Presented without comment...

With pride,
Margaret

P.S. You better watch it all!

When's the last time you cleaned your fridge?

Only 18 days until I move out of Kenmore and into an apartment in West Seattle. You know what that means. In less than three weeks, I'll have a refrigerator all to myself! Mine, mine, mine! Mine to clean. Mine to organize. Mine to gaze into longingly. I can't wait!

When it comes to refrigerators, I go full Yolanda. Clean as a whistle and organized within an inch of its egg tray. Actually, I blame MTV Cribs. I remember watching it as a young teenager in a household of seven and dreaming of having a fridge like Tony Hawk or Linda Hogan when I grew up. Full of pop and Capri-suns and pre-sliced cheese.

Here's my fridge ethos:

• Take all individually-packed items out of their communal package (e.g. take pop out of the cardboard box)

• Only one ketchup at a time. Stick to four mustards max: French's, sweet hot, dijon, stoneground.

• When in doubt, throw it out! (credit: Stephanie Janicki)

Image by Tweek via Wikimedia Commons

This evening I threw out an entire QFC bag's worth of rotten food. Mouldy hummus. Lasagna from two weeks ago. Black beans that smelled like cat urine. It's nobody's fault; it's just the natural consequence of living in a household of more than two people. You simply can't control the fridge situation.

These precious years of pre-kids adulthood are my only chance to enjoy a clean, tidy fridge before the situation spirals yet again. Here's to making the most of them starting August 1st!

Love,
Margaret

P.S. I couldn't find a good place for this sentence, but it seemed a shame to throw it out: 'I like my refrigerators like I like my men—tall, orderly and complicit in my weight gain.'

Unique up on it

Who: Nancy Padden aka Nadinksi Montbrosis aka Nina aka my mother
When: 1994
Where: "The old house", Kenmore, WA

It's late. It's pitch black outside. Nina can't sleep. She's never been big a big believer in the full eight hours. Even these days, I'll get up to pee at 3 a.m. and hear her upstairs, flipping through the pages of the New Yorker while she waits for the bathtub to fill. 

So, on that night back in 1994, it's not unusual for her to be up out of bed. She's milling about the house, getting herself a glass of water, loading the last few dishes into the dishwasher, when suddenly she spots something through the living room window. 

Small, white, round. Hunched in the tall, dewy grass. 

The rabbits. 

It's one of our rabbits—Rudolph or Frosty (aka the replacements). How did it get out of its cage? She needs to act fast, before it can hop away, down the ravine, never to be seen again. 

Carefully, she pulls open the sliding glass door. 

Quiet, Nina. Soft steps, Nina. Stay calm, Nina. 

She's only 5'1", but her feet are a size 10. They used to be an 8.5 but, under the weight of four pregnancies, her arches melted like butter and spread the surface area significantly. Despite the flippers and a natural impatience, she creeps up on the rabbit like a black panther stalking its prey. Slow. Steady. Controlled. One step in front of the other. 

The closer she gets, the more likely the rabbit will dart away. But luck's on her side. The rabbit never even flinches. 

Is she close enough? At what point does she pounce?

About ten minutes passes and finally, she thinks, it's time. Adrenaline bubbling in her veins, she leaps! She dives! She lands, arms out, scooping up and locking in the rabbit before it has time to react. Success!

But wait. This doesn't feel like Rudolph. It doesn't feel like Frosty either. It's not soft and furry, but hard, like plastic. 

Oh dear. 

It can't be. 

Is it? 

Yep.






THE VOLLEYBALL.



Goodnight,
Margaret

Your tax dollars at work

Just when I have doubts that there's no room left for another marketing agency in this world, something changes my mind. Today, it was a video from the US Embassy in London.

Before you watch, things to keep in mind:

• This is an OFFICIAL video, from the US Embassy in London's OFFICIAL YouTube channel. 

• The video is only 4 years old. 

