I gotta have more Winnebago

I live! Truly, I live. There are no excuses for me being away from the blog except for ALL of the excuses. Things are off the rails here, or at least more so than usual, which is saying a lot because we are not known for calm and measured living.

It is impossible to catch up on all the events of the past few months. There were many happenings -- some very good and some very, very bad -- but after all those things we are still here, still well, still living our best-ish lives as we stagger and stumble into 2018 hoping for good things.

When it comes to blog catch ups, they are usually impossibly long, fairly boring, and involve many pictures but not much insight. This time shall be no different, and will play out like a "recent holiday greatest hits" kind of compilation. Sorry for being unoriginal, let's just do this.

It's probably best to start with Christmas, as it is freshest in my memory so I won't have to make up as many fanciful details. Seattle had a white Christmas this year. Snow on the ground, especially at Christmas, is rare in these parts; we woke up and ran in circles outside, laughing like giddy school children (two of us are actual school children but I hope the simile is not weaker for that fact).

Natani, the dog born in a desert, is a snow fanatic and ran through the yard like a snowplow, mouth open and skimming the ground in parallel lines back and forth to put ALL of the snow into her mouth. Her lawn mowing-type precision surprised me because she is a hot mess when it comes to most other things. She accidentally overturns her food bowl then stares at it confused and whimpering, she tries to jump off the couch and lands on her face, she whines while trying to find her ball under the couch, not realizing the ball is sitting several feet behind her. When it comes to snow, however, attention to detail is important to her.

She also likes to chill in the front window with her paw up on the sill and her ball resting nearby for emotional comfort --

Before Christmas, we took the Winnebago up to Vancouver, B.C. for a couple days. We made the kids try virtual reality games and they both got terribly motion sick. The googly eyes applied to the VR masks made it worth it. For Alex and me, anyway --

We then plopped down at a nearby brewery and told the kids we were going to be there for hours to watch the Seahawks game. Oh, the utter betrayal on their faces when they learned they'd been taken football prisoners. Coco immediately asked to play games on my phone, and not in a nice way --

This is the choosing of our Christmas tree. Alex said, as the tree began to slowly slip from Coco's grip, "Lucien, help her, quick, extend your arm!" and Lucien, because he is The Loosh, extended his arm in the exact perpendicular direction from where it needed to be to catch the tree.

I caught the moment on camera, 

as Lucien cracked himself up with his non-helpfulness 

and the tree fell to the ground.

Our Christmas tree this year was anchored to the wall with a bungee cord because we couldn't get it to stand directly upright in the tree stand.

As Alex hooked the bungee cord to the trunk of our tree in the living room and secured it to the window sill, I said, "Alex, I appreciate your efforts in trying to keep our tree upright but... it's a bungee cord, man." Alex agreed it wasn't the best option but said it was the only thing he could find; we are apparently fresh out of rope and string and other taughter, less stretchy things. I sat in that room with many cups of coffee in the following days and pictured the tree falling over then bouncing up and down at the length of the bungee while squealing, "Whee, I feel so alive!"

Christmas Eve was celebrated at our friends' house with delicious things like ham with cherry sauce and smoked sea bass. The kids played in the snow across the street in an empty parking lot. When you live in the middle of the city, empty parking lots are the substitute for large yards. This particular lot is gated after hours so cars are not a hazard. It's where most of the kids learned to ride bikes, and where scooter races have been known to occur fairly regularly.

We brought a nice bottle of Calvados to share on Christmas Eve (I miss you, France) so suffice it to say, terrible Calvados-inspired dancing to '90s hip-hop happened --

We went to the Nutcracker, where Coco did some impressive dabbing during intermission --

After Christmas Day present opening mania, we climbed into the Winnie B again and ferried to a nearby island, where my sister and sister-in-law live on 12 acres complete with a stable full of horses and an A-frame ski lodge-type house. It's bucolic stuff. We parked the Winnebago on their property and in an attempt to find a level spot, did irreparable damage to a large section of their grass.

