To Char and William!

It's the morning of my sistah Char's wedding. It's also my brother-in-law William's wedding too. They're getting married to each other. See, I already consider William my brother-in-law, so it doesn't feel like I'm "giving Char away" to any ol' boyfriend. William's already part of the family and has been for years now.

Anyhoo, I'm on aunt/bbsitter duty, so I'm up with birds and ready for my first of many coffees. I've decided to write today's post now, before the wedding shenanigans whisk me away.

Chin Chin, Char and William!
P.S. See what I mean about the Deryck Whibley hair?
P.P.S. That OJ has gone off. I only poured it to use as a prop for this photo. #Honesty

I owe a lot to Char and William. When I first moved to Edinburgh, I was in that horrible post-university stage. The one where you suddenly have all the responsibilities of an adult but none of the financial, intellectual or emotional skills to uphold them. 

Well, Char and William took me under their wing. They introduced me to exotic British foods I'd never heard of before—Quorn escalopes, potato waffles, bran flakes (like Raisin Bran, but without the raisins), the list could go on. And don't forget the TV shows! X Factor, Celebrity Jungle, Come Dine with Me, Grand Designs—all the greats of British television.

When I moved out of my post-grad student accommodation because I couldn't pay the rent, I moved on to their couch. For three months, they tiptoed around a snoozing grassyllama each morning before work, eating their bran flakes in silence, in the dark. 

Every other day I would cry about something—not knowing what to do with my life, missing my carefree college days, having to fill out a form so I could start paying my student loans for the next 15 years. They would console me and give me the perfect advice. 

I suppose it's too late to try and make this post not about me, so enjoy some photos of the three of us. Let's raise a glass to Char, William and I! Wishing us many happy returns!

At the pub way back in the day. We were wild arses. Look at those spaghetti straps!

Pizza in Malta!!!! It was the best pizza ever, with the saltiest cheese. I can still taste it. YUM.
Also, Char's hair looks amazing. 

Shootin' pool. Char got a hot chocolate - classic!

Whale watching!!! Have you done it? Do it. Absolutely incredible. It's like seeing a unicorn or a hippogriff. Unreal.

Fo reals though, happy wedding day Char and William! And thanks for being the best friends a gal could have!

Love, 

Margaret

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

This is the life...

Andy and I are at the Balmoral hotel in Edinburgh. We swam in the pool, did deep breathing exercises in the steam room, burnt the bottoms of our feet in the sauna and ate some strawberries that were dressed up in melted chocolate "tuxedos". This is the life.

MAN, spas are just so wonderful. Why can't we be more like Scandinavia or Iceland, where saunas and steam rooms and plunge pools are the norm? Let's make it happen, America/Britain. Let's move spa treatments away from luxury and closer to necessity.

Think about it. A more spa-conscious culture would:

1) reduce road rage

2) eliminate scurvy (because of all those limes in the water pitcher)

3) give the terrycloth industry a much-needed boost

And that's just the beginning!

OK. Short post. Too relaxed to type. The end.

Much love to all my homies,

Margaret

Status Update

Oh man, I have been la-zy when it comes to blogging. Lay to the zee. But it's only because I've been 'working' so much! Andy and I somehow got ourselves a job building a website for an Indian restaurant. It's finished now, but the process probably took about 3 years off my life.

Things with the bowl cut are going well, thanks for asking. I was hoping to only get one more trim before I go to Seattle in August, but two days ago I woke up with a mullet. It's not the actual mullet that I'm worried about - it's the fact that people might think I've intentionally grown it to be a hipster. That, I couldn't cope with. I've booked an appointment for another 40 POUND haircut next week.

But enough about me - here's an update on Andy. He's been working on an exciting project.  It's a spin-off of his tutoring business. I won't reveal what it is yet, but stay tuned. Also, here's a photo I took after making him pose like a Real Housewife (except with a cricket ball instead of fruit):

 

Have you noticed that Facebook now asks you if you'd like to tag people in photos that you have nothing to do with? Well, I've been doing it!!! The other day my sister Anna posted a photo (a 'mobile upload') of her at our friend Jody's bachelorette weekend. Even though I am thousands of miles away, Facebook encouraged me to tag them in the photo. And tag I did. 

Since, unlike Anna and Jody, most people on my Facebook are people I have only met a couple times but have long since forgotten, I find this new feature incredibly upsetting. I really have trouble resisting the urge to tag people I barely know. As I scroll through my newsfeed, Facebook's screaming at me 'Would you like to tag her?', 'Would you like to tag him?' - and I feel compelled to do it! But will Facebook then tell the person that I, Margaret Kay, was the tagger? 

I am fairly confident that those last two paragraphs made no sense. But holla if you feel me. 

Love,

Margaret

Boys Can't Whisper

Last weekend Andy and I went to a wedding.

I was planning on wearing the dress that I won from a box of cereal, but at the last minute I picked up this little number. I justified the expense by telling myself I will also wear it to two other weddings this summer - my brother Max's and my friend Jody's. Honestly, I really never spend money on clothes (did you know jeans are only £7 at Primark?); so I refuse to feel bad about it.

ANYWAY, between the new dress and the smorgasbord of tasty or-derves (yep - deal with it), I was in good spirits.

But there was one tense moment during the event. When the groom was delivering his speech (which was FAB, btw), Andy leaned over and said something to one of his friends. Instinctively, without even realising what I was doing, I uttered the following (in my loudest whisper):

"Andy! Either learn to whisper, or don't talk at all!"

Andy laughed, those within earshot smiled, and we all returned our attention to the speech. Still, I instantly regretted it - not because I think I was wrong, but because I've been gaining ground in my case to convince Andy that I don't 'nag' him and I knew this would set me back. Weeks worth of biting my tongue when he doesn't let the tea bag brew long enough - all for naught.

Image via the Monterey Languages Blog

Anyway, now that I'm on the subject, I might as well pursue this 'boys can't whisper' phenomenon a bit further.

Firstly, am I stereotyping when I say "boys can't whisper"? Yes. So, why do I say it? Because saying "based on my experience many boys I know can't whisper" doesn't have the same ring to it. Grant me this excuse and I promise not to get offended when fools say things like "women are crazy" or "is it that time of the month again?" (hardy har har).

Secondly, it genuinely is something I've noticed about boys (or 'men', if you prefer that grosser term) - they struggle to whisper. Instead, they just speak at a normal volume with reckless regard for the circumstance! Now, is this because they just don't care, or because they actually physically can't whisper (or it's at least really difficult for them)? If you too have noticed this, please let me know your thoughts.

In defense of boys, I currently work with two girls (or 'women', if you prefer that grosser term) who are the SOFTEST whisperers ever. They'll lean over their desks and form words with their mouths, but I hear nothing. NOTHING! And I can tell by their expression it's something juicy! I usually say 'WHAT?' in an excited non-whisper, which causes them to look around for eavesdroppers and decide against gossiping after all. Sigh.

Shhhhh,

Margaret