Chicken Relay

Alex took the kids to his co-worker's pretty house on the lake for dinner not long ago.  I didn't go with them because I had plans for dinner with my old friend, Cavanaugh.  My best meals tend to happen with Cavanaugh because he's a "foodie" and insists on the finest cuisine in existence.  I'm more of a "whateverie" and would happily eat cereal for dinner for the rest of my life.

I returned home from dinner at 11:00 p.m. to find my family wasn't home yet.  They finally straggled in, both kids wired with hair pointing in every which direction, at 11:30.

Coco's eyes were wild.  She grabbed my face and pushed my cheeks into fishy-face formation, put her face a millimeter from mine and yelled, "I ATE CANDY MOMMY."

To top it all off, Lucien was barefoot.  Alex had somehow lost Lucien's brand new shoes at a dinner with only five people present  We never saw those shoes again.  Alex suspects they were thrown in the lake but he doesn't really know.

This is why Alex is rarely in charge around here.

If you guys were worried my life would become boring once I returned home after a three-year stint in Paris, DON'T WORRY.  My life is heart-palpitatingly exciting here in Seattle.

Exhibit A:  Lucien may or may not have lost his shoes in a lake. (!!)

and

Exhibit B:  We recently took part in a Guinness World Record attempt for largest number of people playing hopscotch simultaneously. Dreams are coming true in the Central District, yo.

Organizers of "Hopscotch CD" painted a giant hopscotch game from one end of the Central District to another.  It wound through many streets and attracted a large chunk of the community to its ridiculousness.  There were attractions along the way such as lemonade stands and massage chairs and goofy stuff like buckets overturned into "drum sets" you had to play before crossing the street.

It's almost impossible to walk down a sidewalk with a hopscotch game imprinted upon it and not jump.  Young and old alike succumbed to the magic of those squares.  Teens walking with their friends jumped. Big burly men walking their dogs jumped.  Old ladies carrying grocery bags jumped, which they probably should not have done.

Our neighborhood was hopping.

In the most exciting part, a large group of us congregated in a parking lot for the official world record attempt.  The air was abuzz with excitement -- we were about to try a completely random and insignificant thing!  When the whistle blew, we hopped at our designated court while a man with a bullhorn urged us to KEEP HOPPING.  Hop hop hop hippity hop hop hop.

When it wasn't my turn to hop, I looked around and soaked in the absurdity.  What was it about the event that attracted so many people (over 400!)?  Are we, as grown adults, that starved for whimsy?  Are we desperate to be part of a world record, make our mark upon the world, no matter how dumb?  Are we just all incredibly bored and looking for something to do on a Saturday afternoon?  If so, we should consider cycling.

And why were the vast majority of hopping people caucasian when the Central District is the most racially diverse neighborhood in Seattle?  We've got all kinds of colors of people up in here!  My working theory is white people are the most ridiculous of the races.  I'm not sure.

After all the excitement! jumping! bullhorns! whistles! -- well, we didn't make the world record.  We were 50 people short.  Oh well.  In Lucien's words, "Second place is still pretty good."

Let's hop on home, son

If all that wasn't crazy exciting enough (!!), I recently chaperoned a field trip to the Lincoln Park tidepools.  We scoured the beaches and found lots of crabs and starfish plus a bunch of other animals whose names I'm never going to remember.  Some looked like gelatinous goo.  They were very loose interpretations of the word "animal."

There are about 50 "animals" down there

Maybe you don't think the field trip sounds very exciting so far.
Maybe this will change your mind...

BAM!  Butt plug in your face

One little girl leaned in to touch the butt plug sunning itself on the beach -- "What is it?" she asked all childlike. I karate chopped her hands and pushed her forcefully away while yelling, "NOOOOOOOO."  Those are the kinds of reflexes that develop only with extensive chaperoning experience.

If that wasn't enough shredded mayhem and bone-crushing carnage in Seattle for you,  I also helped at Lucien's school for Field Day.  Lucien wasn't present; he was sitting in the principal's office.  But that's neither here nor there.

Actually, I was here and he was there

Another similarly masochistically-inclined mom and I worked the Chicken Relay.  For over an hour, I demonstrated hopping (or waddling, depending on my mood) with a tennis ball between my knees five yards to a box, where I then "laid" the egg by dropping it in.

