running, things to do, places to go,
but to be honest?" She stopped what she was doing and looked me square in the eyes.

"I'm scared of slowing down."

That made me stop in my tracks. I chuckled at her and blurted out a commiserating "I hear you!" before turning away to find a seat.

Her words played over and over in my head. "I'm scared of slowing down." She verbalized what a lot of us do on a subconscious level. Enough to make me slow down and take it in.

We all bitch about how tired we are, how much we have to do, how little time we have for this or that. But really...really...if someone were to take these responsibilities, jobs and obligations away from you tomorrow, what would you be left with? What would you do??

For some, slowing down is the beginning of that end. What would it mean if we slowed down? Would it mean we might just stop altogether? Give up on life, goals, dreams and plans? Would we no longer be deemed worthy to our loved ones or to ourselves? Or would it mean that we were forced to face the stillness of life, that moment when we hear nothing but our own voice, see nothing but our own true self (which was lost long ago amidst life's plans and paths), and realize that we haven't done what we wanted to do for ourselves? Fittingly, I saw the following posted on Arianna Huffington's Facebook page today as I sat down to write this post:

Silence is not just about not talking. It's a void...a place where all things come from...all voices, all creation...when you're standing on the edge of silence, you hear things you've never heard before...and in ways you've never heard them before.  -- John Francis

For many, this type of self-reflection can be very traumatizing - especially when we don't like what we see staring back at us; when we don't want to hear the voices that come from that silence. And so we run from it. We create static to break the deafening silence that threatens to disrupt life as we know it. We keep running...scared.

Thank You and Goodbye: A Farewell to my Childhood Home

by Cathy

FOR  RENT

Never did two words affect me as deeply as these did the other day; they were plastered across the living room window of the house on Mozart Street where I spent my childhood. Those same windows where I eagerly awaited the daily return of my father from work and that same living room where I would undoubtedly wait and "surprise" him every evening when he walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see that sign - I merely drove by the building to reminisce, to see how different it felt now that my parents had officially moved out after 36 years. I was not expecting to see that sign.

Like a bullet ricocheting through my insides, those two words left my eyes, processed through to my brain, dropped down to my heart and shot right back up to my eyes in the form of waves of sobs - all within seconds. I wasn't ready for that reaction yet I knew that selling our childhood home would be like grieving the loss of loved one.

As I drove away in a bleary-eyed mess, I remembered how I was seven years-old when we moved in and I thought that beautiful structure was a castle, with its clear, diamond-shaped doorknobs, its stained-glass windows and its regal architecture gracing the facade's roof line. That castle, which  now holds all of my memories, my secrets, my dreams, my past, my life, will now be filled with others' lives, although I don't see how there will be any room left for them.

 It was the place I grew from a child, to a teenager, to a college student, to a married woman. I know too well that spot on the floor in my room where I would spend hours on the phone with boys or girlfriends. Those rounded cement decorations flanking our front door which we used as an intercom when we were playing Charlie's Angels. The front stoop, where we spent countless, carefree summer nights playing, gossiping, hanging out, choreographing dances to Queen and REO Speedwagon for our neighborhood talent show. The garage where we spent wonderfully simple Easters with our grandparents roasting lambs, and where we kept our first dog, Ginger, who ate the bicycle seat of my favorite pink bike. Where I learned how to ride a bike. The family birthday parties in the back yard. The back alley where I first learned how to drive with my dad in our white Plymouth Valiant. The familiar path to Virginia Park, where we walked or rode our bikes with our grandfather. All now distant, yet still vibrant memories.

Just last week, after 36 years of living there, my parents left their brick-and-mortar child behind. They not only sold my childhood home, but in a sense, they sold my childhood - and that of my sister's. That place that was filled with countless memories - sad, funny, memorable, devastating, fun - and every single one of those memories, relevant threads that tightly bind the fabric of our youth and ultimately, who we became as adults. The places we used to hide, the places we used to hide stuff, the doors and door frames we've written on, the places on the walls we made those dents and the stories that went with them, the hidden places in the furnace room and cubbies where we sharpied our names into the walls, the cement patch behind the garage where my grandfather, God rest his soul, carved out his initials.

The move was bittersweet in the sense that my parents had to move due to familial riffs and other extenuating circumstances, which had become more unbearable the past five years. For this reason, it was more of a relief for them to leave. For my sister and I, however, it was heartbreaking. We moved from Mozart Street on good terms, full of nothing but great memories that will always resonate into strings of stories that will forever weave the webs of our lives as we pass these down to our children. That is how we prefer to think of that building - the house that will forever be our home.

Seeing this home with moving boxes filled with our past, is something I never thought I would see.

Even worse, is seeing it completely empty.

But I didn't get to see that due to the timing of the move. My sister, on the other hand, did. I was jealous of her for having that closure, for allowing herself to grieve the loss of our childhood home in a way I didn't. She told me that after she walked through it, she stood in the foyer and said aloud, "Thank you and goodbye. I hope the next people treat you as good as we did."

I felt devastated that I didn't get my turn in saying goodbye and seeing it empty. On the other hand, I don't know if that was necessarily the best thing to do to myself. I am now content with remembering it full of life, memories and our things.

My mother told me if she was able to wrap her arms around the building and hug it tightly, she would. She put as much blood, sweat, tears and TLC into maintaining that building as she did in raising her children. That pride in ownership is what she will miss the most. No matter what the circumstances for leaving that place, the fact remains that these bricks and glass and wood that formed our childhood home will always be a part of who we are.

