That's how we do it in my family Part One

Life is the damndest thing.  I haven't disappeared from the blog solely because I'm busy.  I've disappeared partly because things have gotten hard and I've got things to figure out and not just normal everyday things like "how can I make this food I just ordered look homemade for our company."

I wish I'd made some progress but so far the "figuring out" part has involved staring into space and wasting a lot of time.

and watching my daughter kick ass

on her all-boy tee-ball team

So I've started seeing a therapist.  I've never been to therapy before.  My friends are loaded with therapists; I think some of them have a separate therapist for each of their problems. They were always shocked to hear I'd never been to one, a reaction I found vaguely insulting.

I found my therapist through a women's therapy referral service.  I was referred to three therapists, had a consultation appointment with each one and then chose mine, the woman who is going to lead me to enlightenment, inner peace, maybe donuts, and who hopefully will flat out tell me what to.  Do therapists do that, I hope they do that.

there she is again

The first therapist I met for a consultation was in the most beautiful building in historic Pioneer Square.  I wanted her to be "the one" simply for her building.  It may be the wrong reason to choose a therapist but you should have seen the ornate original millwork around the doorways.

Our session got off to a strange start when she came out of her office and found me stroking the intricate banister railing like a lover.  After taking a seat on her couch, I then spoke at length about leaded glass and shellac.  She may have thought I was avoiding my problems, or that perhaps my strange discussion topics were at the root of them.

Beautiful building aside, she's not my therapist.  She said part of her process is covering clients in weighted blankets and asking them to draw their feelings.  I told her that was a bad idea, that I'm claustrophobic and if she covers me in a weighted blanket I will most likely fight her. I advised her to consider the current length of my fingernails and my freakishly sharp and pointy elbows.

Also, I don't want to draw my feelings because drawing reminds me I suck at drawing.  That fact makes me even more sad and confused than I already am because how can I possibly suck at drawing?  I should be really good at it, I'm a child of the arts!

here she is being amazing at the dentist

The second therapist I saw had the most beautiful, soothing, whisper-soft voice.  She had a vaguely foreign accent and had nearly lulled me to sleep with her soft, melodious, meditation-inducing voice ten minutes after walking in the door.  As much as I wanted to curl up in her lap, I decided I couldn't work with her because my therapy sessions would not be effective if I was asleep.  I bet if I did fall asleep, though, she would cover me in a soft blanket and stroke my hair.

I chose the therapist I chose because within thirty minutes she had already drawn some pretty heavy parallels between my role in my family of origin and how I continue to act in my daily life.  She does not lull me to sleep and is forcing me to face some truths without reminding me of my painful artistic limitations or tackling me and smothering me in a blanket.

still have the boy, too, he's just harder to get a picture of 

My sister, Raba, and my sis-in-law, Zee, invited Alex and I to see a play with them a couple weeks ago.  It was an entertaining play about pet bunnies being let loose in a zoo by heartless owners and then forming a bloodthirsty cult hellbent on revenge for being forgotten.  There was murder, lots of blood, and some graphic bestiality.  It was a real hoot.

We were in the lobby before the play and my sister, Raba, asked me, "Have you heard from Mom and Dad?  I emailed them five days ago and haven't heard anything back."  Most people would shrug and make a mental note to call their parents the next day but not us.  It quickly spiraled from "Have you heard from our parents?" to "Oh God, Mom and Dad got sucked up in one of those tornadoes in Oklahoma because they mentioned that one time maybe driving to Oklahoma to get Mom a new hammered dulcimer."

That's how we do it in my family.  Anxiety and catastrophic thinking 4-ever.

Zee, my sis-in-law, stared at us incredulously.  "Let me get this straight," she said. "You're both going to sit here getting worked up about your parents twirling around in tornadoes and neither one of you is actually going to CALL THEM as we sit here with half an hour to kill before the play?"  I admit, it hadn't occurred to me to call them.  I just wanted to speculate and fret.  Isn't that what people do?

