My rules for cooking

In fourth grade I invented the best food ever:

Shell pasta smothered in Chivo. 

For those of you who aren't familiar, Chivo—traditionally a baked potato topping—is a thick sour cream substitute flavored with chives. I think it's been discontinued.

The Chivo had a way of packing itself perfectly into every nook and cranny of the conchiglie, turning each bite into a dairy-free sour cream explosion.

It was groundbreaking gastronomy way before its time.

Image via CalorieCount.com

Since those days of early culinary experimentation, I've developed a slightly more sophisticated approach to cooking. But only slightly.

MARGARET'S RULES FOR COOKING:

• Season every component of the dish individually before combining them

• Keep everything PIPING HOT

• Chop things up really small

• Don't skimp on the onions

• Grind some black pepper over everything

I would also recommend that you keep a pizza (Freschetta if you're in the US, ChicagoTown if you're in the UK) in the freezer at all times just in case. 

Goodnight,
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

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.

Sweatpants

Well, it's been about 15 minutes since I clicked 'New Post', and still no ideas. Usually something comes to me by this point, but not tonight. Instead I'm just staring at the screen and thinking about how nice it will feel when I finally close my eyes and fall fast into a deep, dreamless sleep.

You see, I'm tired. I stayed up late the past few nights watching Housewives and it's finally caught up with me. Sleep deprivation. The worst. I did it to myself, I did, and that's why it really hurts.

Here's something to ponder: from 7th grade through 12th grade—ages 13 to 18—I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt to school every day.

OK, maybe it was four days a week. But still.

Also, in junior high, I often took things a step further and wore actual pajama bottoms. Fuzzy PJ bottoms in cow print, polka dots or plaid. I remember our assistant principal, Mrs. Riley, tried to enforce a ban. When I caught wind of this, I organized a protest, encouraging everyone to wear PJ bottoms to school one day. Civil disobedience at its finest.

She never said anything to us about it. We didn't get in trouble. She probably thought, "F it, I really don't care" and moved on to more pressing matters.

Other facts about sweatpants:

• Andy only wears them in the house. If he's taking out the garbage, he changes back into jeans.

• Sometimes it's more comfortable to wear them with the pockets inside out. 

• It was common knowledge among Inglemoor High School students that Fred Meyer had the best sweatpants.

• They really are, without a doubt, very unflattering. 

• There's nothing more depressing than when you try on a friend's pair of sweatpants and they're too small. Tight sweatpants is an oxymoron. It's a non sequitur. Or at least it should be. When sweatpants fit snug around the butt, elastic jutting into the muffin top, it's extremely damaging to the self esteem. 

Annual Arrowheadian sleepover. Sweatpants all around.

Goodnight! Yes! Finally! Sleep! I can't wait.

Margaret

P.S. I'd like to thank my parents for never commenting on my decision to dress like a slob for five straight years. I'm sure it was tempting, but if there was ever a time to be hands-off, it was then. The teenage years. Plus, if they'd even so much as hinted that I wear jeans, I would have read them the riot act. I'd probably still be wearing sweatpants daily just to prove a point.

So, that's something to file away for the future. You can't tell a teenager what to wear. They're too sensitive and too headstrong. Plus, it's none of your business. They're basically young adults and they should dress however they want, even if it is embarrassing and unflattering.

The Crying Indian

"So, back in the day, did people really just litter?" I ask my mom.

"Yeah, I guess so," she says.

"Really? That's crazy. Like, did you know anyone who would just throw their garbage out the car door?"

"I'm sure I did."

"Did you do it?"

Long pause.

"Probably!"

Later she asks my dad the same question and he says he never littered. He had to pick garbage up along the roadside near the farm in Wenatchee growing up. It annoyed him and he vowed to never become one of those lousy litterbugs.

'The International Tidyman' (my what pointy legs you have)
Image via Wikimedia Commons

They both remember a TV public service announcement that was enough to scare any no-good garbage-hurler straight. Here it is in all its heartbreaking glory.




We all agreed that the PSA takes on an extra layer of sadness in that this guy—a genuine Native American named 'Iron Eyes Cody'—was forced to make his living off anti-littering commercials. Instead of living off the land, he was pimping out his own sorrow just to earn a buck!

But, guess what? That's wrong. He wasn't a genuine Native American. Iron Eyes Cody was actually 100% Italian and just decided to based his entire Hollywood career on portraying American Indians.

You could've fooled me, Iron Eyes! If that's even your real name. I suspect it isn't.