I don't know why I bothered.  Those kids didn't listen.  You would not believe how many Kindergarteners USED THEIR GODDAMN HANDS when I specifically told them not to.

It was a long hour of chasing errant tennis balls and picking children up off the ground.  It's mind-boggling how many feelings were hurt and how many tears were shed.  I mean come on kids, it's not like this is an event to be taken seriously.  It's not like this is a Guinness World Record attempt for hopscotching.

By the end of my shift, I was hoarse, exhausted, and dammit, I missed my son.  I waved in the general direction of the Principal's office, blew my boy a kiss, and waddled/hopped to my car.  Old habits die hard at the Chicken Relay.

We had some friends over for dinner Saturday night.  We roasted some motherf*cking marshmallows over a firepit.  IN YOUR FACE HELLRAISING that's what that is.

I'll take the Fruit Loops tartare,
MJ

Carpe Diem or else

Lucien has glasses now.  He began striking poses like this as soon as we picked them up.  He seemed to understand having glasses of this magnitude immediately turned him into an emo indie rocker.

(It was also "wear your pajamas to school" day.  The glasses/pajamas/rain boots combination seems to point in only one direction -- The Loosh has gone hipster.)

Track is over.  At our final meet, Lucien came in 7th place out of 8 kids in his first race.  I prepared myself to comfort him but he skipped up cheerfully, deposited his 7th place ribbon in my lap and said, "Well at least I beat that really slow kid!" I am thankful Lucien is buoyant and optimistic by nature.

We had to wait a long time for his second race, as is customary in track meet purgatory.  Lucien spent most of that time pawing through my bag (and his friend's mom's bag) for snacks.  We warned both boys that eating too much before a race was a bad idea.  They didn't believe us and continued to inhale Goldfish crackers as if they were the last Goldfish crackers on earth and people were coming to take them.

When the starter pistol fired, both our boys took off running but within a few seconds began clutching their sides with surprised looks on their faces.  They lurched down the track like tiny Quasimodos in sneakers.  I could hear Lucien muttering "Ow ow ow ow ow ow" as he passed at a slow gallop, arms wrapped around his stomach.

His coaches and I laughed so hard we cried.  It was delightful.  Lucien finished 8th out of 8; his similarly stuffed friend barely eked out victory over him in the "full stomach" division.

I tried not to say "I told you so" but failed.  Lucien said, "Mom, it had nothing to do with the eating, my sides just started hurting really bad and I think I need a doctor."  Then we all laughed at him again and he looked hurt and confused.  Character building!

We're currently taking bids for the exterior project we're hoping to complete this summer.   We've met with several contractors and their bids have started to come in.  It's difficult to compare the bids because each contractor has a different idea about what needs to be done and how best to do it. The issue is not just about the bottom line anymore but also who is most likely to know what the hell he's talking about.
 
First contractor:  "Hardi-plank siding is the only way to go."
Second contractor: "Blasphemy, nothing but the finest fir boards will suit such a house."
Third contractor:  "This house must be sided in unicorn teeth."
Fourth contractor: "We must bulldoze the whole thing to the ground and start over."

We're comparing apples to oranges over here.  How are we going to decide?  Are we going to rely on gut instinct?  Spin a wheel?  Throw a dart? (not at the contractors themselves -- though that would be another way to weed them out, by testing their reflexes.)

I have no idea.  I guess we'll just pick the guy in the middle -- not the guy who thinks he can mix the paint himself in his kitchen to save money nor the guy who thinks the paint must be made of quicksilver and diamond dust.  We'll choose the middle guy, the reasonable guy, then cross our fingers and march bravely forward.

I've been looking at catalogs again.   I think Restoration Hardware is becoming too pretentious for its own good.

For example, this clock.  I liked it quite a bit until I read it was non-functional. 
This giant clock doesn't work but still costs $1100.
That's dumb.
(Unless you're a big fan of 1:50)

A 1920s German Light Bulb Voltage Tester Bar?

What the hell does that mean?
Just relax, Restoration Hardware. 

