Making sin out of nothing at all

As I sat down to write this, I glanced outside and saw Widower Peter standing in front of his house across the street.  He walked down to the sidewalk, opened the cover of his water meter, spit in it, then walked away smoking his wonderfully curvy pipe. 

Can anyone tell me why he would do such a thing?  Can't he just spit on someones car -- or try to land his spit on a quickly-moving bug just for a challenge -- or spit up in the air to see who it lands on like us normal people on this side of the street?

Seattle Mom and I went to see the band Stars last week.  There are few things more enjoyable than sitting in a live music venue with a beer in your hand and loud music rattling your bones.  I can't hear anything for days afterwards, which is a bonus considering the volume of my daily life (I'm looking at you, Lucien and Alex and men constantly hammering on my house).

The show went from fun to sexy when I went to the bathroom and saw these signs on the wall --

Let's rephrase so there's no confusion.  What they really mean is this --

Stars is a good band.  I liked them more when they first appeared on my radar nearly a decade ago but they're still worth the time spent.  They seem to align with me politically as well; I lost count how many times they gave Washington props for legalizing both gay marriage and weed on the same day. They called Washingtonians "an inspiration to civilization" for recognizing both those things for what they are -- not scary.



I recapped the show for Contractor God the following morning and in my description expressed relief Seattle Mom and I were not the oldest people at the show.  That's a legitimate concern when you reach your late thirties. 

Contractor God then told me of the time he and a friend, both in their late forties, went to see one of their old favorite British punk bands.  He said it was quite depressing to look around the crowd, realize how old the fanbase had become and admit they were, in fact, their peers. 

Come the first song, the fans tried hard to pogo with the same enthusiasm they'd had twenty-five years earlier.  But after about half a song, everyone hobbled away from the front of the stage rubbing their lower backs to order a beer, put ice packs on their aching muscles and wonder where the years had gone. 

We were at Seattle Mom and Dad's house for dinner recently when Seattle daughter and Lucien brought us a picture they'd drawn together.  I immediately got upset.

"Sin?  SIN??  With arrows pointing at the important bits?  Who is teaching our children their bodies are sinful?  I don't even believe in 'sin,' just use your common sense and don't hurt anybody, duh."

Seattle Mom and I called the children over, concerned about the messages they were receiving from somewhere and wanting to set them straight.  When we asked Seattle Daughter what she meant by "sin," she looked at us like we were dumb and said, "That doesn't say "sin," that says "NICE."

Seattle Mom then remembered Seattle Daughter has a tendency to write words backwards. She actually sounded it out pretty well.  English is hard. 

It's winter, the skies have gotten gray and rainy and most Seattle residents are stir-crazy and itching for change.  But for some reason, I'm currently involved in a full-on love affair with my city.  Everywhere I look, I love things.

Love my Seattle boy running on the waterfront

Love my girl owning that lollipop under the viaduct

Love those brick walls

Love that neighborhood theatre sign

Love the picture Contractor God took from up on our roof

 Love my funny friends

I wasn't born in Seattle and it's far from the most exotic or interesting place I've been, but as my boyfriend, hip-hop artist Macklemore, says about it:

"The skyline is etched in my veins, you can never put that out no matter how hard it rains."

Break it down for the town...

Not really sure where I was going with all that but there it is,
MJ

Chip-n-dip

We've been living with boxes for weeks.  First it was the unpacking of them, then it was the breaking down and stacking of them.  They occupied most of the floor space.  We had a path between the boxes so we could get to other rooms.

I began listing the boxes for free on Craigslist and other list serves and I asked anyone within yelling distance if they were moving soon, please, please?  Getting rid of boxes became an obsession.  And little by little, the boxes went away, so there was joy throughout the kingdom.

Yesterday I sorted all the kids' clothes that were in storage.  I divvied them into a "donation" pile and a "things I love so much I must keep for no damn reason" pile.  The donation pile grew very large.  Later, Alex asked me what was wrong when I stomped past him grumbling.  I said, "I don't have anything to put these things in; I need a big box."

Al looked at me with an undefined look.  I think it can best be described as "frustrated by irony."   

