Making sin out of nothing at all

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love my Seattle boy running on the waterfront

Love my girl owning that lollipop under the viaduct

Love those brick walls

Love that neighborhood theatre sign

Love the picture Contractor God took from up on our roof

 Love my funny friends

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

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

Break it down for the town...

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

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.

Snorkel Fever and Sexy Turtles

Most important thing first.  My girl -- Camille, Coco, the Paris baby -- turned three years old over the weekend.  Three years.  Conceived thanks to a gorgeous bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.  Almost born in a taxi.  And according to the French -- always cold.

We sure are happy to have you around, Ms. Cokes.  You are a giggly, goofy, pink-loving (much to my chagrin) perfect little girl.  You also refuse to potty train and give a swift kick to your potty chair every time you pass it but let's not focus on that part, you're THREE!

Lucien was Coco's current age when we moved to Paris.  It seems impossible.  He turned three our first month in Paris while still living in our temporary apartment.  We were so confused and disoriented by the move, we celebrated his 3rd birthday on the wrong day.  And we didn't even do it well.  Not our best parenting moment.

I think Coco's 3rd birthday went a little better because Seattle family came over and -- OH MY GOSH butterfly wings...

I sure do love that little girl but I've got more material about Hawaii now.  Sit tight, tiresome vacation tales will be over soon.

Alex and I signed up for a six-hour snorkel tour off the Napali coast, the cliff-strewn Western coast of Kauai accessible only by hike or by boat.  I love snorkeling off a boat except boats make me seasick and snorkel masks make me intensely claustrophobic.  Six hours on a nausea machine with a strangulation device attached to my face?  The snorkel tour was my idea, which makes me wonder if I've ever even met myself before.

While waiting with our fellow bleary-eyed coffee-drinking snorkelers for the 7:30 a.m. departure time, many people hummed the Gilligan's Island theme song and elbowed their partners in the ribs to make sure their partner noticed they were being funny.  Handfuls of people were doing this exact same thing yet every single one thought they were being original and irresistibly hilarious.  I'm sure the same thing happens in the waiting area of every boat tour, anywhere, ever.

I rolled my eyes at the lot of them just as Alex elbowed me in the ribs and bellowed "A THREE HOUR TOUR...  A THREE HOUR TOUR."  He was wearing his eager Fozzie Bear expression, waiting for laughs that were never gonna come.  Then he said, "You know, normally I think you're a Mary Ann type but at this hour of the morning you really look more like Gilligan."  It was mean but at least it was original.

Our snorkel tour took place on a catamaran.  Beautiful boat.  The guide told us people were allowed to sit up front on the two trampolines but those who did so were idiots  People who sit on the trampolines get drenched.  As in drenched, drenched.

This reminds me of one of Lucien's logic homework problems: is the last sentence in this series likely true or false?

A.) You have to be an idiot to sit on the trampolines.
B.)  Alex and I eagerly boarded the boat and pushed many people aside to be the first people to sit on the trampolines. 
C.)  Alex and I are the biggest idiots of them all.

They weren't lying about the trampolines.  Drenched drenched.  Compounding the problem was the extremely choppy water we encountered.  Plowing through those whitecaps -- up, down, splash, up, down, splash -- was really something.

It's true.  Drenched drenched.

When  you're prone to seasickness, there is one thing you do NOT want your captain to say as he eyes the waves in front of him.  You do not want him to say  --

"Hang on, everybody, the boat's about to do the hula!"  

But our captain did say that.  And our boat did do the hula.  It didn't take long for greenish-faced people to start hurling.  Alex witnessed one woman stumble into the main cabin and vomit many times into a garbage can.  She then clung to the garbage can like it was her best friend and she had an intense fear of abandonment.  The crew scrambled to get bags in front of pale faces before the boat was covered in a wave of a different kind.

In happy news, it turns out I HAVE met myself before.  I knew myself well enough to prepare for that boat.  I wore motion sickness bracelets, took Dramamine for 24 hours before boarding, chewed ginger gum and had those patches behind my ears.  Maybe it was overkill but glory be, I didn't get seasick.  It was therefore a whole lot of fun riding those waves, bordering on a truly intense high.

Alex "Lieutenant Dan'd" it for awhile (you know the scene I'm talking about?  Forrest Gump?  Anybody?) by white-knuckling onto the trampoline ropes as we hit some big waves.  He got slammed in the face repeatedly by water.  The crewman standing next to me cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into the wind towards Al, "DO.  NOT.  LET.  GO.  EVEN IF YOUR BATHING SUIT COMES OFF.  WE'LL CATCH IT.  JUST.  DO.  NOT.  LET.  GO."  He had a point, too.  Sometimes the water was so forceful Al's ass nearly made a cameo appearance.

I didn't take many pictures of the boat ride, primarily because of hula boat but also because I wanted to experience the spectacular moment for real and not behind a camera lens.  It's not something I do often.  I'll admit, it was liberating.

What do you mean, I'm supposed to actually "look" at something?  Doesn't the canyon only exist in my camera?

We passed a couple sea turtles copulating in the water.  Everybody loves sexy turtles.  The crew members wolf whistled and hooted and hollered until the boy turtle looked at them like, "Shut UP, you are TOTALLY going to ruin this for me, assholes."  FYI, sexy turtles look like a spooning turtle sandwich rolling around in the water.