That's all,

Margaret

P.S. For the record, I doubt Nadinski littered.

P.P.S. Remember this?

 

Attention span training

I've been doing this weird thing lately—forcing myself to watch scenes from old films, retro TV show clips and dated music videos through to the very end. I've also been reading lengthy New York Times articles and resisting every last urge to click on Facebook when it gets boring halfway through.

Let's call it attention span training.

What have I learned? Everything from the past is slow. Even action films. But it's rewarding to stick with them. It feels like you've accomplished something. Comparable to going on a run or cleaning out the fridge.

For example, try watching this entire music video. It's hard work, but the payoff is some truly hilarious goings-on.
 


Andy once had a student who decided to watch the film version of a text he was studying for school—probably Death of a Salesman or 1984 or something like that. When Andy asked him what he thought of it, the boy said, "Once you got past the first five minutes, it was actually pretty good."

We thought this was funny. "Once you get past the first five minutes." Even I can recall a time when people afforded a film at least a solid 12 minutes before hitting eject on the ol' VCR.

It's also just nice to enjoy media that's not designed for today's audiences. Take this clip of Colonel Sanders on an old show called 'What's My Line?'. The panel doesn't know what he does! This is from before the time that people knew about Colonel Sanders. Truly fascinating. Also, it's clearly a giant marketing campaign for Kentucky Fried Chicken and FAKE FAKE FAKE, but thems was the times.



GOD, that was boring.

Nighty night,
Margaret

P.S.

Image by Post Memes via Flickr

"You haven't even touched the water, FRANCIE!"

Not going to write tonight. Instead, watch this poor-quality, iPhone footage of poor-quality VHS camcorder footage of the sistahs and I jumping in a freezing cold pool in Wenatchee.

Witness:

Anna - being a typical button-pushing big sister.

Char - flaunting her model hair.

Francie - serving FACE FACE and more FACE after her icy plunge.

Me - wanting to join in the fun, but not wanting to be cold.



And because I don't want Max to feel left out, check out his cinematography and voiceover skills in this one:



 


Goodnight,
Margaret

Letters to the editor

I haven't written a decent blog in ages. Why? Because I've been BUSY! What's your excuse?

Anyway.

Today Andy had a letter to the editor published in the Scotsman newspaper. It's about the idea of a Tory/Labour coalition, something that I'd guess interests .03% of the people who read this. But it's still cool! Not only was it included in the letters section of the website, but it was also featured in the print version of the paper, given pride of place at the top of the opinion page.

I once wrote a letter to the editor of the Spokesman Review. It was a rant about how un-pedestrian-friendly Spokane drivers are. My journalism professor saw it and announced to the class that he was giving me extra credit for getting my thoughts published in a real live newspaper. I remember feeling a mixture of pride and embarrassment. I'd written it in haste and didn't like how pro-Seattle and complainy I came across.

Oh snap! I just came up with the best idea. Why don't I try to get as many letters published in as many different newspapers as I can? I could even turn it into a book. This just might be it—the brilliant book idea that I've been searching for!

But just like the 'cartoon starfish drinking a mug of coffee' idea for a tattoo on my right ribcage, I better sleep on it before I make any rash decisions. 

Yours truly, 

Margaret

P.S. I decided against the tattoo after thinking about it for 8 months back in 2009/2010. Phew!

SEASIDE

I'm scheduling this post in advance so I don't have to blog on my first night in Seaside.

For those of you who don't know, Seaside is a magical town on the Oregon coast with an arcade, bumper cars, the Tilt-A-Whirl, Old Tyme Photo, lots of caramel corn, shops with hilarious t-shirts, surreys with fringes on top and a gorgeous beach.

Man, salty ocean foam is cool.


Mahalo,

Margaret

Look right down any crowded hall

I was thinking about Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield today and wondering what they're up to. They must be, what, 31 by now? They were 27 in the final book, 'Sweet Valley Confidential', so yeah...that makes them about 31.

Ignoring everything that was in Sweet Valley Confidential, I would guess Elizabeth's married to Todd and working as an HR manager for a major publishing company. Jessica? Well she just sent in her audition tape for the next season of The Bachelor. She works in social media and loves to Instagram her thigh gap.

Anyway.

Sweet Valley High played a major role in my childhood and teenage years. In our house, Sweet Valley books were part of the furniture. They were squished between couch cushions, stacked up on the back of the toilet and shoved inside the Suburban's back seat pockets.

