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:

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

Book chat

We went to a bookstore today. Andy's been reading a book called 'American Generalship — Character is Everything: The Art of Command' and he was in the market for something a little less dull. He ended up choosing a book on the history of salt.

Save the occasional classic novel (e.g. 'Jude the Obscure') Andy only reads nonfiction. My dad is a sucker for mysteries. My mom, sistahs and I love memoirs. Max seems to enjoy a blend of all three.

I've never read a self-help book, but today I had an idea for one I'd like to write. Along the lines of Brian Griffin's 'Wish it. Want it. Do it.'

Title: 
'Grow Up — How to stop whining and start winning' 

Introduction: 
It's commonly thought that those who go into psychology and/or write self-help books are the craziest people of all. I don't dispute that. Believe me, I'm right there with you. In the weeds. In fact, this probably isn't even allowed in the self-help section. I'm guessing you found it tucked away behind the clearance calendars. 

However, what I can offer are a few tricks that have helped me find peace in this bizarre experience we call life (Or have they helped me? Jury's still out). 

Middle bit:
TBD

Conclusion: 
Ignore 70% of the negative feelings you have. Most aren't valid. Remember to eat regularly. Spend time with toddlers and the elderly. Go to either a beach or a forest once a week. 

Image via Wikia.com

Don't you think people would appreciate the honesty and buy it?

Later,
Margaret

Why does your penis look like that?

That's what my nephew Freddie asked my sister Char as he pointed to her nipple.

"Mom, why does your penis look like that?"

I tell ya. Kids say the darndest things. Remember that show with Bill Cosby? To be honest, I didn't care for it much at the time, and that was before we all knew what we know now.

Went with a photo of a male nipple because of that damn double standard!!!!!!!!!!

Image by Xpoirotx via Wikimedia Commons

When my sister Anna was little, she pointed at a naked lady in the swimming pool locker room and said to my mom very loudly, "That lady as a BIG bottom!" And she was right. The lady did have a very large, very naked bottom. What could Nadinski do other than shake her head, give the lady an 'oh kids' look and scoot out of there as fast as possible?

Parents more than make up for their toddler's embarrassing honesty during the teenage years. Prime example: my mom bringing the camcorder to church and filming me being an alter girl. St. John Vianney had groomed me with the promise of a pizza party. Before I knew it I was donning a white robe and holding a giant bible for some B-team, no-parish-wants-him, pot-belled schmuck priest. I was half asleep, my hair was dripping wet from the shower and Nadinski had the nerve to capture it all on video.

When I have kids, I won't be embarrassing. I'll play it cool. I'll "get" it. But Andy? Him, I'm worried about. He'll be that dad. The dad with the bad puns. The dad that teases them about having a boyfriend. The dad who volunteers to chaperone school dances. The dad who blares Backstreet Boys as he picks them up from softball practice. He'll really be awful. Our poor future children.

Unrelated: is 'Can't Make You Love Me' by Bonnie Raitt the best karaoke ballad of all time? My cousin Maria says she sang it in New York at a karaoke dive bar and it brought the house down.

Love,
Margaret

By the light of the silvery moon

I just got back from a moonlit swim in Green Lake with Nadinksi (mother), Char (sister) and Maria (cousin). It was wild and sooooo earthy of us. It felt like something I'd read in someone's memoir—someone really interesting with this crazy, fun, slightly-on-the-edge life.

Doing elementary backstroke (my fave) and staring up at the stars, I tell ya, it was magical.

I even did two cannonballs off the diving board and water only went up my nose once.

Hold on. What's that? Oh, it's another controversial, Margaret-poops-on-everything opinion making its way from my brain to this blog. Buckle up.

ENOUGH WITH THE DAMN BLUE ANGELS.

They're airplanes that go really fast and do tricks. What am I missing? Why does Seattle worship them? At best, they're a 5 out of 10 on the entertainment scale. Totally average. Not to mention they're loud and the I-90 bridge has to close every time they take their circus act to the skies.