• This is the embassy that recently commissioned an artist to design a hideous $1 million granite sculpture to be displayed in the building. So, they're not necessarily on a tight budget. 

Yeeesh. I've always wondered how many record scratch sound effects are too many, and now I have my answer.

US State Department, if you're reading this, please let me produce your next video. I'm a whiz with iMovie (proof), and I'll probably charge you less than half what you paid for this steaming turd.

In other news, today I:

• Walked to the Kenmore Starbucks and worked on the website for an upcoming business venture with my sistahs.

• Bought healthcare. The lady from WA Healthplanfinder was nice and helpful, so maybe the government isn't all that bad. However, whoever signed off on 'Healthplanfinder' as one word needs to be fired.

• Got new running shoes in the mail. 

• Ate dinner at Kid Valley with my parents. We admired the view of Kenmore Premix and agreed that it's actually kind of cool, in a vintage, industrial sort of way. The city has promised us a fancy Kirkland-style waterfront for years now, but let's ask ourselves: are we really prepared to see the Premix go? 

Peace be with you,
Margaret

P.S. Thanks Andy for sending me the video.

P.P.S. Just watched the video for a fifth time, and I think I like it now. I'm rooting for the poor guy. And I'm right there with him when he does the "YES!" arms in the air thing. GREAT video. Love it.

Bathmatics

For the past four years, something very dear to my heart has been notably absent from my life. 

A bathtub. 

Now, back in the comfort of my childhood home, I'm making up for lost time. I've already enjoyed five soaks since my return to the US two days ago. 

Me + bathtub = HEAVEN! 

Nothing can warm you up like a bath. It heats you to the bone. 

Even if you're not a "bath person", trust me, you don't know what you've got 'till it's gone (Mitchell, 1970). At least appreciate that you have the option to take one. Go give your tub a hug. 

When I was in junior high and high school, I would stay in the bath for hours, drinking peppermint tea and reading. As the minutes ticked by, the water would get cold, so I'd pour whatever was left in my mug over myself. It was gross. 

Nowadays, I can't stay in for longer than a few minutes. I'm intolerant to anything less than scalding. Also, I read on a Kindle now. No falling asleep with the bathwater nipping at my R.L. Stine paperback. Instead, I have to lean off the ledge to read safely away from the water's reach. It's far less comfortable and has shortened my bath time significantly. 

Facts about me and baths:

• When we were young kiddos, I pooped in a bath I was sharing with my sister Anna. I watched Anna attempt to catch the floating turd (she thought it was some sort of bath toy), before warning her at the last minute: "That's my poop!"

• I always sit in the tub while it fills up. I don't wait until it's full to get in. I've always done it this way. Not saying it's better, but just that old habits die hard. 

• In our family, growing up, a "bubble bath" meant squirting half a bottle of Dawn dish soap near the running faucet. It did a number on the skin, but boy did you get a lot of bubbles for your buck. Sometimes I would squirt the bottom of an empty tub with Dawn and slide back and forth on the slipery surface. Weeeee!!! It was fun, but for a good week afterward it would sting whenever I went pee. 

Speaking of baths, I just emerged from one. I was resting my jet-legs and trying to remember what I did this morning, which seems like months ago. That's what happens when you wake up at 5am. 

Be the jaysus; I'm tired. 

Splish-splash, 

Margaret

Annabelle: Part 2

If you haven't already, read Part 1 before you read this.

---

"Annabelle?" I shouted again. I couldn't believe I'd remembered her name. I hadn't actually read it off the flyer, but my subconscious must have jotted it down just in case this hero-making moment presented itself. 

I looked back at my friends. 

"Justine, I think it's that lady. The one who's missing," I said in a loud whisper. She looked confused. It didn't register. "The one I told you about on the phone. The old lady!"

"Oh yeah. Oh my god!" Justine said, remembering our brief conversation a half hour earlier. 

The three of us ran up to the bushes, peering through the tangles of leaves and branches. 

We saw her. Frail. On all fours. Crawling through the mud. 

