When words fail you

UGH. I have nothing to write. I have nothing to say! I'm a nobody with a vanilla life. If it wasn't for this bowl cut, I'd be devoid of intrigue entirely.

But, instead of throwing in the towel and hitting the big, red 'delete' button on Madgespace, I shall endure! I SHAN'T GIVE UP.

Instead, I will let you in on the made-up, nonsensical lyrics Andy and I have for songs.


'Battlefield' by Jordin Sparks

• "Why does love always feel like a wagon wheel? A wagon wheel, a wagon wheel.."

Lean On' by Major Lazer & DJ Snake, (feat. MØ)

• "Farkis, Car2Go...all we need is somebody to lean on."

'Royals' by Lorde

• "That kind of luxe just ain't for us, we drive a different kind of bus."

Those lyric changes are't funny. They're not clever. They're not even interesting. But what they do indicate is that, if you spend enough time with someone, you form your own language. 

You also start to stockpile inside jokes that are so unfunny they're not so much jokes as 'inside thought moments'. These parallel brain experiences are set off by the smallest things—a certain word in a radio ad, the way the bus driver's cough sounds, a particular appetizer offering at a party. Whatever it may be, you'll look across the room at each other with a knowing grin and nod. Yes, we both caught that. We're thinking the same, pointless thing. Indeed, that man's cough sounded like that one part of that one YouTube video that we like to quote on occasion. No need to talk about it. Just a grin and a brief nod is enough. 

Couldn't find a good image for 'telepathy', so I Googled 'staring contest' instead.
The guy on the left has a pumpkin stem for hair.

Image by Vectorink via Wikimedia Commons

Goodnight, 

Margaret

P.S. I'm pretty sure this blog made zero sense, but it reminded me of that time Barbie and I said "There's a snake in my boot" in unison completely unprovoked. Something—an airplane passing overhead, the smell of popcorn wafting down the hall, a slight flicker in the light—must have caused us to both think it and vocalize it. But we'll never know exactly why it happened. 

This is my new thing

Next time you visit Alki, look out for it...

Best,
Margaret

Muscle beach

Andy has walked down to the beach and performed a 'driftwood workout' every day this week. It's his own strength-training creation—a Crossfit of sorts.

Two of the circuits involve finding a piece of driftwood and using it as a weight. There's arm curls for the biceps and shoulder presses for bulking up the ol' deltoids.

Because the workout is hard, he grunts (I watched once, so I know). When he's finished with a set, he tosses the driftwood aside like an ogre throwing a human baby. FEE FI FO FUM. GOTTA LIFT THE DRIFTWOOD UNTIL I'M DONE.

Suffice it to say, he looks ridiculous. We've talked about it, and he's well aware. The brilliant thing is, though, that he's probably only the 37th most ridiculous person on the beach. Alki was made for characters. Teenage girls singing Taylor Swift a cappella at full volume. New moms doing stroller aerobics.  Men playing out their mid-life crises in convertible Mazdas. Families in fringed surreys with a full-sized golden retriever in the front basket (I tried to take a photo, but my iPhone didn't have storage...aaarrrrrgh!).

So, Andy can do his driftwood antics without trepidation. He's American now. Better yet, he's a West Seattleite. He's but one of many weirdos that call this fine patch of sand home.

L8ter,

Margaret

P.S. Worked all day. Looked forward to getting an ice cream. Left it too late. Everywhere closed. Made it into Spuds fish n' chips at the last minute. Got a chocolate shake. Happy.

Move over Tom of Maine...

...there's a new natural deodorant in town!

It's called Lāfes and—stick with me here—it actually works. Char got it in her Amazon Fresh order and, being the disgusting little sister that I am, I borrowed it for a couple weeks while I was "in between deodorants".

Of course I was skeptical. I've been a long-time Tom's of Maine hater. As much as I wanted to jump on the all natural, non anti-perspirant bandwagon, walking around with Italian bistro pits wasn't a sacrifice I was willing to make.