Also, they happen every year! Every summer. Multiple times a summer. I imagine they were awesome the first time, pretty good the second time...but now, on the 467th summer in a row, how can I be expected to feign interest?

To end on a positive note, I'm still loving my night shirt. So lightweight and airy. An absolute pleasure to sleep in!

Goodnight,

Margaret

Rain dance

It rained today. Not just drizzle. RAIN. The first rain Seattle's had in a long, long while.
People walked out of their houses to stand it in. Strangers on the street stopped to talk about it. It made the pavement smell like hot, wet dust.

It was GLORIOUS.

My mom and I went to a movie AND drank venti peppermint teas during it. That's a rainy day activity if I've ever heard one. We saw 'Inside Out' because of the great reviews. It was cute and clever. But let's be honest, it is still for children. We got a bit antsy.

Anyway, is anybody still watching UnREAL? Because I am. And things are really heating up (or "hotting up" if you're British). Something that I enjoy about the show is how tired and rundown they make the main girl look. She lives on set and pretty much never sleeps, so of course she's not going to look her best. It's refreshing to see this reflected in the (lack of) hair style/makeup.

Can that really be tonight's post? That's it? The weather and then a few sentences on a reality TV show almost nobody watches? Yep! It's Friday. I'm giving myself the rest of the night off.

Cheers,
Margaret

Shark!

Not much changes here in Seaside. There's the prom and the turnaround. There's Old Tyme Photo. There's the Pig n' Pancake. There's the same ol' lampposts. Same arcade. Same pedophile handing out salt water taffy. Same bumper cars and Tilt a' Whirl that my mom says look exactly like they did when she was a kid.

Even the mixer here at the cabin looks like it was manufactured in 1950.

But you know what's new?

THIS.

OMG, THIS:

 

I'm speechless. Caught somewhere between 'kids these days' and 'I must try it'.

And with that, I must go take a bath. The water pressure here is amazing. I reckon it's because we're so close to the ocean. Plumbers/engineers in the audience, let me know if I'm onto something.

Sweet dreams,
Margaret

It's a sign

We're walking along the Seaside prom when I suddenly have a hankering for a grilled cheese (basic, just how I like 'em). My mom suggests Dairy Queen. She went to one with my grandma recently and noticed that they had them on the menu.

So, the three of us—my mom, my dad and I—set course for the DQ.

The girl behind the counter is new on the job, but she's already over it. We suspect she was out late last night. Yawning a bunch. Mascara dust under the eyes. General slowness. But hey, I'll throw her a bone. There's no air conditioning in the Seaside DQ. The place doesn't just smell like a hamburger, it feels like you're living inside of a hamburger. It's a beef sauna. A sweat lodge made of Grade F hamburger meat.

Adding insult to injury, she can't figure out how to ring us up for a side grilled cheese (i.e. one on its own, not part of a kid's meal). She calls over her coworker who is equally clueless. Then another employee tries. But nope, the side grilled cheese button is nowhere to be found. As the line grows behind us, employee #3 shouts toward the back, "JEREMYYY! HEY JEREMY—where's the cheese sandwich!?" Jeremy to the rescue. It's under 'Bakes', dummies.

We pay. We wait.

The chef comes out from the kitchen and walks up to our table. This can't be good. No bread, she says. How about she uses a hamburger bun instead? Is that OK? Of course it's not OK, but of course I say it is. I'm not willing to give up the dream.

Cheese-bun arrives. Dry. No butter. Tastes horrible.

I reevaluate life and decide it's a sign. I didn't need the calories and I wasn't even hungry. It was Lewis and Clark's (patron saints of Seaside) way of encouraging me to eat healthier.

The end.

Speaking of signs, look at these two signs I came across recently.

Well, I can imagine! It is a giant hole in the ground filled with urine and feces (faeces if you're British). 

Photo taken in a biffy at the base of a hiking trail. 

Dear City of Vancouver, don't tell me what I am or am not expecting. In fact, I WAS expecting to get hit by a cyclist, or a flying beach umbrella or a drunk driver or a falling piano. I walk around always assuming that death is nigh.

