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

OK, let's talk about that F-ing earthquake

There we all were, sitting in our backyards, sipping iced coffees and enjoying the breezy sunshine of a Pacific Northwest summer when BAM—that damn New Yorker article popped up in our Facebook feeds.

The big one. It's due. Nay, it's over-due. The consequences? Catastrophic. We will all die? Probably. Those of us that don't will be so brutally maimed that we'll look like Sid's creepy toy collection.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Up to this point, we've managed to keep the looming deathquake shoved deep in the recesses of our brains. A tsunami in Oregon? Nah. That stuff only happens in faraway lands with palm trees! A skyscraper-crumbling earthquake? Is there even such a thing? Certainly not in Seattle, home of intelligent, good-looking liberals.

But the gig is up. That article has outed us. All the gorgeous hikes, Amazon jobs, Chaco tans and craft breweries in the world can't save us from the mega-quake's devastating wrath.

We almost deserve it, too. Pacific Northwest people. We're obsessed with this place. We gush about the amazing views and the sunsets and the warm-but-not-humid summers. We're braggers. What we forget is that it comes at a price. The cost? Certain death.

So, now that everything's out in the open, what should we do?

I'm asking! What should we do? 

Maybe I'll buy an earthquake kit. Maybe I'll study the evacuation route at Seaside. I'll definitely vote for any initiative promoting more earthquake preparedness funding.

Also, I'll forget about all this in a week. So will you. Back into the recesses this silly earthquake will go.

Now that's reassuring.

Yours,
Margaret

The ghost of Facebooking past

When I first met Andy I remember him boasting, "I've never once untagged myself in a Facebook photo, no matter how unflattering."

I must admit, it was that bold chat that lured me in. I mean, what a way to live your life! Leaving all the bad-angle, double chin, lazy eye, fat arm snaps out on display for the world to see.

Unlike Andy, I've untagged myself a few times. I don't untag anymore, but I did back in the day. Still, I've left enough cringetastic gems in there to keep things interesting.

Today I took a stroll down Facebook memory lane and I came across one particularly hilarious photo. It's not the photo so much that's funny, but the stuff around it. There were three elements that made me guffaw. I've circled them in red.

Speaking of Facebook, did you hear that you can now select a person to take control of your account when you die? I'm currently accepting applications. I can't choose Andy because he will definitely use it as an opportunity to prank me posthumously. He'll change my status to "greetings from the grave" or something.

Whichever candidate I choose, your first job is to turn my all my Facebook activity over the years into a hardback book to be preserved in The Library of Congress until the end of time. Your second job is to delete my account so that it can't be used as a shrine (kind of like with Osama).


Well, that got morbid fast.

Love,
Margaret

My clog scroll

I was going to title this post 'My bucket list', because that's what it's going to feature.

But then I thought: Hmm....'bucket list' is so overdone. Maybe it's time to coin a new term that means 'things I want to do before I die'.

This led me to the brilliant Wikipedia page 'List of expressions related to death'. Among my favourite on the list are:

• To ride the pale horse

• To shuffle off this mortal coil

• To hop the twig

• To snuff it

• To pop one's clogs

So I've decided to call my bucket list my 'clog scroll' instead—just to mix things up a bit. 

Not to be earthy, but isn't it amazing that fruit just grows on trees? Wait, is coconut a fruit?
I just Googled it and it's a "fibrous one-seeded drupe".
Image by Alex via Flickr

My clog scroll

Before I die, I would like to:

• Fry an egg on the sidewalk.

• Do that prank where you put someone's hand in warm water so they pee the bed. 

• Shimmy up a palm tree. Grab a coconut. Shimmy back down. Crack the coconut on a rock. Hold one half up to my mouth. Pour the sweet juices down my gullet. 

• Go dogsledding. 

• Float around in one of those zero-gravity simulators. 

• Brew and bottle my own root beer. 

• Do this with Andy:

• Write a book. 

• Get hypnotherapy. 

• Own a juicer. 

• Score the winning goal in the World Cup and/or win a Nobel Prize.

Cheers, 

Margaret