That's how we do it in my family Part One

Life is the damndest thing.  I haven't disappeared from the blog solely because I'm busy.  I've disappeared partly because things have gotten hard and I've got things to figure out and not just normal everyday things like "how can I make this food I just ordered look homemade for our company."

I wish I'd made some progress but so far the "figuring out" part has involved staring into space and wasting a lot of time.

and watching my daughter kick ass

on her all-boy tee-ball team

So I've started seeing a therapist.  I've never been to therapy before.  My friends are loaded with therapists; I think some of them have a separate therapist for each of their problems. They were always shocked to hear I'd never been to one, a reaction I found vaguely insulting.

I found my therapist through a women's therapy referral service.  I was referred to three therapists, had a consultation appointment with each one and then chose mine, the woman who is going to lead me to enlightenment, inner peace, maybe donuts, and who hopefully will flat out tell me what to.  Do therapists do that, I hope they do that.

there she is again

The first therapist I met for a consultation was in the most beautiful building in historic Pioneer Square.  I wanted her to be "the one" simply for her building.  It may be the wrong reason to choose a therapist but you should have seen the ornate original millwork around the doorways.

Our session got off to a strange start when she came out of her office and found me stroking the intricate banister railing like a lover.  After taking a seat on her couch, I then spoke at length about leaded glass and shellac.  She may have thought I was avoiding my problems, or that perhaps my strange discussion topics were at the root of them.

Beautiful building aside, she's not my therapist.  She said part of her process is covering clients in weighted blankets and asking them to draw their feelings.  I told her that was a bad idea, that I'm claustrophobic and if she covers me in a weighted blanket I will most likely fight her. I advised her to consider the current length of my fingernails and my freakishly sharp and pointy elbows.

Also, I don't want to draw my feelings because drawing reminds me I suck at drawing.  That fact makes me even more sad and confused than I already am because how can I possibly suck at drawing?  I should be really good at it, I'm a child of the arts!

here she is being amazing at the dentist

The second therapist I saw had the most beautiful, soothing, whisper-soft voice.  She had a vaguely foreign accent and had nearly lulled me to sleep with her soft, melodious, meditation-inducing voice ten minutes after walking in the door.  As much as I wanted to curl up in her lap, I decided I couldn't work with her because my therapy sessions would not be effective if I was asleep.  I bet if I did fall asleep, though, she would cover me in a soft blanket and stroke my hair.

I chose the therapist I chose because within thirty minutes she had already drawn some pretty heavy parallels between my role in my family of origin and how I continue to act in my daily life.  She does not lull me to sleep and is forcing me to face some truths without reminding me of my painful artistic limitations or tackling me and smothering me in a blanket.

still have the boy, too, he's just harder to get a picture of 

My sister, Raba, and my sis-in-law, Zee, invited Alex and I to see a play with them a couple weeks ago.  It was an entertaining play about pet bunnies being let loose in a zoo by heartless owners and then forming a bloodthirsty cult hellbent on revenge for being forgotten.  There was murder, lots of blood, and some graphic bestiality.  It was a real hoot.

We were in the lobby before the play and my sister, Raba, asked me, "Have you heard from Mom and Dad?  I emailed them five days ago and haven't heard anything back."  Most people would shrug and make a mental note to call their parents the next day but not us.  It quickly spiraled from "Have you heard from our parents?" to "Oh God, Mom and Dad got sucked up in one of those tornadoes in Oklahoma because they mentioned that one time maybe driving to Oklahoma to get Mom a new hammered dulcimer."

That's how we do it in my family.  Anxiety and catastrophic thinking 4-ever.

Zee, my sis-in-law, stared at us incredulously.  "Let me get this straight," she said. "You're both going to sit here getting worked up about your parents twirling around in tornadoes and neither one of you is actually going to CALL THEM as we sit here with half an hour to kill before the play?"  I admit, it hadn't occurred to me to call them.  I just wanted to speculate and fret.  Isn't that what people do?

Coco's former preschool teacher was in the bloody bunny play.  I snapped a picture of her to show Coco.  Coco looked at the picture the next morning and her eyes widened, "Why is Teacher Ashley covered in blood??  Mommy, is she OK?  Is she OK?"  I tried to explain she was pretending to be a murderous bunny and was doing just fine, in fact living her dream in theater so couldn't be better! Coco was not buying that crap and now likely has some anxiety herself.

That's how we do it in my family.  Not thinking things through 4-ever.

