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

My original idea for Spring Break was to rent an RV, visit Yosemite, and then drive that giant motherf*cker straight through San Francisco.  Alex, upon hearing my plan, said in a panicked high-pitched voice, "You want to drive an RV through San Francisco and call it a vacation?"  He evidently did not find it a relaxing idea.

My family didn't take "relaxing" vacations growing up.  We didn't "enjoy"vacations; we "experienced" them.  Our vacations involved things like camping illegally at the bottom of the Grand Canyon where we had to conceal our odd tubelike one-person tents under shrubbery alongside the Colorado River.  Those tents led my sister to remark, as my father and I chatted from inside our side-by-side respective tubes, "you guys look like talking bags."

We also hiked the slot canyons of the Southwest but hightailed it out fast, canteens thumping against our butts, when clouds rolled in because slot canyons tend to flood in heavy rain.  There was also a memorable horseback ride through the Sangre de Cristo mountains.  Our horses took off running after our young Native American guide decided, for reasons still unknown to us, we knew enough about horses to go full throttle.  I dropped my reins so grabbed fistfuls of my horse's mane as he jumped sagebrush and dry creek beds.  I pretty much screamed the entire time.

I loved those vacations, perhaps more so in retrospect than in the actual moment because in the actual moment I was very afraid.  But I also understood Alex's need to do nothing on our Spring Break.  His job is stressful and our kids are young and that's a tiring combo. So all that backstory to explain why we nixed my idea and ended up in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico at an all-inclusive resort for eight virtually motion-free days.

Brace yourself when you disembark from a plane in a Mexican resort town because you are going to be confronted by many men, all of whom claim to be your ride.  They have official looking badges and are carrying clipboards and gesturing enthusiastically -- gosh, they are so excited to see you! -- and pulling you away and it's all quite chaotic and confusing.  "How can we possibly have twenty rides to the resort?" you'll wonder, and you'll be right.

I plowed through the fakers searching for the man matching the description the resort had given us -- blue flowered shirt holding a sign with Al's name on it -- and dragging Alex behind me who was, unfortunately, feeling chatty.  He realized all the men in the vicinity were lying to us but Alex enjoys speaking Spanish very much and will forgive just about anything to do so.

The first night at the resort made me wish I was blocking a major San Francisco intersection with a 39-foot Winnebago.   The resort's dinner buffet theme upon our arrival was "AMERICA!!!" We stepped out onto the patio to dozens of American flags and a buffet consisting of hamburgers, hot dogs, and mac and cheese.  The loudspeakers blared Whitney Houston's "Didn't We Almost Have it All" at intense volume and the after dinner entertainment involved country line dancing and The Village People.

We've made a terrible mistake

I was not pleased.  I didn't like being in Mexico without the "Mexico" part.  I didn't want to sit under dozens of American flags, eat ambrosia salad and watch an Elvis impersonator, especially one that was quite possibly a portly middle-aged Mexican woman.  Alex sensed my discontent and deflected my silent stinkeye by nervously talking up the lovely decorations and avoiding eye contact.

But a lot also went right in Mexico because Mexico is a beautiful and friendly place.  Once you accept the realities of an all-inclusive resort and embrace its tacky yet exuberant qualities, it's easy to be happy there.  Because there's sand, waves, hot sun and cold beer at the bar they just hand to you without asking for money.

The waves at our resort's beach were ferociously strong.  The vendors who walk the beach hawking pottery or jewelry or whatever often stopped to watch unattended kids in the waves, then make a point of finding their parents to tell them it wasn't safe to have them out there alone.  It wasn't an overreaction -- after being knocked down by a few biggies, Lucien sputtered, "I'm going to write a book called I Survived Mexico if I make it out of these waves."

Oh God, kid, run

The waves would sweep you off your feet as they came ashore, then drag you out to sea just in time for the next wave to smack you in the face and push you back up the beach.  Some people got badly disoriented and stuck in the hopeless cycle as friends and family members rushed to help them to their feet.  It's brutal if you get caught unaware, or don't have your wave legs under you yet.  Or God forbid wearing glasses because they are so gone, man.

One side effect of the strong waves was the cash.  The waves knocked over so many unsuspecting people walking along the beach, they were full of stray dollar bills washed out of khaki pockets.  We decided Finders Keepers applied in this situation.  Don't look at me like that, there was seriously no way to track down the previous owner.

