New-found appreciation for the straight man

Today Andy and I walked up the hill to Great Clips to get our ears lowered. No appointments. Just a couple of walk-ins looking for a budget cut.

Naturally, I was nervous. This bowl is my identity/personality substitute. What would I be without this iconic hairstyle that I hang my new hat from Target on? But alas, I needed a cut bad. I was willing to risk it.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

To my horror, the worst-case scenario happened. There to greet me, scissors in hand, was a STRAIGHT MAN. He didn't want to chat about 'my look', or what style I was going for. I tried to explain, but before I knew it he was hacking away, having barely bothered to spritz my hair with a spray bottle.

Despite my misgivings, the guy seemed to know what he was doing. After about 7 minutes, I had a solid, 7 out of 10 bowl cut and was—get this—just $20 lighter (including tip).

Let this be a reminder to us all that, for as much grief as we give them, straight men do have value in society. They can indeed be creative, many have fine motor skills, and I actually think a good amount are capable of multi-tasking.

So, on this Monday evening, let's raise a toast to the straight men in our lives who deserve more than being the butt of the joke in 'smug mom' commercials on TV. After all, Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, Jesus, David Beckham—all straight men!

Yours truly,

Nargaret

P.S. An extra thanks goes to Andy Williamson who typed this post out while I dictated it. I am under the weather and incapable of staring at a computer screen. Thanks, Andy.

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

When Time Hop gets ugly

There's this app called Time Hop that shows you what you were up to (your online activity) on this day a year, five years, eight years, ten years ago, etc. OF COURSE, you already know that. I'm not trying to be patronizing. The Madgespace audience covers a wide age demographic, and it's better to over-explain than leave my older constituents in the dark.

Anyway, Time Hop usually uncovers a super cute photo from back in the skinny, no-wrinkles days. It's a heartwarming walk down memory lane.

Today, however, things weren't so rosy.

Today, my sister Anna's Time Hop decided to take this unfortunate Facebook status out of mothballs:

So many questions. 

What in particular did Sara Bareilles do to move Anna in such a profound way? Was it a certain song? A music video? A TV interview?

To be fair to Anna, people used to treat their Facebook statuses a lot more like Twitter. Remember that? You could just update your status with any innane thought that popped into your head. For a while there, back in the early days, every status had to complete the sentence "I am..." It was wild. People's statuses would be like, "hating life right now because I have a test in the morning and haven't studied at all!!!!!!!111" or "pooping - lol."

Welp, that's me done blogging for the night. I promised myself I'd do a seven minute workout before bed. Bring on the wall-sits!

LYMI, 

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.

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.

FASHION

Coco Chanel famously said, "Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off."

Well, I tried, Coco. I tried. Unfortunately, this GIANT BRUISE on my leg won't come off. It will linger there, turning various shades of purple and green, for weeks.

This particular thigh bruise was the result of a serious collision with the bottom left corner of the bed frame. White hot pain. Eye-watering, face-flushing pain. It had me doubled over wincing 'grape-stomp-style' for at least ten minutes.

Flash forward to this evening. Andy and I are getting ready to go out on the town. I want to wear shorts because, if Project Runway has taught me anything, you either need to show skin on the top or the bottom. Cleavage or legs. Thems the rules, ladies.

Yet there's the bruise. Yellowy green, with purple rings, like a mini tattoo of Saturn. Now that's a cool tattoo idea. Go ahead and steal it from me. I know better than to follow through on my tattoo ideas (e.g. the 'cartoon starfish drinking a mug of coffee' of 2009).

The first photo that appears if you search "fashion" in Google Images w/ Creative Commons license. AMAZING.

Image by Slava Zaitsev via Wikimedia Commons

Until next time,

Margaret

Bus wanker

I ride the bus a lot. Having no car will do that to you.

For the most part, riding the bus is great. You get to zone out and swipe through Instagram as you cruise in the bus lane past bumper-to-bumper traffic. I also love pulling on the 'stop request' cord. In Edinburgh it's just a plastic button, so you can imagine how delighted I am to get to pull the cord again. So much more satisfying. Choo choo!

