count on me to bring the awkward

The photo to the left is Lucien making butter. It's a long story and I'm trying to avoid long stories today because they are making my blog posts go on and on for days. I'll discuss the butter when I learn how to truncate.

There were lessons learned this week in Mexico. One lesson I've learned is you're supposed to tip the people who bag your groceries. My grocery load is always sizable so the baggers, who are generally elderly and adorable, probably aren't too happy when I walk away with a single "gracias" and a smile. Smiles don't pay the bills, gringa. 

I noticed the guy behind me tipping the bagger (as in giving him money, not pushing him over) on my last shopping trip even though he was only buying a couple bottles of water. If that guy tipped for only two things, I should probably tip for my lots of things. I froze and observed those around me, which is always good operating procedure for an ex-pat. True enough, everyone was handing the baggers money on their way out the door. I nearly dumped my entire purse out in my haste to find pesos.

I won't make that mistake again. Look at all this learning I'm doing. 

I embarrassed myself pretty thoroughly this week. Julio, my friend Seattle Mom's driver, whom we met last time we were in Mexico City, came to our building to pick up something for Seattle Mom. I met him down in the lobby of our building. 

It's like I knew before it happened our interaction was going to be awkward because I went into it a little sweaty-palmed and bumbling. I could see he was coming in for a handshake as he approached me but I, for reasons I don't know, instead dove in for a cheek kiss. 

I'm not sure who kisses who and who shakes whose hands around here. What's the social protocol on that? Whatever the rules are, I'm pretty sure I broke them with Julio because he was not expecting the cheek kiss and it threw him way off. I could sense that, could sense his confusion and tension, but I still kept right on leaning in because you can count on me to bring the awkward.

I couldn't stop myself even though I knew I was doing the wrong thing -- and worse, I was doing it in front of witnesses, since Senor Scowly and his friend were standing a handful of feet away. Instead of backing off, I doubled down. I decided to show them all I stood firmly behind my decision to kiss Julio with conviction. So as I landed on Julio's face, and as Julio still desperately tried to shake my hand, I did a very loud "Mwah! kiss sound. Twice. The sound echoed in our modern sleek building entry. Such a weird f*cking thing to do. 

Did you know it is possible to cringe so hard that you can actually crumple and fold into yourself at the middle? It's like human origami. I hobbled back to the elevator after Julio escaped (that guy moves fast when he wants to) contorted with embarrassment. My old popular refrain from Paris days returned in that moment: "I am SUCH an ASSHOLE." Nice to have the ole mantra back again.

This week has been pretty awful because Lucien is sick and home from school for the third day in a row. Last night, Lucien was so sick I texted Seattle Mom, my soul sister friend back home, for advice. She's a nurse and is always a voice of calm and reason. I was having a stressful night; Lucien's fever was so high, and I didn't know how to call for medical help in Mexico if we needed it, and Alex is in Seattle for work this week. Seattle Mom said to push those fluids and take comfort he's lucid and talking to me normally.  

At that very moment, Lucien chose to sit straight up in his bed and start speaking absolute nonsense. The first thing he said, eyes staring at me in a creepy unfocused way, was "we have to get out of here now." GAH!

The non-comforting, non-lucid thoughts continued with things like, "you expect me to have two elements" and "I think wrong about this color." I snapped my fingers in front of his face, clapped my hands, tried to get him to snap out of it. The look on his face and the bizarre words coming out of his mouth did not stop. I told him to get up, I'd walk him to the bathroom. He said, "OK, good plan for sliding rats." 

He got up from his bed, pulled his pants down to his ankles, and hopped down the hall to the bathroom while saying something about people not being able to trick him for water. What the hell kind of eff'd up Mexican flu is this??

He doesn't remember any of that this morning and he's on the mend now. Hopefully he'll be back in school tomorrow and I can leave the apartment again.

