A child is born

I miss blogging. I miss it as a creative outlet. I miss it as a historical record.

Mostly, I miss all the attention.

A lot has happened since my last post. A reality show host became president. Katy Perry got a pixie cut. I GAVE BIRTH to the delightful Martha Williamson. Anna got rhabdo from CrossFit. They called off the search for MH370. Max and Natalie had a baby! I gasped as a Nordstrom sales associate announced that my bra size is now a 34E.

So much to unpack. Let's start with the birth.

It sounds like I'm kidding when I say that I had no idea it would hurt so bad, but I genuinely had no idea it would hurt so bad. Somewhere in the back of my mind I faintly remembered hearing that labor was painful, but that didn't apply to me! I was going to get an epidural at the first whiff of a contraction. I would feel a bit crampy, b-line it for the hospital and order a milkshake as they stuck a giant, drug-filled needle into my back.

Lamaze classes? More like scaremongering propaganda sessions backed by Big Aromatherapy and their cronies in the natural childbirth lobby. No thanks! I didn't need to sit in a room with a bunch of other couples, fresh faced from their pregnancy photoshoots, and subject myself to their absurd anxieties.

Well. I get it now.

Sometimes, even if you meet the "criteria" (1-minute contractions, 5 minutes apart for more than an hour), you still can't get the epidural. Why? Your cervix is the size of a pea and won't budge. The hospital is full of other human mammals pushing out offspring. The hospital staff are assholes. Who knows? All I know is that I was turned away twice and in labor for two days. At one point I was splashing around in the bathtub like a wounded manatee, wailing like a banshee while Andy placed a slice of Freschetta atop my throbbing abdomen. But for the first time in my life, even pizza didn't help.

EXPECTATIONS

REALITY

Hollywood made me assume that pushing was the painful part of labor. It's not. At least not for me. The painful part is the CONTRACTIONS. "What do contractions feel like?" I've since Googled that on a few occasions and never found a satisfactory answer. The closest description I read was that it feels like bad cramps...except also with someone stabbing you repeatedly in the stomach.

Now too much time has passed to describe it accurately. I can't find the words. I can't access the memories. What everyone says is true: your body forces you to forget. It's a survival mechanism.

OK, that's probably good enough for now. I don't want to use up all my good material in the first blog post back.

Cheers,
Margaret


P.S. For the record, I stand by my decision to skip the childbirth classes. Nothing could have prepared me for the pain. And the other couples would have annoyed me. And the classes are long and would have cut into my last remaining childless weekends.

P.P.S. I did eventually get the epidural!

P.P.P.S. My reward for the pains of childbirth, your reward for having to look at the photo above of me in the bath:

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.

Are all the good personalized plates taken?

On the drive here, Clare and I spotted a couple of personalized license plates.

There was "8 NO D9", which I get, but feel like I need more context to appreciate. Mr. Driver, what aren't you denying? The fact that it's very difficult to cram a complete thought into seven characters?

Also, there was "FORWORD", which I assume is because "FORWARD" was taken. Or maybe it's supposed to be two words—for word. Either way, why?

In case you're wondering, it costs $84.75 to get a personalized license plate in Washington State. You can check which ones are available here. 

Let's see....

GSYLAMA - available!

BOWLCUT - available!

CANDLES - available!

I8PIZZA - available!

I think that answers my question. All the good personalized license plates are NOT taken. 

Image by Ryser915 via Wikimedia Commons

The blogs are short this weekend because 1) I'm in Spokane 2) It's the weekend and 3) I owe you nothing (NEVER forget that). 

Love ya,
Margaret

Meta

I'm babysitting for Char and William tonight, and you know what that means: pizza party for one!

As I sit here pressing the refresh button on Domnio's Order Tracker, I am desperately trying to think of something to blog about. And then it occurred to me, make the brainstorming process the blog itself! Genius! Two birds, one stone.

OK, my conversation with myself, as it just unfolded:

• Write about flu vaccines, and how you're going to get your first ever this year.

• Write about how, at least in some cases, refusing to engage with anxiety is the best way to overcome it. For example, instead of losing sleep over an important business meeting and telling everyone who asks that you're nervous about it, just don't talk about it or even allow yourself to think about it. Kick those negative thoughts sky high into another dimension. Every time the cause of your anxiety pops into your head, ignore it. Think of something else. Drink a glass of water. Distract yourself. Pretend the anxiety isn't happening. Lie to yourself! Is this terrible advice? 

• Write about how it's so hard to do anything when you're hungry.

• Write about how you can't think of what to write about. YES! That's it! You've definitely done this before, several times, but woops, too late, you're already writing. You're screenshotting the pizza tracker. We're doing this. Buckle up. 

Aaaaand there's the buzzer. Pizza's here! 

Until next time, 

Margaret

P.S. 

1) Scarf scarf scarf (my version of 'Nom nom nom', which I loathe)
2) I like jalepenos, but not in every dang bite.
3) Think of how many gallons of garlic dipping sauce Domino's must waste each year. 