Coco's former preschool teacher was in the bloody bunny play.  I snapped a picture of her to show Coco.  Coco looked at the picture the next morning and her eyes widened, "Why is Teacher Ashley covered in blood??  Mommy, is she OK?  Is she OK?"  I tried to explain she was pretending to be a murderous bunny and was doing just fine, in fact living her dream in theater so couldn't be better! Coco was not buying that crap and now likely has some anxiety herself.

That's how we do it in my family.  Not thinking things through 4-ever.

Coco will probably need a therapist soon.  It can even be a feeling-drawing one because Coco is really good at drawing.  We all know she didn't get that from me, dammit.

It's been so long since I've written there's an impossibly long list of things that have happened.  I hate that feeling.  So many memories I failed to capture.  I'm not going to beat myself up too much because my therapist said I should stop doing that.  So I'll just address a couple biggies and then wander off to live a happy guilt-free life.

First, I turned 40...

My friend Rusty bought me the hat.  It happens when your friend Rusty is hilarious 

(and you're celebrating your birthday next to a legal pot shop)

My birthday night began in a fun way when Alex and I popped our heads into the TV room on our way out the door to remind Lucien to feed Bobo before he went to bed.  I believe our words were, "Make sure you give Bobo a handful of greens tonight, he hasn't eaten in a couple days."

As we grabbed coats and walked away, we heard the (brand new) babysitter ask, "So Lucien, who's Bobo?" and then we heard Lucien, precious babe of our loins, reply that Bobo was the homeless guy we let live in our attic.  Alex and I turned on our heels immediately to set it straight.  Our heads popped into the TV room a second time -- "Bobo's a lizard, not a man, bye again!" I hope she believed us but we couldn't stick around to find out.  We had a party to attend.

My 40th birthday was full of laughter and nude mannequins and mini golf.  And my face on cupcakes.

Thank you, friends.  Another dream realized.

We celebrated my rapid aging in a private room at Smashputt, a pop-up art installation/bar/mini golf destination.  Smashputt slinks into a city, sets up in some abandoned location (ours was an old post office) has raucous fun for a few months and then poof, it's gone.  It's mini golf on steroids with saw blades and air rifles.

Turning 40 was fun.  I felt loved and celebrated.  I also smacked a golf ball into a Skeeball game while my friends heckled me and told me I suck at mini golf.  I'll hang onto those warm memories as my limbs begin to shrivel and fall off with decrepit age and I start forgetting where I put my sunglasses (psst, they're on top of my head...)

The other big event to mention is we went to Mexico for Spring Break.  I meant to write about it here but realized I have a lot to say about it so it's going to be a separate post.  I'll post it soon, better than my two or three month hiatus or whatever blog neglecting stunt I just pulled.

Yes, life may be going to hell just a little bit but there's one fact that keeps me going and keeps me positive.  And that is, drum roll, that Banister Abbey finally has a Banister --

it's unfinished.  but it's there.

I know you haven't heard from me in awhile.  Incredibly, it's not because I was in a tornado.
MJ

The best stripper in the world

With a house under renovation, another house needing to be shown and rented, two kids on summer vacation and a husband once again off in -- hey, where the hell is Al again? (Japan and China this time) -- the blog is getting neglected.

It may leave me.  I'm convinced one day I'll log on and it will be gone, leaving only a sad "Dear MJ" letter behind.  It will tell me it needs to find a writer who isn't so caught up in their "life" and I'll understand.  But if it tells me we'll always have Paris, I'm going to roll my eyes because hello, cliché. 

The renovation work continues on Banister Abbey.  Much of the impressive front facade has, until recently, been covered in disgusting aluminum.  Contractor God got up on a very high, very wobbly ladder with a couple broken rungs (Contractor God lives dangerously) and started pulling the stuff off.  We couldn't believe what was underneath: dentils and corbels and a whole bunch of other words I only just recently learned.

It's like the house comes up with a new way every day to tell us it loves us.

