Kafka is a riot

The bad news is I'm guilty of blog neglect.  The good news is I've been neglectful because there's so much incredible fun livin' going on around here.

exhibit a

For example, the kids and I have recently taken up geocaching.  Geocaching, to most participants, is an exciting worldwide treasure hunt using GPS coordinates to find random hidden stuff stashed all over the place.  For me and my two kids and my finicky inaccurate GPS, however, geocaching is being lost in the woods for two hours, walking in circles, and never finding what you're looking for.

We knew, thanks to a clue on the geocache website, that the thing was hidden in a fake rock at the base of a tree.  We eventually began kicking rocks under every tree we passed in a desperate attempt to find the thing and feel successful.  Trust me, you do not realize how many rocks are under trees until you start looking for a specific one under a specific one.

In other fun news we lost the Super Bowl.  We threw a Super Bowl party that was really exciting and energy-filled right up until the end of the stupid game.  Our guests were so upset, so desperate to flee and nurse their wounds in private, they left within thirty seconds of the last play. They left in such a rush and in such emotional states, two people left without their shoes.  Sad barefoot football fans roaming the streets, that's what that day did to us.

We're mostly over the loss but it's hard because our house continues to mock our pain.  Every morning we come downstairs to this festive bunch of Seahawks balloons which, for some upsetting reason, refuse to die.  I could pop them but I paid a lot of money for them so can't bring myself to do that. Perhaps I'll let Coco play nearby with a ladder and a sharp knife.

perky as ever

Alex and I went to see a band Thursday night.  Sonny and the Sunsets are a fun band but their opening act was a real stinker.  It was a solo lady with a guitar who apparently kissed her boyfriend a bunch of times.  I am assuming this because she sang a song in which the sole lyrics were "I kissed my boyfriend I kissed my boyfriend I kissed my boyfriend."

Things took a turn for the worse after that.  I think her boyfriend dumped her and got a new girlfriend because the next song's lyrics were "Jessie's got a new girl Jessie's got a new girl Jessie's got a new girl" sung over melancholy chords while wearing a dark pair of sunglasses. Jessie was probably not into being kissed 24 hours a day and needed some space.

Alex and I felt awesome being out late with the band-listening crowd.  Band-listening people wear perfectly worn-in jeans and vintage corduroy jackets with ironic patches on the back like "Pete Peterson's Family Friendly Gun Shop!" Indeed, it was fun to feel part of the scene again but then we made the mistake of leaning against the back wall.  We immediately began dozing off from the overwhelming fatigue our aged bodies were experiencing.

We went home halfway through the set, leaving all the hipsters wearing overalls and women with ombre shaded violet hair behind.  It's OK to try to be young again but it's also OK to be true to your damn selves and get out when your feet start to ache from all the standing.

we came.  we saw.  we left early.

I'm still learning how to throw pottery on a wheel.  I'll let you know when I make something that doesn't make people laugh out loud upon seeing it.

I'm also in a writing class.  I needed a boost for my Paris book writing, needed to shake off the stagnant place in which I found myself and mix it up a little.  I enrolled in a humor writing class, first class was last week.

Right off the bat, immediately after roundtable introductions, our teacher told us to re-write the first paragraph of The Metamorphosis by Kafka but make it HILARIOUS.  We would then read our paragraphs out loud.  It was strongly insinuated if we didn't make our teacher laugh, we were failures. He gave us ten minutes for this exercise which, when re-writing Kafka as uproarious comedy, doesn't seem like enough.

That was quite a bonding experience.  We scribbled furiously, occasionally stopping to glance at one another and silently mouth swear words in wide-eyed panic.  I re-wrote The Metamorphosis in first person and turned myself into an ant, awakening in my room to the sudden overwhelming desire to lift a Buick.  The teacher laughed so I didn't fail.  Not yet anyway.

Work continues on Banister Abbey.  Supermodel Neighbor is here again. He now carries enough authority in the house to give my children stern talking-tos when necessary and has his own shelf in the refrigerator. He's family.

S.N. is currently building stair railings for our two flights of stairs.  It's a momentous time -- Banister Abbey is finally going to have banisters.