There was always one close at hand. It didn't matter where you were with a certain book, you'd just pick up the nearest one, open to a random page and read. Chronology wasn't a concern.

Most people, including myself, liked Jessica more. She was fun! The only thing Elizabeth had going for her was being smart. That and Todd Wilkins, who, let's be honest, was a bore.

Sweet Valley went through many incarnations over the years. Sweet Valley Kids covered the elementary school years and Sweet Valley Twins took place in middle school. Then there was the Unicorn Club spinoff, which focused on Jessica and Lila's exclusive group, The Unicorns, and its snobby members.

Of course, Sweet Valley High was and remains the pinnacle of Francine Pascal's career. More specifically, Sweet Valley High: Senior Year. This particular series introduced new characters (former El Carro High students who transferred to SVH when their school burned down) and took the Padden cousins by storm. I think I read books #4 and #5 at least 30 times each.

Now here's the burning question: what is it about Sweet Valley that spoke to our souls?

Let's ruminate on that this week.




Yikes. It's 11:38pm and I've got to wrap this up.

Top 5 Children's / Teen Book Series of All time

1. Harry Potter
2. Sweet Valley High
3. Boxcar Children
4. Babysitter's club
5. Fear Street

Goodnight,
Margaret

THE JOURN

Today I found the journal my friends and I shared in junior high.

We would keep it for about a week before passing it on to the next person. Inside it are anecdotes from the halls of KJH, lots of talk about The Sims, a list of people we hate and regular updates on everyone's crushes.

I thought about sharing an excerpt here in a 'From the Archives' post, but it just didn't feel right. 'The Journ', as we called it, is sacred. Its hallowed pages contain rare, raw insight into the mind of a middle school girl. To share it here would be to betray my 14-year-old self. I just can't do it.

Plus, someone wrote and then highlighted in pink highlighter, "From now on, NO Arrowheadian boys can read this—we can't trust them!"

On the slim chance that an Arrowheadian boy reads my blog (Arrowheadian being our term for people who went to Arrowhead Elementary School), it seems I must honor The Journ's code of secrecy.

The good news is that I also found a poem I wrote around the same time. I read it and was AMAZED at how good it is.

Of course, it's actually terrible. But it's not that terrible. It's far less terrible that I would have expected. If I sat down to write a poem today, I sincerely doubt I'd be able to match it.

Let this be a lesson to us all: there are certain skills we never progress in beyond a junior high level. For most of us, poetry is among them.

Others include:

• Choreographing group dances
• Cursive (fun fact: Brits aren't familiar with the term "cursive". They call it "joined-up writing")
• Summoning the dead via a Ouija board

TGIF tomorrow,
Margaret

That time we almost got kidnapped

I found some photos of my siblings and I posing in/next to a man's vintage yellow convertible. It was taken in Seaside, Oregon circa 1991. The man was cruising around with two giant teddy bears in the backseat and offered to take us for a spin.

I remember this like it was yesterday, and we talked about it for years afterward. How cool it was. First of all, a convertible! It was a thrill to even spot one, let alone ride in one. Secondly, the big bears. It's impossible to resist giant stuffed animals.

I showed my Mom the photos tonight and she gasped.

"Oh God! That's my most shameful moment as a parent," she said.

"I was totally taken in by the spectacle, and I let him drive away with you all. He just seemed like such a kind man. And it was so fun. It was only after you were gone for a long time that I thought: oh no, what if he's some pervert?"

Thankfully, he happened to be one of the few giant teddy bear chauffeurs that isn't a pedophile. We lucked out.

That's all for tonight. It's been a busy day and I'm going to treat myself to a bath + Mindy Project + glass of ice water.

Later gater,

Margaret

Hats

I wore this beret not in spite of, but because of, school picture day.

It was my coolest accessory, and I wanted to look gooooood.

When I wore it, I felt like Mary-Kate and/or Ashley. Or maybe even Gia, Stephanie Tanner's rebellious friend. It made me feel grown-up and popular.

So when the photographer's assistant tried to get me to take it off, I answered with a firm: "No." This middle-aged bimbo wasn't going to ruin my school photo. Oh no. I was wearing the beret, and that was final.

But when the photos arrived in my cubby months later, I was surprised by the results. Why did the picture not reflect how cool I knew I looked? Was that what I really looked like? Were my bangs that messy the whole day? I was crushed.

All of this brings me to tonight's topic: hats.

