où est la girafe?

The Frenchies have returned to my life.  It's not a second too soon, either, because Lucien's French is now rusty at best.  He still has it inside his spongy little kid brain, but it's also been leaking out of that sponge at a rapid rate since our return.

I tried signing him up for a class for fluent kids at the Alliance Francaise.  I received a call a few hours before the first class was to begin. The woman on the other end spoke earfuls of French at me -- French for which I was not prepared.

"What's happening to me?  I'm frightened!" my brain begged inside my head.  My brow was so furrowed I think my hairline touched my eyeballs.

After several long confusing moments, I was able to retrieve and plug back into my French mode.  I then understood Lucien's class was cancelled because Lucien was the only one signed up for it.  I wish she would have told me that a week earlier, when registration ended and it became clear no one else was going to enroll.  Instead, she hung onto her little secret until the last minute.

My annoyance at a French woman and the language confusion really took me back to our Paris days.  (Has it really been five months back on U.S. soil already?)

We signed Lucien up for a private tutor instead.  After his first lesson, his teacher, an adorable young French woman I'll call Mademoiselle Mimi, told me Lucien's vocabulary is shockingly bad for having spent three years in Paris.  During one exercise, she pointed to a picture and asked, "Where's the giraffe?" and Lucien pointed to the dog.  When she asked "where's the boy?" Lucien pointed to the girl.  He didn't get one question correct.

As she told me this, Lucien started laughing like a madman.  He seemed suspiciously pleased.  Mlle. Mimi then slowly turned towards me and said, "I'm just now realizing he may have been messing with me," and I nodded, "Yep, that's likely."

Welcome to The Loosh, Mademoiselle Mimi.  Don't be too distressed by the premature gray hairs about to sprout all over your head.  They're like little merit badges.

We're back, baby.

Lucien's school's PTA fundraising auction was Saturday night.  We sat at a table with some of our favorite friends which is never a dull time.  But the most exciting news is I bid a bunch of money and won Lucien's class project, a watercolor collage thing they created especially for the auction.  It was a battle between all the parents in the class to win it, so now I have many enemies I will see on a regular basis.  I am an island!

Here it is.  It's called "Bamboo Forest."  Lucien's piece is in the upper left hand corner.  It surprises no one his contribution looks like someone giving the world the middle finger --

The bamboo says "screw you."

Chalk it up to "anything goes" Seattle, but one of the items up for bid was a vasectomy from "Dr. Snip."  The highest bidder also received a bottle of whiskey and a bag of sex toys from renowned Seattle sex shop, Toys in Babeland, to go along with it.  A guy won the whole package (HA!) amidst many hoots and cheers and, finally, some high-fives.

 

SOLD!  NO MORE BABIES AND PROBABLY A VIBRATOR!

Since we all still had our babysitters for another hour after the auction ended, several of us had a nightcap at Seattle Mom and Dad's house.  There was dancing in the kitchen.  It was amazing, especially Alex's trademarked "lobster dance" and the off-rhythm clapping and "over zee borderline" Madonna lyric sung by German Seattle Dad.

"Every time I have fun it ends up on the internet."

-- Al, unfortunate husband of a blogger

And finally, here's my toothless wonder -- two teeth lost in the past 48 hours. 

Now he talks with a cute little toothless boy lisp.  I would freeze the moment if I could -- and if he otherwise wasn't being a total beast on a daily basis.

Toothless boy,  you know damn well where that giraffe is...
MJ

Memory

Alex bought me two tickets to Cats for my birthday with the intent I take Lucien as my date.  Sure, Lucien loves music and spectacle and hyperactive fake cats, but I still wasn't convinced it was a good idea to take him to the show. 

As a test, I showed Lucien some Cats clips on YouTube.  After five seconds of watching Mr. Mistoffeles prance around like an asshole,  Lucien said, "No thanks, get me a babysitter."  It was a clear message I would have been an idiot to ignore.

I asked Alex to come with me.  His reply was, "Would that make you happy?"   I said "Yes."  Then he said, "This gift is backfiring on me."