We also passed through spinner dolphins.  Hundreds.  Spinner dolphins love playing in front of catamarans so we passed through group after group of happy jumping dolphins.  We trampoline people may have been drenched up front but we also had a front row view -- so who's the idiot now, people inside the cabin vomiting in garbage cans and thinking, "F*cking dolphins, who gives a f*ck just get me off this f*cking boat!?"

The snorkeling part was OK.  It's not the best snorkeling location I've been to but Alex saw a sea turtle and followed it for awhile so that's something.  The snorkeling mask lived up to its expectation; it absolutely made me feel like I couldn't breathe and was going to die floating on my stomach looking at pretty fishies.

I just cannot get used to breathing through my mouth, and not just in snorkeling situations.  When I have a cold and my nose gets stuffed up, I'm likely to sit up all night crying, "I'M NOT GONNA MAKE IT THROUGH THIS."

Anyway, we all snorkeled and had some laughs and when we climbed back onto the boat the crew served us lunch and many beers.

 

The water on the way back wasn't as choppy but several more people still succumbed to the seasickness.

Like the hottie on his honeymoon there in the shorts.  Yeah... he didn't do so well.

Those ladies under the towels weren't so good either.

But me and Al?  It was all over. Six hours. And we felt incredible.  

I have still more Hawaii tales but I'm crazy over here.  It's been a busy week.  Thankfully it's almost over.  And best part -- my best friend from high school arrives tomorrow to stay with us for the weekend.  I haven't seen her in years, not since me-n-Al's wedding.  She wore a really ugly bridesmaid dress for me, a sign of eternal friendship, as it should be.

It's unacceptable it's been so long since we've seen each other. 

Come to me, Ohio Mom!
MJ

Why aren't I in Hawaii right now?

Al and I have returned from our five-day Hawaiian vacation.  Now that we're back home, our slight tans are fading and we can no longer wear bathing suits every day in lieu of clothes.  The post-vacation depression is really settling in nicely.

It's easy to pack for a vacation to Hawaii; all you need are a couple bathing suits and a couple sundresses. Don't bother taking makeup, especially mascara, because after thirty seconds in the ocean you're going to have black streaks running from your eyeballs to your chin and your ghoulish appearance will make small children (actually just Alex) look upon you in horror.

Alex had a harder time packing to leave for Hawaii than I did, as evidenced by his demolishing of our closet and continuous muttering of "some dickhead took my sandals."  He was eventually forced to pack his old Crocs.  It was a painful moment for both of us.

Every time Alex and I leave for vacation without the kids, I am reminded we don't have a written will.  If we die together, we screw everyone and everyone will hate us and want to kill us  (HA too late.)  I therefore never sleep the night before a trip, beating myself up for being ill-prepared for death and periodically grabbing Alex by his ample chest hair and yelling, "How can you sleep when our children go into foster care tomorrow?"

Alex loves preparing for a vacation with me.  He calls it "as relaxing as something that's not relaxing at all."

There's not much to see flying to Hawaii.  Lots of blue stuff.  The good news is, when you get close to the islands, the deeply tanned flight attendants serve you Mai-Tais.

Well Aloha there

Our landing took us within inches (I swear) of this mountain on Kauai.  It was very exciting, and by exciting I mean we all assumed crash positions.  Perhaps it was just me.  Have I mentioned my fear of flying?

Alex and I decided to go to Kauai this trip because we got a great deal on a resort/rental car package.  We didn't much care about the resort part but were nonetheless excited to hear it was a "FIVE STAR!" establishment.

Right.  We took one look at our suite, declared the resort "five stars of motivation to get out and do something else" and didn't return except to change from one bathing suit to another.

Does this look like a five-star stove?

Alex and I generally get along very well.  The major exception is when Alex is driving.  Alex's driving makes me batshit crazy.  He's the kind of driver who goes 25 in a 50 while staring out the side window and saying things like, "Oh my gosh, look, there's a Macys!"

Everything is a beautiful revelation to Alex when he's driving, everything an object worthy of further study.  It's like he's seeing the world for the first time.  It makes me absolutely crazy nuts.

There was, unfortunately, a lot of driving to be done on Kauai.   We chose Alex as the driver because the other time we don't get along is when Alex has to give me directions.  He's more of a "oh, you should've turned back there...." kind of navigator.  You have no idea how many times I've driven with a map perched on top of the steering wheel while Alex pressed his nose against the window and exclaimed over every mildly interesting thing we passed ("Oh my gosh, that cow has spots!").  We are screwed in a car.

Once we were out of the car at various Hawaiian sights and Hawaiian beaches, however, we were all smiles again, skipping away from the car holding hands.  At least we recover quickly. 

Al and I were by far the palest bodies on the beach.  There was us, and then there were the stupid leather-faced prematurely wrinkled people likely dying of skin cancer.  When I looked at it that way, I felt better about my 500 spf sunblock and continued to slather.

It helped I had the best bathing suit

While on the beaches, and later in the restaurants, we were confronted with Kauai's feral cats.  (There were also wild roosters everywhere but I'm not going to talk about that mindboggle*)  There are skinny little wild cats all over the place with their little mews and their little paws pawing at you, hoping to snag a piece of seafood off your table.  For those of you still around from my Paris blog, you may remember our cat joke from Croatia?

"That cat's a dick"  

The Croatian joke lives on in Hawaii

Oh thank God

I'm outta time over here.  Could this be another multi-episode travel saga ala the Europe days?  I hope so.  Prolonging the vacation tales... everbody loves that...

Fingers crossed for hundreds of chapters,
MJ

*Gosh, look, a rooster!