Happy Wife Happy Life

Happy 2014!  Hope you all had good mornings at the gym and you haven't yelled at your kids in 48 hours and your diets are thus far looking very promising.

My parents and brother came to Seattle for Christmas this year. The weather was cold and gray during their visit, the neighborhood fireworks on New Years Eve kept them awake much of the night, and all of them caught colds thanks to my germ-ridden kids.  They may never return.

The arrival of my parents and brother was a surprise for Lucien and Coco. I spent the weeks before Christmas moping around the house, sighing and lamenting the fact I wouldn't see my parents for the holidays this year.  I thought laying it on thick beforehand would heighten the joy when the kids saw Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Bala standing on the front porch Christmas morning.  I stopped my charade when Lucien began rolling his eyes and yelling in frustration, "Geez, Mom, just invite them next time!!"

Mom, Dad and Bala appeared on our doorstep that morning wearing Santa hats.  The kids opened the door and bam! -- fistfuls of fake snow thrown in their faces. 

The situation didn't compute for the kids even after they realized who was behind the snow assault. They were dumbfounded and seemed slightly perturbed we'd gotten the best of them. 

Much transpired this holiday season.  For one thing, I discovered a man camped in the Honey Bucket in our driveway.  I'm not sure what life circumstances led that man to possibly spend the night in our construction crew's port-a-potty but I think we can assume they aren't good.

The time for sympathy came later.  But in that moment, he freaked me right the hell out.  I heard a rustling sound inside the Honey Bucket when I took out the recycling that morning.  After jumping a mile straight up in the air, I picked up a stick and poked the Honey Bucket.  I didn't necessarily think the stick would help me in any confrontation situation, I just felt strongly about not touching the Honey Bucket with my hand.

I yelled something like, "Is there somebody in the Honey Bucket?" Nobody answered but the rustling stopped.  Emboldened by the fact no one had yet jumped out to fight me, I yelled in a deeper voice, with much bravado, "You gotta go now, person in the Honey Bucket over there" and ran back inside to watch from the safety of a window.  The man eventually left and we are now locking the Honey Bucket when the crew isn't working on the house.

This was my first year hosting my entire family for Christmas so much of December was spent making lists and calculating how many days in advance I could make food items without serving everyone old and moldy food.  My personality demands I get as much out of the way as possible so I don't lose my sh*t on the actual holiday.  That's why I'm grateful for the miraculous yet terrifying properties of corn syrup -- it allows me to bake the pecan pie a worrisome number of days/weeks/months/years in advance.

The Christmas meal went quite well except I overcooked the Brussels sprouts.  I also threw the carrots in the garbage when no one was looking because they cooked down to an embarrassingly small portion.  I knew laughter would erupt and fingers would point if I placed what appeared to be one carrot in the center of the table and told everyone to share it.

Anyway, I made cinnamon rolls from scratch and who cares about vegetables when you have cinnamon rolls.

My sister recently married her girlfriend, Z, at the Shotgun Wedding Chapel in the Pioneer Square neighborhood of Seattle.  There were costumes involved.  I wasn't invited to the wedding but it's not because Raba and Z don't like me.  It's because it was supposed to be a secret, a way to quickly make the thing legal for insurance and tax purposes, months before the party we're having for the happy event next summer.

It turns out Raba and Z can't keep secrets very well so we all found out about it right away and then we saw the pictures and were like, "Raba, why are you dressed like a saloon girl and sitting on top of a piano?" 

Anyway, we all feel immense joy for the two of them.  Z has integrated flawlessly well into our family.  She's kind and warm and helpful and thoughtful.  She also tends to sit back and be cool when the rest of us begin talking loudly and incessantly over the top of each other.  Lord knows we've needed one of her kind in this family a long, long time.

 As a sign of welcome, our tribe presented the newcomer a fuzzy blanket.

I bought Raba and Z some "Happy Wife, Happy Life" dish towels for Christmas.  That adage must be harder to live by when there are two wives involved.  They may have to draw straws to decide who gets to be the happy one on any given day.  My Al has never fully embraced the wisdom of "Happy Wife, Happy Life."  When I mention it, he says, "Why?" and I'm like, "WHY DO YOU HAVE TO QUESTION EVERYTHING?"

I love having my parents around.  I wish they would move to Seattle but they hate Seattle weather so it's not likely unless I can convince them "gray" equals "happy."

 Coco adores them all

 Me and my beautiful mama

 

 Mom is very enthusiastic about the Space Needle

 

Our beloved pet praying mantis, Mantisy, died a few days after Christmas. We knew the end was approaching weeks ago because she began moving very slowly and sometimes fell over for no reason. We felt a little better when Alex pointed out we should feel good about ourselves because very few praying mantises get to die of old age, but were still desperately sad each time she flailed in vain trying to catch her food or stumbled over her own gangly insect legs.

I was late picking Coco up from preschool one day because I thought Mantisy was dying at that very moment and I wanted her to hear my voice and know she wasn't alone.  I explained to the teacher I was late because I was accompanying a praying mantis into death.  The whole incident likely earned Coco an asterisk next to her name on the class roster. 

The day Mantisy finally collapsed and didn't get back up, we all felt shockingly sad about it.

