Dr. Google

by Patti

I made a startling realization the other day: Unless I Google "how to breathe in 5 easy steps", I may simply stop breathing.

I have become so reliant on Google for every answer to every question in my life, I am afraid I would not know how to survive without it. I have become the master of DIY in most every aspect of life, all thanks to Google. I taught myself how to use almost every software, how to rebuild a computer, how to zap computer viruses, how to heal a cold sore before it even happens, how to simplify fractions, how to hem pants without thread, how to rewire a chandelier, how to discipline my child....

Speaking of child, Google was just becoming its crazy, all-knowing self when I was pregnant. Do you know how dangerous Google is when you are pregnant? If you are pregnant right this very minute, don't do it. DO NOT GOOGLE. Because if you do, you will be certain your child will be born with 3 heads. You will also be certain that that tuna sandwich you just ate? Will be responsible for the 9 fingers instead of 10. I Googled myself into hysteria when I was pregnant, and Googled my unborn child into sideshow freak before I even met her. So, yes, although Google most definitely has its uses, it can also scare the ever-living crap out of you. (And yes, Google will also warn you that you will probably crap while giving birth. For this, I was glad to be prepared. Thanks, Google!)

Apart from the dangers of Google, the savior side of Google is downright awe-inducing. I am blown away by the fact that I can type in "how do people walk on fire?" and FIND AN ANSWER! Curious? Allow me: How do people walk on fire? 
I mean, really? There is NO WAY my parents would ever have known this in their day of wanting to know stuff. They would have had to drive to the library and paw through thousands of books to find the answer. And even then, it may have remained a mystery. But thanks to Google, I know this.

Google has been my know-it-all friend, time after time. Is my daughter's fever too high? Am I too fat? How do I install under-cabinet lighting? How much did my neighbor pay for his house? Are there any molesters living on my block? What are the symptoms of menopause? How do I import data from Excel into a PDF form?

Indeed, I have become a WikiPatti. I know something about everything. And if I don't know the answer, I just Google it, and then, just like that, I know it. Perhaps I am too dependent on Google and all its remedies. In fact, I might actually even be addicted; who knows? The signs of addiction can be quite elusive, so it's hard to tell.

Oh wait! Let me Google that.

Good Morning! This Is Your Wake Up Call!

by Cathy

 Since we are taking time off this Thanksgiving holiday to spend with our families, I thought you would enjoy a re-post of one of my favorites. Below is one that I think many women will find fitting on a day like today, when so many of us will indeed wake up to this scene. Well, those of us who STILL don't have dishwashers, that is. Screw it. Leave 'em there and go out shopping instead. You'll ALWAYS have dishes to do, no matter what. Enjoy!



I woke up this morning at around 9am, treasuring my sleep during the last few days before my kids start school and life becomes one big hustle.

As I groggily shuffle into the kitchen to make some coffee, this is what greets me:



I stop short, startled out of my long, luxurious yawn.

Instantly, last night's conversation with my husband replays through my head. We were preparing a movie snack of microwavable popcorn and homemade wine coolers (because that's how we roll) and he saw my reaction as I disdainfully observed this mess.

"Yeah, I saw that too but I said 'screw it'. We'll just do them tomorrow," he says to me. Those words sounded like they had the sound of angels singing around them.
'Yes,' I thought at the time, "that sounds wonderful." Ah the feeling to chuck it all and do what you WANT rather than what NEEDS to be done! So we settled in to watch a nearly three-hour "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," and went off to bed.

Cut to this morning. As I was digging my way to the coffeemaker to make my now desperately needed cup of coffee, I was noticing how conveniently absent my husband was. Oh, that's right. Every Saturday morning he has his weekly breakfast visit with his parents. "We'll just do them tomorrow" kept repeating in my head.

I should have known better. 'WE' never means WE. It always means YOU. Whether you use it on your husband ("WE need to take the trash out") or he uses it on you ("WE really need to organize these closets") it's the same game.

So after my coffee, I begrudgingly stood there and washed this heap, all the while thinking that my first comment to my husband as he walks in the door will be:
WE really need to get a new dishwasher.

Nobody Goes Home Anymore

by Patti

Since we are taking off the next few days to be with our families, I am re-posting one of my old favorites.

