Hey peers, we're bad at socializing now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LOVE,
Margaret

P.S. I'm the best!

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.

Britney's new song

Have you heard Britney's latest single 'Pretty Girls'?

Image by Glenn Francis via Wikimedia Commons

It came on in the car today and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. And no, not because it's the feel-good song of the summer we've all been waiting for (although it actually probably is). But because it's a hilarious caricature of a pop song, performed by a 33-year-old-going-on-14 mother of two.

I'm fairly certain Ja'mie King wrote the lyrics.

All around the world, pretty girls 
Wipe the floor with all the boys 
Pour the drinks, bring the noise 
We're just so pretty! 
All around the world, pretty girls 
Jump the line, to the front 
Do what we like, get what we want 
We're just so pretty!

Britney's nasal croaking is in full force, but they had the nerve to autotune it! I mean, go ahead and autotune some hack like Xtina, but don't get in the way of Britney's natural gift.



A few times, in Edinburgh, I came across things in pop culture that I just didn't understand. My friend Igor would explain, "It's for teenagers, Margaret. It's for teenagers!" (please read that in a Spanish accent - emphasis on the second syllable - teenAGERS) 

Ah, no wonder I don't understand. I no longer belong to the target market for Top40 music. Britney, four years my elder, certainly doesn't belong either, but it behooves her to fake it. What's the alternative for her? Release an 'adult contemporary' album? I don't see that working. It makes you think, in terms of career longevity, 12-year-old Celine Dion was smart to start off singing songs for the middle-aged. Maybe it was René's influence.

That's it.

TTFN,
Margaret

P.S. Just gave it another listen. I like it now.

What are YOU doing next February?

Doesn't matter. Whatever your plans are, cancel them.

We're going to the Seaside Jazz Festival!

My parents happened to be in Seaside, Oregon for the annual jazz festival this year and they've been raving about it ever since. Best thing to happen to Seaside since Bagels By the Sea moved into the old First Interstate Bank building.

Who would have guessed that Lewis' and Clark's old stomping grounds would become the New Orleans of the Pacific Northwest?

Of course, nothing about the jazz fest even remotely interested me until I saw these videos, recorded on Rich Kay's iPhone.

(Hey. Don't give into that short attention span. Watch BOTH videos in their entirety. I dare you.)






INSPIRING.

Almost as good as the best old lady dancing video on the Internet.

Seriously, if I had half the moves these Elks Club members have, I'd quit this content marketing racket and become a cruise ship entertainer (or something equally as glamorous).

Actually, I did take jazz dance lessons when I was 10. The best part was getting to order our outfits from the dance costumes catalogue. Now that's a lucrative industry. We spent so much on our star spangled leotards for the summer recital (set to Neil Diamond's 'Coming to America') that we had to wear basic black leggings and an XL brown shirt for the Christmas dance (set to 'Run Run Rudolph' by Chuck Berry).

And would you look at that—it still fits!

LYMI,
Margaret

P.S. No leotards were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Real talk

Easter is a time of rebirth. It's a season of new life and fresh starts. To honor the occasion, I'm going to lay bare my soul and share with you my innermost thoughts. Well, my innermost thoughts from the past five minutes.

In college, working at the Ultimate Bagel, my friend Barbie and I used to play the game 'Deepest Darkest Secret of the Day'. As the name implies, it involved admitting our biggest secret of that day only—anything from "I'm wearing the same socks as yesterday" to "The fire alarm went off in the dorm, but I hid in the closet instead of going outside in the snow".

Today's post is a twist on that beloved bagel shop pastime. Instead of sharing with you my deepest darkest secret of the day, I'm typing out my deepest darkest thoughts from the past five minutes. 

Here goes it...

Iffy music taste

Is it wrong that I enjoy Maroon 5 and John Mayer as much as I do?

I feel like that really dates me. Kids these days probably don't even know who John Mayer is—or they at least don't sing his song "Neon" in their head every time they use a highlighter.

It could be worse. I could be a huge Jack Johnson fan—or what about TRAIN!?! Omg, Train. Almost forgot about Train.

Still, I'm honest enough to admit that I think Maroon 5 and John Mayer were two of the greatest contributors to pop music during the early 2000s. I can't help what I like!

The reason I feel weird about this is that both John Mayer and Adam Levine are very unlikable human beings.

Classic Mayer face.
Image by Patty Keigan via Wikimedia Commons

Ear zit

I have a zit in my left ear. It hurts, but I'm fascinated by it more than anything else. I can't stop touching it and thinking about how gross it is that I have pores in my ear—and that one of those pores is clogged! FASCINATING.

