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

Everyone make it through that one?

Our holiday season was happy but a lot of stuff got away from me this year.  I didn't send Christmas cards like I usually do, and the present I bought two months ago for my brother is still sitting here on the floor.  It's wrapped and ready to go, has been for weeks, but getting to the post office is hard.

While I'm in confession mode, might as well alert my sister and my mother, one of whose birthdays was almost a month ago, that their birthday cards are still on my desk.  It doesn't seem to be my year for handling mailing details.

Our holiday was full of good family times.  Al and I took the kids to the Washington State History Museum in Tacoma for the model train fair.

Tacoma, we are in you

Our kids love tiny trains so came armed with millions of questions about how they were made.  They didn't get many answers, though, because model train enthusiasts tend to be rather introverted people who can't speak or answer questions in any coherent fashion. From my observations, they appear to avoid eye contact and interaction because it frightens them.

Alex, with his customary loud voice and larger-than-life bravado, was frustrated in his attempts to communicate with the choo-choo artisans.  He couldn't understand why they skittered away from him and hid under tables.

Fortunately, I speak Introverted Model Train Nerd and was able to coax them out by speaking softly with a singsong tone to my voice.  They liked me so much I was granted backstage access through a swinging door that said KEEP OUT so I could look at the model buildings along the back wall.  One was a candy factory; the people inside were making tiny almond roca, delightful!

This is the kind of incredible picture a choo-choo VIP can take

My kids looked pretty disappointed on the other side of the plexiglass but I just pumped my fist in the air and yelled, "Kids, look, mama's finally a SOMEBODY."

Even as I celebrated my VIP status, I was preoccupied.  My beloved Parisian houndstooth coat was in the unattended coat check downstairs and I was convinced someone was going to steal it.  Halfway through our visit, even as Alex yelled after me I was being paranoid,  I ran downstairs to retrieve it and held it close to my body from then on.

I see you, sneaky model train enthusiast coat thieves

Santa came to visit the kids at the museum.  We'll get the official photo in a couple weeks but until then, this blurry one will have to suffice to preserve the memories.

My mom warned me about taking the kids to see Santa Claus too late.  She said kids will always ask Santa for something at the last minute, something you didn't see coming, and you'll be unprepared.

Boy was my Mama right.  Lucien has talked about nothing but "Beyblades! Beyblades! Beyblades!" for months but when he sat on Santa's lap, the only thing he asked for was a goddamn remote control helicopter.

The model train geeks startled and dove back under tables when they heard me yell, "What the F*CK???" from Santa's Jolly Christmas Corner.

We left the model train exhibit and drove directly to Toys-R-Us where I told Alex to keep the kids distracted in the parking lot (he attempted cartwheels, it was terrifying) while I went inside to fight a giant toy store three days before Christmas.  In a related thought, people are goddamn insane and I don't know what's wrong with any of us.

It was bumper carts in the store and everybody was grumpy/scary.  I'm from Ohio, though, so automatically smiled and chirped out some cornfed "Thank You"s when somebody decided NOT to decapitate me for taking the last Etch-a-Sketch. (Because Coco apparently suddenly loves Etch-a-Sketch, what the HELL happened with Santa?)

There was time spent in downtown Seattle before Christmas.  It reminded me of our Christmas last year when we lived in Belltown, right after we moved back from France.  That was a bittersweet memory.  A year ago already?  It feels like just minutes ago we were celebrating Christmas in light-strung Saint Germain and being firmly reprimanded by the Parisians (as per my usual).

We went to Seattle Mom and German Seattle Dad's house Christmas Eve for dinner with friends.  Quite a few of us decided not to travel this year so the crowd was a sizeable, stress-free one.  The food was delicious and the company pretty drunk.  Thank God for the drinks, though, because the kids put on a "play" that was directionless and seemed to go on forever.  Only one kid cried, though, so that was good.

He's dancing again

Back at home, Alex and I attempted to play Santa through the haze of champagne cocktails and food coma.  I stared at the directions to Coco's princess castle and thought, "Man, I am not gonna make it through this."  Alex wrestled with the parts to an artist's easel next to me, hissing the "F" word periodically and saying things like "this damn easel has 47screws."  It's impressive what parents endure to keep the magic alive for their young kids at Christmas.

