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Monday, May 2, 2016

Clap for these hookers

Leicester City won the English Premier League title!

It's a big deal. Crazier than if the Mariners won the World Series. Imagine the Everett AquaSox winning and you're getting closer.

Yep, those dudes—exhaustedly congratulating each other on a job well done—had a 5000 to 1 chance of winning the league title, and they DID IT.

OK, that's it for today. I need to walk up to Safeway and get something for dinner. Any ideas? Can't do pasta again. Or can I? Maybe I'll just do that.


P.S. Yeesh. The word "exhaustedly" exhausts me.  I'm exhausted now.

P.P.S. By the way, look at the Everett AquaSox logo. Look at that crazy frog. He's so fun. And is the "E" on his hat an upside down version of the retro Mariners' "M"? The whole logo is fun. It's just FUN. Love it! So FUN.

Sunday, May 1, 2016

So THAT'S what soap is for

I was in high school when I first learned that you're supposed to wash your body, not just your hair. Well, junior high. But it was 9th grade, so it counted as high school. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I was simultaneously dumbfounded and horrified of my own ignorance. The worst part was that it made so much sense. Hair isn't the only thing that gets dirty. The body—certain areas in particular—also gets gross and requires cleaning. Wow. How had this not occurred to me before?

I don't know. I knew that you had to take a shower because your hair would look greasy otherwise. But that was as far as I took it. I never extended that line of reasoning to its natural conclusion: if hair needs washing after a while, then certainly too does the anus. Nope. Never dawned on me.

I thought I was alone in this. But my sisters (C & F) and cousin (name retracted) say they had similar epiphanies way too late in life. The cousin thinks it might have been college for her.

Now, I know you have questions. I've provided my answers below.

What did you think that bar of soap in the shower was for?
A nice treat if you wanted your arms to smell good. A luxury item. Akin to a tub of mango body butter from Bath & Body Works.

Didn't you stink?
I don't think I stunk that bad. I wore deodorant. The shampoo from my hair and the water from the shower probably helped keep the situation manageable. But there's no telling if the sudsy water found its way into the key crevasses. I doubt it.

Why are you sharing this in such a public forum?
If I can raise awareness and change even one person's life by sharing my story, then I feel it's my duty to do so. Also, for attention.


Saturday, April 30, 2016

You mean this ol' thing?

BAAAAAAACK! And I said "tap-tap" so get out of my seat.

Becky with the good hair.

'Here's what I've been up to since those two video blogs exhausted me into hibernation six months ago.
  • Taking lunchtime baths
  • Accusing Andy of being a bad driver
  • Getting accused by Andy of being a bad driver
  • Jumping in the Puget Sound
  • Doing high-kicks during evening walks around the neighborhood
  • Googling "Brazilian Butt Lift Celebrities." I even started a blog post about it that I never finished...see below.

I Can't Stop Googling Brazilian Butt Lifts

Yep. Of all the controversial topics to bring me out of retirement, this is it. Trust me, I'm as not surprised as you are.

The other day, whilst browsing the 'Bravo Real Housewives' subreddit, I came across a post discussing whether any of 'the wives' might have had a Brazilian Butt Lift procedure.

Now, I've heard of Brazilian Butt Lifts before, and in the back of my mind I've always known that the Kardashian-inspired, bubble booty trend of the 2010s must involve plastic surgery, but I've never truly confronted the reality of the Brazilian Butt Lift until now.

After scrolling through various Google image searches and many horrendous post-op photographs, I'm equal parts disgusted and amazed. I find these augmented butts both hideous and beautiful. The idea of people carving bits of fat out of their arms in order to sculpt and adhere an oversized cartoon bottom onto their actual bottom is FASCINATING. In a way, it's art.

Butt Lifts are also proof that being stick thin is not cool anymore. Scrawny butts are so two thousand and eight. These days, it's all about the waist trainers and butts made of repurposed skin. Perhaps these celebs are onto something. Perhaps it's time we all "upcycle" our muffin tops

  • Eating fake sausage mixed with roasted vegetables mixed with rice pilaf
  • Using napkins as toilet paper (with plans to buy toilet paper soon)
  • Keeping my ingrown toenail at bay
  • Wearing shorts
  • Wearing Kylie-inspired lipstick
  • Working 

In other news, RHONY is back. Jo Jo is coming to Bumbershoot. The Mariners' CEO quit. The viaduct is closed for two weeks. The sun is out. I ordered more essential oils for the diffuser. Nobody can shut up about Donald Trump. My sister had a baby named Harry. I cleaned my water bottle. Andy discovered JCrew and puts the emphasis on the J ("How come you never told me about JAY-crew before?"). Rob Kardashian lost 50 pounds. Summer is just around the corner.

