Hey peers, we're bad at socializing now.

I've noticed something. Us late-20-somethings, we're bad at socializing now. We were so good at it back in college! We were ice-breaker experts. Conversation flowed like Biggie's rhymes. First-time acquaintances became instant friends. Everyone was awesome. Every night ended in multiple Facebook friend requests.

Things are tougher nowadays. The chat is sluggish. People already have enough friends. It's been a long week. They're sleepy. They have to get up early the next day. Etcetera, etcetera.

In fact, I've determined that our declining social skills boil down to five reasons:

1. We're out of practice
This is the most obvious reason. We're simply out of practice. Busier schedules and longer commutes have resulted in far fewer social gatherings than the college years. We've lost our mojo.

2. We have fewer common touch-points
There used to be so much to talk about. "Did you see those guys who made the giant slip 'n slide out in the courtyard earlier?" "Yep!" "Did you hear that those two broke up?" "Yes, can you believe it?" "Did you go out last night?" "Yeah, we were at the 80s party."

That's the way it used to be! Conversations were like an improv show. We 'yes-anded' the night away. When you live within a one-mile radius of everyone at the gathering, you have more things in common. There's more to talk about. Thus, talking to people is easier.

3. We know 'work' is a lame topic, but it's 80% of our lives now
People don't want to talk about work, and I hate asking them about it. But after a few awkward pauses I'm forced to jump in with, "So how's work going?" We're all a bit depressed it's come to that, but also relieved that the pause is over.

(I've heard the same is true of people with kids not wanting to talk about kids all the time but resorting to it eventually because it's all they have.)

4. We just don't care as much
This is a huge problem. I'm guilty of this more than any of the other reasons in this list. I JUST DON'T CARE. I can't feign interest like I used to.

5. One bad apple spoils the whole bunch
One of the reasons social gatherings feel more difficult, even for us schmucks who still try to make an effort, is that the really terrible people—'conversational handbrakes' as Andy calls them—simply limit the possibilities for everyone. It's like what Top Chef Head Judge Tom Colicchio says about seasoning: if you combine a perfectly seasoned ingredient with a bland ingredient, the net result is bland. Even the finest raconteur can't save a party full of duds.

LOVE,
Margaret

P.S. I'm the best!

Spotlight on the searchlight

Spotlights, or 'searchlights' as Google informs me is the more common terminology, have baffled me my whole life. You'll be driving around at night and there one is—a giant beam, gyrating across the night sky.

Where is it coming from? Probably a car dealership.

Is it effective? When people see one, do they stop everything, pull off the nearest exit and weave through the city streets until they find the source? Upon arriving at the car dealership, do they shuffle like zombies to the front entrance chanting 'must buy car, must buy car' and knock on the door of the dark office until the secretary arrives in the morning?

Thomas Edison with his searchlight cart.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

As the co-founder of a marketing agency, I naturally wonder about return on investment. Do searchlights bring in enough custom to cover the rental and electricity costs? Do dealerships measure this in anyway? Do they ask customers to fill in a brief survey on how they heard about the dealership: word of mouth, Google, newspaper ad, leaflet or searchlight?

Do you need a permit to operate a searchlight? That, I think I can answer. Please refer to Section B, Paragraph B of your Seattle Sign Regulation Handbook.

B. In addition to the signs described in subsection A of this section above, commercial or noncommercial messages may be displayed for a total of four (4) fourteen (14) consecutive day periods a calendar year; these additional four (4) periods are the maximum, whether the message is the same message or a different message. These messages may be displayed on banners, streamers, strings of pennants, fabric signs, festoons of lights, flags, wind-animated objects, rigid signs, balloons, searchlights, portable signs attached to vehicles, or devices of a carnival nature, and shall be allowed as temporary signs in all zones. 

Looks like you're free to use one, as long as it's only for 14 days at a time, a maximum of four times a year.

Lots to think about.

Sweet dreams,
Marge

P.S. Low fat yogurt can burn in Hell.

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

Scary stuff

Today I nearly shat myself during a 10-mile run. And no, it wasn't the typical runner's dilemma (coffee + exercise = big D). It was because of a giant spider hanging off a fence. The thing was HUGE. Seriously. The size of a large couch pillow. I'm not kidding. Bigger than a chihuahua, with fangs, red eyes and long brown hair hanging off its eight double-jointed legs.