Coco will probably need a therapist soon.  It can even be a feeling-drawing one because Coco is really good at drawing.  We all know she didn't get that from me, dammit.

It's been so long since I've written there's an impossibly long list of things that have happened.  I hate that feeling.  So many memories I failed to capture.  I'm not going to beat myself up too much because my therapist said I should stop doing that.  So I'll just address a couple biggies and then wander off to live a happy guilt-free life.

First, I turned 40...

My friend Rusty bought me the hat.  It happens when your friend Rusty is hilarious 

(and you're celebrating your birthday next to a legal pot shop)

My birthday night began in a fun way when Alex and I popped our heads into the TV room on our way out the door to remind Lucien to feed Bobo before he went to bed.  I believe our words were, "Make sure you give Bobo a handful of greens tonight, he hasn't eaten in a couple days."

As we grabbed coats and walked away, we heard the (brand new) babysitter ask, "So Lucien, who's Bobo?" and then we heard Lucien, precious babe of our loins, reply that Bobo was the homeless guy we let live in our attic.  Alex and I turned on our heels immediately to set it straight.  Our heads popped into the TV room a second time -- "Bobo's a lizard, not a man, bye again!" I hope she believed us but we couldn't stick around to find out.  We had a party to attend.

My 40th birthday was full of laughter and nude mannequins and mini golf.  And my face on cupcakes.

Thank you, friends.  Another dream realized.

We celebrated my rapid aging in a private room at Smashputt, a pop-up art installation/bar/mini golf destination.  Smashputt slinks into a city, sets up in some abandoned location (ours was an old post office) has raucous fun for a few months and then poof, it's gone.  It's mini golf on steroids with saw blades and air rifles.

Turning 40 was fun.  I felt loved and celebrated.  I also smacked a golf ball into a Skeeball game while my friends heckled me and told me I suck at mini golf.  I'll hang onto those warm memories as my limbs begin to shrivel and fall off with decrepit age and I start forgetting where I put my sunglasses (psst, they're on top of my head...)

The other big event to mention is we went to Mexico for Spring Break.  I meant to write about it here but realized I have a lot to say about it so it's going to be a separate post.  I'll post it soon, better than my two or three month hiatus or whatever blog neglecting stunt I just pulled.

Yes, life may be going to hell just a little bit but there's one fact that keeps me going and keeps me positive.  And that is, drum roll, that Banister Abbey finally has a Banister --

it's unfinished.  but it's there.

I know you haven't heard from me in awhile.  Incredibly, it's not because I was in a tornado.
MJ

Cabin fever

I chaperoned the Valentines Day party that involved all three classes of the First Grade.  Call it insanity, but I truly enjoy my time with those kids.  I think it's their blinky eyes blinking up at me, and the way they all want to hold my hand, and the awkward toothy first-grader grins.

The party ran long.  There was no time for kids to sift through the pile of coats dumped outside the party because the buses were about to leave back at school. We had to run the three blocks from the party location to the school, without coats, GO! GO! GO! to catch those buses. I imagined the horrified expressions of parents at bus stops when Little Johnny disembarked in February without his coat, teeth chattering.

Loyal chaperone I am, I filled a box with all the coats and followed behind the sprinting masses, dragging it along the sidewalk until I couldn't feel my arms very well.  I dumped the coats onto the sidewalk in front of the buses and helped kids throw them on as they boarded.  Every kid left with a coat.

There will someday be a folk song written about me, the trusty chaperone who wouldn't let the kids go home cold, entitled, "Cold Kid, Warm Heart."

Alex and I went to see a play at Capitol Hill's Annex Theatre Friday night.  It was called "Undo" and took place in an alternate reality where, if you want a divorce, you must live your wedding in reverse.  All the same people must attend and wear the same clothes, the presents are given back, and in the case of the Jewish ceremony portrayed in this instance, the glass is glued back together.

The great thing about the Annex Theatre, and so many fringe theaters in Seattle, is there's a bar in the lobby and you can carry your drinks into the theater for the show.  The PBRs at the Annex Theatre bar are $2 and deliciously refreshing; the mixed drinks are crappy and expensive.  I think you know which way I'm leaning with this recommendation.

What transpired on the Annex Theatre stage was a beautiful piece of theatre.  Really, truly.  It had it all -- laughs, tears, and lesbians.  There was also some sad sex (you must do everything you did on your wedding day to make peace with God, even if it was f*cking on your dressing table).