Image by Takeshita kenji via Wikimedia Commons

There are some things I don't love, however.

• The migraine-inducing air conditioning on full blast. 
• The waiting at bus stops.
• The man swearing aggressively at the driver who gave him flack for being a quarter short. 
• The lack of seat belts. Why aren't there seat belts?

 In high school my friends Dana, Connie and I would regularly take the bus to a thai food restaurant in Bellevue named Jasmine's. It was before anyone east of Lake City even knew about thai food—I swear. We would all order Pad Thai, then jasmine tea and fried ice cream for dessert. It was so grown up.

During one bus journey, a diet coke exploded in my shoulder bag. It had been jostling around in there when my compass—you know, those things you used to draw circles in geometry—pierced it. Stabbed it right through the aluminum! DC sprayed everywhere. I had to get up and ask the driver if he had any napkins. It was HIGHLY embarrassing. 

Another time, Char, Francie and I—ages 14 and 10—tried to take the bus to Bellevue but we got on the wrong one and wound up in Burien. Both start with "B", but other than that, we couldn't have gotten it more wrong. 

That's about it for bus stories! Other than the time a dear friend of mine got banned from all Northshore School District buses for threatening to kill our bus driver. That's the same driver that got told to "F--K OFF" by an otherwise gentle soul when she told him he couldn't bring his didgeridoo on board. 

Oh, and there was that one time in junior high that someone threw someone else's jeans out the bus window. Ninth graders be cray. 

Byeeeeee, 

Madgey


P.S. Here's Dana and I at Jasmine's (or just 'Jasmine' it looks like). Thanks for the photo, Dana!

My shoulder bag (aka 'satchel') also made it in the snap.

Chessed out

Have you ever played chess? Don't do it! It's incredibly taxing. I just played half a round with Andy and my brain feels like I've taken seven SATs, read a bunch of 'magical realism' (GAWD, that genre) and threaded a tiny needle whilst reciting the Gettysburg Address from memory.

Translation: chess is hard.

I start out confident, then I get antsy, discouraged and stressed out as I watch my one-inch army get knocked out one solider at a time. I struggle to visualize the horse's movements. Three and then one OR one and then three. An 'L' shape. It's difficult for me.

Patience is the missing piece. If I was patient, I wouldn't take my queen out into the front lines.

If I was patient, I would think beyond bishop blood and set my sights higher up the line of succession.

If I was patient, I could win. At least once, I could win.

I'm silver. How do I get out of this mess? 

Not to make excuses, but I jammed my finger on a baseball earlier today. We were playing catch on the beach. Maybe if my finger wasn't throbbing, I would have seen that rook coming.

Love,
Margaret

P.S. Remember when Kyle told Lisa that being friends with her was like playing chess with Bobby Fischer? Season 3 reunion. That was great. Do you think Mauricio told her to say it?

Yuck - water.

There are two types of people in this world, those who love water and drink it all the time (yum, yum, yum water is soooooooo good) and those who can't be bothered with water, forcing themselves to choke it down every couple days.

I belong to the latter group, Andy to the former. I wish I loved water. I know about all the health benefits and how it restores your skin cells and makes you skinny. But somehow I still can't get into it.

I don't hate water. I just don't crave it. It's not something I think about that often. I have to remind myself to drink it and then force myself to finish the whole glass.

There are the rare occasions that I guzzle it down. Once every three months or so, I get extremely thirsty and drink a litre or two in one sitting. It's the same as when you get used to surviving on very little sleep, but then you crash all of a sudden and sleep for 48 hours straight.

My cousin Maria drinks a normal to above average amount of water. When I told her that I wasn't a huge water fan, she said I'm not the only one. Her mom, my aunt Barbara, is also quite "meh" when it comes to water. I was relieved to hear I'm not the only one. In a world of Camelbaks and Nalgenes, us water-agnostics start to feel pretty out of place.

In other news, I'm busy busy busy and still haven't found time to watch the RHONY Season 7 Reunion Part 1. And I have the nerve to call myself a fan. Must get in the bath and watch it ASAP.