The next morning, the kids' eyes were big as moonpies (Coco's especially, Lucien has always been a bit of a skeptic) when they saw the loot under the tree.  Coco could barely speak, could only point and stammer "San..?  San..?  San....?" with a rapturous look on her face.  And that's why we do it.

Hope everyone had good holidays.  Or at least made it through with a sigh of relief.   

Finally a somebody!
MJ

Basmati phone and the ultimate playlist

Well hello there.

I've missed you, blog, but I've been distracted lately.  It all began a few weeks ago when I dropped my iPhone in the toilet.  I was in a bad mood already because we woke up late and Lucien was about to miss his school bus.  Seeing my beloved iPhone in the toilet did not improve the mood situation.

I ran into the kitchen cradling my wet and hygienically compromised phone.  Remembering a bit of folkloric wisdom, I ripped open a bag of rice. Rice flew all over the kitchen, decorating even its most remote corners.  It was kind of festive, like a frantic kitchen wedding with one particularly out of control guest spewing f-bombs while her kid makes armpit farts and wears his shoes on the wrong feet.

(That's actually a wedding I would like to attend.)

I buried my toilet phone in a bowl of delicious basmati rice for two days and it magically came back to life.  I couldn't believe it worked.  Contractor God was with me when I thought I heard my phone ring for the first time post-toilet.  I frantically ran to my Le Creuset, dug my phone out of a large pile of rice and began hopping around the kitchen weeping with joy. Contractor God's eyebrows raised, then knitted, but no questions were asked.  He's used to my crap by now.

Then Ohio Mom came to visit me.  Ohio Mom and I were the best of friends in high school.   All our high school memories are the same because it was a rare moment we weren't together.   I hadn't seen her since Al and I got married eleven years ago.  A reunion was long overdue.

She's exactly the same.  Maybe not exactly -- as happens to all of us as we get older, she's become more intensely what she always was.  She was always super organized, super precise, super in control of her body.  She's become more so.

Ohio Mom makes me feel like a flailing tornado with attention problems because I am none of the things she is.  I control very little about myself, much as I'd like to.  I wonder if she thinks I've become more like me as I've gotten older?  I forgot to ask her because I still distract easily.

Ohio Mom and I have always gotten along so well because we're yin and yang.  A well-balanced pair.  I like to laugh really hard while she tells angry stories about people who frustrate her and waves her arms all over the place.  Sometimes I fall over I'm laughing so hard but she doesn't care, just keeps going because those people really ticked her off.  Ours is just a relationship that works.

We're still so on the same wavelength, we wore similar outfits to go see Wicked --

Wicked is a good show but I identified numerous inconsistencies and plot holes.  It is therefore my opinion that when you see a show involving the Wizard of Oz, it is best to suspend your disbelief.

Also, the Paramount Theater sign looks like a penis --

The first night Ohio Mom was here we went out to dinner and then out with a few of my ladies.  It became a very late night for Ohio Mom, whose body was still in Ohio's time zone, when we decided to go to Photographer Mom's studio, drink champagne and take strange pictures of each other.

freight elevator to heaven

 

 

Photographer Mom is a popular boudoir photographer and has an awesome studio in the historical Pioneer Square district of Seattle.  Luckily she has helpful things in her studio such as a sexy bed, upon which jetlagged Ohio Mom promptly laid down and fell asleep.  Ohio Mom is a very, very good sport.  We covered her with a blanket, smoothed her hair, and then the rest of the ladies dressed me as a mummy bride and themselves as bridesmaids with baskets on their heads.

picture of a picture on a computer, both taken by the talented and friendly Christina Mallet

It 's very high concept so don't feel bad if you don't "get" it.  I don't get it and I was there.

Christina Mallet again

If I get more photos from Photographer Mom of that night, I'll post them randomly forevermore. They are likely blogworthy and best without context.

I spent the next large chunk of my life planning a Halloween party.  We threw a Halloween fete at Banister Abbey for adults only.  No kids, dammit.  It quickly became apparent from the ecstatically enthusiastic responses that the event was about to become an episode of Parents With Babysitters Gone Wild.  That really should be a show because no one gets more out of control more quickly than parents with small children left at home.