It was, of course, a Halloween decoration.

Still, that didn't stop me from yelping and nearly soiling my already disgusting running shorts (note to self: wash those soon).

OTHER STUFF

• Today was relaxing. I did the thing where you submerge in the bath, listen to the ambient water noise and feel your hair fan out. 

• Andy and I think it'd be funny if we drive all the Car2Gos in West Seattle to the same location, so it looks like they're having a party. It'd be an expensive project, but worth it for art's sake. 

• About to finish the second season of Broad City. I'm a fan. Kind of makes me want to live in New York, but that ship has already sailed considering I'm an old lady who's returned to Seattle to live, breed, work and die. 

• Someone walked by our window just as I was posing for this:

Whoops

Now, go take on the day. (Remember that? Where mah Dr. Laura fans at?)

Margaret

P.S. Wait, did I bury the lead? Yes, I went for a 10 MILE RUN. Hence, the pizza.

P.P.S. As if my pizza consumption is linked to my exercise levels. You know me better than that.

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

Animal husbandry

I'm obsessed with the term 'animal husbandry'. I don't know what it means, but I've always just loved the sound of it. Animal husbandry. Husbandry. Animal husbandry. You've got to admit, it has a ring to it.

This isn't the first time I've become obsessed with a word or phrase solely for its mellifluousness. (Now that's a word. Mellifluousness! Look it up.) I've also been stuck on 'candelabra' and 'formaldehyde' at various times in my life.

In addition to the way the word sounds, the way it causes me to stretch my jaw is another big appeal. 'Formaldehyde' is the perfect example of this. Going from the "or" sound—lips puckered like an anteater snout—to the "al" sound—teeth bared like a grinning hyena—just feels so good. With only one word, you get a really satisfying jaw stretch. FOR-MAL-DE-HYDE. Try it. FOR-MAL-DE-HYDE. Feels good, right? If you repeat it enough, it's the same as facial isometrics.

I've also been chanting 'animal husbandry' in my head all day because Andy, my husbandry, is arriving in Seattle tomorrow! The wait is over. In less than 24 hours, we'll be drinking tea, listening to a summer playlist and watching the sunset from our living room window. Oh, to be a smug couple again...I can't wait!

Speaking of Andy—I'm sure you've already heard the news by now—his cricket team, Woodcutters CC, won the ESCA Cricket Presidents Plate Final today! Congrats, Woodies!

Photo and video via the Woodcutters CC Facebook page

Sooooooooooo tired right now. Goodnight!

Margaret

But what does it all mean?

My sister Anna sings 'I See the Moon' to her three-year-old, Ollie, every night before bed. Just recently he's started singing along with her. Yesterday, as she began the second verse ("I had a heart forever true, but it left me and went to you..."), she noticed his voice breaking. She looked down and there he was—half singing, half sucking his thumb—with big tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Ollie, what's wrong?" she asks.

"Uhhh....my eye hurts!" he says, then bursts into full on sobs.

Flash forward to today and the same thing happens again. It's the melody. The lyrics. The sentiment. It's all too much!

People don't think kids are capable of deep thoughts, but they're actually more likely to have an existential crisis than us grown-ups. It's worse for kids, too. They experience feelings, but they can't explain why they feel that way. 99% of the time they're the most happy-go-lucky, live-in-the-present people in the world. Then, 1% of the time, the overwhelming reality of life suddenly hits them like a ton of legos.

Ollie's lullaby tears aren't surprising. When Anna was the same age, she would sob whenever 'Everytime You Go Away' came on the radio. My mom reckons it's because she took the lyrics literally ("you take a piece of me with you" — like, literally, an arm or a finger or an ear). Maybe the same is true of Ollie ("I had a heart forever true, but it left me and went to you...").

I don't know. I think it's possible that, on some level, he just gets it.

"Everytime you go away, you take a piece of me with you" - Paul Young

Tomorrow I might blog about how much I like this Donald Trump stuff. I'm pretty sure he is a secret genius. His strategy: say the wrong thing all the time. Just when people think you've outdone yourself, outdo yourself again. And it's working! His approval rating is soaring. Maybe it's a reverse psychology thing? I can't explain it. He must be smarter than all of us.

