A child is born

I miss blogging. I miss it as a creative outlet. I miss it as a historical record.

Mostly, I miss all the attention.

A lot has happened since my last post. A reality show host became president. Katy Perry got a pixie cut. I GAVE BIRTH to the delightful Martha Williamson. Anna got rhabdo from CrossFit. They called off the search for MH370. Max and Natalie had a baby! I gasped as a Nordstrom sales associate announced that my bra size is now a 34E.

So much to unpack. Let's start with the birth.

It sounds like I'm kidding when I say that I had no idea it would hurt so bad, but I genuinely had no idea it would hurt so bad. Somewhere in the back of my mind I faintly remembered hearing that labor was painful, but that didn't apply to me! I was going to get an epidural at the first whiff of a contraction. I would feel a bit crampy, b-line it for the hospital and order a milkshake as they stuck a giant, drug-filled needle into my back.

Lamaze classes? More like scaremongering propaganda sessions backed by Big Aromatherapy and their cronies in the natural childbirth lobby. No thanks! I didn't need to sit in a room with a bunch of other couples, fresh faced from their pregnancy photoshoots, and subject myself to their absurd anxieties.

Well. I get it now.

Sometimes, even if you meet the "criteria" (1-minute contractions, 5 minutes apart for more than an hour), you still can't get the epidural. Why? Your cervix is the size of a pea and won't budge. The hospital is full of other human mammals pushing out offspring. The hospital staff are assholes. Who knows? All I know is that I was turned away twice and in labor for two days. At one point I was splashing around in the bathtub like a wounded manatee, wailing like a banshee while Andy placed a slice of Freschetta atop my throbbing abdomen. But for the first time in my life, even pizza didn't help.

EXPECTATIONS

REALITY

Hollywood made me assume that pushing was the painful part of labor. It's not. At least not for me. The painful part is the CONTRACTIONS. "What do contractions feel like?" I've since Googled that on a few occasions and never found a satisfactory answer. The closest description I read was that it feels like bad cramps...except also with someone stabbing you repeatedly in the stomach.

Now too much time has passed to describe it accurately. I can't find the words. I can't access the memories. What everyone says is true: your body forces you to forget. It's a survival mechanism.

OK, that's probably good enough for now. I don't want to use up all my good material in the first blog post back.

Cheers,
Margaret


P.S. For the record, I stand by my decision to skip the childbirth classes. Nothing could have prepared me for the pain. And the other couples would have annoyed me. And the classes are long and would have cut into my last remaining childless weekends.

P.P.S. I did eventually get the epidural!

P.P.P.S. My reward for the pains of childbirth, your reward for having to look at the photo above of me in the bath:

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, 

Margaret

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.

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,

Margaret

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

Dogs, Driving & Potstickers

When people walk their dogs around Green Lake they stop and pause to let the precious pooches sniff other canines passing by. The owners don't talk; they just pause for several seconds as their animals give one another a big ol' sniff.

If you're a dog owner, this isn't interesting. If you aren't, it's a very funny thing to observe.

Speaking of dogs, Andy (haha) drove a car today! First time driving in America as an official resident. A few things:

• We aren't sure why, but it's totally OK for him to drive a Car2Go with a British license. Seems wrong to me, but hey, I'm not questioning it. 

• When people who are used to driving on the left side (Brits, Irish, Bhutanese, etc.) drive on the right side, they always want to hug the shoulder. For whatever reason, they feel like they're about to hit the cars on the left, so they constantly drift into the right lane / shoulder. Without a local barking at them from the passenger seat, they would hit a guardrail 80% of the time. 

• Supervising Andy's US driving is the only time I'm able to nag him and get away with it. I'm LOVING IT. 

Speaking of loving things, I used to go ape for potstickers when I was in junior high. Got two bags of them from PCC for dinner tonight—not as good as I remember. 

Goodnight, 

Margaret

P.S. Was anyone else already sick of Back To The Future Day by about 9:30am this morning? Jeez. Sometimes the Internet can really beat a dead horse. I'm not looking forward to what it makes of Beat a Dead Horse Day (April 15th 2018). 

When words fail you

UGH. I have nothing to write. I have nothing to say! I'm a nobody with a vanilla life. If it wasn't for this bowl cut, I'd be devoid of intrigue entirely.

But, instead of throwing in the towel and hitting the big, red 'delete' button on Madgespace, I shall endure! I SHAN'T GIVE UP.