Alex agreed to be my date, then immediately asked how long Cats was.  I googled the question and found this --

"forever, those cats never stop singing, you just want it to end."
Good omen!

Our tickets were for the Saturday matinee.  This wouldn't have been a problem except Friday night was Girls Night Out, organized by a friend to celebrate another friend who just ran the Boston Marathon. We salute you, Seattle Mom.

Posse, you know I love beer.  Beer is my friend.  I also enjoy wine.  Hard alcohol, however, I do not do.  We do not get along.  It never, ever ends well for me, such as the time we threw a festive "tequila party" in college.  Whenever I think about that party, I want to track down my old college roommate and throw up in her clothes hamper again.

But memories are funny things.  As in, I always forget them when they matter.  The ladies and I started our Friday evening with a few shots at a local craft distillery's tasting room. Then we walked up to Poquitos on Capitol Hill and had a couple margaritas.  Then we went across the street to Moe Bar where there was dancing paired with several vodka cranberries. 

 I know some of those people

In the moment, the night was damn fun and I didn't think I was making bad choices.  I was called "sexy" by a hot man who had muscles for days, which only bolstered my belief that everything was going well. 

Opening my eyes the next morning, however, was not fun nor sexy.  To give you an idea of how bad it was, I was still wearing my shoes and Alex was staring at me with a horrified yet awestruck expression.  I didn't even know his eyes could get that wide. 

Al got the kids out of the house all morning so I could suffer in peace.  He came back to check on me and timidly asked if we were still going to see Cats.  I said "Hmrphsgh"  so he picked up the phone and tried to give our Cats tickets away to half of Seattle.  Everyone said, "No, we don't want to see Cats, not even for free."

I promised Alex I would rally so his dollars wouldn't go to waste.  The plan was for Al to take the kids out for lunch, drop them at the babysitter's, come home, shower, and we'd get downtown to make the 2:00 showtime.

2:00 came and went and Al wasn't back.  Calls to Al's cell weren't answered, calls to the babysitter confirmed my kids were not there.  I entered an excruciating hangover/panic mode, which is when you're freaked out about the whereabouts of your loved ones but your head hurts so badly you can only sit limply on the couch like a person with no bones and cry.

Al finally answered his cell phone.  I didn't know if I felt immense relief or immense anger.  He said he'd taken the kids to the mall, where he'd lost track of time and left his cell phone in the car.  Then I knew the answer was "anger."

Anyway, we missed most of the first half of Cats, ran into the theater about ten minutes before intermission.  We took our seats right in the middle of the Jellicle Ball.  Those damn cats were dancing all over the damn place and the audience members were clapping in unison and cheering.  It was deafeningly loud and there were strobe lights involved. 

Someone should notify Dante -- there's a tenth circle of hell.  It's called "Cats with a hangover" and it's the most unbearable of them all.

Regardless how agonizing most of the performance was (Is Gus the Theater Cat's pirate bit really necessary?  Sweet Jesus...)  as soon as Grizabella opened her mouth to sing "Memory," I was a quivering mess.  Oh, I cried.  It was partially because of my emotionally turbulent day but it was also because she really hit those high notes.

Alex told me later Cats was worth it for those few minutes of "Memory."  That's high praise coming from the guy who slept through the entire disappearance of  Old Deuteronomy.

I will share some of the glory/misery that is Cats by embedding "Memory" below.  As an added bonus, I've used the version that includes Grizabella, the former beautiful glamour cat, ascending into "the Heavyside Layer" on a giant tire.  Good Lord, this musical is ridiculous. 

If you can get over the fact it's a grown woman with a painted-on cat nose and whiskers, I think you'll realize "Memory" is still one of the best songs ever to come out of musical theater.




Hard alcohol -- it will NEVER HAPPEN again, until I forget all my memories and it happens again,
MJ

Turkey Bacon

I survived Spring Break 2012 by going to the YMCA a lot.  There's childcare there, plus a sturdy elliptical machine upon which to vent my parental frustrations.