I admit, this next item is useful if you really want to beat a message over your guests' heads --

When you're in my house, YOU WILL SEIZE THE MOTHERF*CKING DAY

Lucien had a really bad day at school recently.  The teacher wrote me a note and said it had been a hard one, that he'd been in trouble all day and seemed really out of sorts.  I sat him down for a heart-to-heart, asked him to put some words to his feelings to explain why it had gone off the rails.

He's quite articulate, my boy.  He started in on his list: he's frustrated because he's having a hard time with reading and feels stupid, one of his friends made fun of him and that made him angry, he's mad at me for being so hard on him lately,  it makes him feel sad and frustrated when I yell at him even though he's trying his best to be good, and he feels so frustrated with how wound up he feels he just wants to scream.

It was a lot of feelings for a little boy.  He let them all out while burying his face in my shoulder and crying.  He felt better afterwards, as do we all after a good vent session.

Then he said, "Mom, I just want to be a good man, like a man people study.  I want them to talk about me.  I want to be a man people only say good things about.  Like Obama*."

*Lucien doesn't realize people say bad things about Presidents because he doesn't have a Facebook account yet.

Anyway, hard times and easy times, good parenting days and bad parenting days, I really love this kid and hope I'm doing it right.

There's one thing I know for sure, my child:
Don't run on a full stomach,
MJ

I forgot to mention --

Hammacher Schlemmer thinks you need an ugly nap pod for $16,000.

Perfect Love and Monkeys

I saw the sign at left at Lucien's most recent track practice.

Is the City of Seattle being funny or are pot bellied pigs now a common animal to see about town?

If we're going to start banning odd pets from tracks, there are others I would consider before pigs. For example, it would upset me much more to see a pet boa constrictor at the track than a pig.  Also distressing would be tarantulas and/or tigers.

Inversely, there are pets I would like to encourage to come to the track.  For instance -- monkeys.  I would love to see a pet monkey at the track, preferably a Capuchin but I would also welcome a Pygmy Marmoset. 

Seattle Mom invited me to her co-worker's wedding last week.  It was the first gay wedding I've attended since our state legalized gay marriage.  Washington, you make me proud to live in you.

Now that gay marriage is legal, conservative talking heads fret it's a slippery slope -- next it's going to be OK to marry animals!  Alex will be in trouble if that's true because I really like those Capuchin monkeys.

Well hello there, handsome

The wedding was more frustrating and befuddling than most I've attended but it had nothing to do with the fact there were two brides and no grooms.  It had more to do with Car2Go, my heretofore beloved and flawless spontaneous transportation companion.

Seattle Mom and I drove a Car2Go to the wedding.  When we tried to end our trip outside the hall,  the car told us we couldn't end our trip because we were outside acceptable Car2Go boundaries.  That message was especially confusing because we were parked directly behind another Car2Go whose driver had apparently ended his/her trip quite successfully and walked away.

After some parking here and there with no success, I kicked Seattle Mom out of the car -- go see your friend get married, for Pete's sake! -- and continued to drive around and around searching for the elusive acceptable boundary.  I finally found it thanks to a squeaky-voiced Car2Go helpline representative who may or may not have been in the middle of a panic attack.

I ran many blocks in my high heels ("Wear the really high heels!" said Seattle Mom, "There won't be much walking!") but missed the ceremony anyway.  I hear it was beautiful and everybody cried.

At least I made the reception --

As I watched the brides smooth each others gowns and discuss how they shopped for them together, I felt a stab of envy.  How awesome it would have been to plan a wedding with someone who was as excited about "girl" things as I was.  Alex's eyes used to get glassy and a thin line of drool would escape his mouth whenever I talked wedding.  I would say things like, "I don't know whether to go sweetheart, square or strapless" and he would stare at me blankly and say "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Forget the monkey, I want to marry a woman now.  (those talking heads were right....this is how the gay people seduce us into joining their "lifestyle"...)

These brides have been together twenty years.  Even though I don't know them, it was a joy to see them make their commitment as legally binding and inescapable as me and Al's --

Best toast of the evening -- 

"You two are perfect love and I'm sorry it took the world so long to figure it out."  

I chaperoned a first-grade field trip again because I'm a chaperoning fool.  Being the constant chaperone is my contribution at Lucien's school and honestly, I enjoy my time with those kids.