She wore a long, beige trench coat and had a pale blue kerchief tied around her head. As she moved, she dug her bony fingers into the soil, pulling her withered body forward through the sticker bushes.

"Annabelle," I said for a third time. 

She looked up at us, her cheeks hollow and wrinkles deep and dirty like a dry riverbed. Slivers of sunlight pierced through the branches, casting sharp, sinister shadows across her gaunt expression. 

"Hello," she croaked. 

*                      *                      *                      *

Image via Wikimedia Commons

There was no way this 90-year-old, 90-pound woman would make it up those stairs. So, we split up. Justine and I would go get neighbour-man. Connie would stay with Annabelle. Poor Connie—always getting the raw deal. Explaining to the neighbour that, as a matter of fact, I did know where his missing mother-in-law was—that would be awkward. But sitting in a forest cabana with the Wrinkled Witch of West Kenmore? That was worse. 

As expected, pulling up in Justine's Ford Probe, pounding on neighbour-man's door and telling him that we'd found his wife's lost long mother was awkward. It had been less than an hour since he was on my porch asking me to keep an eye out for her. This just seemed too convenient—like I'd kidnapped her and kept her hidden until the 'Missing Mother-in-Law | Reward: $1million' flyers went up. 

The man seemed surprised by our quick discovery, but said he and his wife would follow us in their car back to Connie's. 

Walking down all those steps with the two of them was agony. What were we supposed to talk about? "So, does the old bat escape often?" "Have you heard that the Kenmore Premix is going to be torn down and replaced with a movie theatre?" No—smalltalk didn't seem appropriate. We opted for silence. 

When we finally arrived at the bottom, Connie and Annabelle were sipping bottled waters and chatting. They'd become fast friends. But when Annabelle spotted her daughter and son-in-law, she flipped out. 

"No! No! Don't send me back there!" she pleaded with us. "I won't let that man tell me what to do! Don't make me go!"

With each refusal and accusation, the atmosphere got more and more uncomfortable. I remembered my Mom telling me that people with dementia often lash out and even lie about their loved ones. I decided to believe that was the case with Annabelle. What other choice did I have?

Over Annabelle's squawks, Connie suggested that she ask her neighbours if we could use their electric tram to get the frail old bird back up the hill. It was either that or we tie her to an inflatable pool lounger and drag her up the stairs. Annabelle's middle-aged carers weren't offering up any suggestions either. They just stood there being utterly unhelpful.

While we waited for Connie to call us on the cabana landline with the go-ahead, things got more awkward. Out of nowhere, neighbour-man looked at me and said, "Call 911 to let them know we found her!"

"What?"

"Call 911 and tell them that we found her. We filed a missing persons report earlier," he said. 

"Oh, ok," I said, too disarmed by his sudden command to question it. I pressed 9-1-1 on the keypad and started speaking to the operator. 

"Uhh. Hi, my name is Margaret and I found an old lady who is a missing person. So, yeah, umm, I just wanted to let you know we found her..." I trailed off. Did neighbour-man realise I was just a 19-year-old idiot? Why was he making me do this? And was calling 911 really necessary?

Eventually, as my "ummms" and "I'm not sures" became more frequent, neighbour-man gestured for me to hand him the phone. He started explaining things to the operator and I tuned him out. I had done what the situation had asked of me, and now I was finished. 

I hightailed it home. The whole thing was too weird. Too tense. I'd never liked meeting new people, and this just confirmed it. 

Murder in Kenmore: Part 2

If you haven't already, read Part 1 first. 

*                      *                      *                      *

My knees buckled and I forgot how to run. My eyes darted left to the rabbit cage—the wooden mansion my dad had carefully constructed to give Binky and Dinky more humane living conditions. Maybe this wasn't really happening. Maybe I was dreaming, or perhaps it was some sort of elaborate prank. But the rabbit hutch sat empty. 

Unable to move, I screamed instead. 

"HELP! HELP! HELP! HELLLLP!!!!!!"