Paulina babysat last Friday night so Alex and I could go out to dinner with two other ex-pat couples, both from Seattle. The company was hilarious good. Our dinner was delicious. Most noteworthy is Alex and I tried chapulines, which are fried grasshoppers. Eating grasshoppers is an ex-pat initiation rite in Mexico City so now we're in for real.

chapulines
tastes like crispy

I asked Lucien how Paulina got them to bed that night given the language barrier and he said, "She just kind of kept poking us until we moved in the right direction." I'm going to try that, I like its simplicity.

I've learned many things this week and will not make the same mistakes.
I will make new mistakes,
MJ

It begins again

Two days ago Lucien came home from school and said, "Mom, I got in trouble today!" Perhaps it was the shade of enthusiasm in his voice that gave me Paris flashbacks but my heart immediately sank a little.

It happened in Spanish class, a class that is making Lucien's head explode on the daily. The teacher calls on him often in an attempt to give him as much practice as possible, which he claims is "kinda mean" since he can't answer any of her questions. He studies lists of Spanish words in his bed at night; we know he's doing it when we hear a lot of "aghh!" and "this is impossible!" coming from his room.

Two days ago, the teacher was giving him a particularly grueling time, quizzing him on vocabulary and verb conjugation. Another student raised his hand and asked to go to the bathroom. As that student walked across the room and placed his hand on the classroom's doorknob, Lucien yelled, "SAVE YOURSELF!!"

The class cracked up. The teacher did not. She warned him that if he was going to be Mr. Funny Guy in class, he was going to find himself in the office more often than not. Well that's just great and here we are again. Those still reading from the Paris years probably remember Lucien did not fit in very well at his French school. He stood out from the much more subdued French children. He was in trouble all the time, had teachers tearing their hair out on the regular. La betise! La betise! The Loosh was an...ahem...spirited child in a non-spirited environment.

Thankfully it's been smooth sailing the past handful of years.  He's matured so much, is a good student and is finally able to control the more severe of his spaz-tastic impulses. He's the class clown for sure but good natured, rarely in trouble, and his teachers usually get a kick out of him. Maybe Americans are more flexible with those kinds of things, I don't know, but it seems apparent the teachers at the British School, at least the Spanish ones, are not as amused.

I gave him a talking-to about picking his moments. The classroom is not an appropriate place to crack jokes. Save it for the playground, save it for the bus, save it for anywhere besides the Spanish teacher's classroom because IT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE for principals in foreign countries to be part of our daily lives again, comprendes, little dude?

Lucien replied, "But Mom, I'm funny and I think my classmates have a right to know that." Great. This should go fine.

Coco's head is also exploding in Spanish because not only does she not speak Spanish, but everyone in her class is already writing cursive. Her First Grade classmates are writing Spanish in cursive, two things that could not be further from Coco's wheelhouse, goddammit, and I have to help her with her homework every afternoon.

Her homework, twice the amount of what other kids have because she's so far behind, is the most godawful painful hour... or two....or three.... of the day.  She whines and throws pencils, I cry and scour the kitchen cabinets for wine. It's pretty awful. Paulina has swooped in to save the day on a couple Spanish lessons and that may become the norm because when it comes to Spanish, surprise, I'm not much help. I wish Paulina could teach cursive, too.

Speaking of Spanish, the building's cleaning lady tried to chat me up in the elevator today. She sees me around the building daily and probably couldn't tell from my simple "buenos dias" and "hasta luego"s that I didn't know many more words than those. She stepped into the elevator with me this morning and immediately launched into some incomprehensible thing. There were definitely questions involved based on her inflection and her looking at me with her head tilted slightly to the side.

The realization struck her immediately that she was talking to a wall, probably because my eyes had gone wide and I was just staring at her frozen-like. I finally managed a "no comprendo" and she nodded, seemed embarrassed for the both of us. She hustled off the elevator a couple floors later.

Poor lady tried to be friendly and get to know me but ha! She won't try that again.