Contractor "Danger" God did a lead paint test on all that peeling paint up there and, of course, it's full of the good stuff.  By "good stuff" I mean "the stuff that can kill my kids if they ingest it," so I guess it's really not good at all.  I excel at misnomers.

The front of the house now has to be tented and the lead paint removed in a specific way, likely with a monocle and a pair of tweezers, before we can continue with the restoration.  I will take pictures of the house burka once it has been donned.

In the meantime, I've moved indoors and have started making rooms look like this --

It's not finished but I think you can see the direction...

...I'm taking this sh*t straight to Crazytown.

Supermodel Neighbor is a carpenter (another misnomer thanks to me -- he's more carpenter than model these days) and came over to remove all the original woodwork from the windows.  The woodwork is now being stripped of its decades of darkened shellac by another man we call "the best stripper in the world." I'm talking the "wood" kind of stripper, not the "sexy sad" kind, although I wouldn't mind seeing him in a g-string.

Stripped wood by the talented but not sexy stripper.  

This is some of our woodwork with sample stains.  Can you understand now why I don't have time to blog?  I have to stare at the stripper's wood!

This is the bathroom we recently gutted.  This is what it looked like two weeks ago --

Here it is now.  It's not finished but given the hellhole of chaos and despair it was just a couple weeks ago, I'd say we've made good progress --

The harlequin travertine floor gives even our most sure-footed of friends a serious case of vertigo.  They have to sit down immediately.  Luckily, the toilet is nearby and that's what they went in there to do anyway.

Seattle Mom and Dad invited us over for dinner Wednesday night.  Lucien wore his shoes without socks on the walk over.  By the time we arrived, he had blisters on both feet. The two Seattle daughters ran up to their rooms to each get Lucien a pair of socks.  They argued over whose socks he would wear.  Lucien, the greatest peacemaker in the world (HA!) solved the problem, and looked pretty snazzy to boot --

Later that evening, Seattle Mom saw Lucien grabbing himself and asked, "Lucien, do you have to go to the bathroom?"  Lucien shrugged and said, "Nope, I just like touching myself."

Aaaahhh, the honesty of youth.

I burned a layer of skin off the roof of my mouth on a very hot breakfast sandwich.  It hurt a lot and, even worse, made drinking coffee very difficult.  Both Contractor "Danger" God and Seattle Mom wandered into my house later to find me sipping coffee slowly and deliberately through a straw.

I explained to them my coffee delivery system -- I had to funnel the coffee directly into the side of my mouth to avoid the roof of my mouth.  It was the only way I could continue to consume my caffeinated beverage without excruciating pain.  Seattle Mom listened then said, "Whatever, you look ridiculous."

Aaaahhh, the honesty of friends.

Strip away, stripper,
MJ

YBNormal?

We are still hoping to own The Goddamn House someday, but have decided to buy everything else in the city in the meantime.  We're looking at both investment properties and back-up homes for The Goddamn House, so we've been studying listings, obsessing over houses, and writing offers all over the place. 

One investment property has recently fallen through -- another short sale because we apparently hate ourselves -- and just last night we wrote an offer for an old Victorian that makes The Goddamn House look like pristine clean perfection.  There are currently 26 offers on the Victorian, so perhaps our only chance of getting it is to seduce the seller, which is a bank, so that may be uncomfortable.


I know what you're thinking -- "But MJ, with all that going on, how can you possibly have time to blog?"  The answer is I don't have time, and am risking my life crashing and burning around me as I write this.  Blogging is a compulsion, and it's sick. 

Alex just emailed me one sentence: "We need normal lives."  Good point, my man.  Because besides the intense housing situation, there are other strange things afoot.  For instance, I spent my morning with a man in a storage facility in Bellevue, a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Earnest Hemingway.  We were there to switch ownership of a storage unit from him to me.  It's a long story, so just take it at that.

I've met Hemingway Guy before;  he's always been a vibrant, energetic, funny man.  In fact, it was Hemingway Guy who spun his dance partner into the dessert table at the wedding we all attended in Provence a few years back.