See ya,
Margaret

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

Down with education!

My sister Francie is anti-education.

OK, that's not fair. But she did bring up a great point yesterday: everything aimed at kids now gets the 'educational' label and it's exhausting! She was reading a flyer for a summer 'preschool' program aimed at two-year-olds (which, let's call a spade a spade, is just daycare) and each week had a different educational theme. Only on the final week—"camp" week—was the there any hint of actual fun.

Sure, kids need to learn. But they, like all of us, deserve a break once in a while. They can handle a bit of entertainment for entertainment's sake. I mean, imagine being forced to watch only the History channel or National Geographic and never any Bravo or E! shows. Only Civil War or marine mammal abuse documentaries, no Real Housewives or Kardashians. You, like Tilikum himself, would go crazy!

So let the kids have fun! Let them climb trees. Let them build crappy sandcastles and don't butt in to discuss better sand-packing techniques. Let them jump in a disgusting McDonalds ball-pit and risk coming out covered in another kid's poop like what happened to my cousin Ellen back in the day.

And let them figure things out on their own. If they have a question, they'll ask it. Trust me.

Image by Karl E. Jorgensen via Wikimedia Commons

When they're older, take them to Wild Waves or the Puyallup Fair or an IMAX movie.

Adios,
Margaret

P.S. If you do go to Wild Waves, maybe avoid the wave pool. That thing scares me.

What do I have to gain?

What do I have to gain from...



...forgetting to eat breakfast and then, at noon, scarfing three 'Nuts Over Chocolate' Luna bars in three minutes.



...lying in bed in agony, bladder about to burst, yet refusing get up and walk to the bathroom.



...staying up hours past the point when I should have gone to sleep, allowing myself to get a second, third, fourth and even fifth wind, before finally collapsing on my laptop.



...continuing to sit on the couch long after all the natural light has left the room, avoiding the three-step walk over to the light switch.

Image by capl@washjeff.edu

...continuing to pick my nose even though years of nonstop picking has stretched my nostrils into gaping, quarter-sized holes.



...WebMD-ing "throbbing vein behind knee".




Goodnight,
Margaret

People are complex

Today I found out that my sister, Anna Gorohoff, uses the 'Mail' application on her Macbook. You know, the thing that automatically opens when you accidentally click on an email address link.

This thing:

In all my years, I have never met anyone who actually uses that thing. I was SHOCKED. But to each her own. If you want to use the Mac Mail application, as Miley would say, only God can judge you. 

Let Anna's choice of email programs be a reminder to us all: people are complex. Just when you think you know everything there is to know about someone, they'll surprise you with a controversial opinion, unexpected anecdote or bizarre hobby that seems totally out of character. 

Examples:

• My mom is a pretty good harmonica player
• Bradley Cooper is fluent in French
• I don't like watermelon
• Elsie, my 1-year-old niece, totally gets 'Duck Duck Goose'
• Ke$ha has an IQ of 140
• Martin Luther King Jr. was a big Star Trek fan
• My brother Max was a late whistler—didn't learn how to whistle until high school

Tomorrow afternoon I'm going to write, write, WRITE a whole bunch of blogs to schedule for the next six days. My long-distance spouse is coming to town and I don't want to be up at 11:55 furiously blogging about the most tedious and mundane topics imaginable. Like email applications, for example. 

Good luck to you all on your Tuesdays tomorrow. It may not be one of the best days of the week, but at least it's not a dreaded Sunday evening! 

Cheerio, 

Margaret

The dos and don'ts of life

DON'T trim your nose hair bare. You'll get sick. It happened to Andy after I bought him an electric trimmer. Turns out, those nose hairs are there for a reason.

DON'T squirt lighter fluid onto charcoal without any eye protection. Bye bye, eyelashes.

DON'T sign up to be an altar girl just because they're having a pizza party for new recruits.

DON'T skip meals.

DON'T pierce your own ears. They'll be lopsided and it'll cause scar tissue.

DON'T put anything you really like in the dryer.

DON'T eat nothing but salad and bran cereal for months hoping that it will cure constipation. It will only make things worse. Imagine piles of twigs and leaves building up behind a river dam.

DON'T use Sun-In if you're a brunette.

DON'T eat chocolate-covered raisins out of a communal container whilst in a hot tub.