Goodnight,
Margaret

P.S. This was a weird post, but I'm in Seaside using my phone as a Wi-Fi hotspot and I don't have the data to rethink it.

Child Psychology 101

When I was a kid sitting in the back of the car, I would envision myself leaning out the car window with a lawn mower—nay, a DR Field & Brush Mower—and cutting down all the shrubbery on the side of the road.

It. Was. Satisfying.

I told Andy this and he said he had a similar backseat OCD habit growing up. He would pretend he was hitting a tennis ball over every lamp post on the side of the highway. He quickly realized that lifting his pretend racket up every few seconds looked funny, so he allowed himself to use his jaw instead. Much more discrete. He would open his jaw, then shut it quickly to fling the tennis ball over. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open, shut. By the time his fam arrived in Germany, a 13-hour road trip, his jawbone would be aching like crazy.

Ram Williamson, age Ram

Oh, I also had this thing where I had to touch the person in front of me in line at the grocery store. Not obviously. Just a very, very light touch—maybe my coat accidentally brushed against theirs or a magazine I was holding happened to catch the edge of their purse. The people were never the wiser. Still, I felt weird about it. And I didn't like the fact that I felt so compelled to do it. The solution? I dared myself NOT to do it anymore. Worked like a charm. I'm nearly 20 years clean.

The moral of this post is that kids are weird. I took Child Psychology in Cyprus, but we never covered the fact that kids are just plan kooky. Also, as mother Nadinski says, everything's a phase.

That's all for tonight. Stay cool in this heat wave.

So long,
Margaret

Unique up on it

Who: Nancy Padden aka Nadinksi Montbrosis aka Nina aka my mother
When: 1994
Where: "The old house", Kenmore, WA

It's late. It's pitch black outside. Nina can't sleep. She's never been big a big believer in the full eight hours. Even these days, I'll get up to pee at 3 a.m. and hear her upstairs, flipping through the pages of the New Yorker while she waits for the bathtub to fill. 

So, on that night back in 1994, it's not unusual for her to be up out of bed. She's milling about the house, getting herself a glass of water, loading the last few dishes into the dishwasher, when suddenly she spots something through the living room window. 

Small, white, round. Hunched in the tall, dewy grass. 

The rabbits. 

It's one of our rabbits—Rudolph or Frosty (aka the replacements). How did it get out of its cage? She needs to act fast, before it can hop away, down the ravine, never to be seen again. 

Carefully, she pulls open the sliding glass door. 

Quiet, Nina. Soft steps, Nina. Stay calm, Nina. 

She's only 5'1", but her feet are a size 10. They used to be an 8.5 but, under the weight of four pregnancies, her arches melted like butter and spread the surface area significantly. Despite the flippers and a natural impatience, she creeps up on the rabbit like a black panther stalking its prey. Slow. Steady. Controlled. One step in front of the other. 

The closer she gets, the more likely the rabbit will dart away. But luck's on her side. The rabbit never even flinches. 

Is she close enough? At what point does she pounce?

About ten minutes passes and finally, she thinks, it's time. Adrenaline bubbling in her veins, she leaps! She dives! She lands, arms out, scooping up and locking in the rabbit before it has time to react. Success!

But wait. This doesn't feel like Rudolph. It doesn't feel like Frosty either. It's not soft and furry, but hard, like plastic. 

Oh dear. 

It can't be. 

Is it? 

Yep.






THE VOLLEYBALL.



Goodnight,
Margaret

Re: Soccer

Image via Wikimedia Commons

"Did you ever play on a soccer team?" my brother-in-law William asks my mom.

She answers, "You know, I distinctly remember being in the car, my dad was driving, and out the window we saw them. There they all were. Spread out across the field. And we said, 'WHAT is that!?' And it was soccer. We'd never seen it before in our lives."

---

In Edinburgh circa 2011, Andy asked me to play soccer (or "football" as it was called back then) with him and a group of girls he met in the park. I needed the cardio, so I agreed.

We met every Sunday for a few weeks. I was starting to feel pretty confident. I'd never played soccer before, but I could run fast and even stole the ball on a few occasions.

