ARA, OMG and WUR?

My sister and I have come up with a few text acronyms of our own lately. Here, we offer a twist on the old (new) favs:

ARA: Accidentally Reply All. This is when an email has come in cc'd to about a million people, and we find the nerve to reply to the original message (dicey!) but just to each other (this is a critical step in pulling off the joke). The reply is something sarcastic and career-ending in a normal tone, complete with professional, friendly sign-off included.
The key is to make the email look so legit that we shock the other into thinking for a split second that this IS in fact the response we just "replied all" with.
ARA is a real boon for the slow days at the office. There's that split second of fear after hitting send when you think, "OK, ok, I really just sent it to Kerry, right?" and in the next second, the exhilaration of a phone ringing with an enraged sister on the other end.

Please note: This is a very poor idea because it comes with the inherrent danger of, in fact, ARA to about a million people who now want to know what your problem is.

AFBA: Accidentally Facebook All. The trump to ARA.

WTF: Way Too Far. This commentary goes for everything you might use the more vulgar WTF for but in a more sisterly fashion. It's used not in anger but more in the way someone who loves you wants to remind you that she sometimes hates you and that others should hate you too.  (i.e. In response to well-played Accidentally Reply All, she may reply "WTF" in an affectionate, begrudgingly impressed way.)

WUR? Will U Respond? Our in-house GTWoman favorite. This is also known as passing the buck. When we get an email  about something outlandish, it's a game to see who can forward the email to the other fastest with a very, very, very casual "wur?" noted at the top. Sometimes we'll make the additional note "RUN."

OMG: One More Girl. This is how our events get sold out, and then some. We are famous, famous we say, for squeezing in OMG at every event. About 20 times. So if you've ever been to a luncheon where you watched us eating our meals standing up, or sitting in a corner in a random chair, with a plate balanced on our laps, it's because it's an OMG kinda day. And we are especially proud of those kinda days.

LOL: Look Out Lads. This is more of an out-on-the-town kind of acronym. Used with sickening excess in Chicago.

BFF(N): Best Friend For Now. Our new favorite. This phrase is applied whenever some great grievance happens within a friendship, and we begin to analyze where and if this relationship is going anywhere. BFFN is a great diffuser. The grievance is immediately downgraded when we deem the offender a BFFN. This phrase takes away all expectations of perfection. We are cool again. Things were ugly there for a second, but hey life is short and you shall remain a best friend for now.

BTW: By The Way. We use this in its traditional sense but we like to hang it on shocking statements. BTW, you're fired.

FYI: For Your Information. Again, used traditionally. But is FYI ever really necessary? It's the equivalent of an email eye roll. i.e. "I told you this already. Twice. Yesterday. FYI."

SOL: Sh!t Out of Luck. OK, we just HAD to put SOL in here because — newsflash — this is nothing new, people. Our dad has been verbally texting this since before car phones came in bags.

We wish you all a great Holiday season with all your BFFNs and we hope your Santa  goes WTF and you aren't SOL this year!

Three birthdays, evenly distributed

It's been a month of birthdays around here for my boys.

Three birthdays in the one little month of October. 

And due to a complicated formula involving Physics, Mathematics and Psych, this has resulted in their mother (me) providing the two boys with TRIPLE the normal birthday haul.

Our youngest, Nelson, has the first birthday of the month on Oct. 7. Since the day of his arrival however, there has been a huge contention from the home team (Kendall) on how his younger brother gets his birthday first every October.
I made the lifelong mistake of "fixing"  this problem by letting Kendall open one present on Nelson's birthday that first year.

Lo and behold, the next "fix" was letting Nelson open something on his brother's birthday when Nelson was old enough to throw a flag on the situation. It's a vicious cycle I am unable (despite treatment) to break.

This means I have to budget the right amount of gifts to keep a steady flow going all month long. Each child needs at least two gifts: their Real Gift and their Auxiliary Gift to open on their brother's birthday.

There are some parameters for this birthday dance. The Auxiliary must be of lesser value than the brother's Real, lest overshadowing take place or, worse setting off of their father's radar. Tim is patient, but, to give the man his due, also sane.