We like spending time in the Winnie B, especially in winter. There is something incomparably cozy about waking up in the Winnebago, preferably in a camping spot near the water or nestled amongst a ton of trees, and enjoying a cup of coffee while looking out the window. We dream of scrapping everything and heading off in the Winnie B for years, carrying along only bottled water, a ton of RV-friendly toilet paper, and a dream.

After Christmas we Winnebagoed over to Port Townsend on the Olympic Peninsula. It has likely become evident by now that the theme to our holiday break was "I gotta have more Winnebago."

This was our favorite trip in a long time. We camped both at old Fort Worden outside Port Townsend, and the following night in downtown Port Townsend next to the water. Fort Worden is where An Officer and a Gentleman was filmed. It is picturesque with its white barracks and stately old officers' homes surrounding rolling fields of green.

The abandoned, rusted, creaky bunkers at Fort Worden, however, are creepy as hell. I think I impressed my nervous children with my willingness to plunge into empty drippy spaces and straight down pitch dark stairways.

Creepy bunkers.

Coco said, "no."

machine gunnery something

Lucien's photobomb game is on point

(If it sounds familiar, Fort Worden is where Alex and I stayed in the haunted tiny castle and then locked our keys in the RV a couple years ago.)

After Port Townsend, we ferried to Victoria, B.C. Alex was living in Victoria when we met over 20 years ago, and a couple of his dear friends are still there. The female half of the couple made our wedding invitations by hand all those many years ago. The tiny daughter they brought to our wedding is now in college. What the hell is that all about.

Beautiful Victoria

High tea at The Butchart Gardens.

We may not be high tea people.

We were louder than most, and broke two glasses.

Family selfie in front of the 10 lords-a-leapin' from the 12 Days of Christmas display.

We are not sure why the lords were frogs.

old friends,
and a daughter doing something odd

Where to next? I can give Halloween a shout-out because I mentioned in my last post I would write about it and then promptly never did.

I don't really remember what happened there, partially due to the passage of time and partially due to the fact my "Vampire's Kiss" cocktail mix was a little stronger this year. I know we had a lot of fun. I know it was the largest turnout in the six years I've thrown the party and was full of very enthusiastic adults with reliable babysitters at home. The adults in our lives look forward to this event every year like kids do Christmas. Some refuse to leave at the end, clinging to the posts on our front stoop and wailing something about "no, please, the children are there...." It makes for a very late night.

I skipped the tarot card/crystal ball guy this year and instead hired a numerologist to do numerology readings in the TV room. He told me I don't suffer no fools, which I'd love to believe about myself but the truth is I suffer fools all the time.

My costume this year was Frida, of course --

Everyone told me it was a very good costume but I still lost to the guy who came dressed as Edward Scissorhands. He's a surgeon by trade so I felt his costume was a bit on the nose, but must admit (grumble grumble) he won by a longshot.

He may not be invited back next year.

What the hell, let's do more holiday. My mom and dad and brother were here for Thanksgiving. I do not dread spending holidays with my family; I look forward to it. They are a fun group of people and we are all on the same page politically speaking. When I hear of other's Thanksgivings, I realize I am very lucky. While my family was doing a jigsaw puzzle and watching Best in Show, one of my oldest friends was defending the #metoo movement to her Uncle Bert. I hope she had a nice bottle of wine at her fingertips. Or two. Or three.

My parents, brother and I rented a home on the island where Raba and Zee live for the long Thanksgiving weekend. We believe the house was haunted because Natani refused to walk down the back hallway. She would stop several feet away from it, hair raised on the back of her neck, and growl a very low growl as she backed away slowly. To our non-dog eyes, there was nothing there but an empty hallway. So that made for some restful nights.

Raba and Zee's A-frame ski lodge-type bucolic setting home.

They are doing living right.

One more holiday! Just one more! A friend organized a family soccer game New Years Day. It was adults versus kids and several soccer balls were used at the same time "to increase the chances of someone scoring." It was absolute mayhem. Then a football got busted out and tossed into the mix and I just don't even know what was happening out there.

Hot mess soccer

 Some kids didn't fare so well.

The adults were competitive, and came to play.

And nearly all the adults wore puffer jackets.

We are very Seattle in this picture.