Just like the soul of a person gives us life, spirit and individuality, I believe the soul of a home are the people that reside within it. We give it life, we give it love, we give it spirit and memories. Whether we remain in that structure's shell or not, our soul will always resonate within it. Our history will remain fused with that brick and mortar of our past.

If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be that two-flat on Mozart Street where I grew up.

Thank you...and goodbye.

Beggars CAN Be Choosey

by Cathy

Stopped at a stoplight. Walking in and out of stores. Walking down the street. Running down the street. We've all been confronted by peddlers while doing any one of these tasks and then some. Some give what they can, some ignore, some give no mind at all. (Bless my daughters' kind hearts, they want to give money to every person holding a sign at every intersection, and every street corner, every day. In Chicago, that's a lot o' dollars.)

We give what we have, when we can. That's a realistic approach we've exemplified for our girls. They've watched my husband and I hand our leftover food to homeless on the street while coming out of restaurants, buy an extra cheeseburger for the ones loitering around the McDonald's drive-thru and heck, Joe once even reached in and handed a beggar everything he had in his pocket, just because he was feeling good. I think that was about $30. Like I said, we give what we can, when we can.

So it baffled my husband to no end when, the other day, he was scoffed at by a beggar. As usual, minding his own business, stopping in for a coffee at a local shop, he was handed a piece of paper by a man. The paper claimed that he was a deaf mute and could he please help him out with any change he is willing to spare? Joe dug into his pocket, and all he had was .18 cents. He placed the change into the now wide-open palm of the eager man, who sat and stared incredulously as he counted the change. He slowly and deliberately rolled his stare up to meet Joe's eyes and shrugged his shoulders in a "What's this?" kind of way. Joe could not believe what he was encountering.

He turns to the cashier and says, "Can you believe this? I give this guy the change in my pocket and he gives me attitude." The cashier shakes her head.

He turns back to the man, who has now deposited the change into his pocket, and motions for him to give it back. "Give it back," he says, not knowing if he can hear him or not, yet the beggar knew exactly what he had set off. "If you don't want it, give it back. I can use it if you can't."

His eyes shifting everywhere, the beggar now is fumbling around in his pockets, dragging out the process as if to say, "On second thought..."
"Hmpft. Yeah. Forget it," Joe waves his hand at him in dismissal. "Just keep it."

So which saying applies here? You're damned if you do or damned if you don't? or No good deed goes unpunished? Both seem fitting. I'm not saying all peddlers are finicky even though there was a hungry (his sign said so) homeless guy downtown whom I gave my leftover pizza slices to and he paused to curl his upper lip in thoughtful decision. There was that homeless guy who actually returned the diamond engagement ring a woman inadvertently dropped into his cup. All I'm saying is that we do what we can, when we can and when we don't, I will try not to feel as guilty about it.

Summer Fun(k)

by Patti

When S was little and I had the luxury of being able to stay home with her, I never understood the complaints of those mothers who couldn't wait for school to start so they could get the kids out of the house. While I certainly respected their points of view, for me, there was something about the unscheduled ease of our lives during that time; the ability to come and go, and see and do, and experience and experiment. As cheesy as it sounds, being home with my daughter simply felt like a blessing to me.

As S grew into her elementary school years, I went back to work part-time, and - in the past two years - as she morphed from a still-clinging fourth grader to a, as of today, freshly-out-of-sixth grader, I went back to work full-time. Working full-time is not a new thing for me; I did it all my adult life until I had my kid. But going back to working full-time after your life has been altered by family? It's different. There is a whole new set of feelings that go along with being financially independent and feeling intellectually fulfilled. These days, even though my child is now 12 years old and most certainly does not need to hold my hand or have me pinned to her side every second of every day, I know she still needs me in even more complex ways than ever before. And most of all? I find I still need her.

Yesterday was S's last day as a sixth grader. Last night I asked her what her dreams were for this summer. "Dance, spend time with friends, and go to Jamaica." I can grant two of those wishes. My wish? Spend with her the last summer before she becomes a teenager. Do things with her. Watch her grow. Know her dreams and grant them. Cherish the moments she might still need me.  Alas, I have to work. So, with the exception of some planned vacation days, I will still have to hustle to find those days with her. And because of that, I now find myself selfishly wishing the summer away. After all, how can summer happen for her and not me? How can it not happen for us together?

The truth is? She will be fine. She will dance and spend time with her friends and her dog and have full days with her papi. She will eat ice cream and swim and spend some time with her grandmother, and she will flourish. She might even grow an inch or two. Because here is the other truth: my baby is no longer a baby. And all those summers I did have with her have made her who she is and who we are together, and as much as I might pine for those days, I now live in these days. And these days are wonderful in their own way.

Titles? Ain't nobody got time for that!

by Patti

 As you read this, just know I need my fingers to get used to the idea that they are typing something. Something other than reports and summaries and lists, that is. Plus: I got stripper nails. Typing with stripper nails is a whole new world. There is something frustratingly limiting yet deliciously freeing about stripper nails, and I've come to the conclusion that I have waited far too long in life to experience them. Also: I've been a little busy, you see. Busy with work and  life and appointments that I finally made (stripper nails!) - and kept! Like you haven't, right? So you know what I mean. But you know what? Suddenly, at the moment that I am preparing to catch a flight for a work trip, the mood struck me, and I told myself, SELF! Go with it!

So.