Instead, I will let you in on the made-up, nonsensical lyrics Andy and I have for songs.


'Battlefield' by Jordin Sparks

• "Why does love always feel like a wagon wheel? A wagon wheel, a wagon wheel.."

Lean On' by Major Lazer & DJ Snake, (feat. MØ)

• "Farkis, Car2Go...all we need is somebody to lean on."

'Royals' by Lorde

• "That kind of luxe just ain't for us, we drive a different kind of bus."

Those lyric changes are't funny. They're not clever. They're not even interesting. But what they do indicate is that, if you spend enough time with someone, you form your own language. 

You also start to stockpile inside jokes that are so unfunny they're not so much jokes as 'inside thought moments'. These parallel brain experiences are set off by the smallest things—a certain word in a radio ad, the way the bus driver's cough sounds, a particular appetizer offering at a party. Whatever it may be, you'll look across the room at each other with a knowing grin and nod. Yes, we both caught that. We're thinking the same, pointless thing. Indeed, that man's cough sounded like that one part of that one YouTube video that we like to quote on occasion. No need to talk about it. Just a grin and a brief nod is enough. 

Couldn't find a good image for 'telepathy', so I Googled 'staring contest' instead.
The guy on the left has a pumpkin stem for hair.

Image by Vectorink via Wikimedia Commons

Goodnight, 

Margaret

P.S. I'm pretty sure this blog made zero sense, but it reminded me of that time Barbie and I said "There's a snake in my boot" in unison completely unprovoked. Something—an airplane passing overhead, the smell of popcorn wafting down the hall, a slight flicker in the light—must have caused us to both think it and vocalize it. But we'll never know exactly why it happened. 

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

You know what's worse than digging a piece of food out of your tooth with your tongue, only to discover upon biting that it's a bit of black pepper?

Picking a chunk of food out of your belly button, eating it, realizing it's a piece of granola bar and then remembering that you haven't eaten a granola bar since the morning—11 hours ago. 

Happened to Andy. Just now. I watched it happen. 

Here's a great pub quiz question for you: what's the scientific name for 'belly button'?
Answer: umbilicus

Image Stefano Bolognini via Wikimedia Commons

I shared that story with you because I think it's gross, funny and sadly relatable. But here's the kicker: I don't actually think it's gross. In fact, 99% of the time I express disgust, I'm just pretending. Maybe it's the camp counselor in me, maybe it's the fact that we only changed the sheets once a year growing up, but I've just never been someone who grosses out easily. Germs don't scare me. 

When it comes to things I pretend about, feigning disgust is the tip of the iceberg. I pretend to feel a certain way and care about certain things ALL THE TIME. Several times a day I find myself fake laughing, agreeing with someone when I actually disagree, and generally pretending to give a shite about things that are actually very boring. 

It's the old "no, that dress doesn't look fat on you" scenario. Better a white lie than a lifetime of loneliness. 

Later,
Margaret

P.S. One exception: when I write my book. When I finally get around to that, all bets are off. Grassyllama: Unfiltered

Are you old?

ARE YOU OLD?
Today at "book"club, we landed on something quite astute:

You're not old when you have a funeral to attend every other week. You're old when even your funeral calendar dries up. That's old. That's Grandma Martha level old.

Speaking of G-ma, she says you don't truly feel old until your children are senior citizens. Seems fair enough. But something else that is true of old age is that you can't distinguish between generations anymore. A 60-year-old vs. a 25-year-old? You don't see any difference. Everyone below 80 qualifies as "kids these days".

So, to wrap things up, if your funeral bell curve isn't making its descent, if your children aren't senior citizens and if you haven't pegged T-Swift and Oprah as around the same age, you're not old.

Thank you, Google Image search. Now, how quickly can I get this on my wall?

Image by Quinten Matsys via Wikimedia Commons

ONE LIFE = TWO ADJECTIVES

As I was walking along the beach with Andy the other day, I had a realization: a life is worth about two adjectives. That's all most people get. When you die, you'll be remembered fondly, in detail, for one generation. The following generation you'll be condensed into a handful of stories. After that, you're reduced to two adjectives. Maybe "Bubbly" and "Adventurous" or "Intelligent" and "Misunderstood" or "Pretty" and "Annoying" --- you get the idea. 

Take, for example, my Great Grandfather Horace Merkel. All that I really know about him is that he was a "self-made man" and had a "temper". It wasn't long ago that he was roaming the earth. I'm not that far removed from the guy. But still, that's it. 