I kept screaming until my sister Char appeared from around the side of the house. I pointed. She saw. Now we were both screaming. She ran to get my mom as I stood watch over their lifeless bodies, which had the odourless scent of fresh death. 

Binky and Dinky were dead. They had both died, somehow. Was it old age? How old were they? Or was it some terrible illness—a bout of Rabbit Flu that they just couldn't overcome? 

I wasn't a dumb six-year-old, but the obvious truth simply didn't occur to me. Binky and Dinky didn't pass away gracefully in their sleep. They were murdered. They didn't die side by side on the soft grass. They were placed there. 

The Investigation

About an hour after the discovery, my dad's car screeched into the driveway. He threw open the front door and yelled, "Nobody touch ANYTHING!"

This. Was. His. Moment. 

Rich Kay had dreamed of a life as a private detective since he was a kid. From the fictional Sherlock Holmes to the real-life Pinkerton Detectives, he'd always been fascinated by the mystery-solving profession. Now was his chance to put his sleuthing skills to the test. 

His investigation of the crime scene, which, yes, involved a magnifying glass and a notepad, uncovered the following bizarre pieces of information:

• No sign of forced entry into the backyard or the rabbit cage
• No blood on either bunny
• Rabbits were placed side by side in a deliberate, perhaps ritualistic manner
• No rabbit hair in the kiddie pool (which we'd filled up a few days earlier and had left out in the yard)

From those clues he determined:

• The killer was human (a dog couldn't open the latch on the gate or the hutch, and the rabbits would have been torn to pieces)
• The cause of death was NOT drowning (no hairs in the pool, rabbits only wet with a bit of dew, but not soaked)
• The cause of death was NOT complications from injuries (no blood)
• The cause of death was likely one of the following: A) strangulation, B) poisoning or C) having their necks broken. After further examination, he settled on option C. 

In all his thoroughness, my dad wasn't able to bring any more closure to this case. He and my mom never called the police or spoke to any animal welfare officials. I phoned them last week to ask why, and my mom said, "I don't know. I guess we thought they wouldn't do anything. I suppose we just lived in the present."

I agreed with her at first. Rabbit murder isn't exactly the case of a lifetime. But then I thought about it some more. Imagine if those rabbits had been a golden retriever. Surely they would have called the police then?

The more I think about it, of course the cops would have at least taken a statement and made a note of the crime in case it matched with other suspicious activity in the area. If someone creeped into our yard, killed our rabbits with their bare hands and laid them out in the grass like lawn ornaments, what else could they possibly be capable of? 

The reality is, and thank goodness for it, none of us realised how troubling the incident really was at the time. 

The Suspects

This is where things get dicey. I'm hesitant to be too specific about possible suspects, as I don't want to falsely incriminate someone or be sued for libel by my former neighbours who most definitely read this wildly famous blog every day. 

So, with that in mind, here are generic descriptions of the main suspects:

1. Weird / Troublemaking neighbour boy. Three sources I've spoken with (OK, my mom, my dad and my friend who lived three houses down from us) have pinpointed this shady fellow as a prime suspect. I've been told that he may have had a crush on my sister Francie, he was possibly a drug addict and he lit fireworks off on non-fireworks days. 

2. Residents of the 'halfway house' kitty-corner from us. There's debate about whether the house was really a halfway house, but there's no question that the people living there were up to no good. From late-night knocks on the door asking for "coffee" to visits from their estranged children, who ended up playing at our house and begging my mom not to make them go back, there's no doubt that the house's three residents are all suspects.

3. Weird / Quiet neighbour boy. These were the days before school shootings, but we all now know that it's the quiet ones who often surprise you. At the time, we wouldn't have considered this shy high schooler a suspect, but looking back, he definitely knew about the rabbits and maybe he was a secret sociopath living next door. Who knows?

4. Of course, the final suspect has to be the person we'd never suspect. The family friend. The babysitter. The relative. The teacher. And these are just the known unknowns. There are even more unknown unknowns that will simply never reveal themselves. 