Goodnight,

Margaret

Meet my housecoat - VIDEO

Shucks. Working late. Time keeps on drifting, drifting...

In leui of the written word, please enjoy the following stream of consciousness video blog.


 

Cheerio,
Margaret

From the Archives, Edition 10

In honor of Andy's arrival, I'm posting this brief g-chat from March 2010.

9:42 AM me: pardon me sir

  but do you happen to have

  any

 Andy: hello

 me: cough drops

  i dont know the english word for them

 Andy: i'm sorry to say i do not

 me: ok

 Andy: lozenges?

 me: word up homie

  toodledo

9:43 AM Andy: bye bye

Th th th th that's all, folks!

Marge

Animal husbandry

I'm obsessed with the term 'animal husbandry'. I don't know what it means, but I've always just loved the sound of it. Animal husbandry. Husbandry. Animal husbandry. You've got to admit, it has a ring to it.

This isn't the first time I've become obsessed with a word or phrase solely for its mellifluousness. (Now that's a word. Mellifluousness! Look it up.) I've also been stuck on 'candelabra' and 'formaldehyde' at various times in my life.

In addition to the way the word sounds, the way it causes me to stretch my jaw is another big appeal. 'Formaldehyde' is the perfect example of this. Going from the "or" sound—lips puckered like an anteater snout—to the "al" sound—teeth bared like a grinning hyena—just feels so good. With only one word, you get a really satisfying jaw stretch. FOR-MAL-DE-HYDE. Try it. FOR-MAL-DE-HYDE. Feels good, right? If you repeat it enough, it's the same as facial isometrics.

I've also been chanting 'animal husbandry' in my head all day because Andy, my husbandry, is arriving in Seattle tomorrow! The wait is over. In less than 24 hours, we'll be drinking tea, listening to a summer playlist and watching the sunset from our living room window. Oh, to be a smug couple again...I can't wait!

Speaking of Andy—I'm sure you've already heard the news by now—his cricket team, Woodcutters CC, won the ESCA Cricket Presidents Plate Final today! Congrats, Woodies!

Photo and video via the Woodcutters CC Facebook page

Sooooooooooo tired right now. Goodnight!

Margaret

Bear-shaped things are the best

Cinnamon bear

Image by Oh Nuts via Flickr

Squeeze bottle of honey

Robear the bear-shaped nursing robot

Image via The Guardian

Teddy Grahams

Image by Harry Heng via Flickr

Northwest Territories license plate

Wisdom from Maria

My cousin Maria is as wise as they come.

Here are her words of wisdom for you all on this Friday evening:

• Ask to see a manager if your coupon's expired.

• If you tie your shoes too tight, there's a good chance that over time you'll get a bone spur. The bone spurs can mess with your arteries and it's really painful.

• You're the only one that decides what to put in your mouth.

• You've heard it before, but it's really true: people do start to resemble their pets over time. Your hair...the way you squint your eyes just so...

• People are only listening to 1/3 of what you're saying no matter what it is you're talking about.

• If you eat too much salt one day, the next day you should eat bananas and drink coconut water. 

• If you're really tired, do a backbend. It's like having a shot of espresso. The same is true of an orange.

• Buy ten pairs of sunglasses when you're at the 99 cent store. You'll never feel bad when you sit on them or lose them.

• Famous people are tiny in real life. Almost all of them. 

• If someone's sitting down and you're having a conversation with them, sit or squat down so that you're at their level. Particularly if you're speaking to an older person.

Diane Lane = one of those celebs who is extra tiny in real life.
Also, is it just me or does that dog look like John Cusack?

Thanks, Maria!

Goodnight, 

Margaret

Beach bum

A turkey will eat grain until it explodes if you let it. They don't get full. That's me with raspberries. I bought a flat of them an hour ago and they're gone now.

Well, I'm officially a beach bum. Today, after a sweaty walk back to the apartment carrying six month's worth of toilet paper, I jumped in the Puget Sound all by my lonesome. Just threw my swimsuit on, crossed the street and leapt right in. Didn't even bother to put on flip-fops.

