Are you old?

ARE YOU OLD?
Today at "book"club, we landed on something quite astute:

You're not old when you have a funeral to attend every other week. You're old when even your funeral calendar dries up. That's old. That's Grandma Martha level old.

Speaking of G-ma, she says you don't truly feel old until your children are senior citizens. Seems fair enough. But something else that is true of old age is that you can't distinguish between generations anymore. A 60-year-old vs. a 25-year-old? You don't see any difference. Everyone below 80 qualifies as "kids these days".

So, to wrap things up, if your funeral bell curve isn't making its descent, if your children aren't senior citizens and if you haven't pegged T-Swift and Oprah as around the same age, you're not old.

Thank you, Google Image search. Now, how quickly can I get this on my wall?

Image by Quinten Matsys via Wikimedia Commons

ONE LIFE = TWO ADJECTIVES

As I was walking along the beach with Andy the other day, I had a realization: a life is worth about two adjectives. That's all most people get. When you die, you'll be remembered fondly, in detail, for one generation. The following generation you'll be condensed into a handful of stories. After that, you're reduced to two adjectives. Maybe "Bubbly" and "Adventurous" or "Intelligent" and "Misunderstood" or "Pretty" and "Annoying" --- you get the idea. 

Take, for example, my Great Grandfather Horace Merkel. All that I really know about him is that he was a "self-made man" and had a "temper". It wasn't long ago that he was roaming the earth. I'm not that far removed from the guy. But still, that's it. 

Makes you think, what two adjectives do you want to mark your legacy? I'm gunning for 'beautiful genius'.

Sweet dreams, 

Margaret

Hate to burst your bubble...

The other day Andy and I were walking along the Alki promenade.

"Oooh, something smells of bubblegum!" Andy said with jubilant innocence.

I had to break it to him that it was because we'd just passed two Honey Buckets. What he was smelling was not bubblegum, but urinal cakes.

Speaking of urinal cakes, those are NOT bars of soap. Another easy mistake to make. If you have young kids, warn them.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Woah. Remember Bazooka bubblegum? It's been a long time since I've chopped my gnashers down on one of theose delicious, rock hard rectangles. And they have jokes inside! Remember? I'd forgotten all about them until now.

Goodbye, 

Margaret

American Beauty

I hated that movie. I didn't get it. Add it to the list along with "Punch Drunk Love", "Lost in Translation" and "WALL-E".

Maybe I was just too young to understand it at the time. If I were to watch it now, would I enjoy it? I'm dubious.

Today our new coasters from Crate & Barrel arrived. They're made of rope. Very nautical. I can't wait until I rest my first mug of tea on one. I'm eager to see how it protects our newly-painted, white coffee table from unsightly cup rings. If all goes well, nothing will happen.

Stay tuned for updates.

I don't know if you knew this, but this blog is art. I'm an artist. Or as we in the marketing industry like to say, I'm a "creative". Ruminate on that.

Amen,
Margaret

P.S. I took a quiz today to see if I would get into Oxford. Based on my score, I would not.

P.P.S. The credit card machine at our local coffee shop wasn't working. They were having to use an old-school slider doohickey. But wait! These days, credit cards don't have the raised numbers. They're not bumpy anymore! How can one make an imprint? One cannot.

This is my new thing

Next time you visit Alki, look out for it...

Best,
Margaret

Help me Rodda

I bought a three-wicked candle today. Finally, this house is a home!

We also went to the hardware store—West Seattle TrueValue—and bought some paint for our furniture. We (seriously) debated over 'cloud white' and 'white cloud' for a while, before settling on 'white cloud'. It was the white decision. Har har.

Remember that commercial for Rodda paint that parodied the The Beach Boys' song 'Help Me Rhonda'? Well, that version of the song has been running through my head since 1995. At any given moment, stop me on the street and ask me what song's running through my head. You can have no doubt that it will be 'Help Me Rodda' from the Rodda paint commercials.

Truthfully, though, I don't need Rodda's help. Homemaking comes naturally to me. Making home—I enjoy it! I have ever since I was a wee'an playing house during recess at Arrowhead Elementary. I remember sweeping the "kitchen floor" with an evergreen branch and telling all my friends that this chunk of damp, rotting wood I found was a cheese grater. I was always the mom or the older sister. A lot of my friends wanted to be the baby, which I never understood but ever-so-graciously allowed.

It's not just decorating that I enjoy. I like cooking too. Nothing gourmet. I'm a cook, not a chef. I don't do elaborate, fancy dishes with a million ingredients. Too impatient. What lures me into the kitchen is the satisfaction of getting a hot meal on the table. I actually enjoy the timing aspect of cooking. The multitasking relaxes me somehow.

So, you have decorating, cooking...is there anything else? Uh oh, you guessed it. CLEANING! Ding ding ding! I love cleaning too. Not always. Not on a day-to-day basis. But a nice, deep clean once a month or so? The best.

That's all.

Goodnight,
Margaret (aka the Real Housewife of Alki)

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.