The kid turned 12. Last month I rented a van - a real., 12-passenger kind-of-van - and, after slapping a number of embarrassing signs on it and decking out the interior with streamers and balloons,

I stuffed 10 screaming tweens into it and cranked the tunes all the way to a hotel! With a pool! Near a mall! And those 10 screaming tweens ate pizza, and shopped, and swam, and watched movies, and had pillow fights, and sprayed whipped cream, and stayed up 'til a billion o'clock. But, oh, did they have fun. And I still cannot believe, not without feeling slightly panicky and totally melancholy and fully bewildered that my baby - my baby -  the one that came out of me screaming into the world, hair curly and damp, eyes wild and wide, hands flailing and sure - is now 12. Can I get TMI on you? I pulled her out. I did. I leaned forward with the deepest of gasps and final-est of pushes, and pulled her right out of me and onto me, and she was born. And it was magnificent. And now, 12 years later, I am pulling her out of bed, out of cars, pushing her onto buses, into classes, into life....

You know what else happened? Braces. I mean, of course, right? She's 12 now; braces are pretty much a must. They're not on her teeth just yet; that will happen in two weeks. But she's had all of the pictures done, and suffered through the mold process - which basically entails the stuffing of mushy clay into the mouth and lots and lots of gagging - and she's picked out her colors. Did you know they have colors now? They have colors. In "my day", the only "color" was metal, and there seemed to be a hell of a lot more of it in a pubescent mouth than the braces of today.

S has picked out her colors: Baby blue. Or mint. Or pink. Or neon green. I DON'T KNOW. The picking-out-of-the-colors seems to cause more stress than the actual braces. Two weeks to go, let's pray this awful world problem of what color to pick will be solved in time. God FORBID.

Since the braces are an inevitable part of the junior-high uglies, I made a promise to my child that had her leaping over the moon: I told her she could get contacts. I mean, the kid's glasses are unbearably cute, what with their oversized frames on her undersized face. But let's be honest: Glasses AND braces? So two weeks ago, we headed to the eye doctor for her annual eye exam, where, surprise! She's a year blinder! With new prescription in hand, we determined that S was ready for contacts. Did you know that putting in contacts for the first time is pretty much as easy as shoving a frisbee into a coffee cup? That poor kid spent an HOUR AND ONE HALF trying to get in just the first contact.

But she did not give up! And today, two weeks later, she is a total pro, putting in those contacts at lightning speeds. She still has her hipster glasses, and she still loves them unabashedly, but she now at least has the option to geek it up or geek it down at will. When you're 12 and the world is perceived through the amped-up eyes of pubescent drama, options are crucial.

Guess what? I have lot's more to say. Stay tuned.....

Sisyphus, Meet Wonder Woman

by Cathy

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. 

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.   - Albert Camus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus ended up with some seriously whack punishment from the Gods...

He was to push an absurdly large and heavy boulder up a sloped hill in the underworld (who knew hell had hills?) only to watch the boulder roll back down on its own weight right before it reached the top. His punishment was to do this for eternity; the quintessential example of a senseless, futile job that would never have an end nor a positive outcome. There is nothing more abhorrent than a fruitless labor - one that accomplishes nothing. Or is there?

Some argue that his punishment was anything but futile, but rather there was fulfillment and dare we say, even happiness in it, yet I struggle to see how - until I realized that we are each, in our own way, in our own lives, figuratively doing what Sisyphus was physically condemned to do. We are each pushing that proverbial boulder up that hill, only to have it come back down in a different form, a different challenge, a different problem. Once we think we have overcome one challenge, along rolls another; maybe not immediately as in the case of Sisyphus, but eventually, it does come back down.

I have been feeling that way for the last year, both in large challenges in my life - my parents, my kids, my marriage, my job - as well as the daily grind. As soon as I accomplish one task, 10 more crop up almost simultaneously. I honestly feel like Wonder Woman, flashing those reflective (and may I add, stylish) cuffs that deflect and bounce back anything that comes her way. I only wish it were that easy.

Boom...done! Back at ya! Next!

However, it is imperative that we try to find the truth behind Albert Camus' quote above. That even though what goes up will undoubtedly roll back down, there is a lesson to be learned, an experience that will alter your perspective, deepen your understanding, shape your soul or enrich you, open your eyes or change your mind. It's all there for a reason, whatever those reasons and yet unlearned lessons may be. No matter the outcome, the efforts of taking on these challenges and pushing those boulders uphill, will yield a fulfilled outcome of some kind, perhaps in ways you never imagined.

Diagnosis: Gettin' Old

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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

Building Fences

by Patti

Christ has risen. So has my fence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill Bend Over

by Patti

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

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

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

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

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

"Patreesha" in all her glory

Only in Nebraska

by Patti

Every day that I leave my office to go home, it never fails that I get down the stairs and out onto the parking lot, only to turn around, climb right back up the stairs, and head back to my desk to retrieve my car keys. Or wallet. Or scarf. Or sunglasses. Or cell phone. It's gotten to the point that one of my coworkers, the one who usually witnesses those sheepish trips back to my desk, now asks me as I leave for the day, "Are you sure you have everything?"

Apparently, I'm kind of famous for that. Or infamous.