Makes you think, what two adjectives do you want to mark your legacy? I'm gunning for 'beautiful genius'.

Sweet dreams, 

Margaret

Solid eavesdropping

It seems I've naturally settled into a gentle Monday through Thursday blogging schedule. Let's go with it and see how things fare.

Andy and I are at the coffee shop today, ordering our two 8oz lattes, when a lady glides in on rollerblades. She approaches another lady—shorter, fatter, no blades—who is waiting by the counter for her coffee.

"You said you'd be here at 12:30!" rollerblades says in a thick Russian accent.

"Sorry! I had to watch my sister's kids!"

"Well you shouldn't say you're going to be here at a certain time and then show up an hour late!"

"I'm sorry! What was I supposed to do?"

We're all listening. The entire, otherwise silent coffee shop. Andy and I make eye contact with the barista. She raises her eyebrows.

This probably seems racially insensitive to you, considering the fact that I'm not even 100% sure they were Russian, but the honest truth is I LOVE these nesting dolls. My parents have a set and I was obsessed with it as a kid. The smallest one was TINY - the size of a grain of rice - and I adored it. That, and the fact that I acknowledge the fact that this could be seen as insensitive, means that it's not.

Image by BrokenSphere via Wikimedia Commons

On our way out, Andy and I pass the two women sitting at an outside table. Rollerblades is eating potato salad out of a tupperware. They're having a conversation in Russian. Things seem to have calmed down. All has been forgiven.

Once out of earshot, Andy and I wonder why they didn't choose to speak in Russian back in the coffee shop.


Cheers,
Margaret

P.S. I'm really into classic Herbal Essences. Not the new fangled, brightly colored ones with cute names (e.g. Hello Hydration), but the old school, straight-out-of-the-'90s Herbal Essences. Try it next time you run out of 'poo and 'tioner. The smell is intoxicating. If you're single, you won't be for long.

P.P.S. Andy drilled a hole in our bookcase for the WiFi router cords to poke through. The router is now disguised as a book. It's a fine achievement.

Hate to burst your bubble...

The other day Andy and I were walking along the Alki promenade.

"Oooh, something smells of bubblegum!" Andy said with jubilant innocence.

I had to break it to him that it was because we'd just passed two Honey Buckets. What he was smelling was not bubblegum, but urinal cakes.

Speaking of urinal cakes, those are NOT bars of soap. Another easy mistake to make. If you have young kids, warn them.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Woah. Remember Bazooka bubblegum? It's been a long time since I've chopped my gnashers down on one of theose delicious, rock hard rectangles. And they have jokes inside! Remember? I'd forgotten all about them until now.

Goodbye, 

Margaret

Land of plenty

Today in the Safeway produce section Andy stared in bewilderment as the automatic sprinklers misted the veggies, complete with thunder sound effect. He laughed and shook his head. "This f-ing country."

It reminded me of an article I read recently about former Soviet President Boris Yeltsin's trip to Houston in 1989. During his visit he went to a local grocery store and was amazed at what he saw.

Image via Chron.com

He said if the Russian people knew about how much food there was in America—how good it could be—there would be a revolution. As he would later recount on Oprah's couch (not really, but I wish) this was his 'a-ha moment'.

In all seriousness, though, this was the moment when Yeltsin first soured on the whole communism thing. And that was just some shite Texas grocery store. Imagine what he'd think of Metropolitan Market!

Love,
Margaret

P.S. If these blogs were any shorter, they'd be my thumbnail!

P.P.S. I bit my thumbnail down too far the other day and now it hurts.

Old Lady Marge

Boom! That's it. Year-28 Challenge over.

Today is my birthday and I've now officially blogged EVERY DAY FOR A YEAR. That's 365 posts, for those of you who forgot how long it takes the Earth to orbit the Sun.

In honor of this joyous occasion, let's watch a short video of me on my sixth birthday.




How precious. Who could have predicted that seven years later I would type the word "grassyllama" at random into my AOL instant messenger registration and set the course of the remainder of my life.

An actual book from my G-ma's actual bookshelf.

Be back tomorrow (or will I?),

Margaret

P.S. Andy and I went to Jazz Alley tonight and on the guy's second-to-last song, he revealed he's Clint Eastwood's son. Way to bury the lead! Andy and I laughed silently about it while pretending to pop our heads to the beat intellectually.