We should be florists / Serial Ep 9 Review

Holy hell. It's 11:30pm. I'm sweating like a pig. My foot blisters are throbbing. I've got 30 minutes to write this thing. Here it goes.

I've just returned from a pre-nuptial gathering at Char's flat. She's getting married tomorrow. Her and Francie went to Sainsbury's, picked up a few bouquets of flowers, brought them back to the flat and we worked our magic on them. Magic none of us knew we had. But boy, did we turn those supermarket flowers into luxurious, boutique blossoms. As Nina Garcia would say, "They look expensive." The ultimate compliment. 

But really, you can't quite tell from the photo, but they look AMAZING. Turns out, it's not that hard. We may have missed our calling to run a flower shop. 'Margaret & Sisters Florist', we could have named it. I suppose it's not too late for a career change.

Gal talk!

I made the executive decision to keep the TV off during our bouquet-making session (shocking, I know). After all, what's the wedding eve night for if not a bit of gal talk! Here's what we covered:

• Dr. Oz turning out to be a quack (Francie didn't know)
• Birth canals. We reckon mine is large, judging by my wide hips (let's hope so!)
• Pizza, and how good it is (we split one, but wished we each had our own)
• The potential of HR departments, and the reality of HR departments (why they hafta be so ruuuude)

Serial Episode 9 Review

First, can you believe there's not going to be a new episode next week? I think I speak for all of us when I say: F-you, Thanksgiving. Waiting two weeks is going to feel like forever.

Anyhoo. For me, Serial episodes fall into one of two categories:

1) Evidence-based episodes. Lots of new tidbits to stew on (even though they never add up to anything)

- OR -

2) Narrative episodes. Not too many new facts, but a clear story arc that makes me ask: why is she choosing to say this now? Is she setting us up for a fall? What's her angle?

This week's episode falls under the second category. It was really interesting. Really, really sad. But it didn't leave me questioning the evidence (or lack there of). It left me wondering why Sarah would choose this time to present quite an Adnan-friendly episode, putting him back in our good graces after the Jay episode. Is she starting to slowly build up a clearer case for Adnan's innocence? Or is she getting us back on his side, only to blindside us with something damning next week? Or, could it really be true that she has no idea how the series will end? I can't believe that. I think she knows more than she's letting on.

OMG. FIVE MINUTES LEFT.

Gotta go.

- M

Troop Beverly Pizza / Best of Michael Kors

It's Diva Night at my flat, and we're ordering pizza! I keep singing 'Cookie Time' from Troop Beverly Hills to myself, but instead of saying 'cookie time', I'm saying 'PIZZA TIME'!!!! HAHAHAHAHHA




Oh man, Troop Beverly Hills is such a fantastic flick.

Reminds me, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is starting back up next week! I'm a bit worried that all their storylines have been played out, but you can always count on Brandi to bring the drama, and did you see that Kim's dog (speaking of played out storylines) bit Kyle's daughter? She had to get surgery and stay overnight at the hospital. I hope to dear god they were filming at the time, but I have a hunch that filming had wrapped already. Still, we'll hear about it at the reunion fo sho.

It's been a busy day of writing, and I have bit of a headache lingering around the ol' left eye (that's why they call me Grassy 'Left Eye' Llama), so I'm going to have to leave it at that.

As Dr. Laura would say: "Now, go take on the day!"

Love,
Margaret
__________________________________________________________________

OK, Diva Night is over now and gosh darn it if I don't feel a bit guilty about writing such a short post earlier. I'm going to make up for it by writing a bit more down here below my sign-off.

Three things:

1. The pizza was a hit!

2. We Googled 'Best of  Michael Kors Project Runway' and the video we found really delivered. Watch it and LOL until the cows come home.



3. I've been terrified to use my migraine medicine, because it's serious stuff and has tons of potential side effects. But tonight, when I felt the classic Friday night headache festering behind my left eye, I decided to bite the bullet at swallow the pill. Guess what? My headache went away. AND I'm still alive. Turns out, medicine works. I'm thrilled!

Goodbye again,

Margie

Pizza now, pizza tomorrow, pizza forever

OK, here we go again.

Day 3. Just 362 to go.

Reality is really starting to set in.

But let's not dwell on that! Time is a wastin' and I have a half-watched Mindy Project to get back to.

Today's topic: food! More specifically, pizza. If you know me at all, then you know how much I love the stuff. I've also been known to argue that pizza isn't that bad for you. Because it isn't! It's basically just tomatoes, cheese and bread. What's so bad about that?

Top tip: I like to sprinkle rocket, aka arugula aka rucola aka peppery greens on my pizza after it comes out of the oven! 

Top tip: I like to put my foot on the oven handle when posing for a photo next to my homemade pizzas!

It just seems like pizza gets a disproportionally bad rap. It might not be kale or roasted pumpkin seeds or acai berry (yikes, my health food references are so dated), but it's not a Krispy Kreme donut either. Yet, we—SOCIETY—have made pizza the villain.