Then, something terrible happened. One night, after the game, Andy asked me, "So, why do you roll the ball in during your throw-ins?"

Uhhhh.

CRAP.

I'd been doing it wrong! I'd been doing it wrong all along! Instead of chucking the ball in a straight-arms, over-the-head heave, I'd been ROLLING IT UNDERHAND back onto the pitch.

How mortifying.

I never returned to Sunday soccer, and I still cringe when thinking about it.

---

YouTube is awash with amazing soccer videos. But this one is the best.

So long,
Margaret

7 rules for summer

It's been a scorcher here in Seattle Kenmore this weekend. The sun has dried up every last bit of energy from my body. I'm ready to watch Silicon Valley and hit the hay.

So, without further ado, please enjoy the following generic blog post.

7 rules for summer

1. Always spring for the waffle cone if given the option. It's money well spent.

2. Refill the ice cub tray if there's less than two cubes left. That's just common courtesy.

3. Buy a thin, crew neck sweatshirt from a thrift shop. Wear it when the wind picks up.

4. Forget about socks and shoes. Wear sandals. Get a sandals tan.

5. Wait to eat dinner until after the sun goes down. Dine al fresco.

6. Walk around your neighborhood at night. Look at the stars.

7. Listen to DJ Polite. Do everything he says.




One more thing. Earlier today, my mom offhandedly mentioned that she used Herbal Essences shampoo back in her young adult years. I said, "Herbal Essences was invented back then? Who knew?" And she said, "Ohhhh yeah, we loved it. Actually that's what I used to give people as a wedding present—a bottle of Herbal Essence, a new towel and a bar of Irish Spring."


Goodnight,
Margaret

You're prob not going to read this

Nobody reads this blog on a Friday—not even me! I close my eyes while I type.

So, despite the fact that none of us are reading this, my eyes are shut tight and I'm pretty sure I'm asleep and dreaming, here goes tonight's blog....

Dear Planet Earth, 

Let's stop asking people "How's it going?" or "What's up?" unless we genuinely want and expect an answer. Note: 'how's it going?' is NOT a stand-in for 'hello'. 

This particularly applies to hiking, when you pass a group coming down the trail. Just say hello. Resist the urge to say 'how's it going?' Why? Because it's confusing. By the time the person says, "Good, thanks. How are you?" you're long out of earshot,  halfway up the mountain. 

My mom says, like all of life's irritations (see: shirt label size conspiracy), this 'how's it going?' thing is a new phenomenon. Her and her friends talk about it. "So, are you supposed to answer or not?" they ask each other. 

I tell her, no, you shouldn't answer. Not unless the person pauses and makes eye contact.

But the truth is, nobody should be put in this perplexing situation in the first place. 

Just say hello. 

Repeat it with me. 

Just say hello.

Thanks, 
Margaret Kay 
CEO of Madgespace

P.S. Brits, you're not off the hook. The same applies to your version of the don't-really-answer-this question — "You alright?" 

GOD, that's awful. It took me years to stop answering, "Yeah, why? Do I look sad? Injured? Sickly?"

The Crying Indian

"So, back in the day, did people really just litter?" I ask my mom.

"Yeah, I guess so," she says.

"Really? That's crazy. Like, did you know anyone who would just throw their garbage out the car door?"

"I'm sure I did."

"Did you do it?"

Long pause.

"Probably!"

Later she asks my dad the same question and he says he never littered. He had to pick garbage up along the roadside near the farm in Wenatchee growing up. It annoyed him and he vowed to never become one of those lousy litterbugs.

'The International Tidyman' (my what pointy legs you have)
Image via Wikimedia Commons

They both remember a TV public service announcement that was enough to scare any no-good garbage-hurler straight. Here it is in all its heartbreaking glory.




We all agreed that the PSA takes on an extra layer of sadness in that this guy—a genuine Native American named 'Iron Eyes Cody'—was forced to make his living off anti-littering commercials. Instead of living off the land, he was pimping out his own sorrow just to earn a buck!