I hope the previous owner of this twenty is living a very happy life

Lucien and I spent hours in the waves together.  We'd stand at the breaking point of the wave and body surf in until it deposited us on the sand.  It looks like you dropped a load in your pants after you do this because there is now more sand in your bathing suit than there is body. You've gotta run back into the water and do the dip-n-jiggle to shake the large volume of sand out of your suit.  But you'll never get it all out because Mexican sand is forever.

It was worth every speck.  There's nothing better than coasting in on a wave and glancing to your side to see your son grinning and laughing his most joyful laugh right back at you.  That kid's ecstatic giggle is fit to break my heart most days.

I wish we could have stayed out there forever

I learned to love the resort.  I learned to love the hokey resort games played every night before the evening show.  Just as you're finishing your dessert, the resort entertainment team comes onstage and starts pulling "volunteers" (are they really volunteers if they're badgered mercilessly to stop being lame and get up on the stage?) to participate in various games.  Coco volunteered for every kid game and won most of them.  It reached the point where the air would fill with kid groans -- "Oh man, Coco's gonna win AGAIN" -- when her little hand shot into the air and then her little feet stomped up to the stage.

taking care of that b*tch pinata

Passing that ball like a boss

One adult game was called "Mexican Macho Man."  Embarrassed men were pulled away from their tables and loved ones, given a shot of tequila and made to dance around a sombrero on the ground. But first they had to scream like a "macho man" which, for most of them, sounded like a cross between a Native American war cry and a barking chihuahua.  One poor red-faced guy was from Utah.  A forced shot of tequila later, he probably wasn't allowed to go home again.

One highlight of our vacation was certainly the Yellow Submarine Tour.  We listened to the Beatles song on repeat while onboard and now I never want to hear that song again.

It was beautiful down below --

-- and surreal up top.  A person inexplicably costumed as a hammerhead shark was standing on deck when we re-emerged from the belly of the boat.  He turned on some music and began gyrating all by himself.  I mean, he was really going for it.

I pretended to take pictures of my daughter to capture the glory of the gyrating hammerhead

Nobody else on the boat paid him much attention.  Nobody else found it funny as I did.  What was wrong with them?  It was perfect proof, right there in front of us, of the absolute absurdity of life!

Yes indeed, I grew used to our cheesy resort.  I grew used to the water volleyball game played every afternoon in the main pool.  I liked to get up close, sit on the edge of the pool for the end of the match -- the losing team was forced to climb out of the pool and belly flop back in.  I dig watching losers in pain.

All I wanted was a normal picture with my two kids but he just. can't.  do.  it.  

I eventually embraced the evening entertainment.  One night they did Mamma Mia but without much of the dialogue.  They just jumped from song to song with only a minimal explanation of what was happening in between.  From that performance, we learned Mamma Mia is a surreal and incomprehensible mess if people don't talk.

I even grew used to the full-length mirror directly across from our bathroom's toilet and Lucien's loudly whispered, "Watch yourself peeeeeeee" from the other side of the bathroom door.  I began to enjoy the various surprises the resort offered, like when I ordered my coffee at the pool bar early in the AM and the bartender asked, "Do you want me to put Baileys in it?" and I replied, "Well I do now!"

Coco getting the obligatory beach braids

Lucien surviving the waves

Daddy and daughter digging Mamma Mia even though it didn't make any sense

By the time the AMERICA! theme rolled around again our second to last night, I enjoyed it thoroughly with a sense of already-nostalgia.  "Remember when I hated this place?"  I asked Alex and oh how we chuckled from the memories.

Hi there again, Native American guy from The Village People.  I'm actually going to miss you.

Next vacation -- hiking the hot desert without water or clothes.  Time to get back to my roots.
MJ

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

Stop, drop, and roll

If you ever forget where you live around here, your memory will be jogged when you notice the WiFi password posted on the wall at the local organic smoothie bar --

definitely still in Seattle

So I'm turning 40 in a couple weeks.  Whee!

I think I'm becoming more eccentric in my middle age.  For one thing, I'm less tolerant of unexpected visitors at my front door.  At the top of my "go away" list are the religious people. A Jehovah's Witness recently stopped by as I stood quite visibly in the middle of the kitchen. When he knocked and peered through the glass of the front door, I did my usual; I stopped, dropped, and rolled out of sight.

