"Did you ever play on a soccer team?" my brother-in-law William asks my mom.
She answers, "You know, I distinctly remember being in the car, my dad was driving, and out the window we saw them. There they all were. Spread out across the field. And we said, 'WHAT is that!?' And it was soccer. We'd never seen it before in our lives."
In Edinburgh circa 2011, Andy asked me to play soccer (or "football" as it was called back then) with him and a group of girls he met in the park. I needed the cardio, so I agreed.
We met every Sunday for a few weeks. I was starting to feel pretty confident. I'd never played soccer before, but I could run fast and even stole the ball on a few occasions.
Then, something terrible happened. One night, after the game, Andy asked me, "So, why do you roll the ball in during your throw-ins?"
Uhhhh.
CRAP.
I'd been doing it wrong! I'd been doing it wrong all along! Instead of chucking the ball in a straight-arms, over-the-head heave, I'd been ROLLING IT UNDERHAND back onto the pitch.
How mortifying.
I never returned to Sunday soccer, and I still cringe when thinking about it.
YouTube is awash with amazing soccer videos. But this one is the best.
Not to be an old lady, but why must they play the music so loud in bars? How are people supposed to have a decent conversation over ear-piercing guitar solos?
Five and a half years in the UK and my once-robust American vocal chords have shrivelled into shadows of their former selves. I became so accustomed to the meek, muted tones of British discourse that I fear I may never regain my old volume.
In Edinburgh I'd often work from the black chair in our bay window. I quickly learned how to tune out the bagpipes. But when American tourists would walk down the Mile, my ears couldn't ignore their familiar, flat, unapologetic, thunderous honking. MY PEOPLE. I'd be compelled to look up from my laptop and watch them walk by. Yoga pants + fleece + running shoes, without fail.
It took me about a year of being over there to adopt a UK-approved volume. It happened gradually. I didn't realise I was talking quieter until I came back to Kenmore for a visit and everyone in my family kept saying, "What?" "I can't hear you!" "Speak up!"
Now that I'm back for good, I can only hope that I'll eventually get my voice back. My true American voice. Monotone. Confident. Loud.
While I'm on the subject, I think it's unfair that Americans get all the flack for being loud. Yes, we're loud. Much louder than the English, Scottish and Irish. But we aren't the only country that errs on the side of screaming. What about Italians? Or Greeks? Spaniards? Porto Ricans? Those are just some of the countries where, according to anecdotal research and some quick Googling, people also talk loudly.
What's on its head? I don't know. I don't think we'll ever know.
I feel like I've meandered off topic because it's nearly midnight and I haven't yet fulfilled my bath quota for the day. I can't think straight.
The main thing I wanted to get across is that I'm hoarse. HOARSE. After catching up with high school friends all day, and having a lovely time, I'm ready for some herbal tea and hot soak in the tub.
Wiedersehen,
Margaret
P.S. Don't Google Image search "Vocal Chords". NSFW.
P.PS. Is there a better cough drop than original Ricola? If so, I don't want to know about it.
For the past few days I've been experiencing heartburn.
I know, how poetic.
It all started when a bit of San Pellegrino lemon soda went down the wrong tube. That, combined with a very unhealthy stretch of takeaway curries, Dominoes pizza and afternoon flat whites, has only made it worse.
Indigestion. I'm a person with indigestion. Just proves that you never know what life is going to throw at you.
Speaking of achy hearts and life, today I started to say goodbye to Edinburgh. I've said goodbye to all of my friends; now it's time to bid farewell to the city itself.
This morning Char, William, Freddie, Elsie and I walked up Calton Hill. We endured the freezing winds—both F and E with runny noses—and looked out across Leith and the Firth of Forth.
The scene was painted in typical Edinburgh grey. Grey buildings. Grey clouds. Grey ocean. Edinburgh wears grey well. But I'm excited to return to the Emerald City.
Someone needs a haircut.
Only a month until this crew is back in sunny Sea-town too.
This evening I went for a brief run around the Meadows, stopping at the Quartermile Sainsbury's to buy some antacids. From there I walked the familiar route home across Forrest Road, past Greyfriars Bobby on George IV bridge and along Victoria Terrace to our flat on Upper Bow.