As a reference, this was the 3rd floor stairway when we first viewed the house nearly three years ago --

 Welcome to your new home
we strongly suggest never going upstairs

Before we moved in, we had a temporary railing made of splintery 2x2s installed so nobody would fall off the stairs and die on their way up to the office --

But now, after just a few weeks of Supermodel Neighbor cursing repeatedly, here's where we are --

Never mind the blue painters tape.  I'm in the process of priming and painting the unfinished newel posts and skirts.  It's still a work in progress but trust it, it's going to have pizazz.

The balusters and hand rail used above are originally from the main staircase. They are original to the home, circa 1904, and were located here when we first saw the house --

they don't make them that awesome anymore

Now regarding the picture at the beginning of this post --

Despite being the only person in the room -- in fact the only person on the first floor -- when the lamp was snapped in two, Coco still claims absolutely no knowledge of events.

Punk

My apologies for neglecting the blog.
In my defense, it's very difficult to blog when I'm lost in the woods.
MJ

Spaghetti Tail

Super Bowl Sunday began with a morning visit to the grocery store.  I needed to buy a bag of Doritos because I'd already eaten the bag of Doritos I'd purchased two days earlier to avoid a day-of-game trip to the grocery store.  I'm pretty good at planning ahead but also pretty good at sabotaging my own planning.

It was a good idea to try to avoid the grocery store on Super Bowl Sunday.  It was crowded with people jostling to buy ingredients for guacamole and spicy chicken wings.  The fun part was seeing everyone decked out in the unofficial Seattle uniform for the day.  I've never seen the grocery store so color-coordinated.

Our friends came over and we did a little shadow boxing, some stretches, got pumped.  And then, in what has since been called "the most boring Super Bowl ever," the Seahawks pummeled the Broncos 43-8.  Our ragtag band of fifth-round draft picks, a yoga-loving coach who'd been fired by another NFL team and a "tiny" quarterback proved all the doubters wrong.

We're the Bad News Bears of football

The city held a Seahawks victory parade yesterday to celebrate our very first Super Bowl win.  Over 700,000 people showed up which, when you consider only 600,000 people live within the city limits of Seattle, is a very impressive number.

People skipped out on all other commitments to be there and many parents, including me, called schools to report their kids were sick -- let's call it "Seahawk Fever" -- and wouldn't make it to school that day.  Lucien's school later decided all absences due to Seahawk Fever would be excused because it was evident by the number of absences this was a very important event for the community.  Some moments in a city's history are so epic and unifying, it feels necessary to put other things on hold for a minute to be a part of them.

It was a sub-freezing day so Lucien and I put on all the clothes we own and waddled downtown with some friends.  Our group wasn't alone; streams of people walked alongside us and once they got downtown stood 50-60 people deep at every intersection, cheering, stomping, laughing.  The steep hills of downtown came in handy and acted as bleachers, giving the people in the 60th row a birds-eye view of the action below.

It was a loud and proud giant frigid football party

There was a palpable sense of joy radiating from 699,999 spectators.  The one person not feeling the love was Lucien because after an hour and a half of waiting, he could no longer feel his fingers.  I took my miserable and tear-stained son into the library to warm up.  As I pulled him through the crowd to the library doors, he yelled, "Why are you torturing me like this?  I don't want to be here, I WISH I WAS IN SCHOOL!" to which all other kids within earshot gasped audibly.

 The Loosh is not convinced this is a good time 

Lucien and I lucked out; while waiting in the library, we scored prime space at the front window, a head above everybody outside yet toasty warm inside. We even stood next to a couple of women who volunteered to help me lift The Loosh up so he could see even better.  The only downside was none of the spectators crowded inside the library were allowed to cheer because it's a library.  We instead cheered softly into our cupped hands and silently high-fived each other as players rolled by outside in amphibious vehicles and military pick-up trucks.

Here comes the Legion of Boom 

(ridiculous yet truthful nickname for the Seahawks defense)

including my personal favorite, 

the mouthy and brilliant Richard Sherman.