On the flip side, the Auxiliary cannot be of such lesser value that the forlorn child spends half the day badgering the birthday boy for part or all of his Real.
It's a delicate balancing act that I blame on being a twin, where such fairness is only, well, fair.

But it was worse this year: On Tim's birthday, Oct. 11, they (got me in a headlock and) insisted Kendall couldn't wait until Oct. 31 and therefore needed his present on his father's birthday (along with Nelson's Auxiliary of course).

This excuse, along with the fact that Kendall had ferreted his Real out of the back of the closet and was now shaking a gift-wrapped 1-billion-piece Lego set above his head like a giant maraca while screaming "It's Legos! It's Legos!" worked. I know, shocking.

So come Kendall's Real birthday on Oct. 31, I had to have a Second Real for the poor child to open on his Real birthday, along with a Second Auxiliary for his poor brother.

I mean, what's a Real birthday morning without a little wrapping paper flying between brothers?

My mom would be very proud of my standing on principle like this, rallying behind my complete insanity in the name of her grandchildren. Proud, fiercely proud — despite the mess I'd made of the birthday run up to that point.

But by Oct. 31, there was no way I was going to buy two more presents. No, this called for a Cooperative Present — at the time unheard of, thereby warranting a new chapter in the rule book. It was soon deemed that a Cooperative would be one small present they would share — half the size but, in all probability,  twice the cost. See, a complicated yet respectable system.

So in the end, both boys had THREE birthdays in one calendar... month. I am already saving for next year's October Birthday Blowout Extravaganza.

Save it for the fall Moms!

“Save it for the fall” has become our mantra around here. My sister's two children and my two children, all four of them, will be in school this fall. For the first time in our lives, we will have the house to ourselves to work on GTWoman Magazine.

While we admit this is a bittersweet transition, we’d like to outline some of the celebrations that will be unfolding.

Any and all fantastic, mind-blowing ideas are now on a time line. Instead of worrying we don’t have the time or resources to blow minds, we simply table the fantasticness and announce that we shall “save it for the fall.”

For, in the fall, we hope that time will unfurl and hand us back our minds after running the magazine with chillins’ at our feet and in our minivans for 7 years.
Here’s how we sound day or night:

Kerry: “Let’s go to a dude ranch and rope cattle.”
Kandy: “Save it for the fall.”

Kandy: “Let’s go national with GTWoman.”
Kerry: “Save it for the fall.”

Kerry: “Let’s clean the house.”
Kandy: “Save it for the fall.”

Of course, once the semi-empty nest is upon us, we will surely be plunged into a deep depression. Even now, we’re a little haunted, wondering what we will do with the booming echo of a house empty from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. five days a week.

“Save it for the fall” has been our coping mechanism. Perhaps we’ll be so busy this fall we won’t notice the loneliness, what with our clean houses and coiffed style?

Well, for the first week, we can guarantee that there won’t be a lot accomplished. We’ll spend a good 15 minutes moping about the house, looking at their pile of discarded trains and feel a yearning for the “good old days.” Then we’ll snap back to reality and remember the good old days also involved diapers and the ever-present threat of a double homicide.

Here are our plans focusing on the positive and not the emptiness:

• Watch a full episode of The Young and The Restless. Uninterrupted. Volume below ear-splitting. Daily. 
• Eat cookies. That we don’t have to share. Hourly.
• Clean our offices. Put our stapler where we want it. Find it there the next day. With staples still in it.
• Feed the cats. Have the food remain in the bowl and not become cargo for Thomas, James and Percy, Sodor Island’s trio of steam engines.
• Feed ourselves. Not last. Not after cutting, buttering and arguing. Have pleasant conversations with others without removing a child from the ceiling fan of an eating establishment.
• Open the porch door. Not have the screen banged open and shut 15 times during Y&R and walked thru during B&B. (If you know what B&B stands for, you’re in the club. Details below.)
• Start Moms Survival Club. This is for moms who have worked from home through the preschool years and survived. This club will entail ice cream not dropped on the floor, salon outings without a battle of wills ensuing and shopping where no one crawls under a locked door or announces they can see your underwear
• Work.
• Return phone calls without hunkering down in a bedroom with a barricade made out of dresser drawers and laundry.