It's been a good couple months, blog friends, but not all has been good. I am not yet ready to talk about the parts that aren't good but trust it, as fun as life has been in recent days, nobody escapes the grind without some pain, heartache, fear, and intense anxiety. Or maybe it's just me? I hope it's not just me. That would be lonely.

I'm going to end this with a couple recent Lucien (and one Lucien friend) quotes because these pre-teen boys are always good for a laugh during hard, weird times.

Me: Lucien! I am so excited. I am taking you to my favorite musical this summer!
Him: Which musical?
Me: Les Miserables.
Him: My name is Rob? That sounds like a terrible musical.

Lucien, eating a hot dog: This tastes amazing.
Lucien's friend: Mom, can I have a hot dog, too?
Friend's mom: No
Lucien's friend: OH come on, Mom!
Lucien: Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake your inner hot dog?

Teacher at school: The human body is about 65% water.
Lucien's friend: So we're basically cucumbers with anxiety?
(We say this one around the house a lot now, bit of a family motto)


Well that was a long and rambling and pretty damn terrible summary of recent holiday happenings. At least you know I'm still alive, and still in love with a Winnebago.

Here's to 2018.

Your loyal though fairly absentee fellow cucumber with anxiety,
MJ

Adios, Amigos

Look at us, trying so hard to move to Mexico.

If anyone peeks through the windows these days, they'll witness extensive list making. I'm the Hunchback of the Central District, curved over my notepad and computer addressing the myriad of details necessary to get this thing off the ground. You never realize how many details are involved in the daily function of a family home until you have to change them all.

The window peepers would also witness much document scanning. The immigration attorneys need this document, the relocation people need that document, and the school to which we're hoping to gain admittance needs five hundred documents in the next five minutes -- or else adios, amigos.

The only computer in the house that has the proper driver installed for our ancient scanner is my old laptop with the cracked screen.  I tried installing the driver elsewhere and ended up with malware so I gave up and am instead squinting at an old screwed up blinky screen that is doing fascinating things to my eyes.  Now I see blinky blinky everywhere.

In scanning Lucien's file from his current school to send to the school in Mexico, I realize how many head injuries he's sustained so far in his schooling career, most of them incurred on the blacktop of the playground.  It's mind boggling (ha) to see all those head injury reports stacked in one place, all the medical advice over the years such as "keep an eye on him" and "don't let him fall asleep for four days." It's a miracle that kid still knows his own name.

The kids are not thrilled with the Mexico move, though they remain at least partially cheerful and optimistic because that is their natures. I can't blame their reluctance. They are both happy where they are now, each in class with their favorite teachers and surrounded by solid, funny groups of friends they've known since they were all babes. Lucien is especially sad because it means his time at his school ends in less than two weeks; he's a fifth grader now and will be moved on to middle school upon our return.

In truth, for many reasons, this move is a gamble -- and not just because we may get walled into Mexico thanks to Señor Trump --

I'm apprehensive about all the unknowns but am hoping to model an appropriate balance for the kids in their own apprehension; they should know I am also nervous and sad about leaving our familiar, tight-knit community but they will also hopefully learn from me it's OK to take risks and make changes, even when comfort is so damn comforting.

(They can't know exactly how nervous I am, though, because then they'd probably mutiny. I shouldn't have given them those swords for their Halloween costumes.)

I wonder if I sound off balance as I try to address my own conflicted feelings yet remain a strong, reassuring role model: "I'm scared but I'm not scared! Full lives involve risk-taking but agreed, this could be a gigantic mistake! We're gonna make so many new friends from all over the world but I'm definitely gonna cry every day!"

There's also the issue of Natani.  We have a couple responsible and well-liked house/pet sitters willing to take it all on but still, it's not going to be easy to kiss that crazy animal goodbye...

...or maybe it will?  

The desert dog attacking Dad with a viciously wagging tail

during my family's relaxing Thanksgiving holiday in our home.

She just loves so much, she can't hold herself back.

My family was indeed here for Thanksgiving.  My dad is a photographer so set up his nice camera in our front hall to take some long overdue family pictures. 