The Funeral

Max, Char, my mom and I stood over a small dirt grave. Anna and Francie were at summer camp. They'd been sent the news in a rambling letter that ended with "P.S. Binky and Dinky were murdered."

I remember Char sobbing as my dad carried them over, one in each hand. They were so long. That's all I could think about. They looked nothing like they did when they were alive. It was as if they'd been put in one of those medieval torture stretch machines and pulled like taffy.

In they went, one on top of the other. As my dad shovelled dirt over them, Char read a eulogy from a 3x5 card and we all said some quiet goodbyes. 

The next year we got two replacement rabbits for Christmas. Rudolph and Frosty. But it just wasn't the same.

Tschüss, 

Margaret

Murder in Kenmore: Part 1

Is it customary for six-years-olds to take the garbage out? That dreaded chore is what kicked the whole thing off—the twisted series of events that would become known as the 'Murder in Kenmore'. 

That day lives in the minds of all seven of us. Rich, Nancy, Max, Anna, Char, Francie, Margaret. We will carry it with us always. But now, for the first time, this true tale of crime, mystery and heartbreak will be recorded and preserved for future generations. 

Let's hope they can make more sense of it than we ever will. 

*                      *                      *                      *

I clutched the greasy plastic knot and heaved the bag over my scrawny, six-year-old shoulder. Teetering under the heavy load, I walked out the front door into the open-air carport of 6227 NE 154th Street. My bare feet hit the cold cement floor, toes recoiling like snails in a windstorm. Goosebumps rose from my wrists to my neck and cool air wafted through my baggy t-shirt. 

Emerging from under the covered area, I stepped into the low sunlight of a late-August morning. The driveway was wet from rain and the air smelled of damp leaves. Signs that summer would soon be a fading memory. 

Turning right into the side yard, I set the garbage sack down and stopped for a minute to catch my breath. I peered up at the basketball hoop, with its frayed rope and and rusty rim the colour of dried blood. Maybe I'll shoot some hoops later, I thought. Even six-year-olds like to start the day with a plan. 

Truthfully, garbage duty or not, I liked being outside on my own in the morning. The calm. The quiet. I was less than 30 feet from my front door, but I felt totally alone. When you have a big family, you need moments of solitude to feel vulnerable—to feel alive. 

I decided to drag the bag the rest of the way, pulling it across the gravel path toward the backyard gate. Sour juices leaked from pebble-sized tears and left an acrid brown trail in its wake. I reached up and fiddled with the gate lock. It was a tricky one. My raised arm always got sore trying to undo the latch. 

Finally, the wood door swung open. And I saw them.

It took me a minute to realise what I was looking at. Two small, white shapes resting parallel in the bright green grass. They looked like matching hand towels, fluff matted by the wet hands of dinner guests. 

But no. They had eyes. They had noses. They had perky lemon-shaped ears with delicate pink lining. 

They were our pet rabbits—Binky and Dinky. 

Perfectly still. Perfectly dead.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Two stories about Starburst

Oh look, another blog post centred around food.

You must be on to me by now, so I'll admit it: food consumes 80% of my thoughts.

The rest are divided as follows:

• 10% - Television shows
• 5% - Flight MH370 (yes, I still haven't moved on)
• 5% - Amanda Bynes' mental health

FaveReds

Starburst has a new offering: FaveReds®. Well, it might not be that new, but it wasn't around when I was a child.

As the name implies, FaveReds® contains all different flavours of red. Red is clearly the best flavour in any assorted candy selection, so of course people are going to love the option to bypass yellow/orange in favour of reds and only reds.

I think FaveReds® is a fantastic idea, and a smart business move. But I have to be honest, I CAME UP WITH THIS IDEA YEARS AGO. Maybe this means that my amazing ideas just take a long time to come to fruition, and that McDonald's will eventually start serving breakfast all day.