It's not a super important thing, winning the Super Bowl.  It's insignificant in the grand scheme of living.  It's not going to make the world a better place and it's not going to save lives.  But damn, it sure was fun. 

Coco has become very attached to one of her preschool teachers.  If you ask Coco who her favorite person in the world is, she won't name me.  It's that damn Teacher Heather.

Coco wanted to buy a Valentine's Day card for Teacher Heather so we went looking for one at the store.  She immediately picked out a pretty card with a bright red glittery heart on the front.  I agreed it was beautiful and opened it to read the inscription, which unfortunately said, "Oh my darling, the time the two of us spend together, just the two of us, away from the rest of the world, are the most cherished moments of my life."

I then attempted to explain to my excited, shiny-faced daughter clutching her "pretty card" that perhaps it wasn't the most... platonic... card to give a preschool teacher.  Coco stuck her lip out and clutched the card harder, resulting in a tense tug-a-war between me, Coco, and a glittery card in the middle of a grocery store aisle.  I finally relented, threw the card in the shopping basket and made a mental note to include a mixtape of Barry White slow jams for Teacher Heather.  If we're going in, we're going all in. 

Teacher Heather opened the card at school today.  Coco beamed as Teacher Heather laughed in a whole-bellied kind of way.  Then she grabbed Coco and hugged her so hard, laughter tears still running down her face, and winked at me over Coco's exuberantly happy shoulder.  I'm glad Teacher Heather is in on the joke and doesn't think my daughter is trying to muscle in on her marriage.

As for our pets, Stella's tail feathers are now dyed orange because she dive-bombed the sink when I was doing dishes and landed in a bowl of spaghetti sauce.  I tried to grab her and wash it off but she squawked and gnawed on my hand.  Fine, Stella, go ahead and look ridiculous.

Don't you touch my spaghetti tail

Bobo the bearded dragon got all stressed out recently because I removed the paper covering on one side of his tank.  It was torn and I didn't think it was important so I ripped it off.  What I didn't know at the time is bearded dragons DO NOT LIKE CHANGE -- and they like seeing their own reflections in the glass even less.  In response to my careless action, Bobo's beard turned black and he began "glass surfing," which means he frantically tried to crawl up the sides of his tank but of course failed because glass is too slippery for his little reptile feet.

A few frantic Google searches later -- "My bearded dragon seems upset" did the trick -- I now know "glass surfing" and turning their beards black are common behaviors amongst "beardies" and are signs of stress.

To summarize, my bearded dragon is stressed out and my bird is orange.  At least the dog seems OK, although he seems to be losing his hearing and wears a diaper at night because he's reached the age where he can no longer hold it all night and our floors are paying the price. Other than that, he's fine.

And we won the Super Bowl.
Seattle out,
MJ

Little John he always tells the truth

Our family went for a hike together last weekend.  Here's an example of what it's like to be an anxious person out for a hike on a beautiful day; Alex and the kids hiked merrily on after we noticed this sign but I stopped in my tracks, heart racing --

QUICK, HOW MUCH DO THE FOUR OF US WEIGH ALL TOGETHER?

After doing math and realizing we had over 4500 lbs. leeway, I continued to worry about imminent trail collapse for no reason.  You should have seen my wild eyes when a group of people riding horses passed us. I grabbed my babies around their waists and took off into the forest.

How can you enjoy that beautiful waterfall
when you're about to plunge into the abandoned mines below?

Alex works for a BIG COMPANY.  There are several biggies here in Seattle so take your pick and go with it.  I've promised him I'll never discuss his work on the blog so don't ask, I will neither confirm nor deny.

BIG COMPANY holds their annual party every winter.  It's generally something we skip but this year there was a band playing the event with whom I have a long history -- one very delicious Vampire Weekend.

I've been with Vampire Weekend since their first release many years ago.  We broke up for a little while because I reached saturation -- their jaunty syncopated rhythms suddenly made me want to punch myself in the face.  But I'm happy to report, with their newest release that is pretty much the best thing ever, we're back together and it's looking permanent.



You had me back at A-Punk but you're keeping me with Hannah Hunt.