It's a kiss train with The Loosh wearing his favorite cat t-shirt.
The cat is shooting lightning out of its paws.

The Loosh knows how to Thanksgiving.

Mom said people always have their hands on each other in professionally posed photos so we decided to do that in our post-Thanksgiving photo shoot -- 

I love us.

(Is it just me or does Alex look a little "over" my family?)

Now it's Christmas and what a hectic one it will be.  I hope I remember to buy the kids some presents but honestly, won't they be happier I remembered to cancel The Seattle Times subscription, stocked up on the infrared lightbulbs Bobo needs to stay alive, and managed to get all our prescriptions filled for six plus months after many, many discussions with our insurance company?  Priorities, kids.

We had our Christmas tree delivered by a couple dads and one of their daughters from our school's Christmas tree sale.  They went above and beyond, set it up in my tree stand since Alex is once again down in Mexico, even delivered it alongside a plate of cookies and a quart of eggnog.

These days everything is double edged, every happy thing is also a little sad, so their commitment to us and to our school made me teary, which probably confused them terribly. Transitions blow.  Leaving what you love blows. But it's also exciting and awesome!  Help me.

The near future holds much change; we're hoping to be in Mexico City by the new year, which feels like only a handful of hours away. I'm not sure how long we'll be gone, at least six months, likely a little longer, and we'll be in touch after that.

Oh yes I'll be in touch, blog, in fact may be more present than ever.  If the Paris years taught me anything, it's that I won't know many people down there and will make an ass of myself on the regular.  Much processing, and for me that means writing, will ensue.

Seattle friends, this one's for you -- come playoffs, I may be a very lonely 12th Woman but promise to sport my blue and green every game just like this --

I am going to fit right in as usual

You all still have permission to come into my house, as we've always done in playoffs past, and Rusty, you better sit in your special seat so we win.  Seahawks 4-ever.

¡Vámonos!
MJ

Spanish rice trees

My mom, dad and brother recently visited from Colorado. They couldn't come for real Christmas so instead came in January for fake Christmas. This meant our Christmas season lasted forever and by the time they arrived we were all quite sick of it.

Our Christmas tree was the most pathetic, dried up, shriveled thing you've ever seen by the time they walked in the door. It didn't even look good in the first place so you can imagine the state of it five weeks later.

My dad, a retired lawyer, has been having an ongoing dream for months about a product liability trial.  His dream is impressive in terms of detail and how it picks up where it left off from night to night. In the mornings we greet him with, "Morning, Dad, how's the trial going?"

Aside from Dad's impressive dream skills, the high point of my family's visit was a ride to the gas station in the Winnebago.  I may not be the most entertaining hostess but in my defense, they've been visiting Seattle for 18 years and have seen everything there is to see more than once.  But they've never seen a gas station from a Winnebago.

At the end of that day, Dad said, "Well... today we went to the gas station. That was a pretty exciting day, daughter."  It's likely that was sarcasm but I'll hold out hope I truly opened his world in magical new ways.

That night for dinner I attempted to make a pot roast.  Since we were busy all day (at the gas station), I decided to make it in the slow cooker.  I'd never done a pot roast in a slow cooker before but it seemed straightforward enough.  The only problem was instead of taking six hours as planned, the roast took 10-and-a-half hours to cook.  My pot roast was ready to eat at about 10:30 that night but we'd already eaten the salad and mashed potatoes for dinner, done the dishes, and my parents had gone to bed.

The next day I made them watch Natani at her doggy daycare via the daycare's webcam for a very long time. It is surprisingly riveting television to watch the social dynamics of a pack of dogs. Natani is apparently the town bicycle; she was repeatedly humped by many dogs, most notably a randy Irish Setter and most embarrassingly a tiny Jack Russell Terrier.  Those dogs would not leave her alone.  Mom said it's because Natani is young, cute and blonde.

I considered calling the manager of the doggy daycare to ask him to give Natani a break from the Humpy McHumpies but Mom said that would tell him too much about me -- namely I have no life and watch my dog on webcam all day.

My sister, Raba, and her wife, Zee, have moved out of Seattle proper and have bought 12 acres on a nearby island complete with a red barn they intend to one day fill with horses.

not too bad.  not too bad at all.