But something's changed for Hemingway Guy, something I noticed right away at the Bellevue storage unit.  It appears H.G. is going senile  Or maybe he was drunk.  Or stoned.  He insisted my name was "Nikki" and shuffled slowly when he walked, usually in the wrong direction.  I had to jump in front of him a few times to turn him around.  When I asked if he'd brought the key for the storage unit, he said, "I think so," pulled handfuls of tiny keys from his jacket pockets and dumped them all on the front desk.  I said "Hmm....that's not good"  and the man behind the desk laughed into his hands.

We walked to the storage unit and tried all the tiny keys.  None of them worked.  Mr. Chuckles behind the front desk said he'd be happy to cut the lock off, but he was out of grinding discs, so could I come back tomorrow?  I'm almost certain I'll find Hemingway Guy still roaming the corridors when I return.

Another strange thing happened, too.  I dropped Seattle Mom and her three kids off at the train station early Saturday morning so they could catch a train to Portland.  I drove them in Seattle Mom's minivan, which used to be my minivan until she bought it from me when we moved to Paris but that's not important right now. 

On my drive home from the train station, a man ran a red light at high speed -- really ran it, as my light had been green for a long time -- and came straight at me.  I saw Red Runner coming and braked as hard as my body could brake.  Red Runner careened past, the nose of Seattle Mom's van grazing the side of his car and peeling the trim off like one of them tasty Fruit by the Foot snacks.

Red Runner didn't stop, just took off into the still-dark early morning.  I pulled over to inspect the damage to Seattle Mom's van and was relieved to find there wasn't any, just some dark paint smudged on the front and Red Runner's trim curled up like a handlebar mustache in the lower grill.  I broke it off before driving home but in retrospect should have left it there because oh my gosh, so silly and curly!  While inspecting the car, several kind Seattleites ran over and congratulated me on my cheetah-like reflexes.

   Nice try, Red Runner, you asshat

Alex and I took the kids to the YMCA when I got home because there's no better way to celebrate narrowly avoiding a major traffic accident than by running around an empty gymnasium with your family and yelling. 

"Let's play dodgeball!" said Alex to the kids.  "It'll be me and your mother against you two."  Initially excited to play a new game with Mommy and Daddy, their enthusiasm evaporated when we fired those balls at their tiny bodies.  Al and I won in five seconds so the kids have to buy our beers this weekend.

victory is sweet

 

We put the kids in the Y's childcare for a bit so we could exercise for real.  I headed for the elliptical machines, the cool ones with TVs attached to them.  Everyone around me watched news or sports but I threw caution to the wind -- let them judge me! -- and watched The Golden Girls.  It was the episode where Dorothy sleeps with her ex-husband, Stan, and then considers getting back together with him.  "Don't do it, Dorothy," I cried,  "He cheated on you with that bimbo Krissy, remember?"  The guy next to me startled a bit when I laughed out loud but I couldn't help myself -- that Sophia is such a pistol.

When I wandered over to visit Alex at the free weights, he made fun of me.  "The Golden Girls?  Really?  At the gym?"  I replied, "You can only dream of knowing friendship like theirs, Al,"  It was a total Golden Girls burn, and he felt it, and cried for hours.

Lucien's school had a multicultural night last week.  Each class did a song or dance from a fancy exotic culture somewhere in the world.  Lucien's class did a Japanese dance with fans, which we all agreed was culturally enlightening.  The audience was perplexed, however, when the next class did a Hank Williams song.  Ahh, yes... the mysterious, exotic culture of Hank. 

I so badly want to blog twice a week.  There are many things to put on the record, many tales I want to remember for all time.  But life is at goddamn warp speed over here suddenly -- calendar full, responsibilities numerous, homelessness imminent.  I will be here when I can, but for the foreseeable future I'm going to be a once-a-week blogger.  I never wanted to be that person, and therefore feel like a failure.