Mad Men

The new episode of Mad Men was good (first episode of the second half of Season 7). SPOILER ALERT: lots of moustaches, but no real 'holy cow!' moments. I was hoping I'd have a reason to shout "holy cow!" at least once, but the episode was fairly uneventful. It was good, but I was disappointed.

New phone

I synced my email with my new phone, but then un-synced it after a few hours. I wasn't ready. Too much too soon. 

LYMI, 

Margaret

P.S. I'll explain LYMI again, but this is the last time I'm going to do it. So, listen up. LYMI stands for "Love ya, mean it!" Take it, use it, spread it to your fellow man. 

What will shock us when we're older?

Our parents are shocked by rap videos. Their parents were shocked by Elvis' gyrating hips. Their parents were shocked by a glimpse of the female ankle.

What will shock us?

I really can't think of what it will be.

Image Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Inc. via Wikimeda Commons

Each decade, the popstars wear less. It's gotten to the point that they're now just naked. Miley Cyrus posts full on naked pictures of herself on Instagram and we're just like, "Yeah... Anyway, where did you put the pretzels?"

Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, polysexual, pansexual, asexual—we're fine with them all. Everything's great. It's all OK. Not shocking. Increasingly not even interesting.

Every other day I watch a guy shoot fireworks out of his butt on YouTube. I'm not proud of it, but I once watched a 7-minute video of a woman popping her husband's ginormous neck zit. It was only later, lying in bed that night, that it dawned on me: that wasn't a zit at all; it was a BOIL.

Anyway, you get the idea. Nothing is shocking. Not nudity. Not sexual orientation. Not gross stuff.

I absolutely love that we've reached this inclusive, 'who gives a rip' stage in human history (by "we" I mean young liberal people).

But I still have a sneaking suspicion that, when I'm 90, the "kids these days" will do something that shocks me. I'll ask my grandkids to explain it to me, and I'll tell them stories of how "In my day, you used to have to wear clothes at the supermarket." And they'll laugh at the very idea.

I regularly promise myself (with Andy as my witness) that, even as the world changes around me, I will always be open to new ideas. No matter how tempting it is, I'll resist the urge to cling to the past out of fear and nostalgia. It's the better way to be.

Still, I'm curious. What will shock us? Displaying taxidermied human relatives in our living rooms as home décor? Maybe.

Your wise ol' pal,
Margaret

P.S. Man, there's something about being 28 that makes you think about ageing like you never have before. It's bizarre. Maybe it's the wrinkles I just noticed around my eyes. Or maybe it's the fact that I don't really understand who Calvin Harris is. Whatever it is, it's causing me to cry at HSBC commercials and write blog post oaths to my future 90-year-old self.

Signs I'm maturing, and signs I'm not

Oy vey. Bring on the weekend. Am I right? I mean, seriously. Can I get a HECK YEAH up in here? If you're anything like me, then you loooove the weekend. Where my weekend fans at? You know what I mean? Like, is it even possible for me to convey my excitement for the weekend in a friendlier, more relatable way?

Yikes. Thank goodness that's over. Moving on.

Signs I'm maturing:

• I like prawns now. PRAWNS. Probably one of the grossest things imaginable. Glorified maggots. Except I like them now. They're tasty! And full of protein. 

• I (most of the time) can accept that people have opinions other than my own. 

• I sometimes watch the news and say things like, "Oh politicians, they're all the same. What a bunch of phonies!"

Signs I'm not:

• I wear hooded sweatshirts, especially my new black one that's still so soft on the inside. 

• I cheat on chocolate-filled advent calendars. #NoSelfControl

• I've tried, but I still can't wrap my head around insurance. Just seems like such a scam. Pay for something I might never reap the benefits of...just in case? God, that's a big ask. 

• I have a huge zit in the smack dab centre of my nose. 

It hurts.
Covered it in toothpaste for an hour last night, but it's bigger than ever.
Why am I always wearing this sweatshirt in my blog close-ups? BECAUSE I BLOODY LOVE IT!

---

My 'oy vey' intro reminds me of when I stood in the frigid cold and watched a movie called 'Oy Vey My Son is Gay' being filmed in Spokane. It was the biggest thing to happen to Spokompton since the Planned Parenthood bombing. I was determined to get my eyes on its all-star cast, which, looking back, is even better than I remembered. To name just a few:

• Jai Rodriguez ('Culture vulture' on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy)
• Bruce Vilanch (Best known for his four-year stint on Hollywood Squares)
• Carmen Electra (Oscar-winning actress and humanitarian)

Hold on. Why read when you could watch? Have a look and I guarantee you'll be illegally streaming bad boy for your cosy Friday night in:

Full disclosure: I haven't actually watched 'Oy Vey My Son is Gay'. But I have watched 'End Game', starring Cuba Gooding Jr. and Angie Harmon, also filmed in Spokane. I even wrote a review of it for the Gonzaga Bulletin (which, as I recall, underwent a heavy copy edit, ridding it of all its grassyllama flare). 