P.P.S. Planning to respond to the Facebook birthday wishes individually tomorrow because 10:18pm on a Tuesday is no time to start such a task. But as always, it reminded me of why I keep Facebook around. Every annoying ad or banal status is worth it for the potpourri of birthday greetings you get once a year.

Oh what a night

My Car2Go registration finally went through. As soon as I saw the email, Andy and I were off to Home Depot to buy a piece of plywood upon which we'll plaster a giant map of the Puget Sound. Exciting!

The car is a golf cart with doors. It screams loudly when you go up hills, and you feel every single abnormality in the road's surface—driving over a leaf is like the grand finale of Splash Mountain.

Home Depot was easy. We found some plywood for $14 and the guy even cut it for us. We were in and out within 10 minutes.

Just one problem. How's this large piece of lumber going to fit in the golf cart with doors? Poking out the back window? No. On it's side, diagonally between the two seats? No. On top of the folded over passenger seat? No.


Alas, I drove home and Andy waited in the parking lot with the plywood for an (expensive) SUV Uber.

Now I sit here, exhausted from the evening's activities, inhaling Mod Podge fumes and rubbing my belly full of Morningstar faux sausages. Please don't make me get off this couch. I'll sleep here. It's fine. Just don't make me move.

Guess which ones are fake. 

Wednesday tomorrow. Time flies.

Love,
Margaret

American Beauty

I hated that movie. I didn't get it. Add it to the list along with "Punch Drunk Love", "Lost in Translation" and "WALL-E".

Maybe I was just too young to understand it at the time. If I were to watch it now, would I enjoy it? I'm dubious.

Today our new coasters from Crate & Barrel arrived. They're made of rope. Very nautical. I can't wait until I rest my first mug of tea on one. I'm eager to see how it protects our newly-painted, white coffee table from unsightly cup rings. If all goes well, nothing will happen.

Stay tuned for updates.

I don't know if you knew this, but this blog is art. I'm an artist. Or as we in the marketing industry like to say, I'm a "creative". Ruminate on that.

Amen,
Margaret

P.S. I took a quiz today to see if I would get into Oxford. Based on my score, I would not.

P.P.S. The credit card machine at our local coffee shop wasn't working. They were having to use an old-school slider doohickey. But wait! These days, credit cards don't have the raised numbers. They're not bumpy anymore! How can one make an imprint? One cannot.

TH!NK about it

As Andy and I were walking up one of Seattle's steepest hills today—West Dravus Street in Magnolia—I heard him humming "Family Portrait" by P!NK to himself. That's the one that goes...in our famiLY portrait, we look pretTY happy. We look pretTY normal. Let's go back to that. 

Got it in your head now? Good.

Anyway, I asked him, "Who sings that again?"

"It was P!INK," he said. "It was during that time when her and Eminem were both into releasing a goofy song followed by a sad song. Sad song, goofy song, sad song, goofy song, sad song, goofy song..."

WHAT AN OBSERVATION. I wish I had made it myself. Let this be a lesson. Just when you think you're getting sick of someone, they can turn around and say something brilliant.

Image by jm3 via Flickr

Speaking of P!NK, some thoughts..

• When I saw her open for *NSYNC in 2000, she sat on a stool and introduced ones of her ballads as, "The best song I've ever wroten." WROTEN.

• Crazy that her and hubby Carey Hart broke up and then got back together. That almost never happens with celebrities. 

• Before she made it as a solo artist, she was in a girl group called Choice and their single "Key To My Heart" appeared in the movie Kazaam (starting Shaq). What's that? You want to listen to it. OK, here you go. 

Hopefully, one day in the future, something in this blog post will be the answer to a question in a pub quiz you're doing. Because if it's not, I can't promise that it wasn't a complete waste of your time.

With love,
Margaret

Tech talk

Crazy that Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani are dating. Total downgrade for Gwen.

Anyway, here's an observation for you: my life can fit into two duffle bags, but my computer is practically popping its buttons. I actually had to PAY to download software that helps me locate useless/old/duplicate files and delete them. Such is the life for us Macbook Air owners. But I can't be mad. My computer is slightly thicker than my thumbnail (and slightly thinner than my toenail)! With the amount of warped-face Photobooth selfies clogging up its arteries, I'm surprised it's lasted this long at all.

