Best laid plans

After a week in Seaside, Andy and I are back in our cozy apartment on Alki. He's assembling a shoe rack. I have a tea towel tied around my head like Rosie the Riveter (bowl cut has grown horribly long and is poking me in the eyes.)

I don't have any ideas for what to write tonight. I'm tired and my ear/nose/throat canals are unusually dry. Itchy dry. Uncomfortable.

So, instead of the usual highly entertaining post, I'm going to lay out my plans for the future. Here it goes.

Short term

• Put the duvet cover on the duvet (ugh - the worst).

• Get a haircut.

• Take the Amazon boxes out to the recycling. 

• Watch the latest America's Next Top Model. 

Medium term

• Continue to blog 'every day' after my Year-28 Challenge ends, except give myself the weekends off. 

• Buy a conehead Halloween costume, for old time's sake. 

• Buy a rug. 

• Buy a mini, indoor palm tree.

• Get a response from an A-list celebrity on Twitter. 

Long term

• Go to Japan. 

• Raise a litter of children, one of whom trains as a massage therapist. 

• Put sunscreen on Andy's bald head every summer until he dies. 

Monday tomorrow. Let's make it a productive one. Drink lots of coffee. Treat yourself to a chilled Kit-Kat in the afternoon. You know the drill. 

Love,
Margaret

P.S. Are you Team Miley or Team Nicki? I think it's obvious whose team I'm on. 

From the Archives, Edition 11

An entry in the Seaside guestbook, written by my mom in 1985. That's before the Margaret years, if you can even imagine such a time. 

    *                      *                    *

4-15-85

Arrived this afternoon with my four munchkins! Wonderful travelers! (translation: they all slept) We celebrated with a chocolate/vanilla swirl soft ice cream cone at Astoria. 

Max Kay said, over and over again, from the moment we got here, "It's so strange without Grandma Martha here. It's so strange." 

It peaked right at bedtime, when he burst out crying. "It's just that it's my first time here without her. It's so strange."

He's homesick for Martha, his Seaside mama. They all love you so. Anna commented at every Pig 'n Pancake billboard along the route, "Now Grandma Martha just loves the Pig. She even might walk up there with me and we could have pancakes. I bet she has orange marmalade on hers."

Char and Francie are two years old now, the absolute sweetest gals in the town. They lay fast asleep now, together in the bottom bunk, all curled up, holding onto each other's pacifier. The very best of friends. 

It's great to be back. First time in years that I've been here without a crowd. The kids are great—I am enjoying them immensely. (They're all sleeeping! Aha!)

Nan

    *                      *                    *

Yours,
Margaret

Book chat

We went to a bookstore today. Andy's been reading a book called 'American Generalship — Character is Everything: The Art of Command' and he was in the market for something a little less dull. He ended up choosing a book on the history of salt.

Save the occasional classic novel (e.g. 'Jude the Obscure') Andy only reads nonfiction. My dad is a sucker for mysteries. My mom, sistahs and I love memoirs. Max seems to enjoy a blend of all three.

I've never read a self-help book, but today I had an idea for one I'd like to write. Along the lines of Brian Griffin's 'Wish it. Want it. Do it.'

Title: 
'Grow Up — How to stop whining and start winning' 

Introduction: 
It's commonly thought that those who go into psychology and/or write self-help books are the craziest people of all. I don't dispute that. Believe me, I'm right there with you. In the weeds. In fact, this probably isn't even allowed in the self-help section. I'm guessing you found it tucked away behind the clearance calendars. 

However, what I can offer are a few tricks that have helped me find peace in this bizarre experience we call life (Or have they helped me? Jury's still out). 

Middle bit:
TBD

Conclusion: 
Ignore 70% of the negative feelings you have. Most aren't valid. Remember to eat regularly. Spend time with toddlers and the elderly. Go to either a beach or a forest once a week. 

Image via Wikia.com

Don't you think people would appreciate the honesty and buy it?

Later,
Margaret

Battle of the sand people

Anna witnessed a fight between the Seaside sand people. It's funny because, shortly before she recounted the tale, Andy had remarked to me, "Isn't it peculiar that there is a community of tramps who build sandcastles for money?" (NOTE: tramps is an acceptable term in Britain. News anchors say it.)