Why wait until Halloween to consume several fun-sized packs of Starburst when you could eat a full-size pack NOW? 

'Guess the Mystery Flavour' competition

When she was 13 my sister Francie won a Starburst 'Guess the Mystery Flavour' competition. She called the number on the back of the pack and correctly selected the mystery flavour from a few different options read by an automated operator. Her name was added to a pool along with those of other mystery flavour whiz kids. It would later be drawn at random as the prize winner. 

I still remember when the package arrived. It came in a big, brown box the size of a microwave. Tearing it open and swatting away the packaging peanuts, Francie revealed the fruits of her success. The box contained:

• Several packages of Starburst
• Starburst beach towel
• Starburst sunscreen
• Starburst portable radio player (shaped exactly like a pack of Starburst, but an actual radio that you could put headphones in and everything!)

But for Francie, a selection of Starburst-themed goodies wasn't enough. She had dreams. Big dreams. And like any astute entrepreneur, she understood that success breeds success. Remaining dynamic and never resting on your laurels—that's what separates the rich from the super rich. This prize draw was only the beginning. 

So, she called up the Northshore Citizen to tip them off about her winnings. Well, that's not quite true. She convinced her twin sister Char to call the newspaper for her. 

Pretending to be Francie, Char pitched the story of "her" mystery flavour windfall to a reporter. It would be a fantastic human-interest tale to lighten up the dreary pages of the local broadsheets. The reporter jotted down some info and, much to all of our delight, arranged for a photographer to take a photo of Francie with her Starburst loot. 

To the surprise of absolutely no one who has ever called Kenmore home, Francie's big win made the front page. 

I've been trying to track down the article since the Internet was invented—to no avail. Like so many small local papers, the Northshore Citizen is now kaput. But from what I remember, the headline was something like 'Local teen scores big with Starburst win'. The photo was a close-up of Francie, hair white from Sun-In and arms full of Starburst flare, flaunting her new riches for the world to see. 

Love ya,
Margaret

Most embarrassing moment

Ah, teenagers. Nobody knows what to do with them. Parents, teachers, the government, the teenagers themselves—everyone just smothers the situation in deodorant and hopes things work out for the best.

Looking back on my teenage years, there's so much I wish I knew then that I know now (Hmm, someone should write a song about that. I'm thinkin' Rod Stewart?).

Prime example: my most embarrassing moment. It's cringe-worthy to this day.

The year: 2000
The city: Kenmore, Washington, USA
The place: Kenmore Jr. High

The story actually starts on 62nd Ave, in the Arrowhead neighbourhood of southwest Kenmore. I was in my childhood home, in my childhood bed, with visions of Chad Michael Murray dancing in my head. Then what in my snoozing state did I hear? A Fred Meyers alarm clock blasting in my ear. 

SHIZE. Slept in. The bus would be at the corner in one minute.  No time to shower. No time to eat. It was a straightforward 'grab the backpack and run' job. 

Lucky for me, baggy grey sweatpants  + oversized navy blue hoodie + messy bun was the style at KJH those days. No need to even change out of the PJs. I could literally jump out of bed and run out the door. 

I made it to street corner just as the big yellow school bus was about to close its doors. Phew!

Catching my breath, I found a seat near the back and sank into the brown vinyl cushions, quite proud of my near miss. That had to be a record. I'd been asleep just ONE MINUTE before! Wait 'til the gang hears about this. Gosh darn it, Margaret, you've pulled off a real humdinger. 

But my relief was short lived. Something didn't feel right. I felt too free, too relaxed—too uninhibited. Suddenly, I was hyperaware of my nipples. OH CRAP. No bra. 

My room during junior high and high school. Key components:
Giant fruit painted on the wall
Star Wars Episode 1 poster
Harry Potter books stacked up near the mirror
Blue Bear (wearing a bra?) and friends on the couch
Large Ouija board 'planchette' made of wood
Cut-out drawings from the 'Grossology' book series above the closet doors 

My lack of proper boob apparel certainly took the sheen off my sleeping-in success. But as far as junior high emergencies go, it wasn't that bad. All I would have to do is walk around with my arms folded the whole day. It was only six hours. I could handle that. Little did I know, the situation was about to get much, much worse. 