PS. Spanish in small elevators is much more uncomfortable than Spanish in larger open spaces. I need the breathing room, and the option to run away if/when I need to.

SAVE YOURSELF,
MJ

Am I lost, Julio?

We spent ten days in Mexico City over the summer, right on the heels of the road trip. Mexico City is the third largest city in the world with a population of 22 million. It's a place that will impress you with its museums, restaurants, and utter chaos.

Alex travels to Mexico City at least once a month for work and has always said, "you gotta come with me sometime, you guys would love it!"  So the kids and I called his bluff this time and got on the airplane with him.  He blinked at us and said, "Oh.....you really came?  You realize I work 99.9% of the time I'm in Mexico City, right?  Just so we're cool, you're gonna be super alone."

That's no problem.  The kids and I can handle anything.  I become much more bold when I'm flying solo with the kids because there's no doubt -- it's 100% on me to get sh*t done and make the memories happen.  I am happy for the kids to see me handle foreign situations because they learn the world doesn't end when you make an ass of yourself.  That last sentence reminded me of our Paris years and now I miss Paris terribly.

We did a house exchange with friends from Seattle who now live in Mexico City.  Their large, private, gated home in a fancy neighborhood in Mexico came complete with a cook, a housekeeper, and a driver.

That's all very nice but look at what they got in return!  They got our house, which does not cramp your space with people taking care of you.  Our home has at least half its electrical outlets in working condition.  Our yard is nice and uneven with many holes dug by Natani -- it's an exciting minefield for potential twisted ankles.  Another nice feature in our house is the "master bathroom" made solely of roughed-in plywood and unfinished drywall.  If you don't mind the splinters of the plywood floor, you can get in there to brush your teeth at the one functioning sink.  It's a space that really lets your imagination soar.

While they attempted to find the can opener in our mess of a kitchen supply drawer in Seattle, I was being driven around Mexico City by their driver, Julio.  Julio is a very kind, smiley man who seemed to vacillate wildly between liking me very much and having absolutely no idea what to do about me. I don't speak Spanish and he doesn't speak English so we communicated with wild sign language, or more effectively, an English-to-Spanish app on my phone, or -- least effectively though my favorite - speaking loudly and slowly in our own languages while staring intensely at the other person.

Having a driver in Mexico City seems like a luxury until you realize they are crucial to your survival. Do not drive yourself in Mexico City.  I repeat.  Do not do that.  There are 22 million people in the city and they all know what to do but you will not.  You're in way over your head, stranger.

There are seemingly few rules on the road; everyone just worms their way into the mess and comes out the other side with minimal honking.  I  have no idea how they do it, looks like a confusing writhing mess to me yet is amazing in the fact everyone seems to be on the same page -- a "we're all in this shitshow together, let's work it out" kind of thing.

Red lights appear to be more of a suggestion than a hard and fast rule.  Julio blew through one and when I asked why he looked surprised and said, "Why would I stop?  There was nobody else there."  If it's a three-lane street, don't be surprised to find cars four across.  I even saw a few people plunge into the huge roundabout in the center of town headed clockwise.  I pointed at them and asked via phone app, "Can they do that?"  Julio laughed, shrugged, and replied, I think, "It is a little harder going that way but sure, they'll make it fine."

Yes indeed, Julio was a lifesaver.  He drove Alex to work in the morning then returned to take the kids and I wherever we wanted to go.  He'd drop us at the touristy places and return hours later to pick us up.

It's an easy idea in theory but proved harder in practice. On our way to the Zocalo area, Julio pointed at a place called Sanborns outside the Belles Artes and said, "aqui!  aqui!" which I understood to mean a place called Sanborns near Belles Artes was the place for pick-up later that afternoon.  I nodded enthusiastically and gave him a thumbs up.  I'll be there, Julio!

The kids and I enjoyed our time in the Zocalo area.  The Diego Rivera mural at the Palacio Nacional was unfortunately under scaffolding but I loved the Templo Mayor, the ancient Aztec temple at the center of the bustling city.