Anyway, what Anna saw is this: A guy starts destroying someone else's elaborate sand sculpture. He thrashes his arms across it and really tears through it. Then another guy comes over to defend the sculpture, using his body as a shield. Fists start flying, more people get involved, a crowd gathers—it was a real scene, she says.

Then, an old guy on the sidelines turns to her and says, "Well, I guess this is what happens when you drink all day."

"Yes, you're probably right," Anna says back.

In other Seaside news, Andy and I had a #datenight this evening. We did everything.

• Got ice cream
• Played in the arcade
• Did the photo booth
• Played crazy golf (Ten Tiny Tees)
• Went on the Tilt-a-Whirl

And we did it all in less than an hour. 

Now it's time to stream the RHONY reunion using my phone as a hotspot. Goodbye data, it was nice knowin' ya. 

Your best friend, 

Margaret

A day at the beach

Mahalo, 

Margaret

P.S. This blog post. What a cop-out. 

Remember that crazy astronaut...

...who wore drove from Houston to Orlando—wearing an adult diaper so she wouldn't have to stop—with plans to kidnap her fellow astronaut's lover at gunpoint?

We were talking about adult diapers on the drive to Seaside today, so naturally the notorious astronaut love triangle of 2007 came up. Andy, Anna, Alex and I remembered the story vividly. Of all the kooky news headlines to have cropped up over the last decade, there's something about this one that stuck.

What makes it so fascinating? Well, the obvious clash of stereotypes. Disgruntled, pistol-yielding ex doesn't mesh with our idea of the studious, high-achieving astronaut. But the main reason I think it's so memorable is the one key detail. The diaper. The diaper takes the story to the next level. It gives our brains something specific to latch on to.

Details absolutely make or break nonfiction. Otherwise, what would make this different than all the other astronaut kidnapping stories? Yep. The diaper is key.

I mean, the bangs. She knew it was picture day and she didn't bother to comb them into a better position? RED FLAG.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

That's all. I'm in Seaside. Let's hope the salt water heals my cracked heels. Woah. Homophone alert.

Best,
M

P.S. She strikes me as the Mary Kay Letourneau of astronauts.

P.P.S. I have it on good authority that Mary Kay Letourneau is a complete narcissist who flirts with everyone she meets.

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

Shark!

Not much changes here in Seaside. There's the prom and the turnaround. There's Old Tyme Photo. There's the Pig n' Pancake. There's the same ol' lampposts. Same arcade. Same pedophile handing out salt water taffy. Same bumper cars and Tilt a' Whirl that my mom says look exactly like they did when she was a kid.

Even the mixer here at the cabin looks like it was manufactured in 1950.

But you know what's new?

THIS.

OMG, THIS:

 

I'm speechless. Caught somewhere between 'kids these days' and 'I must try it'.

And with that, I must go take a bath. The water pressure here is amazing. I reckon it's because we're so close to the ocean. Plumbers/engineers in the audience, let me know if I'm onto something.

Sweet dreams,
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.

This is a pretty surreal commercial

Watch it:




Why do I find it so unsettling? I'm not 100% sure. Here are some theories:

1. The eclectic casting.

2. I had no idea that Arnold Palmer is still alive. For some reason I'd grouped him with old dead athletes from black-and-white-TV-times like Babe Ruth or Joe DiMaggio.

3. It's trying to be funny, but it's not trying hard enough.

4. I have trouble believing that Xarelto is pronounced Zeralto.


Unfortunately for your life, that's it for the blog tonight. I'm off on a spur-of-the-moment trip to Seaside tomorrow and I best be gettin my laundry on. Those sweaters aren't going to Woolite themselves!

Tschuss!

Margaret

US: world #1 in WPC

Weirdos Per Capita.

Andy pointed it out during one of his visits here.

"Americans are just so much more comfortable being weird!"

And it's true. After a week in Seaside and a stroll along the Alki strip this afternoon, it's clearer than ever. Americans are weird.