The other day I was in Nebraska for business. Yes, Nebraska! I actually drove down Cornhusker Highway and everything! Once we got to the meeting, I realized I had left my cell phone in the rental car. OF COURSE. Because, I told you, I forget things! I just made a mental note to get it after the meeting, and got down to work. After the meeting, my colleague had to stay behind for a few minutes to talk to somebody, so I told him I'd meet him in the lobby. I went out to the parking lot, eager to retrieve my phone and check messages, but when I got to the car, the cell phone was not where I remembered leaving it. Slightly panicked, I re-checked my purse and my portfolio; I checked under the seats; I checked the trunk; I checked the glove compartment. Of course, I had never even opened the glove compartment, but you know when you get desperate to find something and you hope against hope that maybe, just maybe you had opened the glove compartment and put that thing inside and just forgot that you did? EVEN THOUGH YOU KNOW YOU DIDN'T? Yeah, no - it was not in the glove compartment. Confused, I even did a double-take on the car; after all, it was a rental car and I wasn't entirely familiar with it . Perhaps the real car was parked nearby, and my cell phone was safely waiting for me inside it. Alas, the rental car was electric blue, and the only electric blue car in the parking lot. In all of Nebraska, probably. So, I had the right car. Unfortunately.

Mystified, I headed back inside the office building and asked the ladies at lobby desk if anybody had turned in a cell phone. They shook their heads sadly, eyeing me with pity - that poor, screwed lady who lost her cell phone and every single contact in it - for the THIRD time in a year. I then retraced all of my steps, including visiting the bathroom, checking the stalls, the garbage can, the hand dryer... I walked the length of the building to the other side, where another lobby was located. I asked the security guard if anybody had turned in a cell phone. No, they hadn't.  Near tears, I headed back to the main lobby, and one of the lobby ladies offered to call my cell phone - you know, just in case? So she did, and as she stared hopefully at me, phone to ear, I started dumbly into my purse, waiting for it to ring. But it didn't, because my cell phone was NOT IN IT.

I decided to go outside and check the car just one more time because I apparently simply cannot face reality. Once again, I scoured the clearly empty rental car, and... nothing. Sighing, I slammed shut the door and began to head back, defeated. As I walked, I looked longingly back at the car, bidding a sad farewell to my obviously lost phone. And that's when I saw it: There, perched proudly on the roof of the rental car, glistening in the clear Nebraska sun, was my cell phone. It had sat there, silently, strongly, hopefully, all through my two-hour meeting and desperate, fruitless searches, waiting for me to claim it. Thrilled, I raced back to it, feeling like those lovers who run toward one another in slow motion in movies, and I grabbed my beloved off the roof, cradling it in my hands. We did a happy spin, my phone and I, in our own Nicolas Sparks movie. I ran back inside, laughing now, shaking my head at the sheer lunacy of it all. "You will NOT believe where I found my phone! I told the lobby ladies. "On the ROOF OF MY CAR!" We all shared a laugh, and I said to them, "You know, if I had left my cell phone on the roof of my car in Chicago? It would have been gone in ten seconds flat! Only in Nebraska!"

And then I got back on Cornhusker Highway and headed back to the airport, drawing a big, fat heart around Nebraska in my head.

Sunday: The Day of Restless

by Patti

Sun·day  

/ˈsəndā/

Noun The day of the week before Monday and following Saturday, observed by Christians as a day of rest and religious worship.

Let me start out by saying that I am not particularly religious. You won't find me kneeling all reverent-like in church on a Sunday, and you won't find me resting because I'm "supposed" to. However, when it comes to Sunday, I don't mind adopting what Christians observe to be the Day of Rest because, quite frankly, it makes sense. After all, I work my butt off at a full-time job all week while also making sure my house and family don't self-destruct, and I spend Saturdays hauling the kid around and running errands, and if I am lucky, throwing in a lunch with a friend. By the time Sunday rolls around, I need to rest.

However.

Uh-oh

I think there was an oversight on this whole Day of Rest business. Somebody somewhere forgot that people need clean clothes, that a kitchen floor becomes in desperate need of scrubbing, that a dog runs out of food, that refrigerators become mysteriously empty, that bills need paying - and because there is school and work and other time-suckers like that which also need doing, Sunday suddenly becomes the only day to get all of it done before Monday comes rudely barreling into your Day of Rest again.

I'm not going to lie: by the time Sunday rolls around, I kind of start feeling a little grouchy. I love sleeping in on Sundays and enjoying our leisurely, traditional Sunday family breakfast; I love cuddling with the kid and the dog on the couch while I attempt to snatch a few paragraphs of a good book, but somewhere inside, I feel those nagging grumps. I feel gloomy knowing Monday is coming, like it or not, and before I know it, the alarm will scream into my ear while it is still dark outside and I will once again begin the week-long shuffle of figuring out what to wear and what to eat. And then my day of rest? Becomes the day of restless. World problems, I know!

Sure, I could be one of those people who gleefully say, "Eff it! The dishes will still be there!" and just not bother with the growing pile in my kitchen sink. I could throw my hands up playfully and shout, "Tonight? It's Cap'n Crunch for dinner!" I could simply lie down in my bed and cover myself with sheets that haven't seen soap in three weeks. Why not? It's natural!

Alas, I just can't. So, I guess it is what it is, and I should be so lucky that I have that extra day in the week to take care of business. Perhaps I am committing some sort of sin by making Sunday my day of restless, but I, together with all those other pinch-faced people I see pushing their carts in Target on Sundays, am willing to take that risk. As for the rest of you, the ones ever-so-smartly lounging in that recliner, can you move your feet? I need to vacuum.

Anatomy Lesson Gone Wrong

by Patti

A few months ago, Gaucho got his balls chopped off. Before you roll your eyes and think, "Oh, great! She hardly ever posts anymore, and when she does, it's to talk about her dog's balls?" fear not. This is not about my dog's balls at all. My dog's balls only serve as a backdrop to the story I am about to tell you. You see, Gaucho had a pretty, uh, obvious set of cojones, and they were the perfect opportunity to teach S about anatomy. "What are those?" she gasped.
And I, always one to get straight to the point, answered, "Honey, those are balls."