Speaking of Apple products, Andy's had one heck of a struggle getting his iPhone up and running. Carrier/unlocking problems. In fact, after three days of phone calls, a trip to the Apple store and a brand new phone, it's still not working. Tomorrow he'll do what he should have done in the first place: go to a sketchy tech repair place and ask the guy to work his magic.

Wouldn't life be easier if we all still had bedazzled Sidekicks?

Image by Wireimage via Popsugar

Today was one of the prettiest sunsets we've had here on Alki so far. Yellow, then pink, then orange, and then an even better orange. Andy, Barbie and I ate ice cream sandwiches on the beach and played catch with a baseball (no gloves - ouch!). At one point, three ferry boats glided (glid?) by in different directions. Seattle was really showing off.

Now I'm tired and my head hurts from the single, weak vodka soda I drank four hours ago. Best get my arse in bed.

So long,
Margaret

Undaunted Courage

Saturday, September Fifth, Two Thousand and Fifteen

Dearest Internet, 

This evening was more enjoyable than I would have ever thought possible. 

Williamson and myself, set with the task of painting our furniture, were discouraged by the many hours of backbreaking work that lay before us. It was, however, in the decision to watch a Ken Burns' documentary on Lewis & Clark whilst we painted that the otherwise toilsome affair turned into a convivial episode we both shall remember for many years hence. 

Although Mr. Burns' eloquent storytelling had us in high spirits, it wasn't more than an hour into our expedition when trouble struck. Just halfway through priming the bookshelf, all the tins of primer ran dry. We owe it to our good fortune and the undoubted majesty of this fine country that we made it to the hardware store with only minutes to spare. We were delighted at the sight of the local traders, with whom we gave a handful of paper notes and coins in exchange for more primer and cloth masks to stop us contracting painter's lung. 

All matters were now in readiness to commence the operation of applying the paint of our chosen colour, 'white cloud'. We worked into the night, pleased by our progress and in knowing that we were serving our great land of Alki, West Seattle, Washington and yes, her eminence, the United States of America. 

Now, as I write this by the glow of a laptop screen, stars stretch across the sky as far as the eye can see and morale is the highest it's been since we embarked on this finest westward adventure. 

Adieu and believe me your affectionate blogger, 
Margaret

Help me Rodda

I bought a three-wicked candle today. Finally, this house is a home!

We also went to the hardware store—West Seattle TrueValue—and bought some paint for our furniture. We (seriously) debated over 'cloud white' and 'white cloud' for a while, before settling on 'white cloud'. It was the white decision. Har har.

Remember that commercial for Rodda paint that parodied the The Beach Boys' song 'Help Me Rhonda'? Well, that version of the song has been running through my head since 1995. At any given moment, stop me on the street and ask me what song's running through my head. You can have no doubt that it will be 'Help Me Rodda' from the Rodda paint commercials.

Truthfully, though, I don't need Rodda's help. Homemaking comes naturally to me. Making home—I enjoy it! I have ever since I was a wee'an playing house during recess at Arrowhead Elementary. I remember sweeping the "kitchen floor" with an evergreen branch and telling all my friends that this chunk of damp, rotting wood I found was a cheese grater. I was always the mom or the older sister. A lot of my friends wanted to be the baby, which I never understood but ever-so-graciously allowed.

It's not just decorating that I enjoy. I like cooking too. Nothing gourmet. I'm a cook, not a chef. I don't do elaborate, fancy dishes with a million ingredients. Too impatient. What lures me into the kitchen is the satisfaction of getting a hot meal on the table. I actually enjoy the timing aspect of cooking. The multitasking relaxes me somehow.

So, you have decorating, cooking...is there anything else? Uh oh, you guessed it. CLEANING! Ding ding ding! I love cleaning too. Not always. Not on a day-to-day basis. But a nice, deep clean once a month or so? The best.

That's all.

Goodnight,
Margaret (aka the Real Housewife of Alki)

Would a poop by any other name smell so bad?

What words and phrases do you hate?

I'm not fond of 'starter home'. When people say "it's our starter home" they are being pretentious.

My mom doesn't like it when people say 'no problem' or 'no worries' instead of thank you. Andy and I both admit that we do this all the time. Must be an our generation thing. She also doesn't like 'how's your day so far' or 'my bad'.

Andy hates when people throw 'go ahead' into a sentence for no reason. For example, "I'm going to go ahead and add you to the email list" or "If you could just go ahead and provide your feedback, that'd be great".

