Toddler Blues

Today, after a week of single-parenting while Andy is in England, I took Martha to Kelsey Creek Farm in Bellevue. There are sheep, pigs, cows, horses—all of the animals from her books, alive in the flesh. What a fantastic final hurrah to our week of mother-daughter bonding!

Martha sat in the gravel pathway and ate rocks.

A few minutes later, she found a set of steps near the sensory garden and climbed up and down them four times.

One of the horses did manage to hold her attention for a bit. She reached out and offered him a rock. I grabbed her hand away from the beast's giant teeth and she cried.

I have decided to gradually start blogging again, while making no promises and keeping expectations low. I probably shouldn't have even written that sentence.

Over the past month I've fallen back in, and then back out, of love with blue cheese. Throughout July it blanketed my salads, filled my MorningStar Farms® Chik'n Nugget pitas and even replaced cream cheese on my bagels.

Andy and I went out to dinner last weekend and I ordered a cobb salad.

"Instead of the bacon and chicken, can I just get extra blue cheese?" I asked, knowing the answer would be yes, for this is America after all.

Andy, who enjoys foods in moderation, looked at me in disgust.

But sadly, my Stilton love affair is over. I made the mistake of buying Trader Joe's blue cheese and after a few helpings, something switched. The tanginess was too tangy. The closer to the rind, the more disgusting. Even writing this now, I'm on the verge of throwing up.

Worst thing is, I smell blue cheese everywhere I go. I've been washing my hands all afternoon and still can't scour the stench off my fingers. I'm the Lady Macbeth of poor dairy choices, haunted and sick to my stomach.

Barfing emoji!

Sincerely,
Margaret

I'm a professional vlogger now

WATCH

Goodnight,
Margaret

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). 

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

My rules for cooking

In fourth grade I invented the best food ever:

Shell pasta smothered in Chivo. 

For those of you who aren't familiar, Chivo—traditionally a baked potato topping—is a thick sour cream substitute flavored with chives. I think it's been discontinued.

The Chivo had a way of packing itself perfectly into every nook and cranny of the conchiglie, turning each bite into a dairy-free sour cream explosion.

It was groundbreaking gastronomy way before its time.

Image via CalorieCount.com

Since those days of early culinary experimentation, I've developed a slightly more sophisticated approach to cooking. But only slightly.

MARGARET'S RULES FOR COOKING:

• Season every component of the dish individually before combining them

• Keep everything PIPING HOT

• Chop things up really small

• Don't skimp on the onions

• Grind some black pepper over everything

I would also recommend that you keep a pizza (Freschetta if you're in the US, ChicagoTown if you're in the UK) in the freezer at all times just in case. 

Goodnight,
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.

Urethra Franklin

Last night I got up in the middle of the night to go pee. As I was peeing, I had a brilliant blog idea. Knowing that I was still half asleep, I repeated the idea in my head five times to make sure I'd remember it in the morning. I even thought about going out into the living room and writing it down, but that was a bridge too far. I'd remember it. I'd just have to.

Image by Ben Mills via Wikimedia Commons

Flash forward to 1:30pm today.

"Wait a minute. Didn't I think of some genius blog post while peeing last night?" I said to myself. "What was it!!???!?"

I tried hard to remember for three full minutes before deciding that it must have been something nonsensical. I must have still been in a dream state when I thought of it. Oh well.

BUT THEN IT CAME TO ME. YES! The genius blog idea! I remembered it! Here it is:

• Thankfully, it seems that I'm back to vigorous, powerful pee streams. For a few months there, nothing but dribble. Something must have been up, health-wise. But no more! Urethra Franklin has her groove back!

Hmmm. 

I must say, it did seem a bit more groundbreaking at the time. 

Ciao, 

Margaret

P.S. What the heck am I meant to do with this? I asked for a green onion, not a seven-year-old tulip!

P.P.S. Penny for scale.

Food trend alert: store-bought PB&Js

I've noticed a new food trend since my move back to America. Store-bought PB&Js. They're everywhere. In the PCC deli. In Starbucks bento boxes. On the menu at your local sandwich joint.

What does this say about our society?

1. We're that lazy 
2. We think that nostalgia = good (seen across millennial culture, not just in the culinary world) 

But allow me to step down off my high llama for a second. I love this trend. Heck, I've been singing Uncrustables' praises for years now. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are delicious and, for those rare occasions when curried tempeh just won't cut it, I'm willing to pay $4 for one from PCC.