Besides these basic goals, we are also having daydreams of houses that are cleaner, laundry that is doner and dishes that are dryer.

There’s probably a slew of moms who will tell us that even after the kids are in school, things will not get done. To them we say… “save it for the fall.”

Tball Angst

If I sit long enough at a t-ball game, I start to buy into the end-of-the-world speeches my dad likes to give. My dad believes that everything is being watered down, muddied, ruined in the name of equality, where no one gets their feeling hurt or, worse, loses.

I thought he was being a little dramatic until Nelson started t-ball, a game that has turned into random ball throwing and catching with no rules. At every game, I look about at the other parents, desperate to catch the eye of one brought up in the day when you’d kill for a point made in dodgeball off a kid with a busted arm.

Last night’s t-ball game was the topper for me. One little dude, we’ll call him Chicken Little (CL), outranked everyone in his total disregard for competition.
He was playing pitcher. Of course, in t-ball, there is no actual pitching. But the pitcher gets a lot of action because most balls don’t go much farther than the mound. This makes the pitcher the go-to guy, the one moving along the non-scoring game, throwing to base for not-really-out outs and occasionally catching doesn’t-really-count fly balls.

So, CL was playing pitcher when — wham! — another player, having first maimed a slow-moving coach with his back swing, hit the ball in a line drive — into CL’s knees.

Here’s when I knew I had a story worth telling: It took a moment for CL to realize something had happened. Several moments later, he still had no idea what.
The crowd went nuts: “It’s in front of you! On the ground! At your feet!” These came from our side, as CL was our secret weapon, our ace in the hole.
On the other side, they were screaming “Run!” at the assailant, followed calmly by the coach saying, “but only if you want to.”

Finally, CL figured out that we were all screaming at him. He realized, too, that his left knee was swelling up to twice the size of his right. By Jove, the ball was there, at his feet, a gift from God. He scooped it up, re-adjusted his glasses and made to throw that ball out of sight.

But, representing t-ball players everywhere, he released the ball a tad early, delivering it a few feet behind him and, just barely, under.

This may have been all a part of CL’s act. He had the crowd riveted. Would he? Wouldn’t he? Could he stop the hitter who was meandering to first base? Would he break the tie in the untieable game? And if he did, would it matter? 

This total lack of suspense is where I take great issue with t-ball. If these children are old enough to brave an elementary playground, they are surely durable to the blows a t-ball game might dole out. 

As for my own children, last night Nelson hit a biggie. Up it went, landing atop but not within, the 2nd baseman’s glove. For 2nd baseman had spotted a sheep in the clouds above.

“Good (dropped) catch!” I screamed out of habit at the second baseman, but to Nelson, I bellowed, “Run! Fast!” The other parents looked at me, Easy there, girl in the red rain coat a size too big. And I sent back telepathy along the lines of Your feet are too big.

But by then, Nelson’s run had turned into a sideways set of lunges and squats to give him a better view of the sheep sighting. Why even running is going out of style in this non-game.

I want to boycott the game, rally the troops — that we should teach them rules, skills, good sportsmanship, about how bad things befall slow runners and distracted catchers, and about how good things befall those running in a straight line and catching with their mitts open.

But when I talk about these things, the parents all look at me like I’m a monster, broke loose out of the backyard of a couple Yooper parents. But to you, I plead my case: All I want is for these kids to get a kick out of winning, which is even better after having lost.

For the record, CL never did complete that play. He landed his second wild throw in the dugout, and the coach snatched it up, offering him great kudos, and, I think, a trophy.

Mom Skillz

Pictured here is Kandy's favorite photo. Look closely.

What is Kerry doing? Remedying a problem.

Where is she at? In her car, parked as far away from the entrance to a GTWoman luncheon as she can manage without entering traffic.

What should she be doing? Not smiling for a photo.

Most notable is the iPhone balanced on Kerry's right thigh. She is reading her email, texting, drying her armpits and not, fortunately, seeing Kandy approach with a camera.

This here, is what we like to call Mom Skillz.

For Kerry, Mom Skillz meant knowing that direct venting was the only answer to pitting out her shirt.