Raba and Zee are now living some sort of idyllic "nobody messes with us" kind of existence.  I don't understand.  You mean nobody rifles through their recycling bins at 1:00 a.m. looking for aluminum cans or steals their garden tools from the front porch when they're left unattended for five minutes?  That kind of life is foreign to the downtown-centric people we are in Banister Abbey.

Speaking of our neighborhood, the Central District currently has a serial bread dumper on the loose. The bread dumper is a 50-ish-year-old male who dumps large amounts of bread daily in a nearby empty lot.  This is upsetting to neighbors because it's attracting racoons and rats.  When approached and asked to stop, the man apparently yells, "FUCK YOU" before running away.  Bread dumping -- must admit that's a new one, even for the C.D.

I digress.  Back to the island my sister now inhabits.  Mom said the island reminded her of the Hoh Rainforest on the Olympic Peninsula because of the fuzzy trees but instead of saying "all the Spanish moss on the trees" Mom said, "all the Spanish rice on the trees."  The hysterics were unbearable as I pictured Spanish rice dripping off trees and plopping onto heads of visitors below.  For those in need of lunch, they could merely tilt their heads back and open their mouths, which would be quite handy.

Mom laughed along too but then looked at me with a frown and said, "you're going to put that in your blog, aren't you." and I said, "YES."  My family knows me better than anybody.

We posed for many photos on the island that, as of this time, has no chronic bread dumping issue --

Glorious siblings

This is Lucien staring down a cargo ship --

This is Coco throwing something into Puget Sound with impressive force --

This one looks like the band got back together --

Soon after it was taken, Lucien fell off the log into the water.  

When my family gets together, we laugh a lot.  One of our favorite things to do is reminisce about the fun we've had over the years, especially on our family vacations.  This time we revisited our summer vacation on Lake Powell, Arizona in the early 90s. We rented a boat on Lake Powell but none of us had driven a boat before and it turns out boats don't always stop when you want them to stop.

We came in too hot on one landing and took off a chunk of the end of the dock.  Later, when it came time to gas up at the boat gas station, we all bailed on my dad.  We jumped out of the boat to avoid the embarrassment we knew was coming.  The attendant called to my Dad, "Stop at pump three, sir" but when Dad couldn't make that happen, the guy yelled, "Stop at Pump Four!" and then "OK, stop at Pump Five!" But Dad just kept going.

If you want to know why I am the way I am, there's no need to look further than these people. They are both the wind beneath my wings and the birthplace of my neuroses.  In other words, they are family just like anyone else's family.  And I am so lucky to have been born into their midst.

You know who doesn't feel lucky to be in this family right now?  Oscar.  Now that he's almost 15 years old and crabby, old man schnauzer hates being groomed so I put it off and put it off until his coat is so matted the groomer has no choice but to shave it all off.  Now he's so cold and has to wear a thick fleece sweater all day long with his diaper.

Since his haircut, he's been following me around sighing deeply.  He really wants me to know he isn't happy about recent events.

The vet tells me he'll help me know when "it's time."

It's not "time" yet.  He's still with us.

So we're going to keep loving you... 

...and in this family, that means laughing at you, old guy.

I'm happy to report,
Dad finally got the hang of that boat.
MJ

Snafus and lessons learned

Welcome to this side of 2015.  With the holidays behind us and our Christmas tree lying pathetically dry and alone on our front lawn, I decided to check back in and tell some stories of our holiday season.

Guys, please, can I just get one good picture in front of the Christmas tree?

No, mom, you can't.

First, a weightlifting snafu.  Alex lifts weights in our basement -- a truly admirable thing given the terrifying nature of the space.  Our basement is claustrophobic, maybe 100 square feet, with low ceilings and damp concrete walls standing three-quarters of the height to the ceiling.  The remaining quarter, the space between wall and ceiling, is a void.  It's a deep dank abyss into which you cannot see but from which you can occasionally hear a faint rustling.