Image by Evan-Amos via Wikimedia Commons

Some more useful information relating to PB&Js:

• The first reference of peanut butter paired with jelly on bread to be published in the United States was by Julia Davis Chandler in 1901 in the Boston Cooking-School Magazine of Culinary Science and Domestic Economics. (via Wikipedia)

• Jam is made from crushed fruit, whereas jelly is made from fruit juice.

• The average American eats 1,500 PB&Js before the age of 18. (via Thrillist)

• April 2nd is National Peanut Butter and Jelly Day.

• Arachibutyrophobia is the fear of getting peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth.

I hope we all learned something here today. 

Goodbye,
Margaret

P.S. After its Emmy win, Andy and I decided to start watching 'Veep.' Our verdict? Hilarious. I recommend. 

Things I will NEVER do

• Pronounce poinsettia the correct way (point-set-EE-uh)

• Be able to pull off a jumpsuit :(

• Put my children on a leash

• Get a six-inch Subway sandwich 

• Download the Facebook mobile app

• Go bungee jumping

• Think highly of white chocolate

• Say no to a back massage

• Get on someone's shoulders in the swimming pool and do a "chicken fight"

• Pinch a person for not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day, which is a cruel tradition that exists only in America

Image by antisocialtory via Flickr

Grandma Martha and I promised ourselves we'd try to stay awake until 9pm. It's 7:43pm now. I doubt we'll make it. She's in her room watching "The Proposal" starring Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds. I'm at the kitchen table, typing this blog post and nibbling on some Trader Joe's olive oil popcorn. And by nibbling, I mean shoving in my face by the handful. Now that's something I'll never do—nibble popcorn one kernel at a time. Life's too short to eat popcorn one kernel at a time. 

Love ya, 

Margaret

Pumpkin Spice – Disgusting or Nice?

Char and I went through the Starbucks drive-through this afternoon. We'd both had late night + early morning and we were dragging.

As we pulled up to the speaker, I spotted an advertisement for the seasonal Pumpkin Spice Latte out of the corner of my eye. I did a double-take. It's been years since I've had flavored syrup in my coffee, but I suddenly had the urge to partake.

Call it nostalgia, my afternoon sweet tooth or simply the thrill of the harvest—whatever the cause, I had visions of nutmeggy coffee dancing in my head. I'd forgotten all about my usual, modest 8-ounce latte and instead ordered a grande PSL. With whip? Yes, of course with whip.

• My first mistake – ordering a grande. Like a complete imbecile, I thought that grande is what comes after short. It's not. Grande comes after TALL. Tall is the size I was looking for. Instead, I received 16 mother-f-ing ounces of milky espresso. 

• My second mistake – ordering a Pumpkin Spice Latte. It's disgusting. The sugariness is jarring, but I suppose I could get over that. What's difficult to ignore is the way the pumpkin flavor clashes with the strong coffee flavor. It ends up tasting like sweet dirt. 

I'd hate to leave on a negative note, so here's some good news: my Halloween costume is sorted! I'd mentioned that I want to be a conehead, so my dear, sweet mother ordered me one on Amazon! She got one for Andy too. Bring on October 31st!

Headed to the 'couve tomorrow to hang out with my Grandma. Perhaps the two of us will record a video blog. 

Love ya, 

Margaret

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

Faux pas

I'm no Joe Biden, but I have made a handful of gaffes in my time here on earth. Here are my top three:


1. While working at Pagliacci Pizza in high school, I carded an 82-year-old man. He took slow, tiny steps up to the counter using a walker and ordered a small pizza with a glass of the house red. I asked him for his ID. He chuckled and said he was flattered. I asked again. He said, "Do you know something, I'm 82!" I asked again. He walked back out to the parking lot to get his license out of the glove compartment.

Don't blame me, blame the liquor control board and my boss, who told me I had to card everyone. I was just following directions.


2. I was interviewing a customer for a testimonial on a client's website and began the phone call with "Hi, I'm great—I mean, I'm Margaret!" Nerves. They're real and they're a bloody nuisance.