For Kandy, Mom Skillz meant knowing a sisterly moment was unfolding and recording it.

And for our GTWoman Motherhood issue, we'd like to take a moment to honor Mom Skillz. These are skillz that translate from home to business in the blink of antiperspirant gone bad:

Situation: Often touted as life-threatening: sliver in child's foot.
Mom Skillz: Extraction must be done on child who, only yesterday you couldn't budge from the candy aisle, but has now become slippery, transparent, loose: a shape shifter. Calling in back-up with a bent knee that outweighs the child is favorable.
Biz Skillz: This is also sometimes known as Making the Sale.

Situation: The sound of a bee landing half a mile away from a child who once had a bee fly in his shirt that made his mother go bat-sh!t crazy on him to get it out.
Mom Skillz: Mother must remain calm while panicking wildly herself. She must admonish child for his overreaction while looking about frantically for her husband, sister or mailman to come upon the scene. At which point she can run, flap her arms and leave it to someone else to act all grown-uppy.
Biz Skillz: Often known as When the Boss Enters the Room.

Situation: Toys exploded all over house, some on back porch, at least one on roof.
Mom Skillz: Wait until mother-in-law is coming for visit and blow up at children. Bluster about yelling and stuffing things. Pencils in the underwear drawer, undies in the junk drawer. Whatever. Just get it out of sight.
Biz Skills: Also known as Corporate Will Be Here for a Visit This Afternoon.

Situation: Emptying shavings from children's pencil sharpener.
Mom Skillz: Not able to open compartment over the garbage can. Finally figuring out how to do it in a fury of superhuman strength, over the carpeting.
Biz Skills: Also known as Trying to Sneak a Powdered Donut from a
Co-Worker's Cubicle.

Really, is there any Mom situation that doesn't translate to business? To Moms everywhere, we salute your skillz!

Puking kids and deadline, my two favorite things!

Three days of sick children. The same three days before this issue went to press...

Wednesday morning is press deadline, and it dawns gray but glorious: For it has been 36 hours since anything erupted out of either child. 36! That is one and a half times more than the recommended 24-hour window of recovery. I am home-free. I will make deadline after all.

I am feeling like Super Mom. Inwardly, I was thinking about deadlines and ad copy for the last three days, but outwardly, I was the picture of superness: benevolent, giving, compassionate. Puke bucket in one hand, red pen and pages in the other.

And those extra 12 hours of comfort thrown in, no-charge.

But as I prep the children for school, I see that other things have gone awry in these three days besides my editorial excellence.

I dress the children out of the dirty laundry pile, but Super Mom feels resourceful doing so. And Super Mom let them play on the slip-n-slide late yesterday afternoon and realizes now it was a premonition to do so, because they can skip the super shower.

And when I hear the low-gas ding, Super Mom knows she has enough to get to school and back, and loads of time on her day alone, to fuel up later.

9:15 a.m.: Super Mom is prancing around the house, breaking out the peanut butter bars and weighing down the couch. I have work, work, work to do. But have I been alone for a single, solitary, sanitary minute in the last three days? No. And my new book Lit awaits me. As does Reba. What will 15 minutes of guilty pleasures cost me?

Everything, as it turns out. For I have forgotten about the Kindergarten Welcome Lunch today. I have to be back to school in a few hours. Scrambling begins. Sloppy editing ensues, bad writing unfurls.

11:30 a.m.: At school. Nelson exits his preschool room galloping down the hallway at me. I look at his teacher, Good God woman, this child is sick! I grill the teacher: Is he pukey? Is he tired? Is he ? Of course he’s been fine all morning.

But it’s the sight of Super Mom that sends him into a downward spiral during the Welcome Lunch. Nelson has his head down on the table, refusing to eat, as I scan the room for fashion tips from 5th graders. For 30 minutes, he speaks to me in the withering whisper of the convincer and holds his tummy for emphasis.

Half of me is thinking, He’s not sick, he’s playing you! (This half is being reinforced by one twin sister saying it over and over in my ear.)

The other half is thinking, What’s the worst things that can happen to little Nelso? And the resounding answer is a public bathroom. 

One fleeting memory of a JCPenney’s restroom gone bad many years ago, and it’s all over: I shall work (again) with a sick child underfoot.