The Templo Mayor ruins in the shadow of the cathedral

That's a wall of sculpted skulls in the foreground

Badass Aztecs

It was monsoon season in Mexico City so an umbrella was crucial for the violent storm that would pop up every afternoon, pass quickly, and leave everything soaked in its wake.  For reasons I don't understand, no one is allowed to take their crucial umbrella into the ruins of Templo Mayor.  Are they afraid of us beating the ruins with our umbrellas?  Beating other people?  Or maybe they just want us to experience life the way the Aztecs did -- if it rains, you're getting wet, pansies.

For whatever reason, my umbrella was confiscated at the entrance.  They also confiscated Coco's fruit snacks from my purse, which troubled Coco greatly.  I forgot both these items at the Templo Mayor entrance after our visit so had to double back later in the day to retrieve them. This caused my kids to grumble.  I love that kid grumbling, can't get enough.

I pantomimed my umbrella back at the Templo Mayor entrance and got it back right away but the fruit snacks were not so simple.  My gestures may have given the impression I wanted to shovel tiny rat turds into my mouth by the way the employees' eyes widened with concern.  After five minutes of intense discussion amongst them, one had a eureka! moment, said something excitedly, and presented the fruit snacks from a small box under the desk. Then we all jumped up and down, excited and relieved for an understanding.

The ruins of the Templo Major pyramid were not excavated until 1978.  

And now it's an Aztec temple hanging out in the middle of a giant modern city.

But my children still found this cactus more interesting.

We ate a late lunch in a nice place overlooking the cathedral.  I ordered ten different things in the hopes of broadening my kids' understanding of Mexican food.  They had a hard time believing Mexican food was more than cheese quesadillas and bean burritos.

I ordered mole and pescado veracruzano and chiles rellenos among others. The kids didn't like any of it, of course, as I should have known.  I felt bad leaving so much food so I did my best.  I ate more that day than I've possibly ever eaten in my life.  I was like one of those people in eating contests that onlookers can only watch silently with gaping mouths. I had no time to talk, just time to stuff, maybe grunt a little.  I did try but much as I love Mexican food, I could not eat it all.  

(In related news, my jeans no longer fit when I came home to Seattle.  Mexican food will do that to you.  But I dare say it's worth every day thereafter you must spend in elastic-waisted pants.)

After lunch I waddled back towards the Belles Artes area with two very tired kids to catch the Julio shuttle bound for home.  I found Sanborns and stood outside in the full sun. It was hot, we were tired, we were wilting.  The time for pick up came and went, after which followed what I could tell were frantic text messages from Julio along the lines of "Where the hell are you?"  I replied I was in front of Sanborns at Belles Artes, like he told me to be, and he said something like, "No, no, you're not."

Text communication was arduous with Julio because I had to copy each message and paste them into my Spanish app.  Then I copied and pasted my response.  It made for agonizingly slow progress with panic rising slightly, knowing something had gone wrong but not knowing exactly what it was. I eventually said, "Am I lost, Julio?" to which he replied, "Si."

We stood in the sun baking like enchiladas (mmm enchiladas) for over an hour as Julio likely had a heart attack somewhere else in town.  I got Alex involved at work.  He called Julio, called me, called Julio, called me, etc. I finally found a couple labeled streets near where I was and relayed them to Alex.  Then my phone battery died.

Despair was imminent when I finally heard someone screaming my name.  Julio was charging at me at a full run through cars. He hugged me with joy, hugged the kids, began apologizing profusely as he dragged us back to his car left in the middle of the street, which was fine because weird road behavior is normal in Mexico City.

As it turns out, Sanborns is a chain and I was standing in front of the wrong Sanborns.  I had come across a Sanborns and stopped walking, not knowing there were other options.  I wasn't supposed to be at the plain brown Sanborns near Belles Artes, I was supposed to be at the Sanborns with the pretty tile on the front on the other side of Belles Artes -- hadn't I noticed the pretty tile on the front of the building when we drove past that morning, asked Julio, still sweating and running his hands through his hair repeatedly.