Supermodel Neighbor was unfortunately sitting at my kitchen counter eating lunch at the time, frozen with a fork halfway to his mouth.  I whispered loudly from the floor, "Is he gone yet?" to which S.N. asked in disbelief.  "Are you seriously doing this?  How old are you?"

The answer is almost 40 and I'll do what I please.

The stair railing is coming along very nicely

 so I will allow Supermodel Neighbor to stay 

and continue to judge me

My current humor writing class is uninspiring.  I enjoyed the first class when we rewrote The Metamorphosis as comedy but my interest has waned since then.  The main problem is my teacher's sense of humor is not aligned with my own sense of humor.  In fact, I believe his sense of humor is more aligned with those of psychopaths.

Think that's an exaggeration? Last class he handed us Edgar Allen Poe's The Telltale Heart and asked us to analyze the "humor" within.  The guy in The Telltale Heart kills a man who has a gross, weird, pale blue watery eye and then buries him underneath the floorboards.  Ha ha ha ha ha!  Poe, you clown.

I read through that story a dozen times but was unable to find a single shred of funny probably because, as everyone knows except my teacher, Poe is a master of writing horror. He's really good, too, I'm not going to be able to sleep for weeks.

I'm considering alerting the police about my teacher.  I'll tell them he thinks Edgar Allen Poe is a laugh riot.  Maybe it will raise a red flag,  make them understand he's worth arresting preemptively before he goes apeshit.

My recent pottery class was a bust, too.  My current teacher proves that sometimes artists, as talented as they may be, should not teach.  Example:  I asked her, as I sat at the wheel with the clay caving in on itself yet again, for some helpful tips and she told me, "you've got to just feel the clay."

But I was feeling the clay.  I was feeling the clay being a goddamn mess all over the place.  I wanted to know how to "feel" that mess into a discernible shape but my teacher just skipped away humming and staring dreamily into space.

My old teacher was a talented potter but also had words to share in a teaching manner.  She could spin things magically from her hands but when it came time for teaching she could bark, "No! Put your left hand here and your right hand here and press here and make the damn bowl, hippie!"

I miss her.

Other than my current crappy class juju, life just kind of keeps plugging along.

The Rebirth Brass Band straight out of New Orleans for a friend's birthday

an urgent care visit with a miserably sick little girl

and a very bored big brother

(Alex was out of town, he had no choice)

Seattle Mom's daughter getting beyond festive for Saint Patrick's Day

Cute friends, a blanket and a growler of beer

a highly disturbing game of Cards Against Humanity 

after we lured our kids away from the area with a movie

The kids are doing well.  Lucien continues to be a mischievously grinning class clown.  His giggle, when he cracks himself up, which is often and usually due to a fart joke, is the best sound I know.  He's got a quick wit and a loud voice.  When one friend recently told him, "Lucien, you're a comedian."  He immediately responded "I'm not a comedian, I'm a Canadian!"

His favorite catchphrase, which gets placed at the end of everything he says, is a growly, '''cuz I'm Batman" followed by a swoosh out of the room.

"Mom, cool news, I don't have homework tonight....... 'cuz I'm Batman."
*swoosh he's gone*

Batman is about to eat a ton of pancakes and feel sick the rest of the day

Coco has a squeaky little voice that's gaining in volume because she wants to be heard over her loud older brother.  She charms most everyone she meets unless she's in a punky mood, in which case a silent glare is all you'll get from her.

Coco loves all things art.  The kids recently recreated famous works of art at her preschool.  I appreciate how she plays with scale --

there it is! down there

I was in charge of the preschool Spring Party last night.  I purchased appropriate tablecloths and paper plates and begged parents to sign up to bring kid-friendly food.  Bring on the mini pizza extravaganza and hummus, oh so much hummus.

My favorite part of the party was when I failed to realize the olive container lid wasn't closed.  I therefore picked it up more sloppily and with more force than I should have.  The result -- festive olive explosion!  The amount of olives in the container appeared to double as they flew up in the air and then crashed and rolled around all over the floor.

The olive oil smeared on the floor proved troublesome when little Johnny tore through the room and fell on his back.  I'm a party planner who's full of surprises.

Being the Spring Party planner also came with cleaning responsibilities afterwards.  I was pretty tired and traumatized by the olives by that time so I chucked a bunch of recyclable and compostable materials in the garbage to make it go faster.  Forgive me, Seattle.


Kale chips forever,
MJ

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