12:30 p.m.: I’m feeling Super Momish again because we got home in the nick of time. Things happen. Ugly things. Super Mom thinks, I knew it.

1 p.m.: I try to regroup and settle onto the bed next to Nelson. It will be SpongeBob for him and laptop for me. But first, cuddling. Then crackers. Then a Donald Duck DVD. Then. The. Phone. Rings.

2 p.m.: Boy No. 2 is down for the count. Super Mom says, Yes I will be there as fast as a minivan can go. GTWoman Mom thinks, with a raging editor at the wheel.

2:30 p.m.: I make an appearance in the school office to scoop up Kendall and then in his classroom to pick up his work. I realize when I get home that I made these “appearances” with a tie-dye bandana over my bedhead and some syrup dried on my shirt. I appear like Aunt Jemima might have on a bender.

3 p.m.: Two children in my bed, 1 dead laptop battery, 1 Garfield movie and 1 Super Mom who has given up.

If you find any typos or small children for sale in this issue, I present this column as Exhibit A.

Kisses to my Grandma

Our sweet Grandma Maddox went to heaven the day after Christmas to raise cain with Grandpa Nels. Here, are just a few of the million things I loved about her.  
Peanut butter fudge. I blame Grandma for my addiction to peanut butter in any shape, size or form.
The women gathered around the kitchen table. My mom, Aunt Barb, Grandma, Aunt Linda, Aunt Kate, Aunt Joanne, Aunt Gloria, Great Grandma and too many more to mention. The laughter, the laughter, the laughter. It filled up the room and painted everything in it. It was the girl talk you usually only read about. Except I got to run through it with chocolate on my hands, Jell-o stains on my face and holes in my jeans. Everything was warm, rich and full.
The kitchen. Grandma cutting veggies from the garden, cleaning strawberries over the sink, canning tomatoes with my mom. Making a 3-course meal when the preacher stopped by unexpectedly. Feeding 12 of us with a meatloaf the size of a bread pan, flanked by enough side dishes to feed the entire street, no problem.
The potato cellar. It was the scariest thing in the house. We hated to go down there but thrilled at the challenge. There's a lone dusty wooden chair in the middle of it. Who sits in the chair? No one. At least no one we can see. Only much later, just this year, did I realize the great fun that could be had by sending my own children to the potato cellar. And scratching on the window while they were in it.
Cousins. Is there any other reason for Grandma and Grandpa houses except to have a spot for the grandkids to pile in and make a mess of things? Mismatched mittens, mashed potato catapults, TomCat card games and dancing to John Anderson in the backroom.
Blankets. Grandma had the finest assortment of blankets, all homemade and full of stories in themselves. At bedtime we built our beds like a flat neighborhood. One cousin bordering another bordering another bordering another. And of course the real fun began when the lights went out and the giggles began.
Grandma's couch. It was always full of people. But the best part was to sit there and watch whoever and I mean whoever came in after the couch was full, automatically grab a kitchen chair and drag it into the living room to join the gang.
We love you Grandma for your gift of happiness, simple times, friends and FAMILY!

Fish On

Our GTWoman Mar-April cover is a tribute to Rosie the Riveter, a cultural icon representing women working in the factories during World War II. While we didn't live through WWII, we did live through being raised by a farmboy from the Yoop. And we'd like to take this chance to offer up a few of our own Rosie the Riveter stories.

Our father raised us to get our hands dirty and to spend a Saturday night... fishing. Here are a few of the things Dad did that led to our prize-winning work ethic and fingernail strength: Kandy has a vivid memory of sitting in subzero weather in the polebarn helping Dad put studs in his snowmobile track.

Her job? 1) To hold the tube of LocTite adhesive. 2) To hand him the LocTite at the precise moment of stud application, cap off. 3) And to not, under any circumstances, look, call, pet or reach for a cat walking through the barn.

This, we feel, is a great segue into our fascination with cats. What drove our dad through the roof never quicker was a cat in the middle of a project. Mauling Farlie, Bingo, P.T. or Tigger anywhere near a lube gun, LocTite thread sealer or freshly mixed epoxy was on par with subterfuge. For, just when he urgently needed our help with something sticky or messy or tricky, we'd be covered in pet hair.