I love the YMCA.  The YMCA is different from other gyms I've belonged to because fifty percent of its members are senior citizens.  I enjoy working out alongside senior citizens for a couple reasons: one, they make me feel as agile as a jackrabbit, and two, senior citizens are doing some really strange, entertaining stuff at the gym.

The most bizarre sightings are usually in the free weight area.  As I worked my biceps the other day, I observed a senior citizen on the ground in front of me doing what can only be described as "aggressive mat humping."  Then I looked to my left and saw an elderly woman engaged in "dangling from that bar" coupled with "slight swinging." 

Another woman was holding a weight like a baby and turning in circles.  Behind her was an elderly man who believed lying prone on a mat staring at the ceiling was exercise enough for him.  I probably should have checked the pulse on that guy.

(Please don't misunderstand -- I am not making fun of senior citizens.  I have great affection for my fellow gym members, and big respect for anyone at any age who's committed to staying active, no matter how strangely they do it.  Will I be a senior citizen humping a mat at the gym someday?  God I hope so.)

Friday morning I was on the elliptical machine when an elderly woman with a huge smile, very loud voice, and thick unidentifiable accent climbed onto the machine next to me and went gangbusters.  Her legs were flying all over the place.  She turned to me with a big open-mouthed smile and yelled, "LOOK AT ME!  I'M FASTER THAN YOU!" 

I'm not the competitive type, but I didn't like everyone in the room thinking a tiny grandmother wearing street clothes and a large straw hat could outpace me on an elliptical.  So I yelled back, "I'M ON MY COOL-DOWN AFTER 45 MINUTES OF INTERVALS SO BACK OFF, WOMAN."  

I'm thinking about trying the "Silver Sneakers Cardio" class next week.  I will be legend.


In other news,  Coco is diapering dinosaurs --

 The brachiosaurus has been a real b*tch to potty train

I'm writing this on Sunday.  My Friday and Saturday were really something to talk about, but that's for another time.

I want to talk about today because it was a perfect one, both in terms of weather and low level of annoyance with my family members.  They were downright fun -- all of them! -- all day. 

We went east towards the mountains, stopping along the way for breakfast at IHOP.  IHOP is considerably less fun since they started listing the calorie count of all their menu items right on the menu.  It made us rethink our choices then make different, less fun choices.  In related news, I hate turkey bacon. 

After breakfast we drove to Snoqualmie Falls.  We drove with all the windows down and the sunroof open, not just because Coco got carsick and threw up all over the place again, but because the day was too perfect to keep out.

I love where I live

   

proof I still exist

Our friend's brewery is right next to the falls so we stopped to grab a couple growlers.  Aren't they beautiful?

like bottled sunshine 

 

The rest of the day was spent in our backyard with the growlers, a couple wiffle balls and bats, an anthill, some light screaming, an aggressive game of tag, and many band-aids.  

 

It would have been flawless if it weren't for that damn turkey bacon.

 

Go gangbusters, little lady,

MJ

Amorous lizards

Those are our friends over there.  We were walking through Capitol Hill after going out to dinner Friday night.  There was a lot of wine involved, hence the blurriness of the photo.  We love babysitters.

Thanks to your suggestions, posse, our home is now finely coated in baby powder, corn starch, tea tree oil, bay leaves, boric acid and vinegar.  The ant traffic, while not stopped, has slowed.  I'm not sure if it's the ant repellents that are working or the fact I've started piling ant corpses in front of all ant entry points. 

Do you think the ants feel fear when they realize they're entering a house of ant death?  If so, I have a healthy respect for those who press on in their search for Goldfish cracker crumbs.

I was a chaperone for Lucien's field trip to the zoo last week.  Each chaperone was responsible for four kids.  I had to lead my group of four around the zoo, consolidate all their needs and wants into a one-hour visit before meeting up again with the rest of the class for lunch.  It was tricky business because as soon as I asked, "OK, guys, what do you want to see first?" I heard, "TIGER ELEPHANT I WANT A SNACK I HAVE TO PEE."

I realized I'd made a grave error in giving the children any say whatsoever in their zoo experience.  To see anything at all, I was going to have to be a zoo dictator.  I promptly marched them to the flamingos.  The kids were bored but I laughed myself silly because man, what ridiculous looking animals.