Flash forward to present day. S and I met my mom for coffee and sandwiches at Starbucks, when my mom asked me what was in my sandwich.
"Oh, some tomatoes and cheese, and it's toasted.."
My mom suddenly leaned in, her eyes wide. "Testicles?" she whispered discreetly.
"No, mom. TOASTED."
S began to laugh, 'Nono, you don't have to whisper it. It's no big deal! See? Testicles! Testicles! TESTICLES!" she shouted out freely, her arms waving above her head for dramatic effect.
I, in wonder at the lack of embarassment most 11-year olds would feel to even THINK such a word, much less shout it out in pubilc, joined in gleefully. "Testicles! Testicles! Testicles!" And then, feeling adventurous, I threw in a "Boobs! VAGINA!"

At that, S's face grew horrified and she gave me a swift, scolding punch to my arm. "MOM! STOP! That's so EMBARRASSING!"
Confused, I cocked my head at her. "Honey, I don't get it. You were just shouting out testicles. If that is not embarrassing, how is vagina embarrassing?"
Her face grew blank as she pondered this. And then, ever so carefully, "Wait. What's testicles?"
Recalling Gaucho and the anatomy lessons around his pair, I knew what I had to tell her to make it clear. "Balls."
And then her face flushed a deep purple as her hands flew over her mouth in horror. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT OCTOPUS ARMS!"

Let's get it straight: TENTACLES.

The Mother of Invention

by Patti


Have you ever had what you thought was a stunningly originally idea; the kind of idea that makes you think, “I can’t believe nobody has ever thought of this before?” There you are, feeling all smug and clever, you and your idea. And then, something or someone makes you realize that, uh, that “original” idea has actually been around forever, and wow! You are JUST discovering this?

My mom was over at our house the other night, and she was keeping me company at the breakfast bar while I peeled zucchini. Yes, we eat zucchini. My kid is weird. Remind me to sometime tell you about the time when she was five years old and complained at a birthday party that pepperoni pizza was being served because COME ON, isn’t there any ASPARAGUS around here?  So, yes. We eat lots of healthy things at home because my kid – through no work of mine and only sheer luck – loves them.

Anyway. So there I was peeling away with my potato peeler, when my mom leaned in and said, “You know what?” She had a twinkle in her eye – one that told me she was about to share a very valuable secret with me. “I use that to peel potatoes instead of a knife!” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, completely satisfied with herself. Confused, I looked around, looking for something other than the potato peeler in my hand that would be a significant discovery to ease the peeling of potatoes.
Seeing nothing, I motioned to the potato peeler in my hand. “What…this?”
“Yes!” she threw her arms up in a can-you-believe-it kind of way.

And this is where I had to be careful. Because there she was, so proud of her obvious resourcefulness; so willing to share her secret tips with her daughter; so sorry for me and my own sad lack of cleverness. I was missing out on so much. But I couldn’t help it: I was about to be one of those “ruiners”; those people who delight in setting others straight.
“Uh…mom?”
“Yes?”
“This? Is a potato peeler. You’re supposed to use it to peel potatoes."

The next Big Thing

She looked confused for a moment. I had in one simple sentence rendered her completely incapable of comprehension. And then, as it dawned on her, she started laughing - and could not stop. And I joined her. Because, really? How freaking cute is she?

In Memoriam

by Patti

I have a dead hamster in my freezer.

Remember Gus? Oh, Gus, may he rest in peace. Early last summer, Gus started acting strange. We'd find him oblong against the side of his cage, his furry little body gasping for air. Several times we thought "this was it"; that Gus had gone to run the big hamster wheel in the sky. But Gus stubbornly lingered. One day my mom came over, and she held vigil with us as we waited for the inevitable. Finally, knowing that S was not giving Gus the kind of attention he needed in this now frail state, especially now that we had Gaucho, I offered my mom the opportunity to take him into her own special brand of hospice. She at first declined. After all, she had adopted S's goldfish and her guinea pig, falling in love with each of them, only to find her self heartbroken at their respective demises. No way was she prepared to do this again. One hour later, she was headed home with a cage, a hamster wheel, and a dying hamster.

But Gus flourished. Under my mom's care, Gus's coat became once again shiny, he had a new pep in his tiny little steps, his precious, twitchy rodent hands once again eagerly foraged the seeds out of the mix my mom fed him every day. Gus was, to our collective amazement, miraculously on the mend, and it now seemed he would live forever. All through the summer he rallied, running that hamster wheel, delighting in the special freedoms my mom allowed him as she let him explore her bed while she cleaned out his cage.And so, we kind of forgot about the inevitable.

Then came the call. I was at Target buying snacks for S's sleepover. It had been a long work week, I felt a migraine coming on, and I was bracing for a tween scream fest as I threw packages of preservatives and red dye no. 4 into my cart.
"Hi, mom."
Sob. Sob. Sob.
"Mom, what's wrong?"
"I think Gus is dead!"
"Oh, no!"
"He's not moving! I was only gone for a couple of hours; he was fine before I left. I can't touch him. COME OVER."
"But... S is having a sleepover..."
"Please! This is more important!"

