Important Update from a 34-Year-Old Woman

Whew! This blog. It really is a relic. Just look at that vintage Hampton Tutors banner ad! This month's sponsor, last month's sponsor, and next month's sponsor. Thank you, Hampton Tutors, for not only being loyal to me all these years but also for your bravery in remaining attached to this publication which surely contains countless cancellable offenses. 

Speaking of which, I would like to get out ahead of any backlash for my decision to dress as a Cheeto-munching, maxi-skirt-wearing, pregnant Britney Spears Federline for Halloween back in 2006. I ask that you view me as a victim of 2000s pop culture rather than a contributor to it. Keep that in mind as you read back through old posts. I am a victim. 

I would also like to add a disclaimer that I stand by nothing ever written in this blog and do not endorse a single word.

Now, what's new with me, you ask? How about an update?

Let's start with the biggies. 

• A global pandemic broke out last year. For a while, it was exciting - NOVEL, if you will. We called it "coronavirus" and blamed it on a small reptile/anteater (??) called a pangolin. Now, 18 months later, we call it "covid" and it's the most boring thing ever. Seriously, don't bring it up. Snoozefest. Indeed, charitable mask sewing and Zoom happy hours have been replaced with a general malaise and deep-seated resentment toward humankind. We've also shifted the blame from pangolins to the Chinese government, who at the very least owe everybody—particularly pangolins—an apology. 

• The Killiamson family up and moved to Scotland in January 2021. There were 12 people total on our Boeing 787 Dreamliner as we soared over the Atlantic. Each of us had our own row and everybody slept (except me, of course—mom life, amirite?).

As for the more mundane updates you're used to getting from the Grassyllama in Chief, I have plenty of those as well. I'm Day 3 into a 5-day staycation at home with no kids or spouse. FIVE DAYS! I don't know how it happened either, but I'm not questioning it. Here's what I've been up to: 

• Got my ears pierced. Decided to get five piercings all in one visit because it could be years before I have a kid-free day again (mom life, amirite?). Two piercings in each lobe, plus one cartilage (helix) on the left ear. It was great. I felt like I was in junior high again—except this time, instead of Dana Gray shoving a safety pin through my lobe and into the back of a sliced apple, it was an actual professional using a sterilized needle. Progress. 

• Got a haircut. Not wise to book it on the same day as the piercings. Hard to trim this bowl without grazing the open wound in my king lear! That's cockney rhyming slang for "ear," according to a cursory Internet search from one tab over. 

• Got keys made. My front door key hasn't worked since we moved here eight months ago. Getting the keys made took less than five minutes. If you've been on the fence about going to the locksmith (or the cobbler—for some reason they also make keys), let this be your sign that you MUST GO NOW. Don't procrastinate any longer. Get those keys cut, dawg! Get loads of keys made! Give them to everyone you know in case you ever get locked out. Hide them all around your yard. Make it happen—TODAY. 

• Watched two seasons of a show called "Never Have I Ever" on Netflix. It was definitely made for teenagers, but I needed something light and breezy to zone out to while eating an entire Chicagotown frozen pizza for LUNCH. It did the trick. 

• Wrote letters to Martha and Sammie to read in the event of my untimely death. I sobbed throughout. SOBBED. I had to leave the living room and type them from bed for fear that passersby would peek through our windows and think I was having a mental breakdown. The letters are Google Docs and I've emailed them to Andy to print/deliver upon my death. However, I'm fairly certain that he (a male) will die before me. I've got statistics on my side with that one. 

• Cleaned the glass window of the woodstove. Had been meaning to do that for a while. 

I feel young again.

So yeah, I've been HIGHLY productive. The past three days have been brilliant. It sounds cheesy, but I've been reminded of who I am outside of being a mom. And who I am is a BLOGGER. A 2000s-era blogger who's brave enough to take what could just be a single tweet and stretch it into 500-words of self-absorbed drivel. 

It's great to be back. See you soon or, more likely, several years from now. 

Love, 
Margaret

What kind of hand cream are you using?

These days, it's only a matter of time before the conversation turns to hand cream. Small talk has never loomed so large. These days, conversations start with mask shortages, death rates, and crowded hospitals. That's how we ease into things. Only then, once we've chitchatted about funeral bans and skyrocketing unemployment rates, can we move on to the much meatier, substantive topic of hand lotion.

"Go with Weleda Skin Food if you prefer something a bit thicker."

"It's my wrists that are really bad. Worse than my knuckles!"

"I thought I liked Aveda but I think my skin has gotten immune to it."