My dad can't stand when young people respond to something with a trail of yeahs. He says he'll often say something very interesting, only to be met with "yeah, yeah, yeahyeahyeahyeah..." Apparently it happens all the time.

Francie, according to Char, doesn't like the use of 'super' as a substitution for 'really'. For example, "their wedding photos were super cute" or "they just bought a super big starter home".

Oh god—want to know the WORST one? I was once working on some copy for a large UK bank and one of their employees let me in on some juicy insider gossip. An irritating new phrase was spreading like wildfire through their office.

"Please revert"

YEP. That's how people at this bank were signing off their emails. They'd say something like, "Hi Bob, I've attached those reports that you requested. We're keen to hear your feedback. Please revert. Thanks, Sally"

Is that not terrible? Please revert. It doesn't even really make sense. Apparently it originated in India. Software developers and other tech professionals were using in their emails to colleagues in the US and UK. And the rest is history.

In other news, today I got a strawberry smoothie (they call it a smoothie, but really it's a milkshake) from Tully's and it was TO DIE FOR. I don't know if it was just because I'd walked 35 minutes through a soulless business park on Mercer Island to get there, or if it really was that good, but boy did it hit the spot. Obviously it did, as I'm still thinking about it now, several hours later.

Goodnight,
Margaret

Addleman and addled man

Old man in wheelchair story #1

Yesterday, at BECU, Andy and I overheard an old man in a wheelchair chatting with a clerk about his business plan. His name was Addleman. Full name, potentially Addleman Addleman. We'd observed him entering it for both 'first name' and 'last name' in the self-service check-in before wheeling over to the waiting area.

Addleman was applying for a business bank account and explaining the nonprofit he was planning to start—a segregated community for sex offenders. How it would work is that sex offenders would no longer sit in prisons wasting tax payer's precious money (we foot the bill for their food, their healthcare, everything!), but instead they would be sent to live in a quarantined colony of other sex offenders, forced to create their own economy and societal structure with help from the nonprofit's donated funds.

"I don't expect it to be successful in my lifetime," Addlman told the clerk. Not a ringing endorsement, but you have to respect the honesty.

Old man in wheelchair story #2

This morning Andy caught a bus from 3rd Ave and James St. It was due at 12:28pm, so at half past when it hadn't arrived, he started to worry.

Suspecting he may have jotted down the times wrong, he walked over to the side of the bus stop to view the scheduled stops. An old man in a wheelchair was positioned in front of the timetable, forcing Andy to stand to the side and lean across to check the times.

"GET THE F--K AWAY FROM ME!" the man shouted.

"Sorry, I'm just trying to view the bus times," Andy said.

"OH, SORRY MAN! I'M JUST RURRRL PARANOID."

"Er, no problem"

Just then, the bus arrived. Both Andy and the man in the wheelchair got on. He apologized again. "SORRY ABOUT THAT MAN. YOU KNOW, JUST PARANOID!"

 Andy accepted his apology and all was forgiven.


In related news, isn't life interesting?

Goodnight,
Margaret

New-found appreciation for the straight man

Today Andy and I walked up the hill to Great Clips to get our ears lowered. No appointments. Just a couple of walk-ins looking for a budget cut.

Naturally, I was nervous. This bowl is my identity/personality substitute. What would I be without this iconic hairstyle that I hang my new hat from Target on? But alas, I needed a cut bad. I was willing to risk it.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

To my horror, the worst-case scenario happened. There to greet me, scissors in hand, was a STRAIGHT MAN. He didn't want to chat about 'my look', or what style I was going for. I tried to explain, but before I knew it he was hacking away, having barely bothered to spritz my hair with a spray bottle.

Despite my misgivings, the guy seemed to know what he was doing. After about 7 minutes, I had a solid, 7 out of 10 bowl cut and was—get this—just $20 lighter (including tip).

Let this be a reminder to us all that, for as much grief as we give them, straight men do have value in society. They can indeed be creative, many have fine motor skills, and I actually think a good amount are capable of multi-tasking.

So, on this Monday evening, let's raise a toast to the straight men in our lives who deserve more than being the butt of the joke in 'smug mom' commercials on TV. After all, Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, Jesus, David Beckham—all straight men!

Yours truly,

Nargaret

P.S. An extra thanks goes to Andy Williamson who typed this post out while I dictated it. I am under the weather and incapable of staring at a computer screen. Thanks, Andy.