That was the day we learned all Sanborns look the same to gringas.

The kids and I returned to the house with Sanborns sunburns. We came into the house to find Rosa, the sweetest, most wonderful cook, had made enchiladas in red sauce for dinner because I'd mentioned the day before they were my favorite.  I could not even think about more food after my gluttonous lunch feast but I still did what I had to do. I ate a ton of them that evening. They were amazing.

I wish I could write short but I can't write short.  Mexico is going to be another multi-episode saga. Brevity is not my strong suit; it is as hard for me as walking away from a plate of Mexican food, apparently.

But I will admit this now -- giving Julio some trouble wasn't a one time thing.  It may or may not have happened a couple more times.  He sure did earn his money that week.

In my defense, Mexico City is crazy.
MJ

BUTTONS

I spent this past weekend with some ladies in a rental house on Whidbey Island to celebrate Seattle Mom's 40th birthday.  When one of our own hits a milestone, we drop kick parental responsibility to our husbands and hit the road.

Our rental house was spacious but we still had to share beds.  Seattle Mom #2 was lucky enough to share a bed with me.  I did not spoon her as threatened but I did throw a ton of covers on her in the middle of the night when I kicked them off because holy hell, our room was an inferno cursed with a defective heating unit.

There are many ways to pass the time when you're spending a weekend with girlfriends on an island -- surprisingly far more than just sitting on the couch covered in blankets and drinking wine, though we put a fair amount of time into that endeavor as well.

For example, we enjoyed the nearby public beach --

all 20 feet of it

And we tested our fear of heights on a tall wobbly bridge --

We also tried to light the flameless candles in our rental house with a lighter, only realizing there was an "ON" switch on the bottom after we scorched the insides and Seattle Mom swore "I'm gonna light this goddamn candle if it kills me."  It didn't go that far, thankfully.

There's something about taking photos on Pacific Northwest beaches that makes every group shot look like the band just got back together -- 

The band got back together

The band disbanded briefly for a solo project

 The band got back together

 

Now the band's being dicks to each other and trying to knock each other off logs

probably drugs

Our first evening was spent drinking wine on the deck.  Seattle Mom told a story of her Girl Scout camping days and how she used to get so scared she would call out for her camp counselor -- inexplicably named "Buttons" -- in the middle of the night.  For the rest of our Whidbey Island weekend, a solo cry of "BUTTONS!  BUTTONS!!" could be heard regularly.  The rest of us would stop whatever we were doing and mimic the call in response.  We were like a pack of wolves with a new inside joke.

I was responsible for bringing Saturday morning brunch.  I made a beautiful spinach and sausage strata the day before and brought the cooler out of my scary basement for the strata's transportation to the island.  The cooler made it into the car but, once we were nicely settled in on the island, I realized the strata had not.

I didn't realize the strata was missing until late that first night, after much wine had been consumed and everyone was headed for bed.  For a moment I went insane with confusion.  I spun around in the kitchen, insisted I PACKED THE STRATA and enlisted help finding it and getting it into the fridge right away because eggs.  

That's how Seattle Mom came to be on her hands and knees under the sink reporting, "It isn't under here" and Seattle Mom #2 confirmed the strata wasn't in the dishwasher while Seattle Mom #3 checked the bathrooms.  Seattle Mom #4 bundled up and went outside to dig though the car, something she truly enjoyed because of all the rain.

They wanted to believe I had brought the strata and not just an empty cooler to Whidbey Island but eventually they gave up and went to bed, leaving me alone in the kitchen to mutter to myself and check the garbage can just one more time. 

I finally texted Alex and asked if there was a strata in the refrigerator at home.  He responded, "Yes!  Thank you so much!"  Alex had discovered the strata and thought he had the most thoughtful wife in the history of wives.  I had to fess up that it wasn't meant for him because I didn't want to set unattainable standards for myself in the future.