DO stay up late watching TV on a weeknight, even though you'll be tired the next day.

DO cry when you stub your toe.

DO read page-turners.

DO try to get out of the house at least once a day.

DO swirl the water with a spoon before you crack the eggs into the pan (when making poached eggs).

DO sleep with your head at the other end of the bed a few nights a month. Just to keep things spicy.

DO make a point to acknowledge and say 'thank you' to your waiter / bartender as you're leaving (Brits taught me this, and it's a good one).

DO give away all your purses and just put your debit card in your pocket.

DO the Puyallup

TTFN,
Margaret

Shirt labels these days...

Something's up with them.

My mom says they never used to be so fat and so long. Also, there didn't used to be so many.

"Now there's like five on every shirt," she says.

Anna has a sheer blouse with a giant label that's visible through the fabric. She fears cutting it would make the situation worse.

Francie agrees. "You could cut it, but the nubbin might look even weirder."

"And sometimes the nubbin itches more than the full label," my mom says. She reiterates to us that big labels are a new thing. "It didn't used to be like this!"

Maybe gratuitous shirt labels are due to new regulations? Must all retailers, by law, disclose a laundry list (n.p.i.) of washing instructions?

No, that can't be.

"What about label-less t-shirts?" Anna says. "That's also a thing now. So, it can't be due to any sort of law."

Image by jdbradway via Flickr

Whatever the reason, we all agree it needs to stop.


Yours,

Margaret

P.S. Kim Richards of RHOBH was arrested for being drunk/disorderly/kicking a cop. It was only a matter of time. Let's hope this will be a catalyst for her getting the help she needs! Of course, we're all wondering, what does Brandi think? Where was Brandi during all this? Did she call Brandi? Will Brandi defend her? Et cetera, et cetera.

Life milestone: getting rear-ended

I got rear-ended today! Driving my Dad's truck, yielding at a yield sign, when—BAM.

"Call Me Maybe" was on the radio, which made the whole thing even more startling. You just don't expect to be rear-ended while listening to Carly Rae Jepsen.

Until today, I'd never been in a car accident when I was the one driving. I haven't even been pulled over by a cop before. So this was exciting. A major life milestone.

My first thought after being hit was: Oh my god. Who is it that's always in the wrong in a rear-end collision? I know it's always one of the people. Which person is it!?!

Then I remembered, with about 65% confidence, that it's always the person who does the rear-ending. I regained my composure and pulled over to the side of the road.

HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHA.

"Hiiiii" I said to the lady/man (wasn't sure at first). Her/his white Nisson Sentra looked like it was just about to sneeze, nose all scrunched up, ahh ahhh ahhh—but no final "achoo". A permanent state of sneezy nose tickle.

"You okay?" he/she asked. Still not 100% clear from the voice, but I was leaning toward woman.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You?"

"Yeah."

"Welllll....since you rear-ended me, I think that means it's your fault?"

I held my breath.

"Yeah, that's right."

Ah, thank goodness. I had remembered correctly. Also, there was no damage to my Dad's truck. This was the best rear-ending I could have asked for. We exchanged insurance information just in case. She (definitely, after a closer look) drove away in her crumpled car and that was the end of that.

Sincerely,

Whiplashed In Kenmore

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

The official 'You Know You've Made It' checklist

Where were you when you first heard your band's song playing on the radio?

I was in a malt shop just outside of Tucson. I still remember the waitress tapping her toes on the linoleum.

OK, I kid. But how about metaphorically speaking? When did you know you'd 'made it'?




I actually haven't 'made it' yet. There are still a few milestones I need to reach.

But here's the official criteria:

• You buy name-brand laundry detergent (e.g Tide). Bonus points for fabric softener.

• You sleep on a mattress that you bought yourself.

• People stop to ask you for directions because you look smart, friendly and respectable.

• In negotiations, you say "no" with the genuine intention of walking away from the deal.

• You own multiple blouses. 

• You listen to multiple podcasts.

• You enjoy multiple Thai dishes (not just Pad Thai). 

• You booked your next haircut appointment whilst paying for your last one.

• Matching socks. Every day. Even on weekends. 

• There are at least four champagne flutes somewhere in your home right now.

I'm about 65% there. I've got the blouses, but not the mattress. It's good to have goals. 