The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving has always been one of the "Biggest Party Nights of the Year". I remember when my husband and I used to own that night, sleeping in until well past noon on Thanksgiving day, and then moseying on over to my parents' for the Thanksgiving feast. These days, the moseying is done by others to my house, and the only thing I'm doing on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is hoisting frozen turkeys into my cart.  But once in a while, I can try to relive it -- even if it's just any ol' Wednesday. 

Happy Thanksgiving!
.......

I am still on this glorious stretch of freedom with the kid and M out of the country, so when a friend of mine invited me to join her and a few of her other friends at this supposedly totally hot and happening place in a hip part of town (is “hip” even a word anymore?) for after-work drinks, how could I not go? And when Cathy, who is beginning her descent into the end of her own Glory Days of Freedom, heard where we were going, she was all “I’m in like Flynn!” (And if you think I’m kidding that she actually said that you are wrong. She actually said that.)

So we met up at Cathy's house for a little strategic pre-champagne champagne. Cathy's sister, Sophia, also met us there, and as we sipped our pre-champagne champagne, she suggested we might want to hit the road, as it would probably be impossible to get a table.

I, in my charmingly innocent oblivion, reminded her that it was Wednesday night and nobody goes out on Wednesday nights, so we didn’t need to rush.

But Sophia, a semi-newlywed and kid-less, is still in that sweet spot where every day has the potential to be a total spur-of-the-moment “let’s go to ___________ (fill in the blank with whatever the hell you want because YOU CAN).” And because she is still in the sweet spot, her dates with her husband do not consist of $1 Redbox movie rentals and a trying-to-be-fancy frozen pizza. No, her dates are the real kind, the kind where you put on hooch heels and perfume and actually try new restaurants that don’t have the word “pancake” or “house” in its name. This means Sophia knows things I apparently no longer know.

“Nobody goes home anymore”, she told us. “The place will be packed!”

I still didn’t believe her, but since we were meeting people there, we took our Sex and the City’d asses off of the comfortable kitchen chairs and headed out.

Once there, we parked and started our 2 block walk to the restaurant. It was a beautiful evening, the kind that totally makes the 7 months of hell that is a Chicago winter totally worth sticking it out. Along the way, I realized I was all wide-eyed, my neck craning to take in the skyline and the buildings around me as if I had just stepped off my very first plane ride from my farm in Iowa, brushing hay off of my denim overalls. I had lived in the city for 15 years, WHY DID IT ALL LOOK SO NEW TO ME?

Because it was new. Seemingly overnight, a whole new slew of hot spots had sprung up from the concrete; the sidewalks were teeming with after-work evening revelers, club doors were crowded with people hoping to be lucky enough to be let in.

This is crazy, I thought, it’s Wednesday night!

We reached our destination, and I already knew we were in trouble, because there were zillions of people waiting outside the door for their turn at a table. We found our party inside, and as we shouted over the din to each other, I looked around. Oh, it was a scene alright, a total See and Be Seen scene, and I realized that Sophia was right: Nobody goes home anymore.

Cathy jabbed me in the ribs and asked me if I smelled the pee. The PEE? Yes, the PEE.
Sophia smelled it, too, and the slide from totally excited to completely and totally disillusioned began.

We decided to leave the restaurant, the one we had anticipated for days, and headed down the street to a quieter, less crowded spot.

And we had a great time, we did. We ate things like bacon-wrapped dates and fancy pizza that went by a different name, and drank crisp, bubbly Prosecco, and felt happy and blessed to be out on such a beautiful night in such a beautiful city.

And when the night ended, we considered cramming another hotspot into our night because, really, when would we get the chance again? After all, it was Wednesday night!

But you know what? We were tired. And suddenly Cathy’s back deck seemed like the place to see and be seen. The line to get in was short, there was no cover charge, and we didn’t have to yell over music or Happy Hour Drunks to be heard. And once we got there, as I sipped on a sweet glass of velvety red wine and breathed in the air and the stars and the night, I realized: Yeah I’m getting old and I’m married and I’m a mother, and I certainly don’t know what the hot spots are anymore, and I say words like “hip” and “happening”, and I had no idea that Wednesday was the new Saturday….. but I liked going home, and this, right here, is exactly where I wanted to be.