If you ever wondered what an annual party for a BIG COMPANY looks like, here's the answer --

Ice fairy women rollerskating in a boxing ring.   No party's complete without them.

So many people

Acrobats dangling from the ceiling

So many lights 

Motherf*cking igloos

Pictures taken in front of green screens.
We had no idea we were in a cozy lodge

In this one we were going for "bored."

We had fun walking around the gigantic party but then it was time to do what I had to do.  I had to be in front of that stage when Vampire Weekend took it.  Alex doesn't know Vampire Weekend but he was a good sport, tagging along behind me as I cashed in all our free drink tickets then cradled our drinks in my arms in front of the stage, double-fisting those suckers while waiting and waiting because I WILL NOT LOSE MY SPOT.

The anticipation was delicious.  And then Ezra Koenig came out onto the stage.  He was right there in front of me, slipping into his famous Epiphone Sheraton, as it always should be.

Some live shows I've seen recently were so good, they forever cemented my love for the band but others were so disappointing I haven't listened to the band since (I'm looking at you, Cave Singers, with your snooozefest set list and ten-minute long flute solo).

When a show is good, I enter a euphoric state.  Nothing exists but the music and the dancing and the singing loudly with the people next to you, people who used to be strangers but now are your very close fellow fan friends.  It's bliss when a band sounds the way they should sound and that's the kind of show Vampire Weekend gave -- the very best kind.  I banged my two beers together over my head in lieu of applause because I had no free hands.

Alex isn't as obsessive a music fan as I am but he hung in there, watching me with a bemused expression and saying things like, "Wow you're really in your element right now, aren't you."  I think he was happy I was finally happy with some aspect of his job.  His job is stressful and takes a lot of hours away from our family life.  But his job also just gave me Vampire Weekend so we're going to call a truce for a little while.

When the show was over, Ezra Koenig gave a grin and a nod to the audience then strolled off the stage with his hands in his pockets as if to say, "So I just rocked pretty hard, wonder what I should do to fill the rest of this lovely evening."

Thanks much, V.W.

Leaving the BIG COMPANY party, we stepped out into a Seattle pulsing with excitement. It was the night before the NFC championship game and this city loves its Seahawks.  Everywhere we looked, the 12th man was pumped up and ready --

We had some friends over for the game the next day and they all turned into rabid lunatics.  You could be having a perfectly normal conversation with a person and then all of a sudden they start yelling, "NO, NO, NO!!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING, NO, GODDAMMIT, NO!" and fall to the ground.  Perfectly normal, just watching football.

We collectively moaned and screamed and fist-pumped our Seattle Seahawks all the way to beautiful, exquisite victory.

We're going to the Super Bowl!

The best part is we're going to play the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl.  My parents, of course, live in Denver so the trash-talking has already begun.  I just wish I knew what some of it meant.

I hope we're all still family after the game

Lucien turned eight years old this week.  I'll write about that next time, some interesting tales to tell.

I love Lucien the most profoundly when I watch him take off from our car every morning and run into his school.  He grins, his hair flops, his feet, so comically large and paddle-like these days, slap the pavement.  Lucien never walks away from the car, he always runs with that unbridled enthusiasm for life only an eight-year-old boy can have.  It puts a lump in my throat every time and I have to resist calling him back to the car for just one more hug.

I felt that same feeling last weekend when Coco had her first sleepover with Auntie Raba and Auntie Z.  She didn't even look back at me, just went forward to have the greatest night of her life, a night that involved eating spaghetti in her underwear, many unicorn tattoos, and some godawful Barbie movie.

I'm glad my sister lives in Seattle now so my daughter can know her awesomeness up close and personal.  I'm glad Coco has come to love her aunts to the point of delirium.  I'm also glad I'll know where to find her when she runs away from home in ten years.

I give a f*ck about an Oxford comma, Vampire Weekend.
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

I wish I was anonymous

I am caught in the eternal dilemma of the blogger.  I am surrounded by outrageous people but feel very limited by what I'm allowed to write about them.  So, do I write the funny, often bizarre, rarely appropriate stories of what these people do, or do I preserve friendships and save my house from being burned down by the crazed madman friend who said he would do exactly that if he ever recognized himself in the blog?  (There's seriously something wrong with that guy.)

