Ahhh…. summertime.  What     could possibly be bad about Summer?  No school, lots of free time, warm weather (which, in the Pacific Northwest, means something.)

Every summer I imagine taking trips with my daughter to places in the area we’ve never been to or rarely visit.  I have images of us bonding together at the zoo, or at a spray park or the beach.  Instead, for the second summer in a row, my dreams are bombarded by reality.

Last summer, we were first time homebuyers.  We had a horrible experience, the details of which I will not expand upon here.  Suffice it to say that we were working with real estate agents, bankers, contractors, and our own house with a two year old and no outside help.  Last summer we mostly worked.  I was happy when winter came and we could rest.

This summer, I bought Polina a bathing suit fully intending to go to a splash park.  We didn’t go last summer and I thought for sure we’ll go this summer.  We still have yet to put it on.

The tag is still on the suit.

Why, might you ask?

Because we’ve been working on the house.  The last couple days I have been digging and pulling out blackberry bushes.  They’re not really bushes.  They’re vines at this point.  Our house was vacant for four years (or so our neighbor tells us) so these massive vines have taken over our backyard fence and the leaves of one of our trees.

That’s right, the vines have grown as tall as the leaves our tree.  As I was digging them out and in the process scratching my arms, wrists, and especially my hands, I remembered Michelangelo’s quote about chipping away at the stone to get to David, except I was hacking away at the bush to get to my tree.

I was also thinking why I never found gloves designed for working with thorny plants.  I just figured I could make do with my rubber ones, the same ones I used to clean out the crawl space.  I was so wrong.  So wrong.  My hands are still stinging.

And it was hot today- in the 80s.  That’s friggin’ hot for out here.  I used to be able to stand 100 degree days when I lived in Washington DC in my teens.  I’m not into hot weather anymore.  I don’t find the weather “glorious,” as one local radio announcer likes to say.

I was hot and sweaty and my arms were stinging.  Periodically Polina informed me she had to go to the bathroom, or she was hungry, or she wanted to play ball or a game with me.  Yes, I was killing a plant and raising a human.

And in the evening, when you just want to sit in your yard and savor your hard work, the mosquitos come out and buzz in your ears.  Last night I had one land on my hand about to insert her little proboscis.

I don’t like the flies that come out in the summer.  Even when I close the screen door, they still manage to come in.  There was a house fly buzzing right now that landed on my computer screen.  Twice.

The past couple weeks my husband has been working on Polina’s room replacing insulation and sheet rock.  This weekend, he was mudding.  When he wasn’t working I was in the crawl space removing the vapor barrier (which also needs replacing.)  And then there’s the issue of painting the exterior.  We still have primer on parts of our house.  But with just the two of us, we’re prioritizing and insulation is more important than looks come winter.

I thought being a homeowner would be romantic.  Instead, it’s downright dirty.  Literally.  We discovered last week that our septic pump wasn’t connected.  Every piece of this house is needing repair.

So, what spray park?  I still have another day ahead of me, possibly more, pulling out blackberries.  If there was an invasion of a plant species this would be it.  Sure they charm you with their blackberries.  Then they kill you with their thorns.

What I did enjoy about today is that I was able to take a break from pulling blackberries to spend quality time with my daughter doing puzzles and playing games.  Last year, I didn’t know how to take a break from work.

This summer, I’m doing a lot better accommodating her needs.

Maybe we will make it to the spray park after all.

A week ago today, I was frantic. I hardly had a break that week being a parent (Boo hoo you say? Right there with you because I was in that camp. I’ll share what changed in another post.) I looked and felt horrible. Let’s start with my hair. It hadn’t been cut in seven months. Seven months! That’s like, 2013. For those of you who think that women’s hair doesn’t need to be cut that often, let me add this- I also had it colored in 2013 and since then, the roots had grown out and the ends looked orange. Except for the good facial wash that kept my complexion going, I looked like sh**t. And as the cosmos teaches me, every time this happens to me, when I look like sh**t, I start to feel like shi**.

We’re in the middle of buying a house (which, in our case, hasn’t been less time consuming than looking for a house), my husband is working on a medical malpractice case (as a plaintiff) after working a full time job, and we have a curious and active toddler that has been potty training. Should I say more? My nerves were frayed and everything, everything, came before my hair.

It caught up with me and I was desperate. When I reach a nadir, my way out is a rocket ship. I was a woman on a mission. Find a salon, any salon, that used something close to natural hair color. Sunday morning I found one of the few places that was open on Sundays, and they had an opening at 10:30. Two hours and a color and cut later, I felt much better.

That day, recognizing the importance of scheduling sanity, I booked an appointment at a spa. They were running a special that included a day spa, Korean body scrub and a massage. I knew Pete would have the 4th of July off from work, so I booked a 9 am start time.

Today, I went, and found myself in the company of naked women. I was the only one in the spa carrying a towel around my torso. It moved from covering my top to my bottom to nothing at all. Being the only one walking around with a towel somehow made me feel more of a target.

Women, who I presume are Korean, given that it is a Korean spa, walked around the pool area dressed in black camis and boxers holding numbers that corresponded to our locker number.

“Number 37” pleasantly called a 30-something woman.

I followed her to an area just off the pool area. She told me to lie face down, and I followed her direction. I lay naked with my exposed butt up in the air. I know some people do this regularly- go to spas I mean, but let’s face it- in our modern world, awash with sexuality, being naked still feels… strange.

She leaned toward me and said, “Hi, my name is Hyung. H-y-u-n-g. What’s your name?”

I told her.

“Nice to meet you Julie.”

After asking if I had sensitive skin, she began vigorously scrubbing my body. She wasn’t interested in side talk, and it seemed to distract her. She scrubbed my body with persistence and determination. I wondered if anything was coming off.

“Yeah, you see?” she said, pointing to 1 cm long grey elliptical strands coming off my skin.

I couldn’t help feeling awkward lying naked on a table as another woman scrubbed me.

“Are you okay?” asked Hyung. “You seem… tense.”

I assured her I was fine, that this was my first time doing a Korean scrub and that I was a little nervous. It soon became apparent that there was nothing to fear about this being sexual. She was very focused in her work and with the amount of naked bodies being scrubbed, there was nothing unusual about this situation. The unordinary became very ordinary with a collective.

Periodically, she would pour hot water over me with a bowl to wash away the dead skin and keep the skin warm.

After working on my backside, she asked me to shift to my right side, then to my left, as she continued scrubbing. My top leg covered my private area. And then she asked me to lay face up. I was fully exposed. An open sandwich so to speak. Some things look better covered.

She never went to this private area, but she did scrub my breasts. I’ve never had a woman scrub my breasts, and except for a doctor, never had another woman touch them. This was really interesting, I thought.

After scrubbing my entire body, she lathered me up to wash off all the dead skin. I hadn’t been washed by another woman since I was about six years old.

“Please sit up,” she said matter-of-factly. She held a bowl of water for me to wash my face. I felt wonderful, and I thanked her for the scrub.

The massage was less eventful. My masseuse was a young woman who recently joined the spa. Because I’ve had many massages in the past (though none in the past three years), I knew which areas she could have done better, but it was relaxing nonetheless.

I visited some of the other rooms in the spa. I could have easily spent another couple hours between the dry and wet saunas, meditation, sand, salt, charcoal, reading, cabin, chill, and other rooms I’m forgetting the names of right now. Strangely, while I looked forward to an escape a week ago, I longed for my family now. I drove back and met my family at our usual weekend Indian buffet.

This time, instead of feeling stressed, I felt very giving. Because these women had given to me, I was able to give back. The circle was complete, and I was a lot happier.