I asked Andy what he would add to the list and he said "you make money from other people's work". That's a good one, but it didn't match the quirkiness level of the others, so I left it off. 

I Google Image searched 'smug' and this smug man appeared.

Image by Stefanie Schwartz via Wikimedia Commons

What about you? Have you 'made it'?

Cheers,
Margaret

Take a risk

Your entire childhood is about reducing risks.

There are two simple goals:

1. Stay alive (aka wear a bike helmet)
2. Get into college (aka do your homework)

Those, I'm fairly comfortable with. Yet, even after the uni years, the warnings continue. People are constantly bombarding you with foreboding words of wisdom.

"Don't walk places at night" 
(or else you'll get murdered!)

"Get an internship" 
(or else you'll never get a job!)

"Establish good credit" 
(or else you'll never buy a house!)

"Get on the property ladder" 
(or else you'll throw all your money down the drain by renting!)

"Start at the bottom and gradually work your way to the top" 
(or else you'll make entry-level wages the rest of your life!)

They have good intensions. And safety is important. So are education and hard work. BUT nobody talks about the positive, practical implications of risk taking. The irony is, being too risk averse is RISKY! It could mean living a boring, unfulfilled life. And what could be worse than that?

Making dynamic decisions is how we discover what makes us happy. Why isn't there at least an equal focus on the benefits of risk taking? Why don't we hear more things like:

"Nobody dies regretting that they travelled to too many places"
(so hit the open road!)

"You'll never know unless you try"
(so give it a go!)

"The most dangerous strategy is to jump a chasm in two leaps"*
(so no half measures!)

"Even when times seem tough, remember that everything tends to work out"
(so worry less!)

OK, it's all a bit hokey and easier said than done. But imagine if we lived in a society where these messages were embedded into the culture rather than reduced to motivational Pinterest fodder. Imagine if we really believed them, if we took them to heart, if our lives weren't ruled by trivial fears.

Nope, not relevant. Just happened to appear in the Google Image search for 'risk taking'.
If it's hot water, the risk paid off. If it's cold water, at least it's a good story!

Image via Wikimedia Commons

My New Year's resolution (yeah, it's the 10th of February. So what?) is not to agonise over decisions. I'm going to weigh potential risks far less heavily than potential gains.

Now, for my first risk of the evening: staying here in bed even though I have to pee really, really bad.

Cheers,
Margaret

*Credit: Benjamin Disraeli and Andy Williamson

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

10 Easy Ways to Improve Your Life

On the hunt for a decent blog topic, I decided to look though my old 'drafts' folder. It contains all the half-written posts my first-world lethargic arse never got around to finish writing. In one of these unfinished posts, I had the nerve to offer life advice! Oh the irony.

Found this gem in my iPhoto library. Have you ever seen anyone so carefree? Please take note of the waterproof footwear.

It looks like '10 Easy Ways to Improve Your Life' was just a bit too ambitious the first time around. I only managed to come up with four. Here they are:

1. Drink all beverages out of a wine glass. Add ice when applicable.

2. Buy nice hand soap that smells incredible.

3. Add butter and a stock cube to couscous when you cook it.

4. Throw stuff away! Don't be a hoarder.

Now, months later, I've mustered up the remaining six.

5. Turn email alert sounds off on your phone/tablet. You check your email often enough anyway. Alert sounds create a false sense of urgency.

6. Keep spools of dental floss everywhere - in your car, desk drawer, bedside table, purse, couch cushion, etc. You never know when you might need it.

7. Buy waterproof footwear (my Mom's #1 piece of advice).

8. Have two types of deodorants on the go at the same time. Switch between them daily. This will stop your pits from getting immune (not science, just a hunch of mine).

9. Read! Force yourself to open a book and read a few pages before bed (even if it's a dystopian sci-fi aimed at teenagers, or the work of your favourite Real Housewife).

10. Do something creative every now and then. Make a homemade greeting card, Mod Podge a piece of IKEA furniture, do a photo scrapbook on Snapfish, decorate a cake, shave a cat. OK, maybe not the last one.

There you have it. You've just been life coached. You may as well call me Gwyneth!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to read Brandi Glanville's memoir.