 I then took them to see the amorous lizards because I'm a very good chaperone.

I was very protective of "my four." They were superior to the other groups of four because they were mine.  They won me over with their big eyes and their need to hold hands all the time and their calling me "Hey, Lucien's mommy."

 my four, truly flawless Kindergarten specimens

Because I've recently seen The Hunger Games, and because I often confuse movies with reality, I was sure all groups of four were going to be forced into combat at some point.  So while other groups took frivolous spins on the carousel, we trained.  You should have seen little Katie with those nunchucks, she was really something.  Eli excelled at psychological mind games and torture.  Lucien's primary weapon, of course, was his scream, which paralyzed anything within earshot.

There was no battle.  Very disappointing.  Instead, all groups came together in peace to pet this pathetically sad and lifeless goat named Lester --

My favorite part of the field trip was riding the yellow school bus.  It's been a long time since I've been on a school bus.  They still sound, smell, and look exactly the same, right down to the "bodily fluid clean-up kit" hanging over the driver's head.  Didn't you just pity, yet at the same time absolutely despise, any kid unfortunate enough to throw up on your bus when you were little?  Horrifying stuff.

I took Lucien to a birthday party for one of his classmates.  It was there I discovered Lucien has taught his class the French preschooler's favorite taboo phrase -- "caca boudin."  His entire class now regularly breaks out in unison in a caca boudin chant -- caca boudin! caca boudin! caca boudin!  It made me smile, but only after looking frantically around the room for Lucien's Parisian teachers.  Had they been there, they most certainly would have been giving me the stinkeye.

The father sitting next to me noticed my cringe and asked if caca boudin was a bad thing to say?  I assured him no, it was a fine thing to say, especially if he was a fan of poop sausage.


It's Spring Break right now so I have both kids with me all the time.  I survived the first day so am feeling invincible.  The feeling probably won't last.

Caca boudin never surrenders, never dies,
MJ

This post is sexy if you think ants are sexy

Thanks for your support of The Loosh and our family, posse.  It sure was a rough week, but we're moving past "the incident" nicely.

The other night Lucien fell asleep on our bed on a pile of newspaper.  When we moved him to his own bed, we saw he had newspaper ads printed all over the side of his face, so we did what any proper parent would do -- we pointed and laughed until he woke up and looked at us with wide, confused eyes.

So yep, it's safe to say the kid gloves are off again, and it's back to business and mockery of the children as usual.  But again, thank you for supporting us when we felt fragile.  We're lucky to have you all.

In much-needed fantastic news, the tacos are back!!!  The taco truck has moved into a corner store in the neighborhood.  It's now serving its delicious tacos across a real counter inside a real store so can never drive away again.  We celebrated by having Seattle Family over and eating hundreds of tacos.  Seattle Family also brought a birthday cake for me because I successfully grew a year older last week.

Alex took me to Restaurant Zoe for my birthday.  We ate seared foie gras.  I'm not sure how the French would feel about that.  The other part of my present was two tickets to Cats.  Cats was the first Broadway musical I saw as a kid, and kicked off my obsessive Broadway musical phase, which was nonstop fun for my whole family. 

I thanked Alex, agreed it would be nice to see Cats again after all these years.  But then Alex told me the second ticket wasn't for him, it was for Lucien.  The warm fuzzy feeling evaporated.  I said, "Wait....you want me to take Lucien to Cats and what's more, you consider it a present?  Are you insane, man?"

The show is in a couple weeks; I will spend the time between now and then begging Alex to go see Cats with me.

I also had a celebratory birthday night out with some of the neighborhood ladies.  We decided to start a book club.  We're not going to read any books, just go out to restaurants and drink wine.  Getting older isn't bad when you make grand plans like ours.

In not-so-great news, our Tiny Cottage is overrun with ants.  I returned from the grocery store one day to find a long line of ants winding across the dining room floor.  I armed myself with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels and conducted an ant massacre of epic proportions.  I'm now worried their tiny ant ghosts are going to band together and seek revenge from the other side.  Whenever I hear a strange creak in the house, I yell, "Ant ghosts!" and crash through the screen door in my hurry to get the hell outta here.