Costumes were required.  There was a hanging cocoon man as part of the decoration.  There was also an orange-colored champagne punch created by my butler friend, Cavanaugh.  We hired a creative caterer who made things like wontons shaped like pumpkins and pastry-wrapped sausages shaped like mummies.  And most importantly, there was a five-hour playlist crafted by myself to include only songs related to Halloween and scariness.

It took me weeks to create that playlist.  Do you know how hard it is to find five hours of Halloween-related music?  I got so desperate I used M.C. Hammer's "Addams Family" for the love of God!  I agonized over that playlist, worked hard to get the flow just right.  It had to start spooky, turn kitschy, go into dancey and finally get-out-of-my-house-I'm-tired-y.

Contractor God would walk into the house and roll his eyes for weeks as I sat at my desk listening to Marilyn Manson and gazing thoughtfully into the middle distance.  "The playlist??  Still?  You're pathetic!  Get a life, woman!"  (He actually said all those things.  Very, very hurtful.)

But it worked.  My friends danced.  I've never seen some of them dance so it's obvious all those hours spent with my headphones on, neglecting my children who were feeding themselves moldy leftovers out of the fridge and crying, "Mommy! I'm hungry and this tastes like feet," were well worth it.

Photographer Mom did a photo booth at the party.  There were many props used and many indecent poses struck.  I haven't seen the photos yet.  I should really track Photographer Mom down and give her some money.  

Our friends came up with some great costumes.  Among my favorites were the friend who came as Romney's "Binder of Women" and her husband who came as Seattle hip hop artist, Macklemore, complete with thrift shop leopard print faux fur coat (explanation embedded below, best video ever).




I also liked the friends who came as Prince Harry and Kate Middleton.  They were both pretty much naked, save for their skin tight flesh-colored suits.  Harry carried a pool cue and Kate wore a tiara; that's how we knew they were something other than nudists.

Perhaps favorite of mine was the friend who came as a Mormon, complete with backpack and bike helmet hanging off it, nicely combed hair and authentic name tag, who followed other guests around and tried to talk to them about their relationship with Jesus Christ.  He wasn't the most popular guest but he showed real commitment.

I was Lucille Ball.  I became accustomed to people yelling, "LUCY, YOU GOT SOME SPLAININ' TO DO" in my face, occasionally spilling their drinks on me in the process.

This is me as Lucille Ball but with Macklemore's face --

I'm with Seattle Mom who dressed as a Catholic school girl.  When Seattle Mom stood next to my friend dressed as a nurse, all the men in the room got sexy looks on their faces.  What is it about that, sickos?

Thankfully, no one's ever had a sex fantasy involving Lucille Ball so I was free to dance like a moron without ruining anyone's sexy dream.

Al and I did not costume ourselves as a couple.  Alex did not dress as Desi.  Better, he dressed as the Will Farrell character, Gene, in the Saturday Night Live "More Cowbell" skit. He carried a cowbell and banged it loudly and repeatedly.  This caused Contractor God to pull me aside and ask if it was wise to give my husband, the loudest man at the party, the loudest prop at the party?  At one point in the evening Alex's cowbell was flung by an unidentified guest into the middle of our yard.

Some people got a little too drunk on the champagne punch and threw up in our bathroom.  Others passed out in our guest room.  One woman staggered and slurred her way to my side, threw her arms around me and told me how long it had been since she had sex (eight years, tragic...)  Damn it was fun.  Suffice it to say, the Banister Abbey Halloween Party is going to be an annual event.  If you live in Seattle, send me your email and we'll see you next year.

I forgot to take pictures until late into the night.  Here are some of our hardier guests, the ones who didn't get too carried away with the champagne punch so were still upright when the playlist was nearing its end.

One more thing before I go.  No, two more things.  First, I am renewing my vow to the blog and swear I'll again write at least once a week.  Until I don't.

Second, I saw a sign hanging at Seattle University recently asking people to donate blood. Instead of stressing the fact they could save a life, the sign said in large bold print, "Giving blood burns up to 650 calories!!!"  It made me realize that we, as a culture, have taken a wrong turn somewhere.


I got Obama, married gays, and weed all in one night.  It's a liberal's jackpot in Seattle.
MJ

(Lucien's school held a mock election and while 95% of his school voted for Obama, he voted for Romney because, in his words, "he's more handsome, combs his hair better, and wants everyone to have guns.")