"The other day I kneaded pizza dough after applying Trader Joe's rose-scented hand cream and later I was convinced the pizza tasted like it."

I never imagined that living through a devastating historic event would be so mundane. I assumed the world would stop! I thought we would gather in the streets, throwing old furniture into heaping bonfires, drinking moonshine and dancing under the apocalyptic skies. But instead, we keep going. Writing emails. Cooking pasta. Stepping in a wet spot on the kitchen floor and walking around with a damp sock all goddamn afternoon. Same old, same old.

One difference, however, is that we're not taking mundanity for granted. With every conversation about hand lotion, we're clinging to the mundanity for dear life. We know all that stands between us and what we're seeing in leaked video footage from ICUs is one ill-fated touch of a handrail. It's not surprising that we'd rather debate the merits of Zoom's Gallery View versus Speaker View for 15 minutes.

Annnnnnyway.

I really do sincerely think that it's insensitive to talk about silver linings when it comes to the coronavirus. But I know we're all thinking it, so I'll just come out and say it:

Covid got me blogging again!

The silverest of all linings. It only took a bloody global pandemic, but I'm back. Maybe I'll write more in a few days. We'll see. Probably not.

Stay safe (<---- hate this),

Marge

Tired and feathered

Today was weird. Seattle is smoky from all of the wild fires. It's opaque outside. Opaque! It has the illusion of a cloudy autumn day, only without the crispness. Without the oxygen. But it's 86 degrees. We're suffocating! Make it stop! Stop this madness!

See? Opaque!

Something else that has been unnerving me lately is the fact that my parents' backyard is being littered with crow feathers. My dad tells me he picks "at least 20 to 30 feathers a day" off the lawn. Is this normal?

While I'm on the subject, let's settle a bet. Are feathers filthy, plague-ridden animal parts not to be touched? Or are they fun, tickly adornments for the tops of sand castles? I grew up believing the latter and I think I'm going to keep that opinion no matter how much I'm presented evidence of the contrary.

I gotta go. I'm tired. The haze has me in a weird mood and there's only one cure: cleaning the living room while I listen to a podcast!!!!

Until next time,
Margaret

P.S. Martha can now say "podcast." She is an intellectual.
P.P.S. She can also say "pancake." Sounds the same as "podcast."

Toddler Blues

Today, after a week of single-parenting while Andy is in England, I took Martha to Kelsey Creek Farm in Bellevue. There are sheep, pigs, cows, horses—all of the animals from her books, alive in the flesh. What a fantastic final hurrah to our week of mother-daughter bonding!

Martha sat in the gravel pathway and ate rocks.

A few minutes later, she found a set of steps near the sensory garden and climbed up and down them four times.

One of the horses did manage to hold her attention for a bit. She reached out and offered him a rock. I grabbed her hand away from the beast's giant teeth and she cried.

I have decided to gradually start blogging again, while making no promises and keeping expectations low. I probably shouldn't have even written that sentence.

Over the past month I've fallen back in, and then back out, of love with blue cheese. Throughout July it blanketed my salads, filled my MorningStar Farms® Chik'n Nugget pitas and even replaced cream cheese on my bagels.

Andy and I went out to dinner last weekend and I ordered a cobb salad.

"Instead of the bacon and chicken, can I just get extra blue cheese?" I asked, knowing the answer would be yes, for this is America after all.

Andy, who enjoys foods in moderation, looked at me in disgust.

But sadly, my Stilton love affair is over. I made the mistake of buying Trader Joe's blue cheese and after a few helpings, something switched. The tanginess was too tangy. The closer to the rind, the more disgusting. Even writing this now, I'm on the verge of throwing up.

Worst thing is, I smell blue cheese everywhere I go. I've been washing my hands all afternoon and still can't scour the stench off my fingers. I'm the Lady Macbeth of poor dairy choices, haunted and sick to my stomach.

Barfing emoji!

Sincerely,
Margaret

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:

Clap for these hookers

Leicester City won the English Premier League title!

It's a big deal. Crazier than if the Mariners won the World Series. Imagine the Everett AquaSox winning and you're getting closer.

Embed from Getty Images

Yep, those dudes—exhaustedly congratulating each other on a job well done—had a 5000 to 1 chance of winning the league title, and they DID IT.

OK, that's it for today. I need to walk up to Safeway and get something for dinner. Any ideas? Can't do pasta again. Or can I? Maybe I'll just do that.