But, guess what? That's wrong. He wasn't a genuine Native American. Iron Eyes Cody was actually 100% Italian and just decided to based his entire Hollywood career on portraying American Indians.

You could've fooled me, Iron Eyes! If that's even your real name. I suspect it isn't.

That's all,

Margaret

P.S. For the record, I doubt Nadinski littered.

P.P.S. Remember this?

 

Five Friday thoughts

I need to read more. Apparently reading makes you a better writer. I'm skeptical, but it's worth a try. 

Thus, I'm giving myself the night off. After I write this sentence, I'm going to type the first five thoughts that enter my mind. 

1. My mom wants to enjoy emojis, but says they're too tiny. She can't see them. "People send me them, and they're like a speck."

2. Why does J. Lo never age?

3. There's a muscle in each butt cheek that feels amazing when you flex it, punch it or dig your knuckle into it. Stand in second position, straighten your legs, lock your knees and then flex your bottom. Find the indent on the outside edge of your butt cheek. Give it a firm tap with the heel of your palm. See? Amazing. It must be some sort of pressure point.

4. Current internal debate: go all the way upstairs and make myself a snack or eat tomorrow's dose of gummy vitamins several hours too early? The struggle is real. 

5.  Jessica Alba = so much smarter than any of us gave her credit for. 

What a disgusting image. What's wrong with the masseur's arms? Only just noticed his dry skin.

Image via Brandon Beardsley via Pinterest

Nighty noodle, 

Margaret

Steal This Business Idea: Edition 1

Welcome one and all to the first ever edition of 'Steal This Business Idea'.

This week, we'll be talking about bicycle helmets. They'll save your life, but they're a bloody nuisance to fit on your noggin.

All those straps. The sticky, oh-no-I'm-going-to-pinch-my-neck buckle. The adjustable interior lining. The extra foam padding. The plastic, ear-loop sliders. It's a FECKing spiderweb of annoyance!

Last weekend, my mom and dad stayed in a cabin in Leavenworth. It had a brand new, high-tech washer and dryer. Unlike our ye old washer here in Kenmore, where you set the load to 'small', 'medium' or 'large', this robot washing machine entered "sense" mode and detected the size by itself!

You see where I'm going with this...

Someone (who? YOU!) invent a high-tech bike helmet that senses your head size. You put it on, press a button and then voila, it tightens to suit your skull.

Do it! Invent it! If you don't, then Apple will and iHelmets will be flying off the shelves faster than you could say "fecking spiderweb of annoyance".

Andy and some long-haired mistress on the Golden Gate Bridge. 

See ya,
Margaret

"You haven't even touched the water, FRANCIE!"

Not going to write tonight. Instead, watch this poor-quality, iPhone footage of poor-quality VHS camcorder footage of the sistahs and I jumping in a freezing cold pool in Wenatchee.

Witness:

Anna - being a typical button-pushing big sister.

Char - flaunting her model hair.

Francie - serving FACE FACE and more FACE after her icy plunge.

Me - wanting to join in the fun, but not wanting to be cold.



And because I don't want Max to feel left out, check out his cinematography and voiceover skills in this one:



 


Goodnight,
Margaret

Mmmm....tasty lake water

My brother-in-laws are big on not letting their kids drink the bathwater. And I can see why. Bathwater, especially toddler bathwater, is nasty. It's full of Johnson's Baby Shampoo, food remnants, sand, pee and, let's be honest, probably small particles of poop.

Of all the battles for the bro-in-laws to pick, I'd say it's a pretty good one. My sisters aren't as strict when it comes to bathwater-drinking, but they see the logic behind the rule.

We were talking about all this today and my mom agreed that drinking bathwater is gross. She said, "It's not like drinking lake water, which, you know, some people are really against."

Oh yeah, Nina drinks lake water. When she's swimming in Lake Washington and gets thirsty, she helps herself to a big gulp.

Anna and I told her that, believe it or not, most people would find drinking lake water disgusting too. She responded with, "It hasn't hurt me yet!"