My hair is salty. My swimsuit smells like seaweed. There's sand in the bathtub. Next thing you know I'll be hanging a 'sandy toes welcome' sign above the front door and nailing a decorative miniature surfboard to the wall.


Things I may do now that I live by the beach:

• Buy a pink flamingo lawn ornament to sit by the window.

• Walk the beach in my housecoat (aka duster) in the middle of the night just to scare people.

• Get a bike radio and cruise the strip.

• Film a new DJ Polite / Mogsquisha video (we have an idea)

• Take steel drum lessons.

• Start a Kickstarter campaign so I can buy ONE OF THESE.

What's that? You want to see my housecoat? Oh I suppose. Because you asked.

Thanks to my sis Anna who gave this to me as a housewarming gift. She's the best!

Love, 

Margaret

Why does your penis look like that?

That's what my nephew Freddie asked my sister Char as he pointed to her nipple.

"Mom, why does your penis look like that?"

I tell ya. Kids say the darndest things. Remember that show with Bill Cosby? To be honest, I didn't care for it much at the time, and that was before we all knew what we know now.

Went with a photo of a male nipple because of that damn double standard!!!!!!!!!!

Image by Xpoirotx via Wikimedia Commons

When my sister Anna was little, she pointed at a naked lady in the swimming pool locker room and said to my mom very loudly, "That lady as a BIG bottom!" And she was right. The lady did have a very large, very naked bottom. What could Nadinski do other than shake her head, give the lady an 'oh kids' look and scoot out of there as fast as possible?

Parents more than make up for their toddler's embarrassing honesty during the teenage years. Prime example: my mom bringing the camcorder to church and filming me being an alter girl. St. John Vianney had groomed me with the promise of a pizza party. Before I knew it I was donning a white robe and holding a giant bible for some B-team, no-parish-wants-him, pot-belled schmuck priest. I was half asleep, my hair was dripping wet from the shower and Nadinski had the nerve to capture it all on video.

When I have kids, I won't be embarrassing. I'll play it cool. I'll "get" it. But Andy? Him, I'm worried about. He'll be that dad. The dad with the bad puns. The dad that teases them about having a boyfriend. The dad who volunteers to chaperone school dances. The dad who blares Backstreet Boys as he picks them up from softball practice. He'll really be awful. Our poor future children.

Unrelated: is 'Can't Make You Love Me' by Bonnie Raitt the best karaoke ballad of all time? My cousin Maria says she sang it in New York at a karaoke dive bar and it brought the house down.

Love,
Margaret

The most hated woman on the planet

It has to be the Ben/Jen nanny, right?

She wins the title this week at least. As much as I'd like to say I'm staying out of it, I've accidentally formed an opinion: I don't like her.

Other important celebrity gossip at the moment includes:

• Random couple alert: Move over Beth Frankel and Cam from Modern Family, there's a new odd couple in town! Ed Sheeran and Nicole Scherzinger are allegedly dating. If you think that's weird, you're right. But here's some context for you: Nicole Scherzinger is 500 times more famous in the UK than she is here. They think she's a major bigtime iconic Hollywood superstar. Also, in other Ed Sheeran news, he just got a huge Cecil the lion tattoo on his chest. 

• Major snub alert: Chandler and Joey weren't invited to Jennifer Aniston's wedding. But what about Günther? 

• Politics alert: The Kardashians are Team Clinton. 

Another short post tonight because I've been busy swiping through Tinder all evening (not mine, of course). It's addicting. And time consuming! I seriously think there's a market for being a 'professional swiper' for people who want to outsource their Tinder duties. It takes forever because many of the people are TERRIBLE. Note to guys out there: if you're older than 27, you need to stop with the skater boi look. Same goes for the uber hipster look. GROW UP.

Ooh! The police are strolling down Alki Ave telling people the park is closed. That's my cue to hit the hay. 

Nighty night, 

Margaret 

P.S. When my Grandma talks about online dating she says so-in-so "called online and got a boyfriend." She's always recommending that single people "call online" to find themselves a spouse.