Except for this last time.  I was the only parent who volunteered between two classrooms so there were two teachers, me, and forty-two First-Graders.  I also had Coco.  It was an uncomfortable ratio of adults to troublemakers. 

The idea was to take a nature walk at a nearby park.  The kids carried magnifying glasses and notepads and were tasked with observing and sketching the various trees, animal life and other naturelike things we came across.  It sounded great in theory but once you took into consideration the ledges-and-ravines topography of the park, the steep slopes on either side of the path at times, the lack of adults and the inexplicably stupid choice for my footwear (high wedge sandals, what?), it was a tense outing.

Our initial strict policing of the kids soon gave way to doing the bare minimum required for survival.  We settled for grabbing kids' hands last second to keep them from slipping into ravines and pulling them down from logs and out of shrubbery by their ankles instead of enforcing the unattainable "maintain a single file line at all times" ideal.

Similarly, the strict "use your half-voice" rule soon morphed into three frazzled adults yelling "I SAID USE YOUR HALF-VOICES YOU'RE GOING TO SCARE ALL THE NATURE" while the kids pulled each others hair and accused each other in their "screaming" voices of squashing the caterpillar (nobody squashed the caterpillar, the caterpillar was perfectly fine, I don't know why I was the only one who could see that.)

On our way back to school, I was posted at the end of the line to collect stragglers.  Half the students fell into this category so I was very busy.  I'm happy to report Lucien stuck cheerfully next to his teacher the entire time but I was kind of bummed about it -- he's the one I wanted to spend time with, not the permanently distracted girl whose collar I had to hold onto because she's always looking straight up at the sky.

I'm pretty sure I rounded them all up and got them back to school but it's entirely possible I left one stuck in a tree trunk somewhere.

I had a weird dream last night.  In it, I said to a group of friends, "Oh, so I have sex with one person dressed like a bunny rabbit and now you're calling me a Plushie?"  just as Alex's boss walked into the room.  I've never met Alex's boss, he's a real head honcho, but the "meeting" idea has recently been floated.

Is the meaning of the dream obvious, as in I'm worried about humiliating myself in front of a big kahuna (understandable, I can be an idiot) or is there something else happening in my strange subliminal mind?

(For the record, I'm not a Plushie)

(Unless there's a Capuchin costume?)

(If you want to share your strange dreams now, I wouldn't feel so vulnerable and strange)

I just spent hours putting together some before-and-afters of Banister Abbey and adding them to this post.  It made this post last for millions of years so I decided it was too much.  I'm going to put them up Thursday instead.  A reason to live!

Cheers to perfect love,
MJ

Blah blah blah then BAM, everybody leaves

I hate that Sprint commercial, the one with the girl whose parents have taken video of her every day against a white wall.  The sweet song in the background bolsters the sense I'm a crap parent who doesn't truly love my children.  If I loved them properly, I wouldn't have neglected the memory-making.

Kids, don't watch that commercial someday and think I failed you because we don't know exactly what you were thinking on the first day of third grade.

I also hate the commercial for Ready for Love, that new dating show.  One of the contestant guys says, "I'm not the stereotypical rock star; I can count the women I've been with on my fingers."  We can all count the people we've been with on our fingers, genius, some of us will just have to use each finger a few times.

I was recently a field trip chaperone again. We went to the zoo.  A peacock caused a ruckus when the kids realized it was perched on the rooftop over our heads during lunch. 

But that peacock really blew their minds when it jumped off the roof and did this --

Feathers in your face, motherf*ckers!

One of our classroom girls ran up and grabbed the peacock's feathers.  She was immediately threatened with a lifetime ban from the zoo by people in tan shirts holding walkie talkies.  We chaperones felt the shame; we had failed in our duty to keep the more unruly children away from the wildlife. 

After the assault, the peacock stood absolutely still, save an occasional ripple of feathers, and glared at our group.  He reminded me of a cobra about to strike.  It was obvious he was formulating a plan.

We chaperones began to murmur and pull the kids to a safe distance.  This begat many questions: What's a safe distance from a peacock?  How fast do those things move?  Can we outrun them?  Are they surprisingly fast on foot like a hippo or as awkward as you'd expect, like an alligator? 