Today I saw a guy, shirt off, jean shorts, spiky blond hair, gliding down the sidewalk with a boombox on his skateboard blaring '90s rap. Further down the road a 50-year-old man was waxing his motorcycle while listening to 'Backstreet's Back' on full blast.

In Seaside, I saw entire families dressed in matching sweatsuits with neon 'Seaside' lettering across their butts.

Dogs in strollers? Yep!

Gangster knee tattoos? Oh yeah!

Tai Chi on the side of a busy road? Of course!

Lounge chairs and BBQ-ing in the driveway? Cool!

Crocs with dresses / high heels with exercise shorts / barefoot in public? Yes! Yes! Yes!

This stuff just doesn't happen in Britain.

Maybe it would have been more accurate (and kinder) for Andy to say that Americans are comfortable being different. Unlike Brits, we don't mind standing out in a crowd. Or we aren't even aware that we're standing out. Or we realise that, in a country full of sore thumbs, there's actually no such thing as standing out. When everyone's weird, "weird" loses its meaning.

Alki today.

In these first few weeks back, I've also been struck by how friendly everyone is. That's something you hear Brits say often—"Americans are so friendly!" I never fully understood it until now. It's not just cheery baristas and overly helpful door greeters at The Gap. It's totally random strangers being totally randomly friendly, all the time.

Example. You're standing in a long line at Starbucks and your phone rings. It's your sister. You ask her if she wants a drink. Everyone she's with also wants something, so you say "hang on a second" and then type up the list of orders on your phone.

In the US, it would not be strange for the person behind you to say something like, "I bet you're sorry you asked!" after you hung up. You'd respond, "Geesh, I know!" and the two of you would share a chuckle.

In the UK, this wouldn't happen. Of course the person behind you would have eavesdropped on your conversation—it's impossible not to—but they wouldn't want you to know they had. Talking to you about the call would mean acknowledging that they listened in on it, and they simply wouldn't be comfortable with that.

The UK has many virtues (GOING TO THE DENTIST COSTS $12!!!!!), but they're lacking in weirdos. Even the weirdos they do have are generic weirdos. Here in Yankland, particularly on the west coast, weirdos grow on trees.

Speaking of trees, have I told you about the trees here?

Sincerely,
Weird in Washington*

P.S. Pronounced Warshington

Running down a hill in a jacket I borrowed from my 95-year-old grandma

#OnVacay

The Internet situation is limited here. Using our phones as hotspots, but we're low on data.

I'll be back to "normal" blogging next week.

Yolo,
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.

Worm poop

Today I watched a worm poop.

In all my 28 years, I'd never seen, let alone considered, a worm going number-two.

Until today, that is.

I was gardening and I startled him. There he was, squirming through the dark soil when—SHAZAM—he's scooped up by my trowel, the blinding light of day burning his tiny retinas, his minuscule heart stopping mid-thump. Of course I startled him. And it's only natural to lose control of one's bowels when faced with a fright of that magnitude.

How do I know that I saw what I did?

Brown slime. Out one end.

To the naked eye, worm bottoms are indistinguishable from worm heads. But I can only assume that the brown slime end was the arse. Also, the other end looked embarrassed.

Lowly.

Everybody's favorite worm.

Image by Ape Lad via Flickr

Your vacationing friend,
Margaret

Heads up!

Vacation + Cabin + No Internet = Game night

Interactive game apps = The new board games

Heads Up = The game we played tonight

The video below = The extent of tonight's blog post

Me = ON VACATION

Goodnight,
Margaret

Slave to the shave

I'm on VACATION so I'll keep this short.

Conversation during Scrabble this evening:

Me: "Who do you think uses shaving cream more often, men or women?

(At the same time)
Mom: "Men."
Francie: "Women."

Anna: "Women definitely use more."

Mom: "Men shave their faces every day!!!!"

Anna: "Some women shave their legs every day."

Me: "What!?"

Mom: "Yep, she's right.

Me: "No..."

Mom: "It's true."

Anna: "Yep, a lot of women do. So many."

Me: "Oh my god!"

Our Scrabble board from this evening. "Draped" started out as "Raped" - ESCANDALO!