Thankful

Most of you are probably at the grocery store right this very minute, hoisting frozen turkeys into your cart, and wrestling over the last bag of stuffing as you elbow your way through packed aisles of frenzied, frowning women. We know this, because this is what we do every year before Thanksgiving -- last minute, of course.

Not only is November a stressful joyful month for many mothers and wives, this November happens to also mark the the six-month anniversary of this blog. We wanted to take this time to express our thanks to you, our readers, for being loyal and supportive. We look forward to and truly appreciate every one of your comments, "likes" and emails. We want you to know that none of it goes unnoticed.

This blog had its humble beginnings as a creative outlet for us - a place where we could log our thoughts, frustrations, and laughs -  but we have discovered that what initially started out as something for "just us" has turned into something for all of us. This journey of motherhood, marriage, friendship -- this journey of life -- is one that we all share. We are in it together, and for that? We are thankful. Giving thanks wouldn't be complete without including our families, who unknowingly provide us with limitless fodder for this blog, and of course, who we are extremely thankful to have - despite the whining.

We are going to take the next few days off to be with our families/get fat/buy "doorbusters!" flat screen TVs, but we will each re-post a personal favorite tomorrow and Friday -- which, by the way, if you have time between The Muppets movie, eating turkey sandwiches, and re-heating leftovers, feel free to check them out. You can find lots of good whines under "The Whine Cellar" to the left of the post.

Thanks again to each and every one of you for your support.  We look forward to uncorking many more friendships with all of you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cathy and Patti

Bedtime Revelations

by Cathy

The other night, while going through the bedtime ritual of laying with Ari for a few minutes before she fell asleep, she suddenly popped up from her cozy tucked in covers and said rather too excitedly, "I can count to 10 in French! Une, deux, trois..." On she went to ten, popping a little finger up each time to coincide with her thought process.

'Wow, that's great," I whispered. "Now lay down and go to sleep."
A few minutes of some shuffling passed before she sat up again.
"Mama?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How does the Earth become morning and nighttime?"
Pause.
"I'm serious," she continued. "I'm five years old and I don't know this. I have to know."
Sigh...I didn't know whether to laugh or hug her. I never want to stifle her thirst for knowledge so I gave a quick explanation using my hands about the Earth, the sun, the rotations, our location, etc. Even in the dark, I could see her face contort into slight confusion. She then told me that her teacher explained that the sun rotates faster than the Earth and couldn't believe it when I told her that the Earth was turning slowly as we spoke, right at this very minute.

I love the inquisitive and talkative side of my children...but at bedtime? Seriously?

Oftentimes, this is when they feel they can tell me about what they have learned, what they remembered, what they forgot to do, what happened in school that day or last week or even what will happen tomorrow. As you can infer from the above, from Ari (my five-year old), I get the most random combination of statements and questions. From Bella (my 10-year old), I get mostly "confessions."

Bella will usually blurt out something that she seemingly wants to get off her chest. As I'm leaning in to tuck her in, mid-hug, she will say something like, "I have a math test tomorrow" or "Mrs. so-and-so at school told me that I can't wear those khaki pants anymore because they're not part of uniform code" or some other issue that she has to confess before the clock strikes 12 and she turns into a pumpkin. Sometimes, I get frustrated if she raises a bigger or more complicated issue that obviously can't be handled in the dark as she's tucked in for bed at an already late hour; I attempt to acknowledge her concern but kindly tell her that we have to talk more about this at a more opportune time. She tells me that she likes to bring up things for us to talk about at bedtime because this is the only time it's truly quiet and we get to be alone - just the two of us.

Perhaps that is the real reason for her; perhaps the darkness of the room shields their face from embarrassment; perhaps the stillness of the room and the quiet of their minds allow certain thoughts to fertilize; or perhaps the preparation for school the next day stimulates thoughts idling in their heads. No matter the reason, I concluded that I don't really care.

What I do care about is that they always continue to share their minds, thoughts, concerns and questions with me, at bedtime, or any time.

Will Bribe for Sleep

by Patti

S didn't sleep through the night until she was 18 months old. Eighteen. EIGHT. TEEN. Night after delirious night I would rise, drunk with lack of sleep, and stumble through the dark to her. Yes, we tried the whole "cry it out" thing; we tried the "slowly back out the room one foot at at time" method; we tried every trick in the book, and nothing worked. NOTHING.