To make things worse, Lucien kept calling the peacock "turkey."  Insult to injury.

The peacock followed us slowly as we walked away.  The incident ushered in a new chapter of my life -- peacock nightmares.

When you least expect it, chaperone...

Our occasional handyman recently installed our kitchen cabinet pulls.  They would have been lovely except he installed them all off-center and crooked --

I could use Contractor God's help fixing them.  But the truth is, Banister Abbey broke Contractor God.  He has walked away from it and us, not planning to return.  The loss is painful, both the loss of his knowledge and the loss of his curmudgeonly friendship.

I would love to process Contractor God's departure with my other beloved contractors, Dan the Man and Supermodel Neighbor, but they're both gone, too.

Dan the Man had a falling out with Contractor God and stopped working with him in the middle of the Goddamn House project.  He occasionally texts me, usually when he's drunk, to ask if I'm mad at him. He was at our house for Thanksgiving a handful of months ago and now we don't even talk.  Human relationships are complicated and sad.

Supermodel Neighbor is moving to Portland this week.  Supermodel Neighbor and I are kindred spirits; he understands the necessity of indie music, strange humor and a properly used color wheel.  We went out for beers once and he jumped into a grove of bamboo on the walk home for no reason.  He stood inside for awhile, then called out, "Hey MJ, look how tall these are."

Once I was sitting at his kitchen table drinking coffee and he silently slid a picture of an alpaca in front of me and walked away.  When I asked, "What's this all about?"  he said, "I just thought you might like to look at that."  He was right; I did.

He's beautiful and weird and I'm going to miss him.  And that's all I'm going to say about that.

I wish I would have known the time with my three contractor friends was fleeting, that the shared jokes and beers and pissing matches were not going to last.  I would have hugged them more.  I also would have stood them against a white wall every day and videotaped their thoughts, then put them together in a timelapse montage with a bittersweet song in the background for proper mood.

Mama always told me I was a sentimental fool.  I don't think so -- I just really hate the end of a good chapter.

This is the song I'd choose.  Thanks for this, JP, and good luck.

Hug your contractors tight, people,
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

Coconut Balls

Have you ever had one of those periods in life when everything you touch, look at, or think about turns into a sh*tstorm?  Greetings from Sh*tstorm Alley.

This current sh*tstorm is so oppressive it's bordering on comical.  I roll out of bed in the morning and am immediately walloped by the myriad of problems I have to solve and relationships I need to repair.  And that's not including the houses; the first floor of the house in which we live is currently draped in plastic. Fear not -- it's for a large drywall project, not a disease outbreak.

The house looks exactly as it did the day before we moved in eight months ago.  Progress?

Before the downstairs was rendered inaccessible by plastic and dust and plaster, we had to identify all essential items from downstairs and shuttle them upstairs.  We decided on the dog food, the espresso machine, a toaster, a basket of scarves and a case of wine.  You discover what's truly important when you're forced to whittle down the contents of an entire floor.

It's pretty cramped, messy living up here on the upper floor.  We make our morning espresso in our bathroom.  It's convenient to have a coffee in your hand less than thirty seconds after rolling out of bed so maybe we'll keep it there.

I have set up a temporary "desk" on the floor of my bedroom which necessitates me sitting cross-legged for hours at a time.  When it's time to get the kids from school, I must drag myself out to my car using only my arms, my legs dragging uselessly behind me and making funny patterns in the sheetrock dust on my way out the door.  Mama's apparently too old for that cross-legged crap.

Al and I went to watch the Super Bowl with a handful of friends at a sports bar.  Nobody in our group cared much about either team (GO SEAHAWKS 4-EVER!)  but the bar patrons were overwhelmingly in favor of the Ravens.  So Alex, because he's a contrary sort, began cheering loudly and obnoxiously for the 49ers.  I don't know why that man has to nearly get me into a fistfight every time we leave the house.

It was a close game but the 49ers lost.  A man seated nearby, obviously chomping at the bit to kick Alex's ass all night, came over, threw his arm around Al's shoulders and yelled, "49ERS SUCK!" into his face.  Alex, once again his usual football-ambivalent self, just shrugged, smiled cheerfully and said, "Oh, I don't care, I'm from Canada!"