Full hearts, sore calves, can't lose

I'm sick of 'beat the heat'. It's ubiquitous. Every radio ad, 7-11 marquee and kayak rental Groupon is leading with 'beat the heat' these days. I'm tired of it!

The whole train ride back from Vancouver, I tried to think of an alternative. The best I could come up with was, 'Don't let the temp make you a wimp'. Clearly, that won't do. 'Beat the heat' stays until further notice.

What in heaven's name?

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Hanging out with my Grandma—God love her—took it out of me. That woman can talk the hind legs off a mule. Speaking of hind legs, my (extra large) calves are aching. I did the thing where I decided to walk from the water taxi instead of wait and take the shuttle. I chose to walk for 25 minutes instead of wait 5 minutes and get a ride. That, my friends, is what being impatient looks like. I am clinically impatient. It's a condition. I have it.

All of this is to say, I ain't proper bloggin' tonight. Get that through your thick skull. It ain't happening! Nothing to see here. Move along.

Hasta,
Margaret

The Merry Widow

I'm down in Vancouver (not BC) Washington (not DC) hanging out with Grandma Martha. We had a lovely afternoon sitting on the back deck, eating melted cheese on crackers and chatting about everything from Donald Trump to Italian-style meatloaf.

I've learned a lot. For example:

• Her parents almost named her Meta. 

• In Pittsburgh, a friend of her friend walked downstairs with a gun in a towel (so the kids wouldn't see) and shot her husband dead (her own husband, not my grandma's or my grandma's friend's). 

• She thought about being a nun but backed out for two reasons. 1) They wanted to know her dad's annual salary, which bugged her and 2) she heard the food wasn't very good. 

She talked to me for a long time about this particular track on a CD my mom made for her—'The Merry Widow'. She wanted me to hunt through the CDs and find it. I was worried I might not be able to. There was so much build up! 

"There's a song called 'The Merry Widow'. See if you can find it, will you? Yeah, look over there. Is it there? The song is called The Merry Widow. The Merry Widow!!!!"

"OK, I'm looking..."

"Try to find the one with The Merry Widow."

I went over to the CDs. I picked up one and read through the tracks. No luck. I picked up another. It had a big yellow Post-it on the case with large black lettering: 'THE ONE WITH THE MERRY WIDOW' Crisis averted.

Now it's almost bedtime. She's in her room watching Bachelor in Paradise (close captioned) and I'm going to take a bath. I'm looking forward to tomorrow. We're going towel shopping, either at PJ Maxx or Bed Blankets and Beyond.

I'll leave you with a snap of Martha Alice when she was just 26! I'm loving the dark nails.

Sweet dreams,
Margaret

Get a broom.

When you search for "broom" on the Ikea website, this is what you get:

So...looks like we have two options. 

1. A push broom that comes with a dustpan. 

2. And a witch's broom. 

Yeah. Obviously that's not going to work for me. I'm looking for a basic, plastic-bristled broom like the ones you'd see in, oh I don't know, EVERY KITCHEN IN AMERICA. 

Ikea, you're better than this. Get it together or I'm never going to impulse-buy pomegranate tealights from your stores again. 

To end things on a positive note, I reheated last night's spaghetti, took my bowl to the beach and shovelled it in as the sun melted into the Puget Sound. Living here is going to be amazing. I have that week-before-school-starts-again, new-outfit, new-lunchbox feeling. 

Love,
Margaret

P.S. The first item I bought for the apartment? A plunger. It was instantly necessary. 

That's gross. Period.

If you're feeling sad about all the big breakups—Ben and Jen, Gwen and Gav, Zayn and Perrie, Reba and Narvel—here's something worth remembering: Anna Kournikova and Enrique Iglesias are still together!

14 years strong.

Unfortunately, they're both really skinny at the moment, but let's not let that stop us from raising a toast their unwavering love.

In other news, a woman who just ran the London Marathon let her period blood seep out all around her crotch. My first thought was "GROSS." After reading her reasoning—"I ran with blood dripping down my legs for sisters who don't have access to tampons and sisters who, despite cramping and pain, hide it away and pretend like it doesn't exist"—I still thought "GROSS."