So we dealt with it. Well, I dealt with it. M was the best dad of a newborn ever, but after month, oh TWELVE, he was all, "WHEN IS THIS KID GONNA SLEEP?"

But something clicked at month 18, and suddenly, she was a total champion sleeper, sleeping in until well past 10 am in the mornings. It was if she was trying to make up for the billion lost hours of sleep. And it was good.

Then, suddenly, around 4 years old, she snapped. Her brain was done with sleep. Sleep? What's this? A waste of time, I tell you! And she zoomed back through time and ended up right back where we started: Not. Sleeping.

She would start out okay. I mean, sure, I would have to sit on her bed, then move to the doorway, then sit in the hallway reading a book until she felt safe enough to give in to sleep. And just when I was about to explode with bitterness and resentment, she would fall asleep. And then I would creep back into her room and stare at her in all her sleepy splendor, and suddenly she looked like an angel, all golden and rosy, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks, her skin glittery with angel dust. And all of that resentment would fall away and she was perfect and beautiful and I just loved her so.

But then, there we would be, M and I, exhausted from a full day of life, happily snoozing in our own bed when, "MOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! SLEEP WITH MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" S, straight from her slumber, would scream out in the night. Do you know what it's like to be woken up like this? Do you? I would literally pop up, my heart thumping in my throat, my arms flailing dramatically, while M grunted tragically and wrestled with the blankets; crocodiles in his sleep. And I would race to her room, expecting to find what, I don't know, but not anything good, I tell you. And there she'd be, sitting up in her bed, the angel now flown away, demanding my company. And the whole cycle would start again, except this time around, my patience was not even pretending to do its thing.

After much, much too long of this nonsense, I had to get savvy. Clearly, the kid was not going stop demanding 3 A.M. playdates, and I was not going to get a full night's sleep ever again ever, so I decided to do what any desperate parent would do in a time like this: I bribed her.  I took her to the store and let her pick out a toy. The deal was that the toy would live on the highest shelf in my closet  until she could go 10 whole days without screaming out my name in the middle of the night. I even upped the stakes and told her that not only did she have to stop screaming for me in the middle of the night, she also had to release me from the prison of the hallway at bedtime. The new rule was: Tuck in, story, kiss, see ya! She agreed this was a fair deal, and that lovely little toy became the shining beacon - for both of us.

We made a little calendar and lo and behold, it worked! I couldn't believe how easy this was! I had been so conditioned by torture, I simply couldn't believe my good fortune. But bedtime became a breeze; we were all sleeping through the night; we were all whistling the joyful whistle of "I slept so good last night!" in the mornings. So, as promised, at the end of those 10 blissful days, I brought down her toy from the closet. She had chosen a music box that, when opened, presented a colorful, popped-up Mickey Mouse who danced to his own theme. That first night, I read her a story and kissed her, and happily bid good night, and then.... "Mommy, will you sit with me for just one second and listen to my Mickey Mouse song?"
Not entirely worried, yet, I sat down on the edge of the bed. "Just for one time, through okay?"
She nodded and opened the box. Mickey danced joyfully.
"Mommy? Will you sing the song?"
"Honey, I don't know the words."
"Make them up."
"Let's just listen."
"But make them up, pleeeease?"
"Mickey is so fun and cool, he loves it when you sleep! M-I-C-K-E-Y- M-O-U-S-E... Okay honey, good night!"
"The song isn't over yet."
"It's a music box, honey, it will just keep playing and pl...." Oh, shit.
"Sing more."
"Good night!"
"SING MOOOOORE!"

The bribe had backfired. My dismal future lay before me: Not only was I now going to have tuck her in and read her a book, I was also going to have throw in on-the-fly songwriting and singing to the nightly routine. Desperate, I tried blackmail. "If you don't go to sleep RIGHT NOW, I am taking this back to the store and NO MORE MICKEY. Do you hear me?" S looked at me, her chin all quivery, the Mickey dancing more and more slowly as the music started to die. I grabbed the box and put it on her night table, cranking it a few turns so that the music might help her sleep. Then I kissed her and huffed towards the door.
"Mommy?"
"WHAT?!?"
"I love you."
Stab. I turned back to her bed and sat next to her, burying my face into her neck and kissing it. "I love you, too, lovebug."
"Mommy?"
"Hmmm?"
"One more song?"
"Mickey is a giant mouse who loves his family.. M-I-C-K-E-Y- M-O-U-S-E..."
And then, just like that, she turned over and went to sleep.