The Ravens guy looked pretty confused and disappointed by the response.  He just stared at Alex with furrowed brow, then dropped his arms to his sides and walked away.  It was awesome.

I was recently a chaperone for another first-grade field trip; this one lasted over five hours and involved walking downtown's International District with a large group of children. 

The teacher stuck me with a group of four crazy boys, one whose hand I had to hold because he's known for wandering off and/or kicking people.  Early on my group declared, "Lucien's mommy is an enchilada!" and spent much of the day trying to take bites out of my arms as I led them safely from one location to another.  I tried to defend myself, told them not to eat the chaperone, that it was one of the safety rules, but did they listen?  Not really.

At the Asian grocery store, my group took the words "don't touch the seafood" to mean "touch ALL of the seafood and by all means wipe your nose first." I heard myself saying things I've never said before such as,  "Drop that geoduck and step away from the tank."

Chaperone masochists

Speaking of boys, I think Seattle Mom's son looks like Anne Hathaway in Les Miserables when he plays dress-up with Coco.  Judge for yourself --

He dreamed a dream in times gone by

We went to a charity auction over the weekend, the same auction we went to last year at which Gumby made an appearance.  Alex must have been in the mood for coffee this year because he bid on every coffee item in the silent auction and unfortunately won them all. Our kitchen is currently inaccessible so twenty crates of coffee are now sitting on the landing at the top of our stairs.  They're in the way and I trip over them daily but oh, sweet heavenly aroma!

Say bye-bye to all your money, suckers

During the live auction, I bid on and won a belly dance lesson for eight.  It seemed a great idea at the time due to the influence of my good friend, wine.

A young man seated at the table next to us must have been even more tipsy than I was -- he bid nine hundred dollars for a puppy.  You could tell by his eyes he really wanted that puppy but as bidding went up and up, it looked like he was about to bow out.  Our table egged him on, took up a collection and threw some money at him.  It worked; we helped push that nice young man into buying a puppy for way too goddamn much money.

There's a good reason why the raffle tickets are dollar sign-shaped bling

At charity auctions, you learn an important life lesson -- you learn that true friendship is a friend screaming "BID! BID! BID!" in your face until they break you and you cry.

There was a priest seated at our table of friends, which hardly seemed a good idea.  He was a great guy and good sport, though, and managed to sit with us most of the evening without announcing we were all doomed and about to burst into flames. He finally stood and excused himself after our friend, Seattle Dad, put his hand inside a tasty dessert jar for the hundredth time and said seductively, "I can never get enough of these coconut balls..." 

Seattle Dad also posed with a pricey bottle of wine down his pants --

We are adults who act as children

I told Seattle Dad to enjoy his pricey bottle of wine.  He replied, "Oh believe me, I already have."

And finally, here's a picture of Alex's muscles --

 

Thanks for helping me forget the sh*tstorm for a minute, posse.
OH GOD I JUST REMEMBERED,
MJ

Raw sewage and birthday cake

I think Contractor God is avoiding me.  When I saw him on the street a few days ago, he quickly donned women's clothing and told me he'd never heard of himself in a high-pitched voice.

I approached him again yesterday but before I could get a word out, he was a contractor-sized blur, leaping over cars and knocking down pedestrians as he ran.

Today when I asked him to do a few odd jobs at our rental house on Beacon Hill, he didn't speak, just growled at me and slammed the door as he left.

(That last one is true, the others are my usual bullshit).

I can't blame him.  He's been through a lot for us, more than any man should ever endure. He's taken on the neverending story that is Banister Abbey alongside the pressure-filled Goddamn House. Worse, he recently came over on a Saturday morning when we called in a panic; our sink was backed up, our basement was flooded and everything smelled like sewage.

Al and Contractor God eventually fixed that (big) problem but it was a long, painful process. All three of us would like to erase from our memories what we saw and smelled that day. Alex had the insight to say, "You should take a picture of all this raw sewage for your blog." but I answered "No" because.... just....no.

I was a chaperone recently for Lucien's class field trip to the puppet theater.  I generally don't like puppets, in fact am pretty creeped out by the little f*ckers, but I wanted to be a helpful parent.