I kind of get her first bit of reasoning (raising awareness of girls/women who don't have access to tampons), but what about those who don't have access to a decent pair of running leggings? What message are you sending to them when you SOIL YOUR PANTS WITH UTERUS LINING?

Of course, if her goal was to raise awareness, I suppose she was effective. I must give credit where credit is due. But still, is this what the world has come to?

On a related note, when talking about the sentence-ending punctuation, British people say "full stop" instead of "period." I used to think they just preferred saying "full stop" (because they're fancy like that) but I quickly learned that's their only name for it. If you say something like "the third sentence is missing a period" or "I'm not going—period" they will giggle.

Your friend,
Marge

From the Archives, Edition 9

Unfortunately I'm too exhausted from moving (yay), shopping at Target (yay) eating lots of shrimp tacos (yay) and accidentally asking for the bill instead of the preferred American wording, "the check" (nay), to write a proper blog post tonight.

If anything will take it out of you, it's those four things.

So, today's 'From the Archives' post is simply a couple photos of my dad that I found in a box of old photos in K-town the other day.

Tootles,
Margaret

P.S. One time I wrote a reflective essay about working at the Ultimate Bagel for an English class at Gonzaga. We had to write the essay in class, so no spell-checker. When I got it back, I realized I'd spelled bagel wrong throughout the entire piece. Bagle. I'd written it at least 30 times.

Not sure why I chose to tell you this now. Suppose I felt guilty about not writing very much.

Of the day

Highlight of the day: Waking up to see that Andy Cohen of Bravo fame had commented on my Instagram post.

Hilarious moment of the day: My colleagues (aka sistahs) and I drawing a cartoon sock in PowerPoint. You had to be there.

Scary/cool news of the day: A hacker has figured out how to locate, unlock and start GM vehicles remotely.

True confession of the day: Anna and I both admitting we love the song 'All of Me' by John Legend.

Celebrity gossip of the day: Zayn Malik (One Direction) and Perrie Edwards (Little Mix) are dunzo. Take a number, you two. Tis the summer of celeb breakups.

Snack of the day: Bread.

Beverage of the day: Coffee.

Essential clothing item of the day: Close-toed shoes! Slap my butt and call me a horse camper, but today was not a day of flip flops. Firstly, I had to lift some heavy items (moving into new apt.). Secondly, it rained a bit.

Relief of the day: Getting to shut this laptop and go to bed! The last time I was this tired was when I pulled an all-nighter to read 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire' ("Number 4" to us superfans) in 9th grade. Totally worth it. It's still my favorite in the series.

Sweet dreams,
Margaret

I'm extremely frustrated!

The title says it all, but if you need more context, here are some key words:

Ikea

Bed frame

Disassemble

Allen wrench

Spatial awareness

Hard

Sweaty

Tired

Cry

New plan! I'll get my dad to help me in the morning. 

In other news, I still really love my floral night shirt. 

Goodnight,

Margaret

P.S. Kim Richards (RHOBH) arrested for shoplifting from Target. Yikes. I guess that means Kyle and Kathy really have cut her off. Hopefully this is 'rock bottom' and she finally sorts her life out. 

Faux pas

I'm no Joe Biden, but I have made a handful of gaffes in my time here on earth. Here are my top three:


1. While working at Pagliacci Pizza in high school, I carded an 82-year-old man. He took slow, tiny steps up to the counter using a walker and ordered a small pizza with a glass of the house red. I asked him for his ID. He chuckled and said he was flattered. I asked again. He said, "Do you know something, I'm 82!" I asked again. He walked back out to the parking lot to get his license out of the glove compartment.

Don't blame me, blame the liquor control board and my boss, who told me I had to card everyone. I was just following directions.


2. I was interviewing a customer for a testimonial on a client's website and began the phone call with "Hi, I'm great—I mean, I'm Margaret!" Nerves. They're real and they're a bloody nuisance.