Thank you for being a friend,
MJ

Am I doing better this time?

I got radio silence on that last post, except for three of my most loyal commenters, Duchesse, Debbie, and Bec, who are quickly turning the comments section into social hour.  Ladies, comments sections are not for fun-having, gossiping, or bonding.  They're for MJ idolatry, of which there wasn't much last time, so... carry on with whatever you three are doing in there, I guess.

(They can't all be winners, folks.)

I dropped Coco off at her preschool the other day.  One of the other mothers told me that when her young son overheard her talking about Coco at their home, he looked up at her and said, "Coco?  What a delicious name!"

Coco's delicious, all right.  She's also still refusing to talk.  Or, more accurately, she thinks she's talking, but we can only stare at her with our heads cocked to the side, like, "What the.....is that German?"

What is it with these kids of mine, who have both refused to do anything the way they were supposed to, in the timeframe in which they were supposed to do it?  And while I'm asking rhetorical questions, is it a good thing when someone asks you, "Awww, did she dress herself today?" but you dressed her?

 All me

While I'm talking about the kids, I want to mention Lucien and his happiness.  Many people don't understand why I'm not depressed as hell to be done with Paris, but our boy is a huge reason.  Our Paris school was not a good fit for the loud Looshman.  What used to be a tight-lipped, sullen kid after school, a boy who used to regularly say things like, "I'm the bad kid," has turned into a smiling, happy kid who tells me about his day when he gets off the bus.  And now he says things like, "I'm not the bad kid anymore!  Jason is!" 

I recently met with his teacher to discuss his progress in the classroom.  He's behind the other kids in reading and math because they hadn't done that stuff yet in his Paris school.  His teacher says Lucien is learning quickly, but will catch up even faster if he "stops trying to entertain the class like a pint-sized Robin Williams all the time."

They have "self-manager" badges in Lucien's kindergarten class.  The kids who have their badges enjoy greater freedoms in the classroom and on the playground. The kids who lose their badges pretty much have to follow the teacher around like ducklings and ask permission to breathe.

We have fingers crossed that Lucien, just once, will hang onto his badge all week.  He's come pretty close a couple times -- one week he made it all the way to Friday morning.  We were fattening the calf and preparing the celebratory feast when he lost it in the eleventh hour -- to kung fu with Finn during story time. 

Every day when Lucien gets off the bus, I ask, "Hey, buddy, still got your badge?"  Many times I've received the reply, "Nope, I lost that thing in like five minutes."

I went out to dinner with Cavanaugh again last night, this time to Terra Plata on Capitol Hill.  I'm going to continue going out to eat with Cavanaugh because he really knows his food, and makes me try stuff I don't want to eat, such as crispy fried Brussels sprouts with maple and rosemary.  I hate Brussels sprouts but I'll be damned if Cavanaugh wasn't right again -- they were nasty veggie divine.

Cavanaugh takes pictures of all his food.  Downright embarrassing.

When friends know you have a blog, sometimes they get demanding.  Cavanaugh said something witty at dinner, then pointed his pointy finger at me and said, "write that down."  I said, "Oh no, Cavanaugh... you're not becoming one of those 'write that down' friends, are you?"  And he said, "Yes, I am, and you can quote me on that."

I got my hair cut over the weekend and it made me wonder why they offer you something to drink at salons.  You're only able to sip coffee for two seconds before they put the cape thing around your neck.  Then your arms are under the cape, so to take a drink you must first ask permission, then free your arms from underneath, which dusts up all the hair, which puts hair in your coffee, which is cold by then anyway. 

Every single time I've accepted a cup of salon coffee, I've initially thought, "mmm, sounds delicious," but that quickly turned to "this is ridiculous, I really didn't need anything to drink right now."  I'll never go down that dark path again.

So long, posse, hope this post was more agreeable to you.  If not, there's no hope, because I really did my best,
MJ

*Breaking News!  Tara has since commented on my last post, too.  Sure, it was just to join in on the social hour, but I'll take it.*

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