Cuban MisLED Crisis

by Patti and Cathy

There is an equation that parents are all too aware of: Kids+Restaurant = Flying Food, Yanked Table Cloths, Toppled Wine Glasses, Punctured Conversation, Cold Dinner. Yet, we keep trying to change the outcome of this equation because we simply cannot let go of the idea that we once had so! much! fun! at restaurants. We can't let go of the memory of that lingered-over wine; that savored dinner; that gaze over the bread basket. Until one of those rolls from that bread basket clobbers your forehead and you sadly snap out of it. Then we remember that, oh yeah, we have kids.

We had a big reality check on the whole restaurant situation a few years ago. Our families were looking forward to trying out a new BYOB Cuban restaurant, and decided to plan a "double date" of sorts. Amazed that the stars of our respective schedules lined up, we foolishly thought it might be fun to bring our kids, too.....

Patti

I was so excited about our night out. We don't get to hang out very often with our families all together, and I was looking forward to trying out a new restaurant, cracking open a bottle of wine, and enjoying some spirited conversation. The restaurant was tiny but cozy, and they gave us a nice, long table by the window. We set up the girls at their own table, and they were thrilled to be all "grown-uppy", browsing the menu and enjoying their own conversation. Things seemed to be starting out perfectly. Almost too perfectly. 

The food arrived, steaming, smelling like Havana, and we all began to dig in, family-style. That is when Ari, Cathy's youngest and 2-years old at the time, decided she simply had to be with her papi. Joe took her into his arms, and tried to juggle his fork, his wine, and his little firecracker of a daughter all at once. Ari got more and more wiggly, apparently annoyed that her papi would dare pay so much attention to the rice and beans over her. Joe tried to pass her off to the older girls, telling her how much fun it would be to be at her own table, but Ari wasn't buying it. She knew the real fun? Was being had at our table. So she refused to budge. I could see little beads of sweat beginning to form on Joe's forehead. Joe has always been a "cool customer"; the kind of guy who "never lets 'em see you sweat". But tonight, he was being driven to the brink.

Knowing that Ari had always been fascinated by my Blackberry, I lured her over to my lap with the sparkling promise of YouTube clips from The Bee Movie. Joe, relieved to be free of that adorable albatross, gladly released her, and Ari scurried over to me. I hoisted her up onto my lap, and thus began the reprieve. We were back! We drank wine! We ate! We talked! Sure, I had to pause every 2 minutes to replay those damned clips, but it was a small price to pay for that freedom. But a mere 10 minutes later, mid-plunge into my Cuban fish, Ari got bored. No amount of replays worked. The little assassin sensed fun was being had, and she set out to kill it. She climbed back into Joe's lap, and began to methodically take us all down, one by one.

She started off by insisting she had to go the bathroom. Cathy got up to take her, but NO. It had to be Joe. Joe wearily got up and accompanied her to the one, small bathroom in the restaurant. Of course, the minute they went in, others lined up outside to wait their turn. They were in there forever, and when they finally came out, Ari was pantsless.
"Where are her pants?" Cathy asked confused.
"She didn't want to put them back on," sighed Joe.

Ari was walking behind him, her hair sticking up, her onesie unsnapped, her bare butt hanging out. That's when I noticed: she was not only pantsless, she was also BAREFOOT.

"Joe! She's not wearing shoes!" Cathy hurriedly looked around the restaurant, wondering if her toddler was violating some health code.
"I'm not going to argue with her!" Joe threw his hands up. He sat down to swig some wine, and Ari climbed back into his lap."No mamita, please get off."
Ari screamed. "NO! Papi chulo!" She clung to him, a little leech sucking the life right out of him.

Joe's face reddened, the "cool customer" facade cracking. "Cathy, TAKE HER, PLEASE." He unclenched Ari's grip from his chest, but her little hands boomeranged right back to his shirt, and she leeched onto him even more tightly.
"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Joe unpeeled her from his body, planted her on the floor, pantsless and barefoot, and stomped out of the restaurant. Ari, the ever-efficient assassin, set out after him to finish the job. I could see him in the vestibule, pacing in that tiny space like a caged lion, Ari now wrapped tightly around his neck, choking him. M got up to play mediator, and I could see them all in there, hands flying animatedly, Joe's mouth moving in anger and frustration while M tried to talk him down from the ledge. Ari remained coiled around Joe the entire time. I turned to Cathy, the beautiful spread of untouched food before us. "Girl, you have GOT to get a portable DVD player. 'Cuz this? Ain't working."