"Take it all in!" I told myself.
Now I'm sitting on the couch typing this, and I can feel the sweat drying on my back. I better get in the shower before the bacne kicks in.
Your pal,
Margaret
P.S. I'm pretty sure these heartburn tablets are just dried squares of toothpaste.
P.P.S. Andy and I starting a new show tonight. 'The Jinx'—and HBO miniseries. I've heard it's good. I'll let you know.
Guest blog week continues with Stradbally's finest caricature artist William Donal Kearns sharing his thoughts on my absolute favourite topic of all: ME! Well played, William. Well played.
As the days and
minutes tick down to March 17th, reminiscing about the life of
‘Bobo’ (as my son Freddie calls her) in Scotland will be a topic on many
people’s minds. Bobo came to sunny Scotland in 2009 as a young, wee,
single and ready to mingle American lassie, carrying only a large blue rucksack
and her fair share of digestive issues.
Shortly after
arriving, Bobo managed to warm the hearts of many people with her friendly,
caring and spontaneous personality. And none more than the posh English
gentleman who she joined for afternoon tea her first month in Edinburgh. She
had him hooked in no time.
After an
initial stint of studying to become a minister, Bobo soon decided to ditch that
idea and enter the working world. She was an instant hit with her colleagues at
LBi but none more so than her close-knit friendship with her fellow ‘divas.’
Next was a
(very) short stint at Sainsbury's Bank, which proved to be her last and probably
ever job working under someone else’s authority. She strived to become an
independent woman and soon began to take matters into her own hands and became
her own boss. Safe to say it’s probably the best decision she has ever made for
more reasons than one.
Meeting Bobo
and having her as part of our lives in Edinburgh has been truly amazing. Not
only has she been a great Auntie to our little ones Freddie and Elsie, but also
a wonderful friend to us all and not to mention, an ideal babysitter to have
around.
Char and I
count ourselves lucky to have had her continued support around and loving
friendship and look forward to our future with her in the great Pacific Northwest.
From the bottom
of our hearts, thank you for your friendship, support and the everlasting
memories from your time well spent in Edinburgh.
Ps. Ill leave you with a drawing of Bobo herself and of course the founder of this great name, little Freddie!
Happy Sunday fellow Madgespace readers.
Yes, that’s right —this isn’t the bowl cut beauty herself. It is her
sister Char with the exciting news that Madgespace is going to be taken over by
guest bloggers for the next week. Saddle up and enjoy reading about the sentiments
of a few, very select blog-sperts (blog + experts…kind of).
Possessions
As you all know, Madge is preparing to
leave Edinburgh in a couple of weeks and, about six weeks later, I will be
following suit. What can I say, I can’t live without the gal! Despite the move
still being two months away, we’ve started going through all our stuff. We need to
get the flat ready to rent and there’s no way we can bring everything we own.
For some, moving is stressful and
emotional, filled with moments of deep nostalgia and debates about what to keep
and what to throw or give away. Over the years I’ve discovered I’m just not
this person. And it’s surprising — even to me. I mean, it's not like I'm not in tune with my emotions. I’m the one who tears up at the news of anyone and their dog's pregnancy and cries at every ridiculous
rom-com. Heck, I even shed a few tears when my son pooped in the toilet for the
first time.
So, how did I feel when I gave away the
baby cradle? The frames that held our family photos? The dress I wore at my
wedding?
ELATED.
OVERJOYED. ECSTATIC.
My brain was chanting ‘less stuff, less
stuff, less stuff!’ and I wanted to dance around our empty flat. Turns out, I
am a minimalist. I LOVE that I can fit everything I own into two suitcases. It makes me feel footloose and fancy-free (although, ironically, using that phrase makes me feel old and immobile). It's also kind of a relief to realize I don't need things to keep me happy.
Intersections and zebra crossings (pronounced zEH-bra, not zee-bra) are there for when traffic's backed up. But most of the time people here just use their own eyesight and spatial awareness to judge whether crossing the street is doable. Imagine that!
They weave in between cars that are stopped at traffic lights. They walk right along the edge of the pavement as double-decker buses whoosh by, inches from their shoulders. They cross the road in two acts, going halfway and balancing on the centre median until they spot an opportunity to jet across.