• Baseball hats = American as apple pie. Today, in line at a jam-packed Starbucks, I realised that every man in there between the ages of 18 and 58 was wearing a baseball cap. When Andy moves across, how long will it take until he cracks? It may seem very "American" to him, but won't he want to fit in?

• Fedora vs. Trilby. What you may think of as a fedora is actually a trilby. It's an important distinction to make. Trilbys have been giving fedoras a bad name for a while now. 

• Hat comeback. Will hats ever make there way back into the mainstream? Not just for special occasions, but part of everyday life? Like in Mad Men? I hope so. It's hard to imagine that West Coast America could become any more casual, so the only option left is to start getting dressier. A few generations from now, and we may be back to early-1900s hat culture, when even criminals and homeless men wore suits and hats. Heck, in the 18th century, all men—aristocrats and laborers alike—wore top hats! Imagine if we circled back to that. 

Vintage mugshot from Australia, 1921.
Image via Twisted Sifter via The Sydney Justice & Police Museum

Brunel in a sea of top hats at the launch of the SS Great Eastern, 1857.

Image via Wikimedia Commons

That's it! I'm still a little jet-legged. The only cure is time. I'll be back to my awake-self next week.

The sunsets in Kenmore are lovely. 

Goodnight,
Margaret 

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

Today's vocab word: "Ravine"

In fourth grade my teacher gave the entire class the same vocabulary word to study for homework. She picked the word out of a book we were reading. The assignment was to go home, look it up, write it into a story and then draw a picture of it to present to the class the next day.

The word was: ravine.

Now, I already knew what a ravine was. I knew the word well.

Beyond our backyard fence happened to be quite a sizeable ravine. My siblings and I would spend hours in the ravine building forts out of branches and moss. My sister Francie even pooped down in the ravine once. It formed a perfect S-shape and we ran back up to the house as fast as we could to tell my mom all about it. I'm sure she was very proud.

Anyway, back to the assignment. When I got home that day I skipped the dictionary and went straight for the crayons. I drew a lovely ravine covered in grass, ivy and blackberry bushes.

Image by Lairich Rig via Geograph.org.uk

The next day, we all stood up one by one and presented our picture and story. Everyone had drawn a very similar scene, as you can only be so creative with the word ravine. In hindsight, not the best choice, Ms. Bowker.

Then, just when I'd seen enough ravine drawings to last me a lifetime, things got interesting.

It was time for the last student to present his story. Kyle H., a towhead who walked on his tiptoes (rumour was he had "short calf muscles") bounced to the front of the classroom and held up his drawing. It was of a bird, very majestic with broad shoulders, black feathers and a bright orange beak. He read off his 3x5 card, "Once there was a large black bird similar to a crow but bigger. He was called a raven..."

OH. MY. GOD. He had written about a raven. And even after seeing his 28 classmates do presentations on a ravine—a narrow gorge with steep sides—he'd gotten up there and told us his bird story anyway. Not only was he not embarrassed, but I suspected was he wasn't even aware of his gaffe.

When he finished his story, the stunned class just clapped as we did for everyone else. He took his seat, beaming with pride (it was a fantastic raven drawing).

Later that year Kyle H. and I would be the only two kids in the class to contract chickenpox. Everyone else had gotten it when they were toddlers. Other than that, the Scandinavian hair, the tiptoe-walking and the legendary raven presentation, I have no idea what became of him. I don't remember ever seeing him after elementary school. Maybe he moved away or perhaps our paths just never crossed in junior high and high school. Regardless, that raven/ravine moment was the highlight of my fourth grade year.

---

In other news, Char, Andy and I watched the 2011 'Best Documentary' Oscar winner this evening. It's called 'Undefeated' and I highly recommend it. Has some heartbreaking moments, but overall it's uplifting. Not too heavy and depressing like so many docs.

Also, rumour has it Prince Harry and Emma Watson are dating. If that's true, I really don't see it working long-term.

Hope y'all are having awesome weekends!

Love,
Margaret

A good cry

Is there such a thing as a "good cry"? Andy would argue no, but I've always loved crying. 

As a kid, I would spend hours in front of the mirror contorting my splotchy face into the saddest possible expressions. The tears would start in earnest—maybe I was reprimanded for something or in a fight with a sibling—but after a few minutes of genuine crying, I would double-down with a solid half hour of wailing. 

I loved everything about those crying sessions. I loved thinking about how guilty the culprit must feel listening to my sobs echo down the hall. I loved the taste of my salty tears, which I'd attack with my tongue like a frog catching a fly. But mostly I loved the sympathy I got from myself. Nobody could feel sorrier for me than me. I was my own best friend, always there when my reflection needed me. 