Cathy

No parent wants to be the one that all the other restaurant customers glare at sideways with that awful look of disdain on their smug faces. We know all too well what that feels like, and also know, that no matter what, we would never do the same to other parents in a bad situation because we know what it's like.

We've been to restaurants where spaghetti was being flung to other tables, tantrums were being thrown in high chairs and most of the food and drink ended up on the floor. But this night? Was out of control.

Ari had (and still has at times) moments where she just would NOT let Joe put her down. He was eating? She was on his lap. He was watching TV? On his lap. She even wanted to sit on his lap and have Joe read her a book as he was using the bathroom. Every video clip taken of Joe during my sister's wedding three years ago - had Ari pinned to his side. His arm was sore for days after that. So this night, was no different.

I knew things would go south when Ari insisted that Joe take her to the bathroom. And a few minutes later, I saw it: Ari darting into a dining area filled with people enjoying their night out, barefoot with her unsnapped onesie flapping wildly behind her. Joe was nowhere to be seen; I thought for a second that he might have escaped out the bathroom window. Instinctively, I thought I should just keep eating, conversing and drinking and pretend I didn't know who that crazy baby was. Which I did for a few brief moments before I got up to discreetly lure her towards me until I saw Joe, pale as the moon and a frown imbedded on his face, walk up behind her and try to smoothly pick her up, whereupon she threw a fit.

Joe was having no more of this. He hoisted her on his hip, her little dimpled butt peeking out of her open onesie, tears in full swing, no shoes, no coat, no nothing and announced that he was taking her home. His food was barely touched, his wine just waiting to drown his frustrations. I desperately looked at Patti and M; my look said it all. M immediately sprung to action and attempted for what seemed like forever, to talk Joe into coming back in. Begrudgingly, he did. And Ari remained on his lap for the rest of our now deflated, hurried, undigested meal.

The next day, I bought a portable DVD player.

Whack-A-Mole Life

by Cathy

We've all played a game of Whack-A-Mole at least once, right?

You know...that money-sucking game where you're handed a Flintstones-like, padded club and hover warrior-style over the six holes in a machine that unpredictably pop out ugly mole heads in a random fashion? The objective is to smack each one of them back into their holes each and every time. If you can handle that easy task, you win.

We never seem to hit every single one of those little rodents, do we? As much as we try and go balls-to-the-wall assassin on their tiny little asses, there inevitably is one or two we miss.

As I discovered the other day, life is a lot like playing Whack-A-Mole. There are a million little fires that need to be put out; most on a daily basis which go unnoticed and others that weigh us down over a longer period of time.  After all, if it's not one thing, it's another, right?

Last week, I felt I had a particularly gangbusters day after snagging a brand new, not-yet-out-of-the-box laser printer from Craigslist for just half the cost. I found a great bargain for a much needed item and I was thrilled. I couldn't wait to go home and install it.

Here's how my night went:

- Oh no! I can't install the printer drivers on the Mac without the administrator's (Joe's) username and password. After much unsuccessful Googling on how to bypass it, and some major digging and recollecting on Joe's end to remember the info, we got it.

- Oh no! I don't have an A-B USB cable (not included) to connect the printer to the computer! After much digging in a giant crumpled bag of jumbled cables, wires, extension cords, weather stripping, phone chords, vacuum bags, old TV antennas (what?), and a slew of non-descript cables...eureka! I found one.

- Oh no! The printer drivers are not showing up as a printing option on screen! "Is the printer plugged in?" came an annoyed response from Joe, who was in the living room lifting weights and watching television. Oops. OK, I was tired and frustrated. Finally, success!

- With that behind me, it was bathtime for the kids. I went to run the bathwater when I saw that I left the mop sitting in a bucket of bleach from yesterday's housecleaning efforts. After draining out the bleach, I placed the bucket on my BRAND NEW dark gray bathroom rug. "Oh no!" I screamed, and snatched it off only to see the faint outline of a bleach ring on my beautiful, plush rug. I dropped everything, ran it under clear water and threw it in the washing machine, all while screaming one expletive after another, much to the chagrin of my family .