Edinburgh pedestrians will dash in front of an approaching car leaving just milliseconds' room for error. Drivers are equally ballsy, staying firm or even accelerating as they approach darting pedestrians. The message is clear: pick up the pace, or die.
The closer you get to Leith, the crazier the foot traffic. The neighbourhood in north Edinburgh is known for being rough around the edges, but its pedestrians are city-walking virtuosos. From the bus window this evening I spotted:
A young mother with a special-needs child in a stroller and a German Shepard crossing the road as a van sped straight toward them. I gasped as I saw her go for it. But she timed it perfectly.
A pack of 'youths' bustling down the side of the road, play-fighting and throwing things at each other as cars zoomed past at 35mph. I thought about screaming, "Be careful!" out the bus window, but I held back.
An ancient man with terrible scoliosis and a fabulous trench coat inch-worming his way across the busy street through rush hour traffic—no zebra crossing needed.
Perhaps being surrounded by meandering tourists has inspired the locals to be extra savvy on foot. Stupid tourists! We'll show them how it's done! Or maybe it's all the freezing wind and rain that encourages people to get to their destination as quickly as possible.
As for me, I'm conflicted about the pedestrian culture over here. It pits two of my favourite things against each other: Efficiency vs. Safety. I love both so much.
I can't stand in-between time, so I speed-walk everywhere. But I'm extremely risk-averse, so I avoid walking under scaffolding and I stand three feet back from the curb at the bus stop. I'm totally down with the swift pace of Edinburgh walkers, but their devil-may-care approach to road crossing makes me nervous.
Andy always does risky road crossings, leaving me standing at the curb like a big, scared baby. He laughs and shakes his head at me as I wait patiently for the light to change. What a smug Libra. But just wait until he's in Seattle where drivers and pedestrians gather daily to hold hands, dance around a May pole, braid each other's hair and sing Kum Ba Yah.
Love,
Margaret
P.S. Perez Hilton is on the UK Big Brother and he's sooooo annoying. Like way worse than you'd even expect, and I expected him to be pretty bad. Michelle Visage on the other hand (lots of Americans this year) is killing it. She's the bookies' favourite to win.
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!
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!
I emailed Edinburgh Council today. It was a rash decision made in a moment of forced insanity. But I went overboard to try and lay out my feelings logically and kindly. I wonder if they'll write back.
In related news, I am no longer spellbound by brass instruments. The girl was playing a saxophone. I'm done with horns for a while.
A military marching band went by our flat today, and boy could those ol' geezers play! It made me think: Have I missed my calling? Was I never meant to be a digital marketer, but actually one of the great horn players of my generation? Cue spine chills.
Trombone, so I could look awesome and tone my arm fat.
Saxophone, so I could be mates with Kenny G and ask him to guest star on one of my tracks.
Bugle,so I could wake up summer campers and, that's it I suppose (is there any other purpose for a bugle?).
Sousaphone, so I could find out what that is.
Tuba, actually, I don't think I want to learn the tuba. Far too heavy.
Kenneth Bruce Gorelick. The man, the legend. Image via Wikimedia Commons
Boo hoo, the weekend's over. Tell me again why we've all decided that a five-day work week is OK? We've done this too ourselves! Oh well. Treat yourself to a pastry of some sort tomorrow morning and it will all be fine.
'Tis referendum day! I'm lucky to be in Edinburgh for such a momentous occasion. As an American, I don't get to vote (can't be trusted—I totally understand). But that's OK, because it's nice to take in the action from the sidelines. Reminds me of when I made the 7th grade basketball team and then was benched for the entire season after a ridiculous half court shot attempt in game one. I was relieved (was always more of a choir girl than a baller).
The city is buzzing with supporters from both camps, as well as journalists from around the world. I tried to tune in to the news this morning, but for some reason our BBC channels haven't been working for us (all pixelated...I want my TV license money back!).
So, I put my shoes back on, grabbed the camera and hit the mean streets of Edinburgh to take in the atmosphere first hand. Take that Gonzaga University journalism department! You said I'd never amount to anything, but look at me now. Only kidding, they didn't say that.
Outside a newsagent on Canongate.