It was second period—Mr. Guy's art class. I'd already made it an hour, arms folded tightly and no one the wiser. Then the vice principal's voice came over the intercom:

"This is a reminder for all 8th graders to please start heading to the gym for the scoliosis screening."

SCOLIOSIS SCREENING. SCOLIOSIS SCREENING. SCOLIOSIS SCREENING.

The words echoed in my ears. I had completely forgotten that today was the day I would be extracted from my studies and tested for a RARE SPINE DEFORMATION. I had completely forgotten that today was the day I would be required to: 1) remove my shirt, 2) stand in front of a parent volunteer and 3) bend forward slowly, creating a 90 degree angle with my body. 

We'd been reminded about it for weeks. "Girls should make sure to wear a bra or swimsuit top on the day of the screening" it said on the paper handout. At the time I thought that was hilarious. Swimsuit top? We're 14 years old! Who isn't wearing a bra by now? Hahahaha. 

Now who was laughing.

I started following my classmates toward the gym. Embarrassed. Terrified. Powerless. Not at any point did it occur to me that I could just skip the screening, go hang out in the bathroom for 20 minutes, feign illness or, better yet, JUST WALK HOME. 

Instead, I continued to shuffle slowly toward my fate. At the last-minute, I told my friend about my predicament. Maybe she'd have an idea of what I should do. 

"Oh my god, that sucks." she said. "That totally sucks."

That was it, and I was next in line. There was nothing I could do now.

So I walked behind the curtain, took my sweatshirt off and exposed my braless body without a word of explanation. The examiner was the mother of a boy in my grade. As I bent forward slowly—my spine the picture of health—I imagined her and her son at the dinner table, laughing hysterically as she told him all about my bare bosoms.

But at least I had learned a valuable lesson. 

From that day forward, until the day I graduated high school, I slept in my bra. 

---

OK, I'm off to England for the weekend. I'll still write a blog each day, but expect the quality to be even worse than usual.

Have a fantastic weekend!

Love,
Margaret

Don't Fence Me In

Is this a blog of personal reflections? Is it a pop-culture blog? Is it philosophical? Is it funny? Is it interesting? Is it just confused?

Perhaps at times it is all of these things, but I am OK with that. Cohesiveness has its place (scrapbooking, powerpoint presentations, runway shows, "real"/professional blogs...etc.), and it ain't here. 

So don't put Madgespace in a box. It is, in its very essence, a hodge podge. 

See, now that made me think of Modge Podge, the crafting goo. A professional blogger may let that thought pass and move onto a meaningful subject, but not me.

Modge Podge adheres photographs onto objects and makes them glossy. My family went through about a year-long obsession with the stuff. 

It's actually "Mod Podge", but for some reason we always refered to it as Modge Podge. Proper pronunciation is not a Padden/Kay family strong suit. We say "pin" when we mean "pen" and we overemphasize the "oh" sound in words like bowling, swollen and gorgonzola. My college friends call it the "Kenmore accent."

Anyway, Modge Podge dominated the birthday present scene for a good while in our house. Cut up some photos, schlop them onto the side of an old picture frame, candle holder, or slab of wood from the garage, smear on a heavy coat of Modge Podge and viola- you've got yourself a homemade, heartfelt, gift. 

Next topic: Flossing and Life-Span

I just found out that people who floss daily live longer lives than non-flossers. Ever since my parasitic crisis, I've been determined to be a HEALTHY person. I want to live a long time and have soft, radiant skin, strong bones and a lot of great grandchildren. When I'm 80 I want to wake up in the morning with joyful energy. If flossing is one step toward that future, then hand over the floss!

Ihre Gesundheit, 

Madge