- With the girls' baths situated, I came back to the computer to check email for the night. Now that I had a printer, my home/office set-up was FINALLY complete!! I began typing a reply to an email but the words I typed were all strung together inonelongrunonsentencelikethisone and I couldn't understand why. Until I realized that the space bar apparently spaced out and went to the local bar. It was totally out of commission. I tried unplugging the keyboard, I tried restoring the default settings, I tried Googling it, I tried rebooting the computer, I tried everything. Nada. My keyboard decided that tonight of all nights, it would have its last hoorah.

Well, guess what. I had my last hoorah of the night as well.

I couldn't believe the string of annoying, frustrating little issues that consistently and persistently (much like those annoying little moles) popped up as soon as the one before it was taken care of. I finally had to lay down my fighting club for the night, throw my hands up in defeat and surrender to life's proverbial moles - but only for today.

Tomorrow...we play again.

I'm Latin... It's Never Too Late!

by Patti

Although I was born in the United States, I was raised by immigrants from South America, and therefore brought up in a very Latin way. Spanish was my first language - I didn't really even learn to speak English until I started school. We spoke Spanish, we lived Spanish, we were... Spanish!

When we were little, while the neighbors had their children in bed by 7 pm, my brother and I would still be up at midnight, eating Cap'n Crunch and listening to music. It was the Latin way. As we grew older, although my brother's and my Spanish gave way to more and more English, the whole concept of the "American bedtime" never took hold of our household. Instead, my family's second wind would always kick in around 10 pm, and that is when we'd start a game of Yahtzee or start baking a cake.

I distinctly remember my mom mopping the floors at 11 pm on a weeknight, while my dad was making a burnt toast sandwich. That is when my brother got the the sudden craving for a chocolate cream Hostess pie. So, naturally, we would all pile into the car to go to the grocery store. It mattered not that it was now nearly midnight and we all had work and school the next day. Right now? At this moment? Was the perfect time to go the grocery store and get some pie. Of course, once we got to the store, my mother would remember that we needed milk. And eggs. And lettuce. And, oh! Look! These chips are on sale at 2 for 1! And then my dad would inevitably head off to buy a block of cheese and some salami while my brother and I gleefully threw a thousand Hostess pies into the cart. So, in essence, we were doing the groceries at midnight on a Wednesday. But hey, when your Latin, it's never too late!

Not only did we cook, clean, and play Yahtzee at unreasonable hours, we also ate dinner late. While our friends were sitting around the table passing around the roast and potatoes at 6 pm sharp, we'd be waking up from naps and eating a snack. Dinner? Was not until at least 10 pm. How can people eat at 6? You'll be STARVING by midnight! Because, of COURSE we'd still be up at midnight.

These Latinly habits were obviously passed on to me, and since I married a man from Argentina, where it is not uncommon to find a restaurant packed with families at 11 pm on a school night, we have only perpetuated these habits and are now passing them on to our daughter.

When S was born, structure existed only in "How To" books for us. We'd be up at 1 am watching movies with our baby by our side, or out dancing to a Merengue band, S held up high up in the air between us, then all sleep in until 1 pm the next day. Why not? She didn't have a job! Let her stay up; it's not too late!

Of course, once she started school, it was a complete and total nightmare getting on that "American" time clock - for ALL of us. We'd finally get her on a schedule - which felt like prison to us - and then we'd go to Argentina to visit family, only to have that worked-for schedule promptly fly out the Argentinean window. After all, summers in Argentina mean dinner at 11 pm and ice cream at 1 am. Kids stay up with the adults and participate in every aspect of what is going on. Too late for them to be up? Of course not! The only "too" in the Latin culture is "too early", "too quiet", and "too boring". But "too late"? It's never too late!

S is now 10 years old, and fully embracing the Latin ways. She is always mystified after coming home from a friend's house. "Mom, they ate dinner so EARLY." If I finally tell her to go to bed on a Friday night at midnight, she will look at me, shocked, "But Mom, it's FRIDAY. It's too early!"

Que puedo decir? We have created a monster, much like my parents created a monster in me, much like their parents created monsters in them. The Latin gene lives on, and frankly, I just don't think we are ever going to change. For that? It's too late.