Lucien made a coffin for her out of Play-doh

So now it's 2014 and life goes on.  My parents and brother have returned to their Colorado blue skies and well-rested schedules.  Al, the kids and I began 2014 by burning Christmas trees with our friends on Alki Beach.

We were not the only group on the beach with the idea.  Several members of the group next to us stripped down to sequined hot pants and dove into frigid Puget Sound.  When they emerged from the water, they stood on the beach naked and guzzled whiskey.  They certainly gave us some good ideas for next year.

Happy wife, Happy life 4-ever,
MJ

Free the guinea pigs

The flu came to visit recently.  It floored me (and only me) for a handful of days.  It reminded me of the old adage, "When mama's sick ain't nobody gonna take care of mama and she still has to take care of some other people, too."  Catchy adage.

Those days were miserable.  I was pale and bleary-eyed and my hair stuck out at funnier angles than usual as I collected Coco from preschool and Lucien from the bus stop.  Everyone was too polite to scream in horror but they sure did keep their distance.

In a feat of impressively bad timing, my three really sick days were also the three days I'd agreed to watch Seattle Mom's son while their nanny's on vacation.  The only thing harder than the flu with one three-year-old on the loose is the flu with two three-year-olds on the loose.  They really don't give a damn you don't feel well.

Whenever I come out of an illness, on that first day of being functional again, I feel invincible.  I can do anything!  Cure some cancers! Scale that mountain over there!  Karate chop a stack of boxes at Costco!  Macrame!

Unfortunately I didn't get a chance to do any of those things this time around because as soon as I felt better, Coco got the flu.  I discovered she was sick when she said, "Mommy, my belly hurts me" and threw up all over both of us as I read her favorite bedtime book.

I moved Lucien into the guest room so I could sleep in his bed on wheels (yes, wheels, we're stupid) to be next to Coco if she got sick in the middle of the night.   Those "on call" nights are rough.  I woke up every time she stirred and rushed to her side armed with a pan, a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Febreze aimed at her face.

My overreaction startled her awake.  She looked up at me with wide "What the hell, Mom?" eyes so I hushed and cooed her back to sleep.  But as I tiptoed across the room and climbed back into Lucien's bed, it rolled across the floor.  My delighted surprise woke Coco up again so I had to start over with the hushing and the cooing.

Let's get back to what I wanted to write about before the flu.

I went out with Seattle Mom last week to see the movie version of Les Miserables.  I, like many others, was obsessed with the musical in my younger days.  In high school I was sure I was going to play Eponine on Broadway.  To prepare for this, I walked around my house wearing a trenchcoat and looking sad.

Sometimes I laid down on the floor in my trenchcoat and sang "A Little Fall of Rain" over and over again, never tiring of dying in the arms of my beloved in such dramatic fashion.  Mom would walk past and I'd overhear her say to my dad, "Well, MJ's dying in the living room again."

Years later, when I met Alex and discovered one of his middle names was Marius, my family agreed it was a sign.  Dad even asked the priest to say at our wedding, "Eponine finally got her Marius."  It was sweet.  I promplty donned a trenchcoat, laid down in front of the altar and sang my death song.  It was a really weird wedding.

The movie version was good.  It wasn't good enough to win me away from my first love, the stage production, but it was done well and made me cry a few times and isn't that what Les Mis is all about?  Eponine was pretty good but she's no me.

Seattle Mom and I met Contractor God and another neighbor, Funny Woman, for drinks after the movie.  Funny Woman just returned from a vacation in Mexico.  I can't see an ounce of fat on Funny Woman but she claimed her goal for Mexico was to erase the tan lines made by her "rolls" over the summer.

To accomplish this, she needed to tan in a certain position. She demonstrated for us there in the booth; it looked like she was lying backwards over a beach ball, rolling side to side and yelling, "COME ON! GET IT!"  It apparently worked so I wanted to pass the tidbit along in case anyone else had the same problem.

So Happy New Year to everybody!  Our New Years Eve was spent at a friend's house.  It's a long story, but the rallying cry of the evening was "FREE THE GUINEA PIGS!" and the party attendees ended up walking through the neighborhood carrying a bottle of champagne and a light-up disco ball.

One of our friends has been having a New Years Day Open House for over 20 years --

The Quartz Bay Buzz Bomb is always the drink of choice on New Years Day

The annual party ends with the burning of the hosts' Christmas tree.  This tradition started in 1989 when everyone in attendance sat around and talked about how horrible their year had been.  It spiraled quickly from "1989 sucked!" to "Let's burn the Christmas tree, RHAAA!"

That 1989 Christmas Tree didn't see it coming.  It was dragged into the yard by angry New Years day revelers and burned on the spot.

It's a little more planned now.  Everyone gathers around the fire pit where the tree is dismembered methodically before it's thrown in the fire pit and burned to ashes.  Writing that made me feel creepy.

Lucien came to me upset last week.  He said Coco kicked him hard in the shins.  I asked Coco if she kicked her brother and she said, "No, I pushed him with my feet."  At least when she's sick, she puts the evil genius bit on hold.

This was a long one.  Rough week.  Let's go burn a tree, RAHH!

MJ