Goodbye,
Margaret


P.S. Yeesh. The word "exhaustedly" exhausts me.  I'm exhausted now.

P.P.S. By the way, look at the Everett AquaSox logo. Look at that crazy frog. He's so fun. And is the "E" on his hat an upside down version of the retro Mariners' "M"? The whole logo is fun. It's just FUN. Love it! So FUN.

So THAT'S what soap is for

I was in high school when I first learned that you're supposed to wash your body, not just your hair. Well, junior high. But it was 9th grade, so it counted as high school. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I was simultaneously dumbfounded and horrified of my own ignorance. The worst part was that it made so much sense. Hair isn't the only thing that gets dirty. The body—certain areas in particular—also gets gross and requires cleaning. Wow. How had this not occurred to me before?

I don't know. I knew that you had to take a shower because your hair would look greasy otherwise. But that was as far as I took it. I never extended that line of reasoning to its natural conclusion: if hair needs washing after a while, then certainly too does the anus. Nope. Never dawned on me.

I thought I was alone in this. But my sisters (C & F) and cousin (name retracted) say they had similar epiphanies way too late in life. The cousin thinks it might have been college for her.

Now, I know you have questions. I've provided my answers below.

What did you think that bar of soap in the shower was for?
A nice treat if you wanted your arms to smell good. A luxury item. Akin to a tub of mango body butter from Bath & Body Works.

Didn't you stink?
I don't think I stunk that bad. I wore deodorant. The shampoo from my hair and the water from the shower probably helped keep the situation manageable. But there's no telling if the sudsy water found its way into the key crevasses. I doubt it.

Why are you sharing this in such a public forum?
If I can raise awareness and change even one person's life by sharing my story, then I feel it's my duty to do so. Also, for attention.


Love,
Margaret

You mean this ol' thing?

BAAAAAAACK! And I said "tap-tap" so get out of my seat.

Becky with the good hair.

'Here's what I've been up to since those two video blogs exhausted me into hibernation six months ago.

• Taking lunchtime baths

• Accusing Andy of being a bad driver

• Getting accused by Andy of being a bad driver

• Jumping in the Puget Sound

• Doing high-kicks during evening walks around the neighborhood

• Googling "Brazilian Butt Lift Celebrities." I even started a blog post about it that I never finished...see below.

I Can't Stop Googling Brazilian Butt Lifts

Yep. Of all the controversial topics to bring me out of retirement, this is it. Trust me, I'm as not surprised as you are.

The other day, whilst browsing the 'Bravo Real Housewives' subreddit, I came across a post discussing whether any of 'the wives' might have had a Brazilian Butt Lift procedure.

Now, I've heard of Brazilian Butt Lifts before, and in the back of my mind I've always known that the Kardashian-inspired, bubble booty trend of the 2010s must involve plastic surgery, but I've never truly confronted the reality of the Brazilian Butt Lift until now.

After scrolling through various Google image searches and many horrendous post-op photographs, I'm equal parts disgusted and amazed. I find these augmented butts both hideous and beautiful. The idea of people carving bits of fat out of their arms in order to sculpt and adhere an oversized cartoon bottom onto their actual bottom is FASCINATING. In a way, it's art.

Butt Lifts are also proof that being stick thin is not cool anymore. Scrawny butts are so two thousand and eight. These days, it's all about the waist trainers and butts made of repurposed skin. Perhaps these celebs are onto something. Perhaps it's time we all "upcycle" our muffin tops. 

• Eating fake sausage mixed with roasted vegetables mixed with rice pilaf

• Using napkins as toilet paper (with plans to buy toilet paper soon)

• Keeping my ingrown toenail at bay

• Wearing shorts

• Wearing Kylie-inspired lipstick

• Working 

In other news, RHONY is back. Jo Jo is coming to Bumbershoot. The Mariners' CEO quit. The viaduct is closed for two weeks. The sun is out. I ordered more essential oils for the diffuser. Nobody can shut up about Donald Trump. My sister had a baby named Harry. I cleaned my water bottle. Andy discovered JCrew and puts the emphasis on the J ("How come you never told me about JAY-crew before?"). Rob Kardashian lost 50 pounds. Summer is just around the corner.

Back in a bit, 

Margaret

My second vlog is my best one yet!!!!

Cheers, 

Margaret

I'm a professional vlogger now

WATCH

Goodnight,
Margaret

Rainbow of pantsuits

Gee whiz. You open your laptop to write a blog and before you know it you're knee deep in Borat clips on YouTube. Hours have passed. It's now dark outside. My leg is numb from this weird position I'm sitting in. Oh Internet, you little devil you. Come back here with my precious time.