But Lāfes works! And here's the crazy thing: for me right now in this current moment, it works way better than Mitchum, Degree and Dove.

I don't expect it to last. I'll become immune eventually and need to switch brands. Pretty soon I'll be immune to them all and resort to some homemade baking soda lemon juice concoction. Once that wears off, I'll retreat to the woods to live among the wild llama, my furry brethren.

Well, that got weird. I've gotta go. I have a RHONY to watch. Loving Bethenny this season.

Peace,

Margaret

P.S. "That got weird" is the new "AWK-ward" and I hate it just as much. Sorry for using it.

Eating Goldfish crackers has become a chore

—We interrupt this broadcast of Real Housewives of Atlanta Season 7 Reunion Part 3 to bring you another nightly instalment of Madgespace.—

I heard we're not supposed to say, "Oh my god, I'm soooo OCD about [fill in the blank]" because it diminishes the seriousness of obsessive compulsive disorder. WELL, not to sound like an old person justifying their casual racism, but can we say anything anymore?!?!?!

Fine. Out of respect, I won't use OCD to refer to my undiagnosed obsessive idiosyncrasies from this point forward.

What I will say is that I can't eat Goldfish crackers like a normal person.

I have to lick off the salt slowly until the fish is soft and damp. Then, I must bite the edge carefully with my teeth so that it breaks exactly in half at its seam. It's arduous. And it only works on some of them. Others aren't filled with enough air. Their sides are fused together and it's impossible to separate them.

The reason I know it's not too serious a medical condition is:

1. I could always just cut Goldfish crackers out of my diet (but could I really?)

2. After about 12 crackers, I get fed up with my little game, grab a handful and gobble them all up like Cookie Monster.

Some weird, long-haired girl eating Goldfish crackers.

Gotta get some ZZZZs. Going to the migraine doctor tomorrow. I'm hopeful! Maybe I should mention the Goldfish thing while I'm in there. On second thought, maybe I shouldn't.

To all a goodnight,

Margaret

Ferry freaks

We were eating lunch on the ferry boat when Anna nudged me and whispered, "I can't handle that guy with the gloves. Are you watching this? Look behind Mom."

I looked up, and sure enough, at the table next to us was a man wearing stretchy latex gloves and eating a sandwich. Creeeeeeepy. They were the standard white gloves doctors use. The kind that are a bit dusty on the inside. The ones you can blow up to make cow-udder balloons.

Anna says she watched him sit down and carefully slip them on one-by-one, like he was about to perform heart surgery. His sandwich was open-faced, so maybe he didn't want to get any mustard on his precious paws. Or maybe he's just a germaphobe. Perhaps this is how he eats all finger foods, condiments or no condiments.

Always one to assume the worst, I suspected he was eating one final meal before going on a murderous rampage. A disgruntled former ferry boat operator ready to get his revenge. "I'll just have a quick bite before I shoot up the place, leaving not a fingerprint in my wake."

Anna asked me, "Do you ever find yourself really studying a person in case you have to describe them to a police sketcher?"

I answered, "Yes. All the time. Every day."

When the ferry pulled into Kingston, the man got up, yanked off the gloves and tossed them in the trash. He grabbed his keys from his pocket and headed down the stairs to his car. No rampage. We could breathe easy.

BUT WAIT. There's more.

As we were getting back in our cars to leave Edmonds, Anna shouted across the parking lot, "Remind me to tell you something else. Something to add to your blog about the glove guy."

I just called her to get the scoop. Apparently, when we were exiting the ferry, there was another guy sitting near the door, slowly and meticulously scratching a scratch card with a LARGE SWITCHBLADE.

Come on, ferry people. Get it together!

TGIF,
Margaret

WEIRD

I am now going to take a long bath, read my book, eat from my girnormous bag of dirty carrots and try to erase the image of those walking, talking tongues from my mind.

Drink water,

madge

GOOD GOD!

....I rediscovered that video today when I was reading me and Connie's "wall-to-wall" on facebook. I posted it on her wall some time Sophomore year and I had since forgotten all about it. 

nightynight, 

madge