Cheers,
Margaret

5 lessons my Grandpa taught me

My Grandpa died last week at the age of 94. It simply won't be the same without him. Helping to fill the void, however, are the many life lessons he passed on to me and everyone he met. Here are just five of my favourites:

1) Have a signature dance move

  

There are a number of reasons why it’s a good idea to have a specific dance move you can call your own. Firstly, it helps eliminate any dance floor anxiety. You already know what you’re going to do - you’re prepared. Secondly, it reduces the chance of you unknowingly falling into step with the folks around you. There’s nothing worse than dancing in a group and then realizing you’re copying the moves of the person next to you. That’s exactly the opposite of being cool. A third reason is that you might - if you’re lucky - have that dance move named after you.

My Grandpa’s soft-shoe shuffle is known amongst the cousins as ‘the Grandpa dance’. I don’t plan to ever call it anything else. It will be passed down through the generations as ‘the Grandpa dance’ - and what a fun legacy to leave behind.

2) Eat a healthy breakfast

The concept of breakfast has been lost on my generation. Sipping a latte and scarfing a banana on the way to work - we should be ashamed. Something I admired about my Grandpa (and my Grandma too) was his commitment to breakfast. Real breakfast. Eggs and toast, or sometimes oatmeal. Pair that with some OJ, a coffee and the newspaper of your choice, and you can’t get a better start to the day.

Living to the age of 94 was most likely due to a combination of good genes and an incredible attitude, but if I had to pinpoint a specific secret to his long, happy life, I would say it was breakfast.

3) Be able to recite something from memory

Memorize something. Anything! Just pick some interesting words and commit them to memory - a poem, a historic speech, a passage from a book, a scene from a movie - it doesn’t really matter. It’s just a good idea to have a lovely kernel of spoken word entertainment for those nights when the power goes out, or if you find yourself around a campfire.

When the moment called for it, my Grandpa had a particularly brilliant poem at the ready. It was about a man name Archibald, and it was funny. His delivery was spot-on too. It can be difficult to transform a crowd of gabbing Paddens into a captive audience, but he never struggled to hold our attention. Ironically, I can’t remember anything else about the poem - just that it was about a guy named Archibald, and it was funny.

These are the things you wish you could ask him about just one more time. What was that poem? When did he memorize it? Why did he memorize it?

4) Talk to cashiers and waiters

And don’t back off when they seem: 1) embarrassed, 2) annoyed, 3) non-English-speaking 4) preoccupied 5) goth.

Anywhere we went - Safeway, Starbucks, a fancy Maui restaurant - he never failed to strike up a conversation (or at least attempt it) with the awkward teenager working there.

This isn’t just a heartwarming characteristic of a bygone era. As a former Ultimate Bagel employee, I know that senior citizens are just as capable of ignoring the girl behind the cash register as anyone else. This was a quality specific to him.

I never accompanied him across a toll bridge, but I have no doubt he would have attempted a conversation with the tollbooth attendant. No matter how many cars lined up behind him. Let them honk!

5) Work hard, enjoy yourself and be happy

Perhaps the best and most obvious trait of my Grandpa was happiness. He was genuinely happy. When my friends met him for the first time, this was always what they mentioned to me afterward.

And there was something very special about his happiness - something that made it feel stronger and more real than the more superficial joys we’re accustomed to in daily life. I think this is because it went hand-in-hand with pride and gratitude.

I took it for granted that he never complained. But now I realize just how rare a trait this is. Sure, he could rant about politics, baseball or bogus university degrees (mine - in journalism - was one of them). He had his principles and stuck to them. But he didn’t whine. He didn’t moan about the weather, or being tired or having to work in the morning. When I made him a GardenBurger - his first ever - all he said as he washed it down with a beer was 'It's interesting.'

He worked hard and built the life he wanted. He was grateful for his life, so he didn’t waste a second of it.

When he looked around the Thanksgiving table at his children, son-in-laws, daughter-in-laws, grandchildren and great grandchildren, he beamed with pride. He, together with my Grandma, have created a wonderful, loving family. If that’s not a reason to be happy, than what is?

It’s sad that he’s no longer with us. I’ll miss him a lot. But it seems only fitting that my overwhelming emotion be gratitude. I am incredibly grateful to have known my Grandpa, and to have known him for so long.  

Thank you, Grandpa, for teaching me so much.