Back in a bit, 


Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Rainbow of pantsuits

Gee whiz. You open your laptop to write a blog and before you know it you're knee deep in Borat clips on YouTube. Hours have passed. It's now dark outside. My leg is numb from this weird position I'm sitting in. Oh Internet, you little devil you. Come back here with my precious time.

Back to the matter at hand. I was listening to 'The Takeaway' on NPR today (yep - I'm smart) and it was all about Hillary Clinton's wardrobe.

As you'd expect, the whole segment was terrible. They interviewed a lady named Robin Givhan who is the Pulitzer-Prize-winning fashion editor for The Washington Post. She talked about how Hil first started to wear pantsuits back when she was first lady.

"You could almost hear the sigh of relief when she finally said, 'enough with these pink skirtsuits and headbands!'"

Did you almost hear the sigh? I didn't almost hear the sigh, but I'll take Robin's word for it.

Then she goes on to talk about how Hillary took things a step further during her senate run, choosing to wear only a black pantsuit as a sort of uniform.

"It gave her the same kind of freedom that a dark suit gives men, which is that it took the conversation of clothing off the table."

Well, it obviously didn't take the conversation of clothing off the table completely. You are, after all, currently discussing her clothing on national radio right now.

Robin continues:

"When she ran for president the first time and had that rainbow of pantsuits, I think to some degree she was again sort of struggling with this idea of power and femininity, and 'how much can I embrace being a woman and declare that as part of my campaign."

What the actual F.

I highly doubt Hillary Clinton was agonizing over which shade of pantsuit portrayed the right level of femininity.

My main problem with this—what made me want to scrape my ear drums out with a rusty spoon—was the way that they tried to frame the typical 'fluff piece on a female politician's clothing' into some sort of enlightening feminist thinkpiece. Come on, NPR. Just admit that you wanted to talk about Hilary's pantsuits because they're funny. Don't try to make it deeper than that.


Now that's more like it!  No, it's not a traditional costume from East Asia. It's the actual coat she wore over her actual dress to the actual 1993 Inaugural Ball.

Image by Henry Dunay via Wikimedia Commons

See ya,

P.S. I mean, I love Project Runway as much as the next guy, but there's a Pulitzer Prize for fashion writing? Really? OK, that's fine. Fashion is art. Fine! I get it. It's OK. Nevermind.

P.P.S. Did you know that Hillary Clinton watches 'Real Housewives of New York'? My source: Dorinda Medley (so take it with a grain of salt)

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Hey peers, we're bad at socializing now.

I've noticed something. Us late-20-somethings, we're bad at socializing now. We were so good at it back in college! We were ice-breaker experts. Conversation flowed like Biggie's rhymes. First-time acquaintances became instant friends. Everyone was awesome. Every night ended in multiple Facebook friend requests.

Things are tougher nowadays. The chat is sluggish. People already have enough friends. It's been a long week. They're sleepy. They have to get up early the next day. Etcetera, etcetera.

In fact, I've determined that our declining social skills boil down to five reasons:

1. We're out of practice
This is the most obvious reason. We're simply out of practice. Busier schedules and longer commutes have resulted in far fewer social gatherings than the college years. We've lost our mojo.

2. We have fewer common touch-points
There used to be so much to talk about. "Did you see those guys who made the giant slip 'n slide out in the courtyard earlier?" "Yep!" "Did you hear that those two broke up?" "Yes, can you believe it?" "Did you go out last night?" "Yeah, we were at the 80s party."

That's the way it used to be! Conversations were like an improv show. We 'yes-anded' the night away. When you live within a one-mile radius of everyone at the gathering, you have more things in common. There's more to talk about. Thus, talking to people is easier.

3. We know 'work' is a lame topic, but it's 80% of our lives now
People don't want to talk about work, and I hate asking them about it. But after a few awkward pauses I'm forced to jump in with, "So how's work going?" We're all a bit depressed it's come to that, but also relieved that the pause is over.

(I've heard the same is true of people with kids not wanting to talk about kids all the time but resorting to it eventually because it's all they have.)