Lothian Chambers polling place on George IV Bridge.
A 'Yes' truck on Queen's Drive.
Chalk graffiti near the Chambers on the Royal Mile.
'No' signs are smaller and sparser. However, 'No' still leads the polls by 6 points, and many believe that the quiet 'No' vote will be the deciding factor.
Referendum reminder outside Holyrood. In case anyone forgets, today's the day to vote.
Team Bible taking advantage of the additional foot traffic near George IV Bridge.
Remnants of a 'Yes' sticker on a Royal Mile bin.
Ari Shapiro from NPR (yes, our NPR) stands near the Heart of Midlothian and interviews a dude about independence.
Yes, yes, yes from one flat in Canongate.
Catalan independence supporter outside Holyrood.
Signs outside the Lothian Chambers polling place on George IV Bridge.
Cypriot 'Yes' supporter on Holyrood Drive.
Message from The Scotsman on a post on George IV Bridge.
High Street wellhead sharing in the joy of democracy at work.
Pro-union support from a flat on George IV Bridge.
Lots of honking in the Grassmarket this morning, but the latest polls still predict a 'No'.
Classic shenanigans from William Chambers.
Joke shop on Victoria Street has all the referendum gear you're looking for, including a unicorn mask (Scotland's national animal)
Early results expected at 2am tomorrow morning.
UPDATE: and it's a 'No', as expected. Andy and I went back out right before the polls closed. Here are a few more snaps of the hopeful 'Yes' revellers before the results were in.
Candles outside St.Giles Cathedral in the design of both the Scottish and Catalan flags.
Some boisterous 'Yes' supporters make their way down the mile, chanting "We still love you, even if you're 'No', even if you're 'No', even if you're 'No'" in the tune of 'Yellow Submarine'. They just hugged those guys by the red car.
Scottish flags outside the Parliament.
'Yes' and 'No' supporters (but mainly 'Yes') gather outside the Scottish Parliament.
Bicycle 'Yes' flare.
Group of 'Yes' supporters pose for photo.
People outside the Kilderkin pub on Canongate.
Things got a bit heated (but for the most part remained polite) outside the Lothian Chambers polling place just after polls closed at 10pm.
Today I left the office (still self-employed, just freelancing in an office this week) and emerged into a world of pure chaos. Or at least it felt that way.
Fellow city dwellers, you'll know what I mean.
It's that same feeling you get when you leave a movie theatre and pop out into the mid-day sun. Everything and everyone is moving so quickly. The brightness is jarring. The sound of cars, deafening. A horn honk makes you jump out of your skin. You make eye contact with people and it seems like they know you—very Truman Show.
Old pic, but it works.
So, today I leave the office and narrowly avoid a steaming pile of dog poop. This sets the tone for my walk home. A fire engine squeals past. A homeless woman hollers something indistinct but no doubt aggressive. The traffic lights are about to change so I must scurry across in the nick of time.
A man stops in front of me and signals for me to remove my headphones. "Do you know how to get to Sesame Street?" he asks in a French/Italian/Spanish/Something accent. I respond with a "heh heh" chuckle, but his blank expression doesn't change. "Oh, an actual Sesame Street? In Edinburgh?" I ask. He nods without any sense of irony. "Um....no, I don't. Sorry."
And I run.
Must get home to my pajamas, my laptop, the Real Housewives, a bowl of pretzels, a door that locks and windows that shut.
Ah, that's better.
Now, save your pity. I am not mentally ill. This doesn't happen to me every day. It's just that sometimes, if I let my guard down, the outside world can be super unsettling. If I'm not in the right frame of mind (tired, been working all day, etc.) a series of innocent events can feel like the universe is conspiring against me.
Can you relate?
Namaste,
Margaret
P.S. Having to say "namaste" is the WORST part of any yoga class.
P.P.S. I know I don't have to say it and that yoga is all about doing whatever's comfortable to you. But still.
P.P.P.S. My experience today made me think of this:
There's something weird about the human brain that allows you to forget the impracticability of a round brush approximately every six years. You spend the majority of your life knowing that blow-drying your hair and using a round brush simultaneously is pretty much impossible. But then, out of nowhere, you'll convince yourself that it just might work.
It never does.