Regardless of the destination, I do love being a chaperone.  These kids are at the best age; there's nothing in the world like a first-grader's eyes blinking up at you as they ask, "Lucien's Mommy, do unicorns exist?"  It's very entertaining but also hard to spit out the answer -- "Of course not, you stupid little first-grader!" -- in between guffaws.

Lucien sat next to me on the school bus, held my hand and rested his head on my shoulder.  I don't know how many more years I have of him being thrilled to have his Mama along on field trips.  Soon enough I'm going to embarrass the hell out of him just by being visible.

The puppets were surprisingly enjoyable and were operated by award-winning Chinese puppeteers.  After the show, the puppeteers agreed to take questions from the children.  I think they regretted that decision when five hundred small hands shot in the air.

When called upon, the children did one of three things:  1.) said, "Ummmmm....." because they didn't really have a question, 2.) rambled on nonsensically, or 3.) asked something like, "How do the puppets go to the bathroom?"

(Incidentally, you cannot use the words "puppet" and "potty" in the same sentence without sounding like an idiot, no matter how many fancy awards you've won.)

Lucien turned 7 years old last week.  We had his birthday party over the weekend.  We had twenty kids here.  There's something wrong with us, maybe.

Thankfully, we hired the best kid magician in the world to entertain them for the first hour.  I was skeptical it was going to work, expected the kids to turn against Xakary the Magician after ten minutes and pelt him with party favors. But Xakary is a true professional.  He not only kept the kids' attention for nearly an hour, he kept them laughing and happy so we parents could gossip and eat junk food in the kitchen.

Xakary made Lucien the star of the show.  The culminating moment of Lucien's life thus far was helping Xakary pull a live rabbit out of an empty box.  It was a really big deal.

I'm considering hiring Xakary every weekend for the rest of our lives so I can finally get a few things done around here.

Most parents dropped their kids off at the party and ran but a hardy few stuck around so I wouldn't have to bear it alone.  They promised they would bring flasks to help us get through but they lied, they LIED.

There are not many rooms in either Banister Abbey or The Goddamn House that are finished so I've been reluctant to post photos.  I keep waiting for that "Ta-DAH!  F*cker's finished!" feeling but I may be an old, old woman before that blessed moment happens.

Even though the work completed is plentiful, it all still looks unpainted, unfinished.  In our defense, we can't do anything until we do other things first.  But those other things rely on us doing other things and buying necessary doodads.  But to buy the doodads, we must measure the spaces that are not yet there.  It's all connected in one neverending cycle of incompleteness.

I can finally celebrate something kind of close.  I can celebrate the one room in Banister Abbey that is finished, truly finished -- except for putting the pocket doors back in and moving the piano back and getting that one piece of wood above the window back from the stripper (wood stripper, not naked stripper, though I bet that would be a better story) -- but finished enough.

Here's what the parlor looked like before we moved in:

Here it is now:

There was a lot more involved in that room than buying furniture and fluffing pillows but Lord, you'd never know it.  It's disheartening, with all the time and money spent, when friends come over and can only remark, "Oh, you painted!" 

I wish changes could be tracked and highlighted and presented to each guest in a binder.  Then, a Powerpoint presentation full of slides of sheetrock dust, nail guns, chemicals, splinters and pain! 

As for The Goddamn House, it's not done either but it's close.  I'll post more pictures when it's truly done but in the meantime, here's one to prove I'm not lying when I say I think about houses ALL the TIME. 

The kitchen before, with two years of garbage and graffiti still hanging about:

The kitchen now, with sexy back views of Contractor God and Street of Dreams Neighbor:

Those are party lights installed above the cabinets.  They can be set to twelve different colors. They can also blink or fade from one color to another.  

They were Contractor God's idea.

Dear Lord, why?

Alex is in Japan again.  The night before he left, he accidentally set off the alarm downstairs.  I was brushing my teeth upstairs, assuming he had it handled and would turn it off in a second.  When it continued to go off, I went to the stairwell and leaned over the banister, "Al?  All OK?"

Alex ran past downstairs, flustered and disheveled and yelling, "What do I do?  What do I do?"

Piercing sirens can fluster even the most together of men,
MJ