The ants keep coming, I am powerless to stop them.  They appear to be pointing and laughing at my strategically-placed ant traps.  The only way I can keep them at bay is to regularly spray their entry point, which is directly under my writing desk, with a toxic spray cleaner.  It's possible I'm fuming myself to a dangerous degree, because as I write this, the chocolate Easter bunnies in the kids' baskets are talking to me.  (I should warn you all is not well in chocolate Easter bunny land -- they're planning something sinister according to the smiley one in the yellow bowtie known as "Mr. Pickles.")

We had a good Easter.  I had to return to the grocery store several times because the Cadbury Creme Eggs I bought for the kids' Easter baskets kept disappearing into my mouth.  I'd go back to the store, buy a few more, accidentally eat them again, go back to the store.  It was a vicious cycle, and now all my teeth are falling out.

The neighborhood Easter egg hunt was held in the backyard of The Goddamn House, which is kind of pathetic when you think about it.  We figured it was the best place to have it, on account of it being the biggest yard on the block.  It's also easy to hide eggs there -- it's so overgrown you just toss the eggs a couple inches in front of you and -- voila! -- hidden!

 the kids listening to Al's egg hunt instructions

Supermodel Neighbor uses the covered back porch of The Goddamn House as his carpentry workshop.  This offered more fantastic hiding opportunities -- our silly dumb kids didn't even consider looking in the jaws of the table saw.  It will probably surprise whoever owns the house someday to find our overlooked eggs hidden in piles of sawdust on the back porch.  They will know something happened back there.

We had Easter dinner with a handful of fellow neighbors who, like us, don't have family nearby.  With family far away, friends are family, maybe even slightly better because you get to choose them and don't have to buy them presents at Christmas. (Hugs, family!)

I was responsible for cooking half the Easter meal and it was not a disaster.  That's about as good as it gets when MJ's in charge of food.  I don't know if it's my midwestern upbringing or what, but I was shocked no one had heard of serving cherry sauce with the ham.  What the heck is the point of eating ham if it doesn't have cherries on top of it?  I just don't get people sometimes.

What was that noise?  Ant ghosts!
*runs*
MJ

The boy is mine

Chickens are a "thing" in Seattle now.  We came back from Paris to find chickens in most of our friends' backyards.  If you're cool, you have chickens.  If you're cool but extremely unlucky, one of your "chickens" turns out to be a rooster.  Those boys are loud. 

A classmate of Lucien's has chickens.  They recently invited us over to see their new baby chicks.  The family is a lesbian couple with two daughters, so I considered saying, "Wow, this house really is full of chicks" when I walked through the door, but didn't.  I'm going to save that comment for when I know them better, though, because I think it's pretty good.

You would think holding chicks would be a delightful experience, but instead it's nerve-wracking, bordering on heart attack-inducing.  Both Lucien and Coco were excited, squeezing the tiny fragile bodies in a terrifying way that made the chicks squeak.  I performed many chick interventions, and gave chick-holding demonstrations, all while being climbed upon by many baby chicks. We lost one for awhile under the couch, then another behind a pillow.  I spent the visit thinking "we're going to kill one, maybe two, so when it happens, Imma run." Remarkably, all chicks were unscathed when we left but they probably needed some stiff drinks.

We've been to a lot of restaurants lately.  They've all been great except for the last one, which was a disaster, but we'll get to that in a minute.

We met our friends, Beer Guy and Beer Gal (they brew beer at their place, thus a new blog moniker is born), for brunch at Skillet diner on Capitol Hill.  The thing that matters most at Skillet, and possibly in this world, is the cinnamon roll.  Skillet's cinnamon rolls are as big as your head, and arrive hot and drowned in icing.  I'd gained three pounds by the time I finished it, but it was well worth snug jeans.

The combination of Bloody Mary and cinnamon roll is a little rough, but who cares.