3. When I was working at the Ultimate Bagel, a lady came in and ordered a coffee. I turned around, looked at the three thermoses (thermi?), each with a different label, and asked her, "Would you like the Breakfast Blend, the Dark Roast or the Au jus?" Nobody told me that au jus is the stuff you dip French Dip sandwiches in. How was I supposed to know?

Au jus? Last time I checked, this was America. Let's just call it beefy dipping broth.

Image by Vranak via Wikimedia Commons

Goodbye,
Margaret

P.S. The UnREAL finale? So good. So jam-packed with drama. So many hilarious one-liners. So many twists and turns. I loved it.

17 July 2015 blog

I wish I could write a long, hilarious blog post full of delightful sentence fragments and sentences beginning with "and" and "but" (typical Madgespace). But I can't. Instead, I have an 'almost live' video for you, the diehards, to watch. It's about my drive home to Kenmore from Fremont. Enjoy!

What globalization taught us about Goldfish crackers

When Andy ate his first Goldfish cracker he nibbled on it for a while and then said, "Hmm. Tastes like celery."

I was like, "What? Celery!? You're insane."

Then I looked at the ingredients and there it was: celery salt.

Sometimes it takes a foreigner to point out the stuff you've been missing all your life. When I first met Andy, he was in favor of the monarchy, for Christ's sake! I explained to him that having a Queen, ceremonial as she may be, is a joke in this day and age. He thought about it, engaged with that new idea for a few minutes, and then updated his opinion on the matter.

One time he pointed out to me that I say "I feel like" at the end of my sentences. For example, "You really don't see as many frappuccinos these days I feel like". Now that he's pointed it out, I notice everyone doing it. It's a Pacific Northwest thing I feel like.

Is it time we start allowing babies in bars? 

Anyway, all this is to say that mingling with outsiders—dirty foreigners like Andy—is a good thing. We can learn a lot from one another if we look beyond our borders. Brits can teach us good pub etiquette, particularly when it comes to buying 'rounds'. We can teach them that you don't have to spend ten minutes building up to a goodbye and then ten more minutes actually saying goodbye.

You know what the Japanese can teach us? How to install a bloody earthquake alert system in Seattle!!

I don't know what Donald Trump is on about. We don't need less immigration, we need more. Much, much more.

Wow, I didn't expect it to get political there in the end. Did you see that coming? You just never know where Madgespace will take you, particularly when you're writing stream of consciousness, which is about 89% of this blog.

Tally-ho you knobheads,
Margaret

When's the last time you cleaned your fridge?

Only 18 days until I move out of Kenmore and into an apartment in West Seattle. You know what that means. In less than three weeks, I'll have a refrigerator all to myself! Mine, mine, mine! Mine to clean. Mine to organize. Mine to gaze into longingly. I can't wait!

When it comes to refrigerators, I go full Yolanda. Clean as a whistle and organized within an inch of its egg tray. Actually, I blame MTV Cribs. I remember watching it as a young teenager in a household of seven and dreaming of having a fridge like Tony Hawk or Linda Hogan when I grew up. Full of pop and Capri-suns and pre-sliced cheese.

Here's my fridge ethos:

• Take all individually-packed items out of their communal package (e.g. take pop out of the cardboard box)

• Only one ketchup at a time. Stick to four mustards max: French's, sweet hot, dijon, stoneground.

• When in doubt, throw it out! (credit: Stephanie Janicki)

Image by Tweek via Wikimedia Commons

This evening I threw out an entire QFC bag's worth of rotten food. Mouldy hummus. Lasagna from two weeks ago. Black beans that smelled like cat urine. It's nobody's fault; it's just the natural consequence of living in a household of more than two people. You simply can't control the fridge situation.

These precious years of pre-kids adulthood are my only chance to enjoy a clean, tidy fridge before the situation spirals yet again. Here's to making the most of them starting August 1st!

Love,
Margaret

P.S. I couldn't find a good place for this sentence, but it seemed a shame to throw it out: 'I like my refrigerators like I like my men—tall, orderly and complicit in my weight gain.'

Don't think about these things too much

Let's face it, things are a bit dull at the moment. When the top headline is about how JK Rowling hit back at a Twitter troll for 'body-shaming' Serena Williams, you know it's a slow news day.

Where's Rachel Dolezal when you need her?