The man sitting behind us said loudly at the intermission, "Watching things like this makes me realize how ridiculous human relationships are."  All of us within earshot murmured our agreement and bought another PBR.

Here's some advice if you see a play at the Annex -- at intermission, run for the bathroom.  Get there first no matter what.  Push those bitches to the ground and don't look back and here's the reason why: there are only two toilets, two single stalls.  And a fifteen minute intermission. And one hundred people in the theater all drinking beer.  Do the math then do what you must do *cracks knuckles*

Al and I and the kids went to a friend's cabin for the long weekend.  It was just us; the cabin is often empty and our friend has been telling us to use it for years.

We left for the cabin right after Lucien and Coco's swim lessons Saturday morning.  I love watching the group of boys in Lucien's class learn to swim.  They all have their own style: some wide-eyed and freaked out (Lucien), others goofy and trusting in the world (the one whose eyes are slightly glazed) and some who should never be allowed near a body of water (the one sinking like a stone).

Our friend's cabin is in the South Puget Sound area, on a peaceful little lake upon which no motors are allowed.  Paddle boats, kayaks and canoes are the vessels of choice.  The four of us climbed into a paddle boat and made it halfway around the lake before Coco started complaining her belly hurt. We figured out she was seasick when she turned light green.

In the middle of a lake on a space-challenged paddle boat, seasickness is serious business.  Alex and I pedaled as fast as we could back to the cabin but went nowhere thanks to the direction of the wind and Lucien's erratic handling of the rudder.  I imagined the other residents of the lake watching us with binoculars and laughing hard until they fell down.  Our predicament would have made me laugh, too, if I wasn't in such fear of a girl hurl.

We made it back to the dock without incident.  And now we know Coco prefers land.

Alex tried to teach Lucien how to canoe, which led to this, my current favorite photograph.  I call it "The Reluctant Canoe Lesson" --

Oscar the schnauzer came with us to the cabin.  It was immediately apparent our dog is not a majestic wild beast.  Our dog is a confused little old man who can't figure out where the hell he is so just curls up inside our suitcase full of towels and waits for it to be over.

 

I hate these people.  I want to go home.

The cabin's only source of heat was a wood stove.  It was a toasty warm, pleasantly wood-smokey scented existence until the middle of the night when the fire burned out and we awoke, so cold we didn't dare plan for the future.  I pushed Alex out of bed each morning with a frigid foot, yelling at the kids to stay snug in their bunk beds until Daddy built a fire.  Thankfully, Alex was once a successful boy scout and his fire-building skills are unmatched.

As cozy as they can be, what is is about cabins that makes them feel like they're constructed of cardboard and Saran Wrap?  And why all the wood paneling?  And why do they all smell the same, musty and woody with a hint of Grandma?

When a cabin is owned by a friend like ours, who offers it to friends and family on a regular basis, the bathroom is a mess of half-empty shampoo and conditioner bottles.  It's like a hundred hotels threw up on each other or, better yet, all the bottles are there competing for the right to wash your body.

  

 "Pick me, pick me"  

There was no internet or TV at the cabin so we were forced to unplug.  At first it was uncomfortable but then we started telling each other stories.  And cooking meals together.  And chopping wood together.  You should see Coco handle an ax, my God, a natural! 

  

We enjoyed "communicating" so much, we've added "buy a cabin" to our list of long-term goals.  We can't do it now, but maybe, hopefully, someday we will own our very own lake cottage with doilies for curtains and circa-1970s avocado green appliances.

Well isn't that just f*cking great news

Our return home was not glorious.  Lacking the desire to cook, I took Coco with me to the Taco Time drive-thru to grab dinner.  At the very moment I pulled up to order, Coco threw up in the back seat.  She was suddenly hot, miserable, and very, very ill.  

The Taco Time lady on the intercom asked for my order a couple times but apparently my words, "Hang on, baby, hang on" aimed over my shoulder into the back seat didn't make sense to her.  She said, "Excuse me?" a couple times until I said, "I'm not talking to you!"  

There was a long pause and then the Taco Time lady said, "ummm....you're not talking to me?"  And I yelled, "No, no not yet!" as I scrambled for paper towels in the backseat.  There was another pause and then she said, the way you would to someone who's obviously very dim, "Do you mean to be in the drive-thru, ma'am?"

Al and I hugged in the kitchen for awhile after I returned with my hard-fought Taco Time order.  Even though life never seems to slow down, at least that part was nice.

Your faithful chaperone forever,

MJ