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. 

Back for good

I'm sitting at the Glasgow Airport, using my 30 minutes of free Internet to Google developments on the Robert Durst case. Also, to schedule in a blog post in case I'm too jet-legged to function when I land. Future Margaret, kick back and relax. I've got you covered.

SAD things about the journey so far

• Saying goodbye to Ram at Waverley Station. Hopefully we'll find a way to reunite during these five months. 

• 'Back for good' by Take That is playing on the airport radio. Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn't mean it. I just want you back for good. Want you back! Want you back! Want you back for goooooood. Tearjerker. 

GOOD things about the journey so far

• I got the right bus to the airport. Last time the man yelled at us and said we were on the wrong shuttle. We just kind of stood there and he was eventually like "OK, fine." But this time, no trouble. 

• I found a power socket. Now I shall hog it until my MacBook battery is boasting 100%. 

FANTASTIC things about the journey so far

• My bags were a little overweight (just like I like my men - HA), but they took them anyway. No hassle! I was prepared to unpack and wear all my bulky sweaters on the plane, but no need. 

• I just spotted these bad boys across the room. Massage chairs. YES. Now excuse me while I take one for a spin. 

Cheers,
Margaret

P.S. Thanks UK folks for your texts and Facebook farewells. 

P.P.S. Happy St. Paddy's Day!

Antisocial or Introvert?

Last weekend, Andy and I were sitting in an All Bar One at Birmingham International, watching the departures screen push back our flight by 15 minutes every 10 minutes for about 40 minutes straight. We were just about to get the bill, when the man at the table next to us said, “Something’s up with the Flybe flights this afternoon—they’re all getting delayed or cancelled.”

I jumped in with something like, “Yep, it’s crazy!” and went straight back to my cappuccino, avoiding eye contact and angling my body inward, toward Andy.

The man carried on. He was with his wife of 26 years. He had just returned from Copenhagen earlier in the week, where he’d strategically flown in with a different airline than he flew out with. The prices for round-trip journeys were exorbitant, he explained.

Andy chuckled and told a story about how he and his brother had flown to Dublin for the rugby the weekend before, and how his brother’s flight was far more expensive because he was flying from Exeter, not Edinburgh.

Great. Here we go. Think fast, Margaret. Think fast!

I racked my brain for a quick, compelling, exclusive conversation starter that would pull Andy back from the gravitational pull of a friendly stranger. But words escaped me. And then it was too late. They were talking about red cards and the Millennium Stadium and the Scotland team’s naiveté. They were watching iPhone footage of the Haka. This was not good.

I’d lost my window and the worst had happened: we were having a conversation with strangers.

Eventually, I suggested to Andy that we go to the Customer Service Desk and ask for an update on our flight. We said our goodbyes, and I muttered to Andy, “Thank God that’s over!”

He said, “Oh Mog! You are the definition of antisocial! We could have stayed in there and chatted with them and had a lovely time!”

There was no arguing with that. I am antisocial. It’s not good. But it’s also honest. I go back and forth on whether I should try to change or not. I’ve been this way for a while, ever since high school when my friend Connie and I would sit against a white brick wall near the parking lot during lunch, soaking up the sunshine and dreaming of 1:40pm when we’d be freed. It wasn’t as if we didn’t have a place in the cafeteria. We had enough friends. But it was just easier to meet at the wall and not have to bother with discussions about teachers, football games, ASB elections and other topics that reminded us of our imprisonment.

I mean, when am I going to come out of my shell already? HA!

Image by FotoDawg via Wikimedia Commons

When I try to make myself feel better about being antisocial, I decide that I’m an introvert. Yeah, that’s it! Don’t blame me for being antisocial; I’m just an introvert!

However, the truth is that I'm not sure what I am. I've tried to take quizzes online, but I tend to quit halfway through. Introvert or extrovert, one thing's for sure: I'm lazy. 

A lot of people who know me would assume I'm an extrovert. I do love attention. Yesterday's iMovie is proof of that. But I the true test is supposedly as follows:

• Do you get your energy from spending time alone? You're an introvert.