I'm Greek...So Eat!

by Cathy

If you're not eating  - I'm not happy. Wanna make me happy? Eat.

There is no question that food is a significant component of the Greek culture. As such, it is the main focus of any familial gathering: Thanksgiving? Forget what we're thankful for, what are we eating? Christmas? Thanks for the gift but I'd rather open up the oven and take a look. Sunday dinner? Nice to see you...let's eat! And forget Windex. (FYI - that association to Greeks was just for comedic relief. You DO realize that, right?) The cure for anything and everything that ails you is food. Got a headache? You must be hungry. Got a stomachache? Have some boiled rice. Running a fever? Eat something. Fatigued? Forget sleep - you need to eat. Caught a cold? It's because you're not eating enough.

When my sister and I were kids, we had to finish every morsel on our plates. I loved the tactics my father used: the 'ol food-on-a-flying-airplane-fork was for my sister. For me, it would always be: "You're going to leave that last bite? That piece has all your vitamins and energy in it! You can't leave it there. You have to eat it!"

Growing up, it was normal in my house to have your plate refilled as soon as you were obligingly polishing off what was originally stacked there. My father is notorious for that, and as such, his food-pushing habits have become expected by regular visitors and shock the first-timers. Without asking guests, he will grab the tongs and pile salad into your plate just as you're taking your last (or so you thought) bite, or he will fork another steak and plop it on top of the food (still?) left in your plate. All the while, he is urging you on in Greek, "Eat! Eat! Why aren't you eating? Aren't you hungry?" Meanwhile, your eyeballs are about a millimeter from popping out of your sockets because you just have not one ounce of room left in your body to store any more food.

My father's sister, a masterful cook and a notorious food pusher herself, is a thousand times worse than my father in this category, if you can imagine that. We all starve ourselves the day before a visit to her house because we know we are sure to be tied down and force-fed before we leave. Meatballs will be flying into your plate from across the table, your drink re-filled after a sip and platters of whole roasted chickens and Greek meat lasagna shoved and paused under your chin until you take something.

Seeing as the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I now have picked up nuances of these annoying habits. I can't help it; they are intertwined in the fabric of my being as a Greek and as my father's daughter. I am always worried about people not eating enough.

- Once, Patti was to pick me up on her way home from work and running errands, for an evening event we had to attend (where there was to be no food). Concerned that she wouldn't have eaten since lunch that day, I thoughtfully packed a sandwich and some chips and handed it to her in the car, after she announced (surprise) that she was starving. Her response? "You're sooooo Greek!" She then shared a story with me about her Greek neighbor, from whom she once asked to borrow an onion and the Greek neighbor emerged from her house with three onions, two sweet potatoes, an eggplant and a bag of tomatoes.

- My kids are victims #1 and #2 of my feeding frenzy obsession. After school: "Want a snack? Have a snack. Aren't you hungry? Did you eat all of your lunch? WHY NOT?? You can't go through a school day hungry! Why didn't you eat your school snack? Well then stop talking and start eating during lunch and snack time! So-and-so is eating while she's listening to your chattering. Stop chattering and eat...EAT!!!"

- Anywhere we go, I pack snacks: Target, after-school activities, Marshall's, church. Yes, church. If you hear the crinkling of a granola bar wrapper interrupting the sacrament of holy communion, that's us.

My dad, appropriately, is a butcher. On occasion, I'll ask him to bring home some ground meat. He'll bring two 5 lb. bags of ground meat, eight dinosaur steaks and some whole chickens. (The ongoing joke between my sister and I when we visit our parents' house is that we always leave carrying chickens.) I am lucky that my freezer is packed to the hilt with good quality butcher meat (none of that fake, dyed supermarket meat for us...nooooooooo); so much so, that I don't have room for necessities...like ice. 

When you visit a Greek house, you must ALWAYS be offered something to eat.  We Greeks must have something at the ready to pull out of our fridge, freezer or cabinet any time of day or night for our guests. (Oh, was that a burglar? Did you offer him something to eat?) If not, it is a sin, and you will be talked about relentlessly in the community. It could be a bowl of nuts, cookies, pastries, cheese, olives and bread or a hard-boiled egg.

Oh. You're not hungry? Have a seat. I'll broil a steak.