Why am I so defensive? Because I'm going to have pizza tonight for the second night in a row. I made it last night with Andy, and Char's hosting a belated birthday 'za party for me this evening.

In the interest of balance and fairness, I will say that there's another side to the pizzathusiast lifestyle. A dark side. A greasy underworld. I've witnessed it first hand.

The year: 2007
The city: Spokane
The pizza joint: Eatza Pizza on Division Street

All you can eat pizza for just $5 each? Sounds too good to be true, we thought, as we pulled into the parking lot. Foreshadowing alert: it was. 

Fivers in our pockets and pizza on our minds, my friends and I headed into the no-frills family restaurant with high hopes. It actually felt like walking into the inside of a pizza. The velvety red carpet, the mozzarella-white curtains, the oily leather cushions in the curved bell pepper booths. It was like a pizza-themed ride at a budget amusement park. I had the sudden urge to blot my face with a napkin.

We approached the large buffet table. It ran almost the length of the restaurant, yet only three small pizzas lay before us. Enough for a couple slices each, without being rude to the other patrons. As the evening went on, we realised that this was a huge part of Eatza Pizza's business model. It was indeed 'all you can eat', but only if you had the time to sit around and wait for them to make the pizza, one scrawny pie at a time.

Back in our booth, we dined. Spongey crust, bland cheese and ketchupy sauce, but all in all, it was OK. The pizza was OK. 

Then, a pajama-clad lady in a reclining wheelchair was rolled into the restaurant by her carer. I had watched shows about obesity on TLC, but she was the largest person I'd seen in real life. She instructed her chauffeur to wheel her to the buffet, where she picked up an entire pizza and ate it on the spot. It was incredibly sad. 

It was also disgusting. 

But I knew that, if I let myself love pizza the way I knew I could, that would be me some day. We're all just a few bad months away from eating ourselves into an enormous pizza-shaped grave. 

Yelp tells me that Eatza Pizza is now closed. That's probably for the best. But I will be forever grateful for what that place taught me about the highs and lows of pizza eating, and the value of moderation.

A sign and an empty lot — all that remains of Eatza Pizza on Google Street View.

So, there you have it. Pizza, like all controversial subjects, is much more complex than the mainstream media makes it out to be. That's why you have Madgespace—voted top alternative news source by people who read—to turn to for the real truth.

Love ya,
Margaret "Pizza" Kay

P.S. Pizza

P.P.S. Just one more thing

Questions I Don't Want to Know the Answer To

Here are some questions I've asked myself recently. I quickly realised I actually don't want to know the answers to them. 

How often should you buy a new bra?

Is streaming a TV show better/less illegal than downloading it?

How many calories are in a Chicago Town pizza?

What does my hair look like in the back when I wear it down? (I just gave myself another home cut)

How often should you wash a bra?

Where are these little fruit flies in my flat coming from?

Should I be taking Vitamin D supplements?

In other news, I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of my business cards. Of course I just used an online, build-your-own business card website - so who knows how they'll turn out. Hopefully they'll look something like the image on the Wikipedia page for 'Business card'.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

I actually bet you there's a hipster out there whose business card looks identical to this.

Anyhoo, life as a freelancer = a delight. You might as well call me the Beyonce of content marketing, because my solo career is taking off!!! HAHAHHAHAHAHHA. Still got it.

But really, it's going as good, if not a wee bit better, than I could have expected. Although I now understand why Andy, who also works from home, despises bagpipes with a fiery passion. It's amazing how it only takes about 7 consecutive plays of 'Amazing Grace' before the guilt of ever having enjoyed the croaking instrument starts to set in.

Landsakes! I am ravenous! Time to cook up that most delicious and convenient of dinners, PASTA! 

Love, 

Margaret

P.S. I have another niece! Little Corina joined our giant family on Saturday. Congrats to Francie, Bobby and Keeley on the new arrival. For pics, check out my sister Anna's blog. 

P.P.S. For most of my life, including well into adulthood, I referred to all pasta dishes (apart from lasagna) as 'spaghetti.' I did not know that spaghetti only refers to a particular noodle. Oh yeah, I also will say 'noodles' when discussing any/all types of spaghetti pasta. I now know that 'noodles' are more specific, Asian-style things. Apparently. Though I am still a bit confused.

Meatless meatballs? Nah, let's just give them what they really want.

So, Tesco was supposed to deliver a bag of Quorn meatless meatballs (bee-tea-dub, 'meatless meatballs' is my new favourite word combo) with our grocery order. I've been craving them ever since Char wrote a blog post about them. Carnivores, scoff all you want - at least it's not horse, you pony killers!

We were expecting something that looks like this:

Image via Adventuresinfakemeat.com

But what did they give us instead?

Mini pizzas, of course.

Am I upset? HELLZ to the no. I love pizza. Sadly, Tesco knows me better than I know myself. I didn't want meatless meatballs after all - it was mini pizzas I wanted all along.

They are cooking as I type this.

Ugh, but the pan on the bottom rack of the oven smells like burning salmon because we didn't clean it from last night.

OH WELL!

Love,
Margaret