How could I say no? After all, she had taken Gus into hospice; she had given him life and joy for seven months. Gus had been ours for nearly two years before that. Wasn't his final resting place my ultimate responsibility? So I promised to be there as soon as possible, paid for enough junk to sufficiently poison S and her friends into comas later that night, and raced to my mom's. On the way there, I called S to explain that Gus had died, and she called my mother to promise her she and her friends would give him an appropriate funeral that night.

Once there, I approached the cage, and there was Gus - a furry lump. Ironically, he looked more plump and healthy than ever, except for that he was perfectly still and stiff and you know, not breathing?  As my mom sniffled in the background, I wrapped the plastic bag she had given me around my hand, and gingerly attempted to pick him up. Sufficiently freaked out, I may have accidentally flung him from my grip and back into the cage, inadvertently causing him to tumble into the fluff and onto his back, his stiff feet now skyward. Once again, I dipped my hand into the cage, and willed myself to muscle up and pick him up for CRYING OUT LOUD. After three mini-seizures, four screams, and five attempts that ended with hamster flinging, I finally managed to successfully transport Gus from his cage to the makeshift coffin my mom had made him: an empty check box now filled with fluff and a few of his favorite seeds.  We said a small goodbye, then closed the "coffin" with the lid, tied it with ribbon, wrapped it in a plastic bag, placed it in a shoebox, wrapped that in another plastic bag, and I headed home, a dead hamster in my passenger seat.

At home, I hosted a small "viewing" for S and her friends, then respectfully re-wrapped Gus back into his coffin, but not before, I'll admit, snapping a picture for memory's sake  Just as I was about to announce burial time, M reminded me that the ground was frozen solid and did we really think we'd be able to bury him? I could hear my mom's voice, "Please don't throw him away!", and my mind raced for solutions.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up with a dead hamster in my freezer. There he sits, among the Freschetta naturally rising pizza and Hot Pockets, patiently waiting for his proper send-off. You'll get your day, Gus - I promise.

R.I.P., Gus

We Walk the Line

by Cathy

“I’ll tell you a secret. Something they don’t teach you in your temple. 

The Gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”- Achilles, Troy

Because we can all appreciate a visual when it comes to Brad Pitt as Achilles

I had the pleasure of seeing this film again recently, thanks to my daughters' school curriculum and their study of Greek Mythology and the Trojan War. So I watched it with my kids. Yes, I realize there is abundant violence and a smattering of nudity, which I explained as such: "Honey, everyone slept naked back then. Why? Because they didn't have pajamas." However, we were quickly drawn past those distractions and got to the heart of the great story behind it - the lessons, the sacrifices, human empathy in the face of fame and glory.

This quote from Achilles drove home for me a thought I've had for a long time: There is a very fine line between living and dying. Just one moment, one second, can change your life or take your life. I've always been cognizant of this, especially, as I've driven past cemeteries.

Safely from the confines of my car, I view this fence as the figurative line which we must all cross

We drive past these eerily silent resting places of people who were once as vibrant and full of life, hope and dreams as we are today, whizzing by with our music blaring, our voices singing, our kids laughing and our thoughts racing to what we get to do today. It's a fine metaphoric line and a fine figurative line - that fence which divides and defines. It's the fragility of luck that allows us to be on one side rather than the other, depending on how you see that proverbial glass of water.

I've come to realize that not only is there a fine line we walk between life and death, but in every other aspect of our lives we take for granted: a fine line between being healthy or sick; between having a job and losing it; between having a house and losing it; between having your loved ones and losing them; between landing an opportunity and just missing one that could potentially change your life.

We all walk these fine lines every day. If we keep ourselves in check about what we stand to lose in a given moment on a given day, yes, we will live in a sub-circle of fear, but one that is the sweetest of all fears. This is what Achilles was saying: We live with that notion that something can always be taken away, which makes everything more desperately real.

There is no joy to be had in something that you know you will always have and fittingly, take for granted. Included in this is our youth. Like many of you, I fret about getting old, day by day making out the lines on my face, the wrinkles around my eyes and the generally more haggard face that stares back at me in the mirror. Yet no matter how old we are, we are younger today than we will be tomorrow. I will try to keep this in mind myself, as vain thoughts will no doubt compete with my daily affirmations.

So, while this may appear as a gloom and doom message, interfering with the sparkling, promising new year we are in the throes of, it's cleverly disguised as a life affirming message. This message is part of my goals for the year: be positive, laugh, sing and dance more (preferably with my children), be more cognizant of those small moments with loved ones, live my life to the fullest my capabilities will allow and mostly, cherish it all.

Let's make the most of this life, like we're gonna die young. 

 

Christmas is coming, my ass is getting fat!

by Patti

Re-posting an old favorite by request. 

....................................................................................................

I'm being pelted by treats falling from the sky. It's not my fault.

It’s the Most! Wonderful! Time! Of the year! You know, that time when treats magically fall out of the sky and land in your mouth, over and over again? Especially if you work in an office environment, like I do. Suddenly people put on their Baker Extraordinaire hats and they are shoving brownies and snowman cookies and red and green sprinkled sugar bars down your throat. And you just sit there and take it like a man. A fat man.

Oh, no?

Well, THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING.

They look innocent, but are evil, evil, evil.

This whole month of December has been an exercise in, well, not much exercise and WAAAAY too many chocolate reindeer balls. What is it about December that leads me to believe that it is okay to shove 13 cookies in my craw and that there won’t be any consequences as a result? I mean, it’s as if I am sugar-shocked into thinking that December Calories aren’t real.

But by the end of December, when I am slowly exiting my sugar fog and find I can’t zip up my pants, I realize: Ohhhh, they were real. And then I frantically make New Year’s Resolutions that include the gym and fat-free cottage cheese for the rest of ever.