(Lucien also asked why I was crying when gay marriage was passed in Washington State.  I said, "Because I believe it's OK for a boy to love a boy or a girl to love a girl."  Lucien then shrugged and said, "Well, I bet Mitt Romney thinks it's most important to love your mommy and no one can argue with that.")

(Perhaps that should have been Mitt's platform.)

Macklemore!  Go home, you're drunk!

 

 

This one's for you, Washington State. 

This post just keeps going forever and ever.

People with problems

Alex and Lucien were supposed to leave for their boys-only trip to Quebec Saturday morning.  But they didn't.  Because Friday night, as I packed Lucien's suitcase, I realized Lucien's passport expired six weeks ago.

Seattle Mom and Dad were coming over for dinner and arrived right after the passport realization was made.  Because they are good friends, they sprang into action.  Seattle Dad put the Loosh into his car and took him for a new passport photo.  Seattle Mom prepared the food I was supposed to prepare, freeing Al to freak the eff out and me to punch myself repeatedly in the face in the corner.  We are thankful for our level-headed friends.

What followed was a strange, disjointed night that involved hearing of a friend in hospice and an argument with Contractor God about strippers.  The night was made even more strange when I walked outside to check on the kids and saw two people standing on the sidewalk who asked, "Hey, is that your rabbit?"

I'd never been asked that question before so I had to think a minute before I answered, "Umm...what?"  The couple then pointed to a gray flop-eared bunny sitting in the middle of my yard.  The couple said they'd been following it for six blocks, trying to keep it out of the street, of which it seemed quite fond.

I had a rabbit when I was a kid so I know how to catch the springy little things.  The couple corralled the darting rabbit best they could and I pounced, throwing myself on top of the rabbit as it ran down the sidewalk and grabbing it by the scruff of the neck.  The little sucker didn't like that and attempted to scratch my body to pieces but I hung on, I hung on!

I held him tightly against my chest and walked back into the house.  Everyone looked up and blinked because I'd just walked back into the party carrying a gray flop-eared rabbit.  Then they shrugged and drank their wine because of course I'd just walked back into the party carrying a gray flop-eared rabbit.

Thankfully, another neighbor knew the rabbit's owner.  Soon thereafter the bunny went bye-bye in a cage.  I hope he comes to our next get-together because that rabbit really knew how to party.

We went to the airport the next day to see if we could salvage the boys' Quebec trip.  We debated calling the airline versus going to talk to an agent at the airport.  We decided even though both options were generally useless, we preferred to hate someone in person.

How did airports go from the relatively sane places I remember from my childhood to the absolute pits of hopelessness and despair they are today?  We had to wait in the "people with problems" line which is truly a study in dead-eyed human misery.

We waited for an hour.  Then two.  At one point, the only agent appointed to the "people with problems" line disappeared.  When the angry customer she'd been helping demanded to know where she was, he was told the agent was on her break.

That wasn't a smart thing to tell people standing in a "people with problems" line.  All hell broke loose with a lot of yelling and waving of arms.  People with problems in airports are seriously stressed out people.

An agent finally rebooked the boys for Tuesday and gave us the documentation needed to get an emergency passport on Monday.  Surprisingly, the emergency passport procedure was easy and went off without a hitch, so the boys are finally, happily, in Quebec having a great time.

I'm used to Alex going out of town, happens regularly.  I am not, however, used to seeing my little boy walk away from me dragging his little wheelie suitcase behind him.  I was not prepared for the huge lump in my throat and the hysterical waving and yelling, "BYE LUCIEN BYE LUCIEN BYE BYE."

Al shucking corn in a fedora with a glass of French rosé on our front porch

I talk to Widower Peter nearly every day.  He has a lot to say so it's a real investment of my time when I choose to join him at the gate.  The other day he wanted to talk about "relationships these days."  He's fed up hearing about all these "men who spend their time in bars" and "women who run off to the Bingo parlor on Saturday nights."

Bingo parlor.  Right.  That's where we go.

Speaking of Saturday nights, here was mine --

 

 photos by the fabulous Christina Mallet

No Bingo in sight.  Gosh, don't tell our fellas.

And Seattle Mom only pretended to do that shot -- she actually dumped it on my foot under the table.  Busted.

That your rabbit?
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