4. We just don't care as much
This is a huge problem. I'm guilty of this more than any of the other reasons in this list. I JUST DON'T CARE. I can't feign interest like I used to.

5. One bad apple spoils the whole bunch
One of the reasons social gatherings feel more difficult, even for us schmucks who still try to make an effort, is that the really terrible people—'conversational handbrakes' as Andy calls them—simply limit the possibilities for everyone. It's like what Top Chef Head Judge Tom Colicchio says about seasoning: if you combine a perfectly seasoned ingredient with a bland ingredient, the net result is bland. Even the finest raconteur can't save a party full of duds.


P.S. I'm the best!

Monday, November 2, 2015

Spotlight on the searchlight

Spotlights, or 'searchlights' as Google informs me is the more common terminology, have baffled me my whole life. You'll be driving around at night and there one is—a giant beam, gyrating across the night sky.

Where is it coming from? Probably a car dealership.

Is it effective? When people see one, do they stop everything, pull off the nearest exit and weave through the city streets until they find the source? Upon arriving at the car dealership, do they shuffle like zombies to the front entrance chanting 'must buy car, must buy car' and knock on the door of the dark office until the secretary arrives in the morning?

Thomas Edison with his searchlight cart.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

As the co-founder of a marketing agency, I naturally wonder about return on investment. Do searchlights bring in enough custom to cover the rental and electricity costs? Do dealerships measure this in anyway? Do they ask customers to fill in a brief survey on how they heard about the dealership: word of mouth, Google, newspaper ad, leaflet or searchlight?

Do you need a permit to operate a searchlight? That, I think I can answer. Please refer to Section B, Paragraph B of your Seattle Sign Regulation Handbook.

B. In addition to the signs described in subsection A of this section above, commercial or noncommercial messages may be displayed for a total of four (4) fourteen (14) consecutive day periods a calendar year; these additional four (4) periods are the maximum, whether the message is the same message or a different message. These messages may be displayed on banners, streamers, strings of pennants, fabric signs, festoons of lights, flags, wind-animated objects, rigid signs, balloons, searchlights, portable signs attached to vehicles, or devices of a carnival nature, and shall be allowed as temporary signs in all zones. 

Looks like you're free to use one, as long as it's only for 14 days at a time, a maximum of four times a year.

Lots to think about.

Sweet dreams,

P.S. Low fat yogurt can burn in Hell.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Man, who invited Buzzkill Bieber?

Andy and I were about to go to a concert (known to youths as a "gig") this evening when—BAM—I got a severe stomach ache. We were at the bus stop when it hit me. The thought of being far away from my home toilet was too much to bear. We went back to the apartment, I got in the bath and Andy gave the tickets away on Reddit.

We consoled ourselves by thinking of how much fun the lucky recipient—a broke college student—must be having. We remember the time when strangers gave us their extra tickets to Alcatraz. It was so kind. Now we've made good with the universe.


Universe. My mom hates the word. Not so much the word itself, but how people toss it around willy-nilly for their ambiguous spiritual statements. It's filler. "I'm sending positive thoughts into the universe" is the new "boy, some weather we're having."

She's tired of it. I can't say I blame her.

Switching gears, who is your celebrity look alike? I've been told Ally Hilfiger (star of MTV's "Rich Girls", Tommy Hilfiger's daughter and current Chronic Lyme Disease sufferer along with Yolanda and Avril) and Kimberly J. Brown, the girl from the Disney Channel original movie "Halloween Town".

I can see it. Except that girl has a butt chin and I don't.

Oh god, I just realized that I've blogged about this before. I've officially run out of things to say.

Happy almost Halloween,


P.S. Woops, almost forgot the reason why you clicked on this post! Here you go, behold the world's most uptight popstar:

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Things I don't understand

I picked my nose after dicing a jalepeno pepper and paid the price. Right now, as I type this, my right nostril is burning like charcoal and my eye is raining hot acid tears.

Perhaps Skeegles is punishing me for nose-picking. I've tried so hard to quit, particularly now that I live in an apartment with so much passing foot traffic outside the living room windows, but it's just so hardwired in me. I've been picking since I was a child! I picked in the womb!

OK, enough smalltalk. The 'meat' of this post is going to be a list of things I don't understand.