Stop. The. Madness.

So today, right now, as I type this, I am swearing up and down that that 3^rd Styrofoam cup of cheese/caramel/regular popcorn I just ate as a “tide me over ‘til lunch” snack will be the last. I WILL NOT EAT ANYMORE POPCORN FROM FESTIVALLY DECORATED TINS.  I will also forego reindeer- shaped anything, and sparkly, sprinkly, sugary stuff that pretends to be snowmen, and Christmas tree brownies with adorable mini M&M’s as ornaments, and marshmallow-stuffed bars of gooey heaven, and pretty  much anything that isn’t grown from the ground or a tree.

And I swear I’ll do it as SOON as December ends.

Preoccpoopied

by Patti

When S was born, I was somewhat amazed by the level of poop that suddenly came into my life. Not only was I amazed by the level of poop, I was also amazed at how it didn't gross me out. Instead, I was actually fascinated by the many colors and consistencies, shapes and sizes. I was completely and totally preoccpoopied by poop.

Now? Those days are long gone. I am no longer fascinated by my kid's poop, as my kid is now 11 years old and her poop has lost its glow. I'm back to being disgusted by poop, in general, and I feel like that is 100% totally normal and expected and okay. Because let's face it: poop is disgusting. Which is why what I am about to tell you deserves a little warning. What? You say I should have warned you earlier? You say that it is too early to be discussing poop, and that poop should pretty much not ever be discussed, like, ever? Well, sorry - but if you come here, there's gonna be poop. Consider yourself warned.

Last week I was traveling for work and was waiting to board my fight in Indianapolis. First of all, I have to say: Indianoplis? You're cuter than I expected. And your airport is quite lovely. So, here I was at the airport, and I decided to hit the bathroom. The moment I entered, I was hit by a wall of poop. The smell was unbearable; it was as if somebody had taken a poop on the floor instead of in the toilet. Which made no sense because just a few hours before, I had been in that very bathroom on my way into Indy, and the bathroom was so clean and sparkly and fresh. So why the smell? That's when I saw this young girl, about 19 years old, on the floor with a baby, about 6 months old. The baby was as naked as if he had just been born right then and there, and the girl was trying to lay him on the hard, cold floor, as he wiggled furiously under her hands. She was surrounded by about 5,689 baby wipes, all used and crumpled up, and another 9,431 paper towels. I eyed her quietly as I washed my hands, and wondered why she was trying to change the baby on the floor instead of the changing table. That's when I noticed the changing table directly above her. It was COVERED in poop. It was a Picasso of poop. It was a poopsplosion of poop! It was - okay, okay, I'll stop.

It was clear there had been an accident of outstanding pooportions, and though every fiber of my being told me to RUN RUN out of the bacteria-infested bathroom, the mother's heart in me made me ask, "Do you need help?"
The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide. She was perspiring and red as she attempted to juggle her baby, the wipes, the diapers, the POOP. "My baby's got a tummy bug. I was changing him and it went everywhere. I feel so bad - it got on the changing table, all over the floor, all over...." she gestured around her desperately as her baby continued to wiggle wildly.

I immediately began to pull paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them with warm water, then handed them to her. "First, let's get your baby off the floor. Clean him with these and I'll take care of the changing table." She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say, Really? You're willing to touch my kid's POOP? Which. Yeah. I actually was.

As she wiped down her baby, I began the task of wiping down the changing table. She wasn't kidding. The kid had gone to town. That's right: he had painted the town brown. Amazingly, I didn't gag or even flinch. I simply got down to the business of doing what needed to be done. Several thousand paper towels and a bionic dosing of sanitzer later, I presented the clean table to her. "I can't believe you did this for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH!"
"I'm a mom, too," I told her, "I would hope that if I needed the help, somebody would offer it to me."

And then I washed my hands for about nine hours and left the bathroom, smiling. It really does take a village, I thought to myself. And a few thousand paper towels.

Ritz Carlton gone RONG!

by Patti & Cathy

From the moment we start school, it seems our lives are constantly interrupted by alarm clocks. We have all, at one time or another, slept through an alarm, or woken frantically to a blinking alarm, or even just plain forgot to set an alarm.

Whatever the case, we don't set alarms for kicks. Most of the time, we set alarms because we need to get yanked out of our sleep for a good reason. How that "yanking" occurs - or whether or not it occurs it all - can set the tone for an entire day.

Cathy:
I've scheduled my share of hotel room wake-up calls in my lifetime, (that sounds way worse than implied) but never did I experience what I did on this recent trip to Aruba. I relied on my cell phone to wake me up for three of the four mornings I was there, but decided that I should use the wake-up service on the morning of my departure as a back-up. You know, in case I overslept and waaaahhhh, waaaahhhh, I was stuck in Aruba.

As I had been doing every morning I was there, I woke up before my alarm was set to go off. Well aware I was about to leave paradise, I was luxuriating in the giant, cloud-like bed, desperately trying to cling to the chillaxed vacation mode I easily cultivated the past few days. As I relished the sun's beams streaming in on my face and the sounds of the waterfall coming from the pool below, the phone RONGED. Not rang, but more of a ringing GONG. (I get that they need to be loud enough to wake the heaviest of lead sleepers, but I always experience a mini heart attack when this happens.)

The Gong gone Rong.