Observe this true Pacific Northwestern specimen.  

When she wants to read a book outside, she reads a book outside.

One thing I did remember to bring to Whidbey Island -- and perhaps the reason I forgot breakfast because this was the true the star of the show -- was the penis cake.  I'm not sure I can show pictures of the penis cake here because it was a very realistic penis cake.  Perhaps if I pixelate -- 

 that'll do

I ordered the penis cake earlier in the week from The Erotic Bakery in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle.  If you're looking for someone to sculpt realistic looking body parts out of fondant, they're your people.

After perusing the website I decided to go with the "Erect Penis with Bow" model because nothing says "Happy 40th, dear friend" like a festooned member.  The guy who took the order over the phone asked me what color I wanted the skin of the penis, the color of the hair, color of the bow, whether or not I wanted a piercing through the penis or something unfortunately called "c*m icing" squirted all over the top. 

As we discussed the merits of "c*m icing" and debated whether or not it would render the entire cake unappetizing, I told him he had a very strange job.  He agreed and then oh, how we laughed.

(I decided against the icing.  It seemed one step too too far.)

The penis cake made it to Whidbey in one piece.  We made the mistake of hiding it in the cupboard instead of immediately in the refrigerator so the penis got too warm and began bending to the right.  I called out, panicked, over my shoulder, "You guys, it's listing, it's listing!" as the other ladies distracted Seattle Mom outside so we could move it into the fridge.  That thing was very high maintenance and difficult to manage.

It was worth it for the reveal, though.  She was like, "Ohhhh... pretty cake......OH MY GOD."

 the cake is happy to see you, too, Seattle Mom

Our dear husbands held down the forts back at home so we could lead our lives of debauchery.  The men kept the kids alive and got them to the numerous birthday parties scheduled for the weekend. I'm sure they could have accomplished this without the lengthy lists of instructions and drawn diagrams we left them, but why take that chance?

It's a magical strata and found it's way through the wormhole from Whidbey Island to my kitchen counter.

It's the only explanation.

Thank you, husbands.
And happy birthday, Seattle Mom.  You rock our world.

BUTT-ONS,
MJ

Oh the wonderful things we'll make you do

Lucien flipped someone the bird in math class last week.  He pried his middle finger up out of his clenched fist and said, "I'm going to show you my middle finger now."

He got in trouble and I got a call from the teacher.  She said he didn't seem to know exactly what it meant to flip the bird but he knew it wasn't nice.  I explained the subtle yet loaded sociological meaning of the middle finger to him later that evening and he said, "OK, I'll only use it when I get real mad."

I went out with a friend, Seattle Twin Mom, Saturday night and mentioned the middle finger story.  She told me when she was about Lucien's age, her brother (who is six years older) told her showing your middle finger meant "Have a nice day."  So there sweet little Seattle Twin Mom went, flipping the bird all over her small hometown.  Her mom got a few phone calls from concerned citizens wondering why that cute little girl down the street suddenly turned into a real a**hole.

Alex and I try hard to do fun things with the kids on the weekends.  The kids don't always enjoy our "fun" ideas but they are still dependent and small and semi-portable so don't have much choice in the matter. 

Alex took the kids to a Japanese restaurant for lunch recently, one of those places where food circles the room on a conveyor belt and you have to grab your lunch as it passes by your table.  Lucien and Coco initially thought food whizzing by on a conveyor belt was awesome.  Their enthusiasm fizzled when they realized those containers of mackerel bits and octopus were lunch.

At first she was merely suspicious

 But then the sushi made her sad

So much for Japanese.  Let's try Vietnamese.  We've got a great Vietnamese place down the street from our house so we attempted more food horizon broadening.

We knew it was a failed experiment when Coco started eating plain lettuce

There's one food the kids will never turn down -- crappy U.S. macarons.