A few hours later, I had dinner at Marjorie with a childhood friend and his wife.  The childhood friend -- Video Game Guy -- and I haven't seen each other since high school graduation.  Our mutual friend, Facebook, put us back in contact and informed us we were both Seattleites.  Unlike the many times you reconnect with someone via Facebook and realize you now despise them with every fiber of your being, Video Game Guy and I are a Facebook success story.

The food was good, but perhaps not as noteworthy as the sign posted at the bar --

 You can just barely see the sign hanging underneath the guy in the fake Hofbräuhaus t-shirt (a Hofbräuhaus in Vegas?  Is nothing sacred?) It says "No minors. No firearms."  That was just for the bar, though, so the handguns we had at the table were OK.

Also noteworthy is the bathroom.  There's a record player in there, so you can choose the music to which you'd like to pee.  Miles Davis was playing when I walked in.  I could have spent the entire evening in the bathroom with the vinyl but went back to the table for fear Video Game Guy would unfriend me.

 sweet, sweet pee tunes

Now I'm going to change the mood significantly.  Fun and games are over because our third restaurant was a disaster, to put it mildly.  I'm sick, frankly, of talking about what happened so the blog's getting a much-abbreviated version.

We met friends at a nearby alehouse -- an alehouse infamous for its toy corner moshpit, kids underfoot, chaos, and general mayhem.  Perhaps it wasn't the original intent of the restaurant, but it's the environment that's grown there over the years, and it's the main reason we go there, to give Lucien a longer "leash" than we would in a more traditional restaurant.  We thought it was OK to do so.  We were wrong.

An elderly man, unbeknownst to us, grew irate at Lucien and his friend's constant back-and-forth in front of his table.  It's unclear how the altercation began, but according to the kids, it began with Lucien's friend being yelled at by the man.  The friend cried, prompting his father to get up from his table and come over.  Lucien then either said something mouthy or made a face at the man seated in the booth.  The man then grabbed Lucien -- by the neck -- and shook him. 

The dad of Lucien's friend, who was by then standing next to him, yelled loudly and pulled the man's hands off Lucien's neck.  The restaurant went silent, staff (eventually) came over, the man denied he touched Lucien, that "he would never hurt a child."  Right.

The aftermath has been lengthy and tiring.  I mailed letters to the management and posted an angry message on a popular parenting listserve, which got me a barrage of comments from opinionated people on all sides.  I spent a full day plodding through and answering all the direct emails in my inbox, either thanking them for their support or thanking them for their opinion we're crap parents.  That day was long.

But it did have the effect I hoped for -- someone forwarded it to the owner of the alehouse and he was in touch with me within twenty-four hours.  He's a good guy, father of three himself, and was suitably appalled by what happened.  He and his staff are pulling receipts from that evening in an attempt to both identify the man and contact more eyewitnesses. 

Lucien's OK, though still processing.  Sometimes he'll be sitting in silence and suddenly say something like, "You know, Mom, I bet that man just likes to squeeze kids' necks, so he goes to that restaurant because he knows there will be lots of necks to squeeze."  It hasn't slowed him down much, but it's evident he's still trying to figure out what went wrong, too.

We have no interest in suing the man or filing a police report, as many have suggested.  Whenever he's identified, I want only to write him a letter, tell him he can deny it all he wants but we know what he did, it was an assault, and it was wrong no matter what Lucien said or did to him.  I want to scare that asshole so he never, ever touches a kid again. 

It was so confusing in the restaurant,  Alex and I didn't get a chance to confront the man before he left.  Lucien didn't see us defend him, and that pains us greatly.  We just want the chance to do so now.

You have absolutely no right, ever, to touch a child in anger. 
(Everyone knows this except assholes.)

It's been a rough week, posse.  Sure could use a few cinnamon rolls over here,

MJ

Queen Anne and rock attack

Lucien said he keeps losing his self-manager badge at school because "it's hard for me to follow the rules, Mom."  When I asked what the rules were, he said, "Don't run...don't show your butt... don't hit the kids... don't pee in your pants."  Sure hope he's losing his badge over the running one.

We were up in the Queen Anne Hill neighborhood last week.  Queen Anne is the neighborhood where you can buy a huge house with a view of the city and water, but only if you can also find ten million dollars stuffed in your couch cushions.