Grumbling at the interruption and cursing at myself for not remembering to cancel the wake-up call, I slid across the fluffiness and picked up the phone. From across the line came the Caribbean accent of a chirpy woman. "Ms. Demetropopoboulos," she stumbled. "This is your seven o'clock..."
Yeah, yeah. I know.
I hung up the phone.
Immediately upon hang-up, it RONGED again.
What the...?
"Hello?"
"This is your seven o'clock wake..."
Click. Yes, I got it.
And then? Then, it RONGED again.
Holy Caribbean Islands, I was being stalked by the wake-up woman.
"HeLLO," I said flatly.
 "Ms. Demetropopoboulos," I let her struggle. "Are you aware that this is your wake-up call?" she inquired authoritatively.
Are you aware that I have no choice BUT to wake up since you've called me three times back to back? Who was this lady, my mother?!
"Uh...yes. Yes, I am," I replied, wondering if she was that serious about her job or was this a power struggle at this point. "Thank you for your diligence." Click.

I stared at the phone sideways, ready to pounce on it like a tiger to its prey, if it ronged again. But it didn't. The wake-up lady done did her job and woke my luxuriating ass up. Goodbye, vacation. Hello? Reality. RONG!!!

Patti
I'm going to confess something right here: I have trust issues. Yep, I said it. In the words of Tony Montana, "Who do I trust? ME." It's horrible, I know, but it is what it is. I have just witnessed so much incompetence in my life (NO, I'm not a perfectionist, why do you ask?) that I have kind of learned to not trust people to get the job done right. I'm a suspicious, cynical, side-eye givin' girl, and I know that about myself. WHICH is why it is so very strange that several weeks ago, when I had the luxury of sleeping at the Ritz! Carlton! for several nights by! my! self!, I chose to use the Ritz! Carlton's! wake-up call service to rouse me out of bed my first morning.

I had a meeting "first thing", and the day before had been a long one that consisted of a 6 am airport arrival, bumpy flight, and getting settled in for days of meetings, so needless to say, I was tired, and I knew I was tired, yet, because it was the Ritz! Carlton! I had an innate sense they would not screw it up.

"Good evening, Ms. Pudaydah" greeted the silky voice that probably had to audition for the job as the Ritz! Carlton! wake-up call lady. And no, that is not how you spell my last name, but apparently, my wake-up call lady, much like Cathy's, has trouble pronouncing last names with Latin flare. Mattered not, though; I was just impressed she knew who I was. That alone led me to believe I could certainly trust the Ritz! Carlton! to do their job.
"Yes, I need a wake-up call for 6:30 am, please."
"Why certainly, Ms. Pudaydah. Have a nice night!"
"I will!"

And I did. I attempted to watch a little television, as somehow the same shows that I might watch at home are far more entertaining when watched from a bed laden with 4,000 ergonomic pillows and covered in ten billion count cotton sheets. Ah, Ritz! Carlton! Feeling my eyes grow heavy, I briefly debated setting a back-up alarm on my cell phone, and then decided that the Ritz! Carlton! was all about customer service, and would never in a million years NOT perform a wake-up call as requested. Satisfied, and wrapped in my cozy, fluffy Ritz! Carlton! robe, I soon fell blissfully asleep.

These things seep drugs into your pores. 

Before I knew it, my eyes flew open. Light streamed in through the gauzy Ritz! Carlton! curtains, and I felt immediate panic. WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE WHY IS IT LIGHT OUTSIDE. I flung my body toward my charging cell phone: 7:00 am. Can it BE? Had the Ritz! Carlton! FAILED ME? I threw off the fluffy white comforter and darted to the shower. As I hurriedly shampooed and soaped and tried to blink awake under the perfect water pressure of the Ritz! Carlton! shower head, I concluded that, indeed - Ritz! Carlton! or not, who do I trust? ME.

I hurried through the rest of my "getting ready", annoyed that I had allowed a plush name wrapped in a tricky, sleep-inducing robe to do me in. Apparently, my Ritz! Carlton! had gone wrong instead of RONG!

Blocked

by Patti

It started out innocently enough. I got busy at work; S got busy with school and ballet; I had family visiting. You know: life? And as life got in the way, and I found less and less time to do the things outside of those necessary to survival - things like eating and drinking and peeing - I started moving away from the thing that, while unnecessary to survival by most accounts, is totally necessary to my own survival: Writing.

And then, when I found that little gaps of time opened up to me, I found myself filling them with other things totally unnecessary to survival, things like the entire Paranormal Activity series and spray painting the heels of my shoes. (Don't judge.) When I found the time to sit down and write, I felt tumbleweeds roll lazily through my brain, the words that normally flow so easily from my hands trapped within the intricate weaves of twig and dust. I had nothing. No words. No ideas. Nothing to say. Nothing to express. No picture to paint. So I would carefully close my laptop and tell myself the words would come tomorrow.

But they didn't.

"What's wrong with me?" I lamented to Cathy.
"Be patient. You'll write when you're ready." She encouraged.

Weeks later, feeling lonely on the whitespace of this blog, Cathy started giving me ideas to write about. "Come on, girl, it's no fun without you!"
"I know, I know... I'll have something on Monday."

But the words never came.

Yes, I am writing words this very moment, but it feels more like one of those "freestyle" writing experiments we did in my college creative writing class. Don't think, just write. Yet the words I know exist to tell the stories I need to tell are somewhere in outer space, perhaps dotting the black galaxy, perhaps twisted into the Milky Way, perhaps making up the handle of the Big Dipper.

Rather than try to summon them on demand, I have decided to simply give them the opportunity to disentangle from the nebula and willingly make their way back to me.

I can feel it. They're coming.