3. When I was working at the Ultimate Bagel, a lady came in and ordered a coffee. I turned around, looked at the three thermoses (thermi?), each with a different label, and asked her, "Would you like the Breakfast Blend, the Dark Roast or the Au jus?" Nobody told me that au jus is the stuff you dip French Dip sandwiches in. How was I supposed to know?

Au jus? Last time I checked, this was America. Let's just call it beefy dipping broth.

Image by Vranak via Wikimedia Commons

Goodbye,
Margaret

P.S. The UnREAL finale? So good. So jam-packed with drama. So many hilarious one-liners. So many twists and turns. I loved it.

The day the music died

Do you ever have those moments when you think: wait a second, why don't I ever listen to music anymore?!

It happens to me all the time. I get so caught up in my podcasts that I forget the rejuvenating, mood-altering power of music. Even when I do decide to turn on the radio, I stick to Top 40. I switch between STAR 101.5, KISS 106.1 and HOT 103.7, choosing whichever one's not playing 'Shut Up And Dance'. Often it's all of them and I have to switch over to NPR.


I blame this music drought on two things:

1. The end of the CD.
2. Getting older.

The end of the CD

All great art is born of restraint. Much like the human child, it needs boundaries to flourish. That's why Twitter's140-character limit is so genius. It forces people to be creative and edit their thoughts down until they're the most concise and impactful. Not a word wasted. Polonius said it first—"Brevity is the soul of wit."

So it makes sense that the end of the CD was the end of me taking an active role in my music consumption. Back then, being constrained to 18 tracks, I was forced to put thought into my playlists. Each song required careful selection to ensure it fit the mood and flow of the mix. Nowadays, I'll just hit shuffle on the iPod and zone out to the same 200 songs that have been on there since 2007.

Getting older

An study came out recently saying that people stop listening to music once they turn 33. Maybe I'm just four years ahead of the game. I've always been mature for my age.

My one saving grace may be following young celebrities on Instagram. Two days ago Kylie Jenner introduced me to this song, which I think is decent.

Image by Gary Luck via Wikimedia Commons

OK, I gotta go! I promised myself I'd hit the hay early tonight.

Remember to treat yourself tomorrow (Mondays are for treating yourself).

Love,
Margaret

P.S. Don't get me wrong. I'm no luddite! I'm mostly happy that we've moved on from CDs. The scratches and skipping was beyond annoying.

Information for your Saturday

What emoji do you wish existed but doesn't?

A lot of people have expressed to me the need for a 'fingers crossed' emoji. I agree, and I can't believe it doesn't already exist.

Siiiiiiigh. It's one of those post-migraine, achy shoulder, listen to Miley, eat Goldfish crackers, think about going for a walk kind of nights. Despite a nap and some medicine, I'm not 100% myself. As my sisters tell their kiddos, "you know your body" and I indeed know that I'm not firing on all cylinders.

In lieu of a blog topic, I'm going to present a list of unrelated information.

• Andy's in Birmingham (pronounced Birming-um) stalking the English cricket team. His goal is to get a picture with Joe Root aka Rooty (pronounced Roo-teh). 

• I've been perusing retro glassware on Ebay. There's something about vintage drinking glasses that makes me so happy to be alive. 

• Episode 0 of Project Runway season 14 (I know, Tim Gunn must be 150 by now), 'The Road to the Runway', is now available to stream on Lifetime.com (for US viewers). It's the episode where they introduce you to all the designers. Looks like it's going to be a pretty great season. 

• I move into the new apartment next Wednesday. 

• My family has always used Comet to clean the bathtub. First, you shake the abrasive bleach powder out across the tub. You try to get it to stick to the sides, where the dirt ring is most prominent, but it always slides down. Next, you add a bit of water so that the powder turns to paste. Finally, you scour. Down on hands and knees with an industrial brush, you scrub until your knuckles scrape raw and the chemicals begin to eat away at your fingernails. Conclusion: this method sucks. Worst of all, years of Comet-use have taken the varnish off the tub, making it even more susceptible to dirt stains. It's 2015; there must be a better way!

Since I couldn't find a photo of Comet, here's the first England cricket team to tour Southern Australia. 1861

Image via Wikipedia Commons

Goodnight,
Margaret