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

Goodbye, loads and loads of money!

I paid my taxes today.

And then I cried. Big, fat, indulgent toddler tears.

For a year I've watched that money accumulate in my savings account, knowing it's for taxes but occasionally letting myself believe it was mine, mine, MINE.

When you're a sole trader, you pay all your tax in one tragic go. You go into your online banking, enter the government's bank details and click 'confirm'. It's gut-wrenching.

So, I was sitting there on the couch, sobbing, when I heard a loud knock at the door. Poop! The postman with my Yankee Candles! I froze for a second, then wiped away my tears, threw off the Santa onesie and changed into my fleece bathrobe (still unacceptable for noon on a Wednesday, but more acceptable than a Santa onesie). I opened the door just in time to catch ol' post-face before she disappeared down the stairs.

Now, with the 'Vanilla Cupcake' scent wafting through our flat, I'm feeling a bit better about saying goodbye to all that moolah. It's just money! Now that I've learned my lesson, my plan is to make zero money next year. That way I won't have to pay any tax. Simple! I'll start a vegetable garden. I'll take good care of the clothes that I already have. It will be fine.

Andy always refers to me as a clown. He calls me 'Clown Clownson'. 

Let me just point out that 'Tears of a Clown' by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles is a fantastic tune. I wish I'd written it. You just don't get truly pathetic lyrics like that anymore. Waaaah Waaah. I'm soooo sad. I'm just pretending to be happy. Booooo hooo hooo!

LOVE this song.

Remind yourself:



That's all folks!

'Annabelle: Part 2' will be up tomorrow. If you haven't read Part 1, do so now.

Margaret

P.S. Click on the 'That's all folks!' link and watch the video. So great!