What I'm saying is the basement sucks and I avoid it as much as possible.  I thought Alex was nuts as he carefully, piece by piece, carried his weight set into the basement.  He brushed aside thick cobwebs and whistled cheerfully as he assembled.  Unbelievable.  I'd rather pump up my muscles naked in the front yard with a camera crew present than spend time in that hellhole.

I'm a supportive wife, though, so whenever Alex needs a spotter for a weight-lifting session, I descend the wobbly narrow stairs agreeably.  I've done this dozens of times without incident, for the record.

This time we were both off our game.  The first set went fine but the second set quickly went to hell.  Usually when I spot Alex, I only have to apply a small amount of force to the weight, just enough to help him get his arms back under it again.  This time, though, he fatigued earlier than usual and I wasn't ready, wasn't quick enough on the draw.  The weight bar came down on his chest, with all of the nearly 200 lbs attached to it, and there it stayed.

I panicked as he turned red in the face.  The bar was so tightly pressed to his chest, I couldn't get my fingers even a little bit under it.  Even if I could have, I cannot lift 200 pounds because I'm not an ant and cannot lift two of myself, especially while in a bent over and panicked position.  I settled for screaming in Alex's face instead.

We should have practiced this scenario beforehand.  I could have run around to the end of the bar and pushed it up and off him.  Instead we did the worst thing and began rolling the bar down the length of his body.  As it rolled over his ribs, it did some damage.  He finally wiggled out from under the thing and eventually, after what seemed like forever, stopped yelling, "OWW! OWW! OWW!."

He's on the mend but is still walking around the house moaning and clutching his torso.  He's also telling everybody within earshot his wife tried to kill him for the insurance money.


Aside from that disaster, we also had a squirrel poop snafu.  Coco and I sat outside her preschool one morning waiting for it to open.  It was a gloriously sunny day so Coco asked me to open the sunroof.  I did and soon thereafter a couple things hit me on the head and bounced into the open hood of my jacket.  At first I thought, "Oh! Some delicious berries!" and reached back into my hood.  I very soon -- and yet way too late -- realized I was handling squirrel poop.  I threw the poop out the window and ran into Coco's school, begging to be let in early so I could wash my hands because, well, poop.

I guess the lesson is don't park under a tree with the sunroof open.  And if you do, don't wear a hood that can serve as a squirrel poop receptacle.

Then there was a tequila incident.  We were invited to a tequila tasting at a local bar by some friends. Alex and I were starving upon arrival because we'd forgotten to eat for hours.  We were greeted at the table by an enthusiastic group of people and seven bottles of tequila.  Alex turned to me and said, "Seven shots of tequila on an empty stomach.  I'm sure this will end well."

Fast forward -- it didn't end well.

here's a unicorn Coco made out of some paper

Then there was the birthday party snafu.  Lucien was invited to a classmate's birthday party at a local family-friendly establishment.  When the birthday girl still hadn't arrived 15 minutes after the start time, one of the parents asked an employee what was up.  The employee responded the birthday party had been cancelled.

After much grumbling, all the other guests left except us.  We decided to stay because the kids were occupied and happy, there was free WiFi,  and Alex and I needed a block of time to work on the final versions of our official wills.  It seemed reasonable to stay put.

Five minutes later the birthday girl walked through the door with her frazzled mother and little sister. The mother said they had waited in line forever to get the birthday cake and were therefore late to their own party!  Then she asked where everyone was.  Alex and I froze, looked at each other with wide eyes.  It was an epic miscommunication involving so many people.

Alex and I have many faults but one thing we do well is can-do attitudes.  We told her it was OK! We were going to have a great birthday party right there, so private and intimate, and won't everyone else be sorry they gave up so early and left.  The mom started to cry anyway.  Then the little sister decided to practice her reading skills in front of Alex's laptop screen.

As the mother cried, the little sister read aloud our intentions should Alex and I die.  She read (she's a super good reader, little devil) all about who gets our kids should we both bite it at the same time and how to divide assets if we die and our kids die and everyone is dead.  It didn't help the birthday party get off the ground, in fact gave it a rather somber vibe.

Lesson to learn -- if you hear a birthday party has been cancelled, get the hell out of there. Whatever you do, do not start working on your last will and testament.  It is not the convenient time you believe it to be.