It's harder in Seattle.  In Paris I wrote primarily about French people, none of whom were ever going to read what I wrote.  Here I'm writing about people who know about the blog and sometimes even read it if they are trapped in a small space with nothing else to do.

If I write the stories, I could lose all the friends.  If I don't write the stories, I could end up with a lame blog full of things my kids say.  So I guess the question is, how much do I really like these people?

While I ponder the importance of friendship, let's talk about people who definitely do not read the blog.  Let's start with Supermodel Neighbor.  Supermodel Neighbor is not yet my neighbor and probably never will be since The Goddamn House purchase is uncertain, plus Supermodel Neighbor may move to Portland.  I finally met Supermodel Neighbor last week while out walking the neighborhood with Seattle Mom.  He came out to say hi.  Super friendly guy.

I, of course, had my usual response to him, the thing I always do when confronted with a very good looking person -- I immediately went into a coma and declined to say anything at all, instead staring at the ground and muttering occasionally about the nice weather.  I think I also mentioned I used to put Lucien on a leash when he was younger.  Ain't I a charmer?

Looks like we have another Hot Thing One situation on our hands, posse.  Dammit, I thought I was free from the sorcery of beautiful people.

Supermodel Neighbor invited Seattle Mom and I to come see all the work he's done on his house.  Twice the visit has been planned and twice it's been postponed by Supermodel Neighbor, quite possibly because he's found out about the blog and is terrified of me.  I'll fix it, though.  I'm going to hang around outside his house, possibly dangling from the eaves and staring into the windows.  When he sees me, I'm going to say, "I'm not going to be ignored, Supermodel Neighbor."  That should show him I'm harmless.  Then we'll have tea.

Chamomile for me, please

(Nope, still not really him)

Let's see... I'd also like to mention our downstairs neighbor.  She's renting the studio apartment in the basement of our Tiny Cottage and we met for the first time over the weekend.

I apologized to her about the noise, as I'm sure it can't be easy living below us.  She said it was actually a pleasure for her to hear little feet running overhead.  It reminded her of growing up with seven brothers, and of her large family full of nieces and nephews.  She told me to let the kids run around the house without worry because it brings her great joy.

At that moment I blurted out "I love you!"  It was awkward, but sometimes you just can't fight the feelings anymore.


Sunday was the Super Bowl.  It was so deliciously American, all those beefy guys running around showing off their tight butts and tackling each other all sexy-like.  We watched the game with a handful of friends at a bar in West Seattle. 

There were, of course, lots of beers consumed and lots of unhealthy foods eaten, including bacon-wrapped dates that looked like testicles.  I waited until no one was paying attention before I put one of those in my mouth -- last thing I need is someone taking pictures of me shoveling balls into my mouth and then "leaking" them online.  It would destroy my good name as a goddamn family friendly blogger.

this table is full of cheese and bacon

While waiting in the bathroom line, I heard a man whooping and screaming and carrying on obnoxiously out in the main bar.  The girl next to me suddenly turned and said, "Yep... that loud guy is totally my boyfriend."  The moment struck both of us as hilarious and we laughed so hard we had to sit down on the bathroom floor.  Don't you love it when stuff like that happens out of the blue with total strangers?  I live for it. 


There's a taco bus parked within a walkable distance of Tiny Cottage.   Having a taco bus parked so close means we eat Mexican food pretty much every single day.  It also means I sing "Taco-Flavored Kisses" from South Park pretty much every single day and let me assure you, Alex is indeed being driven up the dang wall.

But the great part is the weather -- it's been warm and crisp and clear in Seattle recently.  We've been eating delicious Mexican food sitting in our yard in the sunshine in February while the kids run around and there is not much better in this world.

Here are some pictures of the friendships I am trying to protect by not telling any of their stories.  I'm still not convinced they're worth it...

...dammit..... they totally are.

Your ridiculous secrets and lives are still safe with me, people,

MJ