She also says that she grew up in a family where the idea of 'individual toothbrushes' was unheard of. Every night she'd grab from a collection of crusty, communal brushes and the concept of everyone having their own never occurred to her until years later.

Slurrrrrp!
If it's good enough for ducks, it's good enough for Nina.

So, there you go. Moral of the story: germs are a conspiracy made up by the toiletries industry. OK, that may be a stretch. But I think it's fair to say that a few sips of bathwater, gulping up Lake Washington and sharing toothbrushes won't kill us.

Your migraine-infested friend,
Margaret

Just say NO (but say YES sometimes)

"Would either of you be interested in giving me a shoulder massage in exchange for $10?

"No," Char and my mom answer in unison.

It was the response I expected.

"Rich will give you one," my mom suggests. "Ask him. He'll say yes."

"Do you ever take advantage of the fact that he's so nice?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," she says. "In the early days I used to call up my sisters and say, 'you won't believe it—he'll do anything I say!'"

This got us talking. Apparently my aunt Mona* remembers exactly when my mom stopped doing things for her when they were growing up. Everybody has a limit—eventually.

I too remember when I finally said no to my siblings. I was 10 years old and we were downstairs at the 'new' house. It was the first time I'd ever lived anywhere with stairs, and when one of them asked me to get them a glass of water, I really didn't want to hike up all those steps to the kitchen.

So, I said no. What a revelation! I'd been their slave for years and all along the solution was a simple, two-letter word. NO!

Well, this is odd. What's up with his eyes? Levar Burton, is that you?
Image via Wikimedia Commons

There's a fine line between being nice and being a sucker. My dad, of course, said yes to the shoulder massage without hesitation—but that's because he's nice! And it's good to be nice. The world is a better place because nice people give other people shoulder massages. Or they agree to get people glasses of water when asked. But it's possible for both parties to take it too far.

What's the lesson here?

• Super-nice people of the world: curb your instinct to say 'yes' to everybody. You'll get burnt out and resentful.

• Less-nice people of the world: curb your instinct to bleed super-nice people of their innate goodness and use it to your advantage. 

It's all about balance. Everything in moderation (even moderation!!! HA HA HA HA).

Cheerio,
Margaret

P.S. Corn-on-the-cob tonight and popcorn. You know what that means. Girl's gotta floss!

* In a previous edition of this blog post, I referred to my aunt Barb when I meant my aunt Mo. Madgespace regrets the error!

This counts as a blog post

I had a tantrum tonight. My mother had to draw me a bath.

The day had gone well, but all of a sudden it was 9:30pm and I still had to:

1. Buy Woolite
3. Wash my blouses
2. Finish vacuuming
3. Write a blog
4. Plan my outfit for this thing tomorrow

Then I made the mistake of trying on WORK PANTS. Black wide-leg, tight-arse trousers. GOD. It was bad. And I realized that I gave my long ones away during my pre-Seattle clothing cleanse. That left only the hemmed ones, which meant no heels. But guess what? I also gave away my flats! Curse this minimalist streak.

When I realized that I didn't have the time or energy to go to QFC and buy Woolite, I really lost it.

Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo.

The more I tried to pull myself together, the sadder the situation felt. I mean, why did I give away those black flats? WHY!?

Francie and my mom witnessed the whole thing. They were patient and sympathetic and generous with their wardrobes. Finally, my mom suggested a bath.

From an electrical point of view, I risked my life to take this photo.

This photo is creepy and corpse-like.

I'd forgotten that Nadinski heats her bathwater to just a hair under boiling. It took me ten minutes to fully ease into the tub. Once horizontal, I decided to fully submerge—neck, ears, hair, face—until I was completely below the waterline.

It was HEAVEN.

My bowlcut fanned out around me, tugging gently at my scalp as it swayed. Water sloshed across my face, tickled my closed eyelids and warmed the tip of my nose. Without having to tell myself to, I naturally took several deep breathes.

I'm not proud of my behavior, but I'm beyond pleased with myself for writing about it honestly in this blog post.

Namaste y'all,
Margaret