Kandy's memory also includes wearing a snowmobile suit the size of Kentucky, mittens bigger than her head and a pair of boots built for the moon. She could barely move, let alone hold a small tube of LocTite, cap off.

But, worse, to her father's utter disbelief, she was still cold. He would quiz her every 10 minutes about it, hoping against hope that she wasn't a total girl under all that nylon. And each time, he would turn back to his snowmobile with bare hands and sweat on his brow, warning her not to pet the cat.

This translated into Kandy's unerring ability to work in huge layers of clothing, at any temperature, without a cat. Luckily, she spends most of her time indoors with a cat on her lap. But, thanks to Dad, she knows what she's capable of when she takes the cap off.

Next up: Fishing with Dad. This doesn't seem like a work ethic instiller. But if you ever fished with our Dad, you'd know it was. Because he went to succeed. Not to swim off the back of the boat, not to sightsee and certainly not to suntan.

And so at the crack of dawn on any given weekend during Salmon season, we would be called to duty a full hour or two before daybreak. The cooler would be packed the night before and likewise, we would get dressed the night before: tucked into bed in sweatpants, long johns and, again, the nylon.

Once on the boat, we were to stand at attention. The slightest dip in the rod resulted in "FISH ON!" being sounded throughout the boat. This was usually the time one or both of us were reading a very, very, very good book, sleeping like all the normal people in the world, or thinking about killing each other.

Because of this, Dad usually had first dibs on every fish ever caught because he was the only one who saw it on the line. This, we suppose, taught us to be kind to others and give them a chance to rip a tripped fishing pole from the holder first.

Fishing with Dad taught us two more things about work ethic: 1) The importance of dressing for success and, when necessary, a snowmobile suit for a July dawn on Lake Michigan; and 2) The importance of keeping your eye on the line through to the end. (Sidenote: We also learned an alarming number of ways to unhook a fish from the line while trying to net it when it was finally within reach, and once, in our father's hands.)

We're only sorry we don't have more room to write here about the crazy, funny things Dad did that taught us about work ethic that means showing up on time, dressing for the job and following through to the end, even if you don't always catch the fish!        

Tough skiing today

Went skiing at Mud Lake today and decided to break trail through the backcountry. Um. Bad idea. 1 hr 38 mins of torture with skis 6inches thick with snow stuck to the bottom. Good times!

The Frosting Affair

We might appear to be all about this health nut thing, what with our flamboyant editorials on biking. But really, our love affair is with sugar. All this biking is only to make way for sugar intake.

As an ode to our Health issue, we’d like to admit to you our addictions. While Kerry is prone to the chocolate binge, Kandy has become addicted to the unusual and rarely seen "Frosting Affair."

The Dressing Room Ritual

The dressing room ritual comes after maybe five minutes of trying to shop with anyone under the age of 5. Although dressing rooms are armed with security cameras, they prove to be an excellent place to completely lose your mind for a moment while shopping with children.

I find that cornering my children in a cubicle with a growl and bared teeth gives me a lurch of satisfaction not found anywhere else in this plane of existence.

Upon entering and bolting the door, I sit them down on the bench and take one of three tactics (depending on how far into the insanity phase I am. Meaning depending on how many threats I’ve already tried):

1) Completely Crazed Mother at Hand.
This is my favorite because I get to blow off a lot of steam. In this scenario, the children wonder if they’ve gone so far as to make me disregard female-only security staff and let them “have it” (mom terminology). I rant and rave, threaten and swear, point and grimace.

2010 Resolutions

For my GTWoman Magazine, these are my resolutions:

We will not promise everyone an article in the magazine and then have Kandy worry and wince and dread the true space available. Kandy will control her enthusiasm and say "no" when the issue is full. For those of you who get the brand new patented "no" — we are sorry. Actually, we'd like to direct you to Leann Foley, who we have hired as our bodyguard. (Assistant editor sounded better on her biz cards and when we offered her the job.)

We will not wait to find something to wear to our very own events the hour before we are to arrive for set-up. This means we may no longer smell like cardboard boxes and have folds forming squares over our chests and backs.