Why? Because our arms are attached to our shoulders and we only have two of them. Curling the back of your hair under with a round brush is physically impossible. I feel like I've accepted this for the final time - yet six years from now, the frustration of my most recent round brush attempt will be a distant memory. I'm sure I'll get sucked into the round brush propaganda once again.
In the meantime, maybe I should just invest in a Topsy Tail.
Let's move on. Edinburgh got its first snowfall yesterday. Just a handful of miniscule flakes, but snow nonetheless! It was beautiful. Weather gods of Scotland, if you're reading this, we want MORE!!!!
As it gets colder outside, it just gets cosier and cosier in our flat. I have the Yankee Candles firing on all cylinders, every finished cup of tea gets immediately replaced with another, and we fall asleep listening to the calm, wise voices of old British men doing cricket commentary on the radio.
Yankee Candles. I'm obsessed. It's me at my most 'middle-aged suburban mom'.
Yep, cricket. The sport, nae the animal. Just like watching 'Home Alone', eating tree-shaped cookies and listening to a certain Mariah Carey song (you know the one), cricket is part of the Christmas tradition over here.
'The Ashes', a biennial tournament between England and Australia, is on for most of December. Since they're playing Down Under, the live commentary doesn't start until about 11:30pm our time. It's been lulling us to sleep the past few nights.
The thing about cricket is, it's a truly fantastic game. I completely understand the skepticism - it's not the easiest of pastimes to get into late in life, but I would urge everyone to give it a go. The sport evokes the same feelings you get watching baseball on a warm, relaxing summer afternoon. Yet, compared to baseball, the tension takes much more time to build and the payoff is potentially much greater.
In a game of cricket, there are always two stories happening at once. There's the immediate action (what's happen on the pitch right now), but also the story of the bigger picture (what's the broader meaning of what's happening on the pitch - what does it all add up to). It's only as the game goes on that the latter gets clearer.
However, I'll admit that it wasn't too long ago that I thought cricket went something like this:
That's all for now - have a groovy weekend!
Love,
Margaret
P.S. Don't forget to fire this bad boy up at your next holiday party! 'Tis the season for DJ Polite.
We didn't have any food in the flat this morning. I kept meaning to 'nip down to the shop' (American English translation: 'pop out to the store'), but I got caught up in work and the thought of putting shoes on seemed like an enormous effort.
So, I kept working, staying as still as possible to conserve my energy and ignoring the deafening growls of my stomach. It wasn't until 1pm that I finally made the ten minute walk up to Sainsbury's.
I giddily grabbed an almond croissant from the bakery. STILL WARM. Couldn't believe my luck. Thinking ahead, I grabbed lunch stuff and dinner stuff - what a savvy shopper I am.
Satisfied, I hit up the self-scanner (human interaction? Nein, danke.) and successfully made it to the payment step without a single 'unexpected item in bagging area' taunt.
'Finish and Pay' - yep!
'Pay with Card' - yep!
'Insert card into the card reader' - you got it!
'Insert your pin number' - um, hmmm.
Huh.
Let me see.
Nope. Don't know it. I know the numbers, but only three of them and I forget the order. How can this be? I've had the pin for four years and I use the card nearly every day.
I had a go at guessing the pin, until the machine told me it'd had enough of my foolery. Tail between my legs, I went over to the human cashier and spilled the beans. I explained that my mind had gone blank and asked if I could put my groceries behind the till while I ran home to get my other card. The man gave me a nice 'it happens more than you think, kiddo' look and said 'of course.'
What's the moral of this story? No, I am asking you. I really don't know what to think! Am I losing my mind? Was this a bizarre result of my malnourished morning? I'm still not quite sure of my pin. I think I know it now, but the events of earlier today really knocked my confidence.
Aliment Two: Beard Eye
In addition to my mental illness, I am suffering from a bad case of beard eye. What's beard eye? It's when your boyfriend's beard scratches the surface of your eye. Not the lid! The actual eyeball.
Little has been said about the dangers of 'dancing cheek to cheek' with a tall, whisker-faced man. Yet this morning my right eye got a beardfull, and it's still stinging now - 10 hours later!
Five o'clock shadow? More like five o'clock shad - OW!