We went to a fantastic sandwich place up on Queen Anne.  It's a typical Seattle place because there isn't a garbage can -- you must choose between "recycle" and "compost."   Alex stood in front of those two bins for a full five minutes, looking back and forth between them, then staring down at the wad of gum in his hand.  "Hey M.J., can you compost gum?" he asked.  "Ummm...???" I replied.

Alex went up to the front counter and asked the hippies if they had a garbage can for his gum.  They blinked at him like they'd never heard of a landfill before.  They finally ripped off a small piece of butcher paper in which to wrap his gum, so he could carry it out of the restaurant and dispose of it elsewhere.

Now don't get me wrong, I dig environmentalism.  I just don't dig places that make you put garbage in your purse and carry it around for the afternoon.

After finding an appropriate waste receptacle, we went to Kerry Park.  Alex was the only father at the playground intent on showing off his muscles.  He flexed a lot, and loudly demanded I feel his pecks.  I wonder what the really rich people thought when I squeezed Alex's boobies in front of the children.

 Is that a Space Needle back there next to your right leg or are you just happy to -- that makes no sense, forget it.

I left Al with his biceps and climbed up to Kerry Park viewpoint.  I've lived in Seattle almost fifteen years (minus a three-year hiatus in Paris), and this viewpoint has never failed to stir my soul.  There's no prettier combination than city, water, and mountains -- and that's not an opinion, folks, that's a cold, hard fact.

There are always photographers standing around Kerry Park viewpoint at sunrise and sunset, waiting for the right light so they can take the same photo a bazillion other photographers have taken.

I volunteered in Lucien's classroom not long ago.  I was a helper to the teacher for the science lesson on wood (from trees...stop being perverts, people).  I soon learned "being a helper" to the teacher meant she could really boss me the eff around.

The teacher gave us the lowdown on the lesson before the kids came in from recess.  Previous wood lessons have been on wood grain and the buoyancy of wood, but our lesson was going to be "how to change wood."  When she said "change," I said the first thing that came to mind (this is rarely a good idea)  -- I said, "Oh my God!  We're going to burn it?"  My palms grew sweaty as I imagined twenty-three kindergarteners with lit matches in their hands and scores to settle.

Teacher looked at me and said slowly, "Umm....no, we're going to sand it, like with sandpaper."  I was relieved, and agreed hers was a much better idea.  I don't think she's going to let me be helper ever again, which is fine because I can only take so much saying "please don't do that" to the kid trying to eat sanded wood particles off his desk before I go batshit crazy.

Lucien is organizing an attack on Seattle Mom and Dad's neighbor, Architect Neighbor, who's renovating the home next to theirs.  Lucien somehow got the impression Architect Neighbor killed the corn behind Seattle Mom and Dad's house with his excessive building materials.  It's not true, Seattle Dad killed his own corn, but Lucien will not listen to reason.

Lucien has decided Architect Neighbor must pay.  He has been feverishly drawing diagrams of how the attack is to unfold.  It's apparently set for 5:00 a.m. this Saturday and involves throwing rocks, which Lucien is collecting from around the neighborhood and storing in an empty egg carton.  Yikes.

 Holy sh*t, the kids have boulders. Or maybe large eggs?  Whatever -- run.

The Loosh has recruited kids from his class to take part in the attack.  He's explained the corn-killing offense, and told them if they want to take part, they have to write their names on slips of paper and put them in the "Attack Architect Neighbor" envelope.  Each day, he proudly shows me another little piece of paper with "Isabelle" or "Jonathan" scrawled across it.

His recruits have also started drawing pictures of kids throwing rocks at grown-ups, which I'm sure is somewhat alarming to his teacher.  She probably mutters, "The kids are planning something, the kids are planning something" in the break room, clutching her coffee mug and rocking maniacally back and forth until another teacher slips her a Valium and smooths her hair.

This is getting long.  I'll leave, but will be back, because there's more, there's always more.


Sleep with one eye open this weekend, Architect Neighbor!
MJ