Christmas happened.  I knew I was getting sick as I prepared my pork tenderloin for Christmas Eve dinner. Not just getting sick, but going down really really hard.  I hit the couch to sleep and Alex, confused by the pork tenderloin laying phallic-like before him on the counter, ordered Italian take-out for dinner.  It's not the way I pictured spending our last Christmas with both kids semi-believing in Santa Claus.  (The jig is already up with Lucien and Coco has been naturally skeptical of  The Man in Red since she was born.)

I stayed coherent long enough to play Santa.  I had to, it was my last year.  Setting out the milk and cookies made me gag so I laid on the floor for a minute, motionless.  Usually I eat the cookies myself but this year I weakly fed them to the schnauzer.  Oscar was delighted to take advantage of my illness, little jerk of a dog.

Christmas morning I managed to bake the sausage strata, start the coffee and pour the orange juice (when moms get sick they still get sh*t done, you see),  I then collapsed on the couch while my family opened presents around me.  I don't remember much about it.  I think the kids liked their new bikes?  At least for a minute they did.  They went outside to try them on the sidewalk and within thirty seconds Lucien flew over his handlebars. Brand new brakes are touchy.

seconds before it went wrong

It's time to focus on things that are going well and make me happy.  One is the fact I'm friends with the guy pictured below and he showed up at my house unexpectedly to wish me a Merry Christmas. His two passions in life are antiques and rebuilding cars so he was driving this --

The return of the prodigal Dan the Man

The other is my family.  My parents and brother came a week after Christmas to celebrate "late Christmas" and to attend the opening of Raba and Zee's play, A Streetcar Named Desire.  Raba and Zee have started a new theatre production company and for their first outing, it is spectacular.

Raba is playing the role of Blanche. She's painfully good.  The reviews of the play, and her in particular, are glowing, raving, and well deserved.  My heart ached watching her up there, slowly unraveling, slowly and brutally being betrayed by everyone around her.  Streetcar, you are such a cruel bitch of a story.

And finally, our Seahawks.  I won't rehash the NFC championship game; if you like football, you already know the details and if you don't like football, you'll skip over them anyway.  It is enough to say it was the greatest comeback in the history of anything, ever.  A game that seemed impossible to win (and had all of our guests silently nursing their beers with somber faces) was won in spectacular fashion in the last few minutes. Then our guests were spilling beer everywhere because of all the jumping and yelling and hurling ourselves into each others arms.


And now we're going to the Super Bowl.  AGAIN!!!

Seahawks never say die.

(or is that The Goonies...)

I, too, have always depended on the kindness of strangers,
MJ

Mary in a bell

This is a preschool field trip I recently chaperoned.  We used the city bus to get there and back because we love the environment at fancy preschool.  Yee-haw.  

We may love the environment but we chaperones don't love the anxiety and logistics involved in putting 20 kids on a city bus already full of people and getting all 20 back off again.  I had a nightmare the evening before the field trip and you guessed it, I left my entire group up in there somewhere.  As of my waking, they hadn't been heard from since.

Yes, we preschoolers may love the environment but I'm not sure our fellow riders loved us an equal amount.  That was evidenced by the face of the one guy who got pinned in the back corner.  His expression turned from genuine friendly smile into frozen mask of terror as tiny kids piled all around him and asked his name repeatedly.

It's Lucien and a gigantic snake.  Just be cool. 

Let's talk holiday.  Christmas is my favorite holiday but it's gotten harder.  Christmas as a kid was about twirling in circles in new holiday dresses and sucking on candy canes. Now it's about sitting bolt upright in bed in the middle of the night nursing the panicked thought, "I forgot to put the speech therapist on the thank-you holiday gift list!"

(I then go downstairs and write her name on the list immediately, lest I forget to purchase an Amazon gift card for the woman who made my unintelligible daughter somewhat intelligible.)

I miss being young at Christmas.  Gone are the days of lying under the Christmas tree with my brother, staring up into the branches at the lights and giggling. We had large-bulbed brightly colored lights on our tree back in the early 80s, not the chic tiny white lights of today.  Those giant hot lights could burn your nose off if your face got too close so lying under the tree was flirting with danger.  In addition to the potential injury, the lights blinked maniacally giving our living room the constant feel of a disco.  It was a 1980s Christmas and it was glorious.