Anyway, the lack of enticing news stories forced me to get creative with tonight's blog (and I reserve the right to be resentful about it). Instead of forcing you to come to terms with cold hard truths, I'm giving you permission to ignore some of life's most uncomfortable realities.

Here it goes. Don't think about the following things too much:

• Eggs

• Milk

• 'Microscopic mites' that live on your face

• Kissing

• Sleeping

• Your tongue

• Your impending death 

Slurrrrp!

Image by jefras via Wikimedia Commons

Monday tomorrow! Ruh-oh! Back to the grind! Do you have a coping strategy? Might I suggest a 3pm Kit-Kat break? Buy it at lunch, put it in the fridge and then wait patiently until the clock strikes three. When it's Kit-Kat time, put your headphones in, listen to the Lark Ascending and daydream as you take tiny, squirrel-like nibbles. Repeat with as many Kit-Kats as necessary or until 4pm.

Love,
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.

Keep it simple

A grilled cheese is made of three ingredients: butter, white bread and American cheese. That's it. That's the way it is and always should be. Forget your aged cheddars and artisan rosemary loafs. A grilled cheese, like many of life's little delights, is a dish best served basic.

Yes, this plastic cheese is gross. But for some reason it just works in a grilled cheese. Grilled cheeses are its only reason for existence, and it's important we respect that.

Image by JeepersMedia via Flickr

Other items that fall into the 'keep it simple' category include:

• Mugs. I'm sick of the giant oval ones. Just give me a thick, white, slightly concave cup like the ones you'd see in a diner. 

• Pizza. Enough with the broccoli for Christ's sake. And no slimy roasted zucchini either. Barbecue sauce? Get out. Get out of my house immediately. 

• Eyebrows. Don't do too much to those guys, or else they'll turn on you and you'll never be able to get them back. If in doubt, just neglect them.

• Jeans. A few small rips is OK, but avoid the ones with bleached-in crease marks and fake paint splatter everywhere. 

• Email font. Are you one of those people who's changed their default email font to something "fun" like Bradley Hand in turquoise or Papyrus in a vibrant fuchsia? Yeah. We're all judging you.

Cheers, 

Margaret

Marry/Shag/Kill—Bartells, Walgreens, Rite Aid

Only 20 minutes to write this post. Gotta love a deadline.

Since I'm drawing a blank, I'll stick with an ol' classic: what I did today.

First, Andy, my mom and I went to see the movie 'The Wolfpack'. It's a documentary about a bunch of kids who weren't allowed to leave their NYC apartment for their entire childhood. They learned everything they know about the world by watching movies. The film is heartbreaking, but bizarrely funny and even uplifting at times. Mostly, it's fascinating. I highly recommend it.

Then, this evening, my sibs and I, together with our significant others, went out to dinner at Ray's in Ballard. We sat on the back patio and looked out over the Puget Sound. The gals sat at one table, the guys at another. We played the game where we all had to guess what our other-halves ordered. The winning pair was Char and William, who accurately guessed salmon tacos (Char) and steak (William).

On the ride home I asked Char, "Marry / Shag / Kill — Bartells, Walgreens and Rite Aid." She chose to marry Bartells, kill Rite Aid and you-know-what with Walgreens. I'd do the same.

Now it's time for bed. I'm still very full, so I'll have to sleep on my back.

Goodnight and good luck,

Margaret

Long day

Literally! The second longest of the year! (or is that the 22nd)

Despite all these hours of daylight, I can't bring myself to write a proper blog post. What can I say? No, really. What can I say? I have ZERO ideas. 

This is the best I can do:

Thought #1: 

I can't stand when people call Baskin-Robbins "31 flavors". Yes, it has 31 flavors, but that's NOT its name.

Thought #2: 

People in Seattle are obsessed with tasting, perusing, comparing, recommending and generally waffling on about LOCAL CRAFT BEERS. I knew it was a thing, but gee whiz, I underestimated the extent to which it's a thing. If I want to fit in, I'm going to have to get wise and reacquaint myself with the disgusting delicious taste of beer. 

Thought #3: 

People in Seattle are obsessed with cornhole, the game where you throw a bean bag into a hole in a piece of tilted wood. 

Thought #4: 

Have raspberries always been this good? They are UNBELIEVABLE. 

Image by Muffet via Wikimedia Commons

Goodnight,
Margaret