• Do you get your energy from spending time with groups? You're an extrovert. 

It doesn't have anything to do with being shy or outgoing. It's about how you recharge. If this is true, then I suppose, if I had to be one or the other, I actually would be an introvert. 

OH SNAP! So, I just took a quiz and guess what?

I'm an AMBIVERT! This is a surprising twist. 

Take the quiz yourself. There are only 12 questions, so it's easy, if not scientifically irrelevant. 


See ya next time, 

Margaret

P.S. That photo reminds me: some baby tortoises were just born in the Galapagos Islands—the first in a century! I'm not an animal lover, but for some reason this made me so happy that I shouted "YESSSSSS!" when I read it. 

Like sand through the hourglass...

Oh dear. I've left this far too late. It's 11:45pm and I have just 15 minutes to write this post.

We've been playing a new board game called 'LINKEE' and time got the better of me. The game is great, by the way. Not sure if there's an American version (and I don't have the time to check).

OK. So. Happy new year.

Now enjoy these anecdotes from our Italy trip.

Notable moments from Italy

When I heard a euro coin drop on the ground as we were leaving a cafe. I picked it up, looked around and asked the closest person—a middle aged Italian man—"Did you drop a coin?" in loud, accidentally aggressive English. He was startled. Then he went "Wha..huh?" and shrugged his shoulders as those Mediterranean folk do. I turned back to Andy. He was laughing and told me he had put the coin into my hat while I was sipping my tea. It was my euro coin all along.

When Andy and I bought moisturiser at a supermarket in Bologna, to cure our dry-as-toast skin. I spent all morning rubbing it into my legs and all over my body. But something wasn't right. It was too thin. Too difficult to rub in. I Google-Translated the words on the bottle. It was body wash. I had been rubbing SOAP into my dry skin! The horror.

When the couple at the table next to us at dinner got in a fight. They were Spanish and we listened to the whole thing escalate until it reached the breaking point and the guy stormed out. It was one of those tiny Italian restaurants too. They were right next to us. I had to consciously keep my elbows in so as not to touch the girl. You could cut the tension with a pizza cutter. Andy and I loved it. It was Day 9 of our trip and we've long run out of things to say to each other. After dinner, when we were roaming around Rome, we saw the couple again! They were lost and consulting a map. Haha. More stress for them, more entertainment for us.

When my bowl cut got so long that I had to sculpt it into a horrific boy/pixie/mullet thing. See photo below.

When this ad auto-loaded before a YouTube video we watched (watch it to the end):

 

More tomorrow,

Margaret

Karma?

Back in E-burgh now.

My backpack got tagged by Ryanair during boarding, but once on the shuttle bus, I ripped the sticker off in defiance.

I immediately regretted it. What if I got caught and sent to airport prison?

Always the goody two-shoes, I reapplied the florescent label to my bag. But it wasn't as sticky this time. Now I was worried the tag would actually fall off in a tussle with the other excommunicated suitcases down below. What now? What kind of mess had I gotten myself into?

At the last minute, Andy convinced me to just take the tag off. Screw it! We went out of our way to pack light and bring only carry-on luggage. Who were they to make us wait at baggage claim with all the bad, heavy packers?

So I ripped it off again, lowered my eyes and boarded the plain as nonchalantly as possible.

Of course the overhead compartments were stuffed to the brim. I ended up having to squish the ginormous backpack under my seat. Never would I have thought that was possible until I watched myself do it (grunting and all) with my own eyes.

I'd done it! Take that Ryanair!

After landing, we breezed through passport control, walked right past those baggage claim losers and sat our efficient arses down in a comfy Edinburgh taxi.

We walked through the door about 20 minutes ago. It took me about three minutes to realise I'd left the camera on the plane. Our beautiful digital SLR. Full of snaps from Italy. It's squished under the seat and probably on its way to Shannon, Dusseldorf, Brussels Charleroi, Oslo Rygge or some other middle of nowhere D-list airport Ryanair flies to.