If you're one of those women, please comment on this blog post or on Facebook. I'd love to hear what inspires you, how many blades you go through a year and whether you remember what it's like to have hairy legs.

Also, let me know whether you:

A) Use shaving cream (if so, Skintimate?)
b) Work up a lather with bar soap
c) Shampoo
d) Conditioner
e) Liquid body wash
f) DRY
g) N/A - Electric razor
h) Other


Thanks,
Margaret

SEASIDE

I'm scheduling this post in advance so I don't have to blog on my first night in Seaside.

For those of you who don't know, Seaside is a magical town on the Oregon coast with an arcade, bumper cars, the Tilt-A-Whirl, Old Tyme Photo, lots of caramel corn, shops with hilarious t-shirts, surreys with fringes on top and a gorgeous beach.

Man, salty ocean foam is cool.


Mahalo,

Margaret

6 Saturday thoughts

1. It's possible to be fashionable but not stylish.

2. Gigi Hadid kind of looks like Julia Stiles (dat moon face)

3. Sleep is a gift. Cherish it.

4. Degree deodorant does not and never will work on these pits.

5. You can't judge a strip mall by its cover. There might just be an amazing foot massage place in there.

6. Nelly (rapper, bandaid on face) got arrested because he had METH in his van! METH.

Nelly promoting his 'Apple Bottom' fragrance. Sure, the name works for his women's jeans brand, but do you really want a perfume with the word "bottom" in it?

Image via Wikimedia Commons

OK, that last one wasn't so much a 'Saturday thought' as it was something I just read in the Dailymail. Still, I'm very shocked and saddened by the news.

Going to Seaside tomorrow. No Internet at the cabin. How will I blog? I don't know. Will I find a way? Yes.

Love,
Margaret

P.S. Do you know Nelly's real name?

P.P.S. It's Cornell

What are YOU doing next February?

Doesn't matter. Whatever your plans are, cancel them.

We're going to the Seaside Jazz Festival!

My parents happened to be in Seaside, Oregon for the annual jazz festival this year and they've been raving about it ever since. Best thing to happen to Seaside since Bagels By the Sea moved into the old First Interstate Bank building.

Who would have guessed that Lewis' and Clark's old stomping grounds would become the New Orleans of the Pacific Northwest?

Of course, nothing about the jazz fest even remotely interested me until I saw these videos, recorded on Rich Kay's iPhone.

(Hey. Don't give into that short attention span. Watch BOTH videos in their entirety. I dare you.)






INSPIRING.

Almost as good as the best old lady dancing video on the Internet.

Seriously, if I had half the moves these Elks Club members have, I'd quit this content marketing racket and become a cruise ship entertainer (or something equally as glamorous).

Actually, I did take jazz dance lessons when I was 10. The best part was getting to order our outfits from the dance costumes catalogue. Now that's a lucrative industry. We spent so much on our star spangled leotards for the summer recital (set to Neil Diamond's 'Coming to America') that we had to wear basic black leggings and an XL brown shirt for the Christmas dance (set to 'Run Run Rudolph' by Chuck Berry).

And would you look at that—it still fits!

LYMI,
Margaret

P.S. No leotards were harmed in the making of this blog post.

That time we almost got kidnapped

I found some photos of my siblings and I posing in/next to a man's vintage yellow convertible. It was taken in Seaside, Oregon circa 1991. The man was cruising around with two giant teddy bears in the backseat and offered to take us for a spin.

I remember this like it was yesterday, and we talked about it for years afterward. How cool it was. First of all, a convertible! It was a thrill to even spot one, let alone ride in one. Secondly, the big bears. It's impossible to resist giant stuffed animals.

I showed my Mom the photos tonight and she gasped.

"Oh God! That's my most shameful moment as a parent," she said.

"I was totally taken in by the spectacle, and I let him drive away with you all. He just seemed like such a kind man. And it was so fun. It was only after you were gone for a long time that I thought: oh no, what if he's some pervert?"

Thankfully, he happened to be one of the few giant teddy bear chauffeurs that isn't a pedophile. We lucked out.

That's all for tonight. It's been a busy day and I'm going to treat myself to a bath + Mindy Project + glass of ice water.

Later gater,

Margaret