Goes both ways, buddy -- Alex is on my last nerve.  When he gets too warm in the middle of the night, he tosses the covers off.  But he doesn't kick them down to the foot of the bed or pull them off the bed completely -- he throws them aside, directly onto my unsuspecting and sleeping body.  I wake up half an hour later under a mountain of blankets thinking, "Why am I sleeping in a sweat lodge on the Equator?"

I guess I should look on the bright side; we finally found our sheets and blankets. Up to this point it's been sheetless beds coupled with bath towels.  I'm grateful the prodigal sheets have returned along with the prodigal schnauzer but I probably should have kept the box they were in.

There will be several future posts dedicated to the people of my neighborhood.  We've moved into crazy town, mostly in a good way.  Our neighborhood is full of characters.

Two of my favorites are Angel and Dorita.  Angel and Dorita are cousins of Mr. Cool and used to play hide-n-seek in the attic of Banister Abbey.  They live in the area and walk in front of the house nearly every day.  They first saw me standing outside Banister Abbey with Supermodel Neighbor discussing fence design ideas.  I ran across the street to introduce myself when I noticed they'd stopped and were staring at the house.

Now we're friends.  As they say, sometimes in unison, "We like you cuz you friendly, girl!"  Angel and Dorita are a fast-talking comedy duo the likes of which I've never seen before.  I've never left their company without a smile on my face and a stitch in my gut.  Now when they walk past, they stand outside Banister Abbey and yell, "MJ!  YOU IN THERE, GIRL?  COME TALK TO YOUR FRIENDS ANGEL AND DORITA."

One time the door was open so they came up on the porch.  I was standing in the dining room looking at a rather large wooden chip-n-dip tray I'd just purchased.  I was thinking to myself it was way too large.  When I used it, it was going to look like my chips and dip floated into the party on a piece of driftwood.

When I saw (more heard) Angel and Dorita on the front porch, I asked them, "Hey, is this thing too big?" and Angel said, "Aww hell no, girl, I LOVE me a giant chip-n-dip."  Then I laughed very hard because that's just the most delightful thing I've heard in a long time.

Another time, when discussing their childhoods in Banister Abbey, Angel said, "We used to play hide-n-seek up in there.  Or as I used to call it back then, 'hide-n-come-get-it-cutie.'" Then I said, "Umm...how old were you when you played this?" and she said, "First grade" and then I said, "Wait...what are we talking about?" and then they laughed.  I don't know what was going on with that one.

The other neighbor I'll mention today is Widower Peter.  Widower Peter lives in a house even bigger than Banister Abbey, all by himself, directly across the street.  He's in his mid-to-late-seventies, an Englishman, with a wonderful accent he's retained even though he's been in the States over forty years.  His wife (whom he calls Precious Wife) passed away last year.

Even on the few warm days we've had, Widower Peter wears a full suit complete with tie and newsboy cap.  He doesn't have many teeth left and has a hard time staying on topic, but he's already adopted us as a second family.  I foresee many long-winded and rambling conversations in our future. 

Widower Peter loves to talk about Precious Wife.  One of our more memorable conversations took place on the front lawn of Banister Abbey.  He very much wanted to share with me the three things that make a marriage great.

The first thing was "togetherness."  The second was "give-and-take."  The third one was..... dang, Widower Peter couldn't remember the third one no matter how hard he tried.  We stood there for awhile and it went like this:

Widower Peter:  Did I mention "togetherness?"
MJ:                     Yep.  Got that one.
Widower Peter: .....did I say "give and take?"
MJ:                     Yep.
Widower Peter   But did I say "togetherness?"
MJ:                     Who cares about that -- just tell me where "blanket inferno" fits into the list.

Widower Peter eventually got so frustrated he said he was going home to check on the third thing.  He'd written all three down on a sheet of paper once and was going to find it.  He asked if, to save himself another trip across the street later, he could just yell the third thing across the street when he found it?

I said that would be fine and walked away fervently hoping Widower Peter was about to stand at his front gate and yell "MIND-BLOWING SEX" in the direction of my house.

(He didn't.  He yelled, "TRUST," which was pretty good, too, I suppose.)

I LOVE me a giant chip-n-dip,
MJ