Me collapsing on my bag in exhaustion and defeat after realising the camera was not with us.
Note: this photo is a reenactment.

Now for the good news. We're back at Edinburgh airport tomorrow to catch a flight down south to visit Andy's brother. Surely we'll stroll up to the lost luggage counter, say "One lost camera, please" and they'll hand it right over to us. I'm sure it will be that simple. I'm absolutely sure of it!

Love,
Margaret

Couples Massage

As a special treat to end our Christmas holiday, I booked us a "couples massage" (Google says no apostrophe) at a Thai day spa in Rome.

Although it would be my first couples massage, I felt well prepared. I've had a handful of solo massages in my life, and I've watched the Real Housewives enjoy beachside massages with their husbands plenty of times. My plan was to lie there and relax as I normally would, but then intermittently reach across, grab Andy's hand and say, "This is nice."

We were running late and had to speed-walk to the place, which is good because the more stressed you are pre-massage, the better. Might as well get your money's worth.

As soon as we arrived, two tiny women whisked us into a treatment room. Warm, dim lighting. Two standard massage tables. Zen sitar music twanging through the speakers. Everything was as expected and as it should be.

One of the women handed me two small plastic parcels—a shower cap to stop the oil from getting in my bowl cut and disposable underwear to maintain some semblance of decorum. At most places I've been to, they just have you strip down to your own underwear. But I've been given disposables one time before, so this didn't throw me.

Then the woman handed Andy a plastic parcel and giggled.

"For you," she laughed.

He unwrapped it to reveal a black, disposable man thong!

The women, both laughing now, left the room so that we could get changed. Andy was appalled at first, but quickly embraced his temporary bikini bottoms. You would have thought he had been wearing them for years.

Andy's thong.
I made sure to put it in my pocket before we left. It's too fab to not blog about.

As for the massages, they were THE BEST. Really deep tissue and firm. Also, quite invasive. At one point my bare breasts were exposed! She was massaging my stomach (bizarre in and of itself) and didn't bother to gracefully rearrange the sheet over my bosom. During another part of it, she actually mounted the table, a knee on either side of me, and ran her elbows across my butt.

But I didn't care! When in Rome!

Cheers,
Margaret

Tea and coffee making facilities

It's raining in Rome and we've hit a wall.

Eight days ago we left Edinburgh with bright eyes and bushy bowl cuts. It's been the holiday of a lifetime, but today's the first day that the crowded train terminals, Google Maps and giant backpacks began to take their toll. Also, men would not stop trying to aggressively sell us umbrellas. Even though it was pouring and we really could have used one, we refused out of principle.

It also happens to be the only day we haven't managed to squeeze in a nap (wah wah).

Our legs were achy and we had low blood sugar, but then something wonderful happened. When we checked into the final hotel of our epic Italian expedition, the guy at reception uttered the best words two tired tourists can hear:

"There are tea and coffee making facilities in your room."

We ran up to the room, threw our bags on the bed, clasped hands and bounced up and down, grinning like hyenas. All hail the hospitality gods! Long may it rain Nescafe instant coffee, the heavenly gift that nourishes our stomachs, hearts and minds.

Tea and coffee making facilities are actually a rarity in Italian hotels, so this was a brilliant surprise. As soon as I finish typing this, I'm going to flick on the kettle. Just thinking about the gentle hum of that small kitchen appliance is comforting.


Sincerely,

Tired (but content) in Rome

Siena!

We're in Siena today. Wow. This city is next level awesome. It completely exceeded my expectations, which, to be honest, was easy considering I did zero research before the trip. But that said, Siena has exceeded my expectations of how cute a city can be. I didn't know they made them this charming. And I live in Edinburgh—on the Royal Mile!

The big thing to do in Siena, besides watching the historic horse races in August (basically the Italian Appleby Horse Fair, but with less grabbing), is walk around its famous Duomo.

Inside the grand cathedral there's a mural of Catherine of Siena, who's one of Italy's patron saints (Can you name the other one? 100 points if you can! No Googling). When we got back to the hotel, Andy and I read her Wikipedia page.