I'm not a food snob in general (raised on wiener bean casserole, after all) but there's something about the French macaron that's sacred and holds a very special place in my heart.  I have yet to find a macaron in the U.S. that truly captures what's happening over there in Paris.  Whenever a new French bakery-type place is recommended to me -- seriously, their macarons are the real deal! -- I take a bite and realize it is merely another pale ghostly imitation of the real deal. 

 exactly

The highlight of our most recent macaron attempt was when Lucien pointed to the counter and said, "Look, they have Macklemores!"  It couldn't have been a better fusion of our son's Paris and Seattle lives.

(For those wondering what the hell that meant, Macklemore is a rapper from Seattle)

There's just something off with the texture

There was a Life Sciences exposition at the Pacific Science Center over the weekend.  Lucien is a science-loving kid so we knew he would love it.

Except he didn't.  The brain table, which had real human brains cut in half and reeking of formaldehyde, made him knead his hands nervously and ask to go home. Guess we should stick to bugs and leave people out of it.

The kids are going to start refusing to leave the house with us

It was the most glorious Fall day on Sunday so we pulled out the scooters and went on a nice long walk through our fine city.   We didn't fully take into account Seattle's topography when planning our route.  There are lots of hills up in here.

We realized we weren't going to make it home easily when we saw Lucien, two blocks behind us and trying to scoot up a large San Francisco-style hill, yelling around about hating his scooter a whole, whole lot.  We eventually grabbed both of them by their jackets and began pushing/pulling them home. This would have been manageable except I wore slippery-soled boots.  I would slip while pulling on a kid, lose my grip on the kid, and the kid would start rolling backwards screaming before leaping off his scooter into some bushes.

It's family fun, kids.

Al and I left the kids with a sitter later that afternoon to go watch the Seahawks game at a rowdy Capitol Hill bar.  It was nice to get out together.  The kids were also thrilled because we were far away and no longer inflicting our ideas upon them.

I was reading a local news blog lately.  There was a story about some recent robberies in the C.D., one in particular in which a police helicopter located the burglary suspect hiding on someone's roof.   The following was written in the comments.

"...If it was a random 9pm burglary – then that is a freaky deal. We should all be up in arms and patroling the streets with pick handles.  We really need more detail on this kind of stuff. It makes a huge difference in the perception of risk. If it’s just thug on thug crime – I’m going to be leary of thugs. But if they be bustin into just anybody's house I’m gonna be all hillbilly."

What does it mean to get all hillbilly?  I'm picturing a lot of straw chewing and wearing of tank tops.  Is the idea to confuse burglars until they forget where they are, become disoriented and wander out of the C.D.?  I guess it's worth a try -- yee-haw, y'all.

Hillbilly is a decent idea but an even better way to fight crime is karate.  Lucien's pretty good at karate but Coco has a ferocity about her never before seen in a four-year-old karate novice.  Sure, sometimes she turns a somersault for no dang reason in the middle of the mat but other than that, she gets mean out there.

Hang in there, kids,

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

Now what do I do?

Hi.  I've decided to write a book.  I'm not sure what's going to become of my blog now that I've decided to write a book.  In a related thought, can someone please tell me how to write a book? 

Advice is appreciated because I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't know how to find the time or energy with which to do it.  All I know is if I don't start now, time will continue to fly by, and then I'll be 101 years old and my moment will be gone.

I don't have many stories to tell today so I'm going to post some pictures.  9 out of 10 people love random cell phone pictures.  If you're the 1 out of 10 that doesn't, you can voice your discontent in the comments, but please know I'm doing my best and it will hurt my feelings.

Seattle people. We all really look like this.

walking bike home with friends after dinner

proof Seattle loves the green stuff

butts on an escalator

 

Loosh on a beach

people dancing in an empty room

barbeque in an alley

 hanging out in a library

 

 

 I have no idea

 

 

Perfect.  All of life's goings-on with none of the time-consuming context.  This should work just fine.

Now where's my damn pen...

MJ