Back to the matter at hand. I was listening to 'The Takeaway' on NPR today (yep - I'm smart) and it was all about Hillary Clinton's wardrobe.

As you'd expect, the whole segment was terrible. They interviewed a lady named Robin Givhan who is the Pulitzer-Prize-winning fashion editor for The Washington Post. She talked about how Hil first started to wear pantsuits back when she was first lady.

"You could almost hear the sigh of relief when she finally said, 'enough with these pink skirtsuits and headbands!'"

Did you almost hear the sigh? I didn't almost hear the sigh, but I'll take Robin's word for it.

Then she goes on to talk about how Hillary took things a step further during her senate run, choosing to wear only a black pantsuit as a sort of uniform.

"It gave her the same kind of freedom that a dark suit gives men, which is that it took the conversation of clothing off the table."

Well, it obviously didn't take the conversation of clothing off the table completely. You are, after all, currently discussing her clothing on national radio right now.

Robin continues:

"When she ran for president the first time and had that rainbow of pantsuits, I think to some degree she was again sort of struggling with this idea of power and femininity, and 'how much can I embrace being a woman and declare that as part of my campaign."

What the actual F.

I highly doubt Hillary Clinton was agonizing over which shade of pantsuit portrayed the right level of femininity.

My main problem with this—what made me want to scrape my ear drums out with a rusty spoon—was the way that they tried to frame the typical 'fluff piece on a female politician's clothing' into some sort of enlightening feminist thinkpiece. Come on, NPR. Just admit that you wanted to talk about Hilary's pantsuits because they're funny. Don't try to make it deeper than that.


 

Now that's more like it!  No, it's not a traditional costume from East Asia. It's the actual coat she wore over her actual dress to the actual 1993 Inaugural Ball.

Image by Henry Dunay via Wikimedia Commons

See ya,
Margaret

P.S. I mean, I love Project Runway as much as the next guy, but there's a Pulitzer Prize for fashion writing? Really? OK, that's fine. Fashion is art. Fine! I get it. It's OK. Nevermind.

P.P.S. Did you know that Hillary Clinton watches 'Real Housewives of New York'? My source: Dorinda Medley (so take it with a grain of salt)

Hey peers, we're bad at socializing now.

I've noticed something. Us late-20-somethings, we're bad at socializing now. We were so good at it back in college! We were ice-breaker experts. Conversation flowed like Biggie's rhymes. First-time acquaintances became instant friends. Everyone was awesome. Every night ended in multiple Facebook friend requests.

Things are tougher nowadays. The chat is sluggish. People already have enough friends. It's been a long week. They're sleepy. They have to get up early the next day. Etcetera, etcetera.

In fact, I've determined that our declining social skills boil down to five reasons:

1. We're out of practice
This is the most obvious reason. We're simply out of practice. Busier schedules and longer commutes have resulted in far fewer social gatherings than the college years. We've lost our mojo.

2. We have fewer common touch-points
There used to be so much to talk about. "Did you see those guys who made the giant slip 'n slide out in the courtyard earlier?" "Yep!" "Did you hear that those two broke up?" "Yes, can you believe it?" "Did you go out last night?" "Yeah, we were at the 80s party."

That's the way it used to be! Conversations were like an improv show. We 'yes-anded' the night away. When you live within a one-mile radius of everyone at the gathering, you have more things in common. There's more to talk about. Thus, talking to people is easier.

3. We know 'work' is a lame topic, but it's 80% of our lives now
People don't want to talk about work, and I hate asking them about it. But after a few awkward pauses I'm forced to jump in with, "So how's work going?" We're all a bit depressed it's come to that, but also relieved that the pause is over.

(I've heard the same is true of people with kids not wanting to talk about kids all the time but resorting to it eventually because it's all they have.)

4. We just don't care as much
This is a huge problem. I'm guilty of this more than any of the other reasons in this list. I JUST DON'T CARE. I can't feign interest like I used to.

5. One bad apple spoils the whole bunch
One of the reasons social gatherings feel more difficult, even for us schmucks who still try to make an effort, is that the really terrible people—'conversational handbrakes' as Andy calls them—simply limit the possibilities for everyone. It's like what Top Chef Head Judge Tom Colicchio says about seasoning: if you combine a perfectly seasoned ingredient with a bland ingredient, the net result is bland. Even the finest raconteur can't save a party full of duds.

LOVE,
Margaret

P.S. I'm the best!