This excerpt stood out:

In about 1368, aged twenty-one, Catherine experienced what she described in her letters as a "Mystical Marriage" with Jesus, later a popular subject in art as the Mystic marriage of Saint Catherine. "Underlining the extent to which the marriage was a fusion with Christ's physicality Catherine received, not the ring of gold and jewels that her biographer reports in his bowdlerized version, but the ring of Christ's foreskin."

Yeah.

At Gonzaga I took a class called 'Philosophy of Mysticism'. It was taught by an ancient Jesuit priest who was so old that he couldn't stand up. He would sit stooped in his chair at the front of the class, barely visible behind his desk.

We talked a lot about old religious figures and their mystical endeavours. I remember we learned about a lady named Julien of Norwich who actually chained herself to a small enclave in the wall of a church and LIVED IN IT (I was so appalled I blogged about it way back when).

The Jesuit told us that there's a possibility most of the mystics were actually just mentally ill. He also told us that he took LSD once and often wondered whether his experience (lying in the middle of the road and listening to the blood running through his veins) might be considered 'mystical'. Needless to say, even this old Jesuit was skeptical of medieval mystics like Cathy of Siena.

In other news, Rome tomorrow for two nights. The final hurrah! Over dinner this evening Andy and I agreed that we're going to say "When in Rome..." a lot while we're there. Glad we settled that upfront.

Cheers,
Margaret of Kenmore

Christmas in Florence

Andy and I are enjoying an absolutely unforgettable Christmas in Florence. We've already discussed it—this is definitely going down as a life highlight for both of us.

Right now we're sitting in bed, rubbing our risotto-filled bellies and listening to a groovy band play Michael Jackson's 'Rock With You' just below our balcony.

That's right. Our BALCONY. It's incredible.

In between pizza snarfing sessions we've also managed to squeeze in some time for culture.

Lots of people watched the seven attempts to get this pic.
Unlike with the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I didn't get the sense that posing like this was the "done thing".  

But even though it's extra amazing to be here in Italy, Christmas is just great in general. One of the perks of being an American is having a genuine, non-ironic love of Christmas. I LOVE IT.

Merry Christmas!

Love, 

Margaret

P.S. I've accidentally let my bowl cut grow too much and now it's a mullet. You can kind of see it in the pic. A mullet! What fun! 

Check in, check out

I am staying one night at the Doubletree hotel in Aberdeen in a month and I'm ecstatic. Seriously, couldn't be more thrilled. If I was hooked up to an excited-o-meter, my readings would be off the chart. You would think it was a 3-week stay at an all inclusive resort in Hawaii or something. But no, it's a one-nighter at a mid-range hotel in the 'Granite City'. So, the reason for my excitement? It all comes down to two words:

HOT TUB.

After three years in summerless Scotland (Yep, they don't have summer here. Have I not told you?) my bones are permafrost. The thought of soaking in a hot, bubbly 105°F tub is filling me with Christmas morning, birth of child, new season of Mad Men levels of joy.

Image via Aberdeencity.gov.uk

Yes, I'm going to Aberdeen to see Andy run an ultra marathon, and I'm staying in Aberdeen for the hot tub. And the cookies. The Doubletree serves you warm cookies upon arrival. What complete and utter ANGELS. It's as if their entire business model (hot tub + cookie = good hotel) was developed just for me. Doubletree, if you're listening, I love you. Also, enjoy this free promotion. But if you ever want another one, please pay me for it (in cookies, LOLZ!).

In other news, I have had an epiphany this weekend: I am unable to 'check out'. In some ways, this is BAD. It means I struggle to relax and switch my brain off. However, in other ways, I am glad to be this way. It means I'm passionate, I take pride in what I do and I think creatively. It's the reason bizarre videos like Kenmore Jam and Christmas Time exist. It's the reason I have a podcast!

SO THERE!

Me in a rare moment of relaxation.

Now, off to steam some broccolini (broccoli's gay cousin),


Margaret