Things I don't understand:

  • How the Internet works
  • Why operas are considered good
  • Justin Bieber's popularity (I love 99% of pop music, but have never liked his songs)
  • Gaucho pants
  • Space
  • Fire
  • How glass is actually just hot sand
  • The stock market

Stocks! Shares! Bonds! Currency! Derivatives!
Sell! Buy! Buy! Sell!
Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Money money money!
Computer screens!
Hand gestures!


P.S. Skeegles is the name of the divine being, the universal lifeforce, the prime mover, the Creator, Yahweh, Lord, God—whatever you want to call it—in the religion my friends and I made up back in sixth grade. But as an avid Madgespace reader, you should know that by now.

P.P.S. What happens if you lie when someone asks you to 'swear on Skeegles'? If caught, you must shave off your eyebrows.

All aboard!

Today I peaked behind a curtain I wish I hadn't. I saw the train conductor perform an announcement over the loudspeaker—FROM THE TRAIN KITCHEN.

Naturally, I was appalled. I'd always assumed the trusty voice overhead was coming from the control room, from the man behind the wheel. But all this time it was one of his colleagues speaking into a plastic phone next to a crockpot of Ivar's clam chowder.

It gets worse. After the announcement, the guy walks by my table, grabs my empty pretzel bag and throws it away for me! First he uses a tiny train kitchen as communications HQ, then he fills in as train janitor! I was embarrassed and ashamed that someone in such a respected role—locomotive engineer—was cleaning up my trash.

He should be:
...Autographing a child's toy steam engine
...Ringing a bell and waving to fellow conductors in passing trains
...Getting a bronze statue of him erected in his hometown
...Shouting 'All aboard!' and then helping a lady in white gloves with a circle-shaped purse hop on the train at the last second

NOT going home with pretzel grease on his hands, uniform stinking of Ivar's clam chowder.

Image by Ben Schumin via Wikimedia Commons


P.S. The thoughts I expressed above occurred in my brain over a two-second timeframe. It's amazing how much the brain processes in so little time. Writing the thoughts down took at least 10 times longer than my brain spent creating then. And now that I've taken the time to write them down, I'm not sure it was worthwhile. Oh well.

Monday, October 26, 2015

Sock tales

Do you sleep with your socks on?

I don't, but sometimes I make myself just so I can have the satisfaction of kicking them off in the middle of the night.

If the thought of sleeping in socks makes your skin crawl, get this: my friend Igor doesn't just sleep in them, he tucks his pyjama bottoms into them. No exposed ankles allowed.

"The earliest known surviving pair of socks, created by naalbinding. Dating from 300-500, these were excavated from Oxyrhynchus on the Nile in Egypt. The split toes were designed for use with sandals." - Wikipedia

Image by David Jackson via Wikimedia Commons

Here's some real talk: forget the cool side of the pillow—how about no pillow at all? That's right. Andy and I have both soured on pillows over the past few years. We may start the night with our heads atop the suffocating feather sacks, but eventually they wind up at the foot of the bed or tucked under our arms like teddy bears. There's nothing quite like feeling your cheek against the cold, firm mattress. Try it sometime.


P.S. One of the biggest flaws of this blog is that it only contains the last thing that pops into my mind right before I go to bed. That's why so much of it revolves around sleep, tiredness and Real Housewives.

But I want to be better. As of tomorrow I will start taking notes on the many blog ideas I have throughout the day.

I'll write about the time I fell off a bridge into a creek during a family hike, how my dad jumped in to save me and how my mom, unaware of the circumstances, fell in shortly after his heroic jump.

I'll write about the time my mom, cousin Martha, cousin Joe and I applied to be on the Amazing Race 'Groups' edition. We filmed ourselves describing how much we would butt heads. A friend of a friend edited it in his high school video production class and then we sent the VHS off to Los Angeles in a padded manila envelope. We never heard back, but it was the reason I got a passport—you had to have one in order to apply.

I'll write about my true thoughts on weddings.

I'll mourn the Nordstorm Brass Plum of yesteryear.

I'll write about how getting a Master's in Theology turned me into an atheist.

I'll choose one housewife from each franchise to transfer to another housewife city and describe why I think they'd thrive in their new home.

I'll talk about my fascination with mass hysteria like the Salem Witch Trials and the Dancing Plague of 1518.

I'll post old snaps and video from my childhood.

I'll share my family's secret 'cream cheese dip' recipe.

I'll give away another festive hat.

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