My mom was often baking things.  She probably felt the same way I feel now when I'm trapped in the kitchen baking things.  Had I understood back then that Christmas could be stressful, that it was often an agonizing month-long preparation purgatory, my six-year-old self surely would have helped Mom or at least patted her on the back reassuringly.

Or maybe not, because I was busy.  I was busy grabbing Mary, the blessed mother of the baby Jesus, from our nativity set, sticking her head inside a bell-shaped Christmas tree ornament and declaring her "under the hair dryer at the beauty salon."  Mary was more often dangling from that "dryer" than resting in the manger with her newborn son.  My mom suspected this activity was sacrilegious but Mary's head fit so perfectly inside that bell there's no way it was wrong.

In other holiday news, Thanksgiving happened.  My parents flew in to join my sister Raba and sister-in-law Zee at our table. It was a warm and happy time but we missed my sweet brother who couldn't get the time off work to make the trip. He probably misses simpler holiday times, too.

We added a stray to our family Thanksgiving, a French man from Alex's work who had never experienced Thanksgiving before.  French Man is outgoing, warm, excited to sample everything Seattle has to offer.  He smiles all the time.  He bounces up and down a little when he talks.   His hugs are like being enveloped by a psychotically happy octopus (How can he have so many arms?). He's such an enthusiastically positive force for good, Alex once said, "It's like he's not French at all!"

(our stereotypes are expressed with the greatest affection and we miss you, French people...)

French Man's presence at Thanksgiving upped the ante.  I would normally have foregone many traditional staples for more contemporary options but instead felt the need to stick with the oldies, most of which sound unpalatable to foreigners.  Pumpkin pie?  Cranberry sauce?  Potatoes covered in so much brown sugar and butter they should be classified as dessert?   Crunchy curly things on the green beans, what?

I expected at the very least some hesitation but French Man dove into everything and pronounced it "amazing!" and "incredible!"  I wonder if there's anything I could have thrown his way that would have broken his can-do spirit.  Maybe Jello with suspended sliced bananas?  Easy Cheese on Ritz crackers?  Marshmallow Fluff eaten out of the jar with a spoon?  I'll have to invite him again to try these things and will report back.

I forgot to take pictures at Thanksgiving but here are a couple of Mom tickling Coco's feet --

Speaking of French people, Alex and I attended the Beaujolais Nouveau event, sponsored by the French-American Chamber of Commerce, a couple weeks ago.  It was a fancy event held on the top floor of our tallest building downtown.  It was an impressive location for a wine that's widely agreed to be awful.

Thankfully there were other things to drink besides the B.N.   I accepted a glass of rosé from the roving servers when we arrived and immediately said, "Alex, we've got to ask the bartender for the name of this wine, it's incredible."  Alex walked away to do just that and returned a few minutes later with a kindly Frenchman who kissed my hand and said, "I hear you like my wine, Madame."  I asked Alex to get the name of the wine and he returned with the winemaker.  It was well played, Al.  

The Beaujolais Nouveau fête was full of "somebodies," a few of whom I didn't like.  Once they've reached "somebody" status, some people stop being authentic and start being schmoozy to an uncomfortable degree.  They should also lay off the tanning beds because it's Seattle in winter and they're orange.

Orange folks aside, the view of my city was awesome

Most of the people I met were great.  I made a new friend at our table when he leaned over and asked, "Why are you sitting there laughing all by yourself?"  I was indeed laughing all by myself because two elderly people had begun dancing right next to my chair.  It would have been a sweet moment but for the nature of the Serge Gainsbourg song to which they were dancing.  Alex is a fan of Serge so I know most of his songs, including the English translation of his oft-salacious lyrics.

I'm pretty sure those sweet silver-haired people aren't as familiar with Serge as I am.  I leaned over to my new friend and said, "Do you think they know they're dancing to a song about doing it in the butt?"


I'll be under the tree if anyone asks.
MJ