Have an amazing weekend,
Margaret

Thanks for nothing, Halle Berry

Halle Berry was recently interviewed by Yahoo style (what, you don't subscribe to Yahoo style!? Unfriending you right now) and dropped a major advice bomb on the women of planet earth.

From the article:

She also recalled a crucial life lesson her mom taught her: always wear a good bra, or gravity will show no mercy. “She said if I don’t want my boobs to hit my knees by the time I’m 30, always wear a bra, even to bed,” Berry says.

SHITE.

I've never been a fan.
Image by Gage Skidmore via Wikimedia Commons

I'll admit it, as soon as I get home from work, the bra comes off and the baggy sweatshirt goes on. And I don't even go to work! I work from home! SHITE! That means...let me do some quick math...I probably only wear a bra about 25% of the time.

When I nip across the street (pun intended) to the corner shop to get a Snickers, I often just throw on a jacket and do the arms-crossed manoeuvre I perfected back in eighth grade.

SHITE. SHITE. SHITE.

This ain't good.

Oh well. All I can do at this stage is promise to get my bra-wearing game back on track. Oh, and remind you that Halle Berry did a hit and run once. Let's not forget that.

---

In other news, I've had a blog topic request from the aforementioned Julie Fredrickson (famous for being fun and low maintenance). Read it for yourself:

Great suggestion, Julie! And let me just say that I admire your devil-may-care approach to office supplies.

After some careful consideration, I realised that I tend to avoid excitement at all costs. When I walk to the supermarket, I cross the road at the exact same point every time—no deviations. I NEVER answer calls from unknown numbers. I'm even too afraid to walk underneath trees in case 1) a branch falls off or 2) a perching bird poops on me.

That said, I have managed to think of a few ways I spice up my life (as Geri, Victoria, Emma and the Mels would say). Here they are:

• Sleeping on an air mattress in the living room — On the weekends, Andy and I sometimes set up a "den" in the living room, comprised of the air mattress and all the pillows and blankets in the flat. Even though our actual bedroom is three feet down the hall, it's a real treat to be able to watch TV lying down and reach across to grab dinner out of the oven without even needing to stand up (our living room is also our kitchen...small flat).

• In a restaurant, ordering at the VERY last second — This bizarre habit is more likely a result of my indecisiveness, but it definitely keeps me on my toes!

• Farting all the time in public — If you're new to this blog/my life, then you might not know that I was extremely constipated for a good part of 2008 (culminating in a three-month pooping hiatus). Something I learned during that tough time was, if you need to pass gas, DO IT. Holding it in only leads to trouble. I also learned to perfect the art of the slow, quiet release. Works for me about 80% of the time—the other 20% is why I've included this on the list. 

That's all for now! Happy almost Halloween!

LYMI, 

Margaret

Age appropriate footwear

Over the weekend I went to a shoe shop and bought a pair of high-top Converse.

I needed something in between my brown leather "work" shoes and my flipflops. Over the years, I've owned many a pair of high-top Converse. They're classic and comfy. An obvious choice.

When I was paying for my new kicks, the girl behind the counter complimented me on my bowl cut. I left the place feeling on top of the world.

Then came the self doubt.

I'm not just a carefree 27-year-old anymore. I'm a 28-year-old ADULT WOMAN. Are high-top clown shoes really appropriate at my age?

Also, Andy once made an offhanded comment about how I dress like a young Justin Bieber. Dang, that stung. The insults that contain an element of truth always hurt the most.

On the other hand, I have seen stylish older women sporting high top Converse sneakers before. They're usually a bit earthy and wear their natural grey/white hair with confidence. They're funky and free spirited, but still fashionable. Helen Mirren types.

Anyway, this is boring. Let's pinoop¹ it.

I'll be back tomorrow with something better to write. I PROMISE!

Cheers,
Margaret


¹Pinoop
 Verb
 verb; pinoop or pinoop it; 3rd person present: pinoops; past tense: pinooped; past participle: pinooped; gerund or  present participle: pinooping
 To immediately stop the conversation, no questions asked.
       "Solange started to try and convince Beyonce to file the papers, but Beyonce pinooped it."
 Synonyms: shut it down, enough, zip it 
 Antonyms: discuss, divulge, do tell

A Tale of Two Ailments

Ailment One: Losing My Mind 

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. 

Image by Jay Goody via Flickr

'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!

Best,
Margie