Now I'm an adult and I've put those days of unabashed self-pity behind me. But when the moment strikes, be it a stubbed toe or sentimental TV advert, I can still enjoy a good cry. What can I say? It's a release! 

Today, just after I grated this guy's brother. 

Today, as I grated an onion for some fish curry, I felt heavy mascara tears stream down my face. My eyes stung bad and I ran to the bathroom to blot them with a hand towel. 

But on my way there, I couldn't help but catch a glimpse of myself in the living room mirror. And then again in the hall. Of course, the bathroom mirror sits right next to the hand towels. It's practically unavoidable. 

Cheers,
Margaret

Epipha-threes

Terrible post title. Let's get that out of the way right here at the top.

It relates to the fact that, today, I had three epiphanies.

When each popped into my head, I wrote it down as a potential blog idea. However, not-a-one constitutes an entire blog post, so I've combined all three here for your reading pleasure.

1. I'm just not a dress gal. 

I wish I was.

I would love to throw on a dress and be like, yes, this works! But it rarely does. Instead, I'm cold, wide-hipped, without an appropriate shoe option and did I mention cold? Maybe if I lived somewhere sunny, I'd be a dress gal. Lord knows how much I despise shorts. Oh god, and skirts. Can't believe I forgot about skirts! Skirts are the worst of all. Above all else, I'm not a skirt gal.

2. Everyone my age has moments when they wish they grew up in the 60s. 

Let's face it, the late 60s/early 70s were a fascinating time to be alive. So much happened!

In reality, the world probably felt terribly scary and unsettling back then. Vietnam, assassinations, crazy cults running amok. There wasn't even any good TV. Even so, us millennials have moments of envy because at least things weren't boring. At least people were engaged and felt capable of administering change. Nowadays being angry about important issues seems futile, so we save our outrage for when someone says something that "offends" us. It's all very halfhearted.

For the most part, though, I'm glad I was born when I was (goes back to the TV thing).

3. The people in the flat above us can probably hear me singing Taylor Swift in the shower.

Pam, my singing teacher in the early 2000s, told me that it takes more skill to sing softly than at your natural volume. She was right.

Now my vocal chords are out of practice and in order to sound decent, I have to belt it. LOUD. I can hear the people in the flat above us when they are having a regular conversation, so it's safe to assume they can hear me when I'm bellowing: "I'VE GOT THAT RED LIP CLASSIC THING THAT YOU LIIIIKE..."

What do you think they're dreaming about?
This relates to the blog post because there are three of them. The number three is the link.
Image via Geograph.org.uk

OH. CRAP. It's nearly the dinner hour and we need lettuce for the caesar salaaaaaad!!!!!! It's only the main f-ing ingredient!!!!!!!!

Gotta go,
Marge

People I didn't realise were still alive

Dick Van Dyke (age 89)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

The same year that Dick Van Dyke was born, a major Diphtheria epidemic broke out in Alaska, Hitler published Mein Kampf and Calvin Coolidge became the first US president to have his inauguration broadcast via radio. Also, nobody found the name Dick Van Dyke funny. Not a single person.

Henry Kissinger (age 91)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

This dude should be Andy's hero in so much that he proves foreigners can go to America and play a massive, strategic role in its foreign policy for decades, forever altering the country's history. The photo above is Kissinger casually walking down a hall whilst chatting with Mao. Yep. That Mao. Mao Zedong. 

Doris Day (age 90)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

That woman that they sing about in Grease is still alive. She's been married four times. All of her husbands are dead. #UsGalsLiveLonger #TakeThatPatriarchy

Zsa Zsa Gabor (age 98)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Honestly, I didn't even know who Zsa Zsa Gabor was other than some lady with a funny name from the olden days. Turns out that she IS (not was) a Hungarian-American socialite and actress. Despite numerous health scares, including having to amputate her right leg, the saucy minx is still alive. In fact, she celebrated her 98th birthday yesterday! 

Pope Benedict XVI (age 87)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Oh yeah, Ratzinger's still kickin'! See, this is what happens when you decide to retire instead of die. It seems the much better way to get out of work, no?

Sidney Poitier (age 87)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Not only is "Mist-ah Sidney Poitier" still alive, but he's currently serving as the Bahamian ambassador to Japan!

Hosni Mubarak (age 86)

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Yeah, that guy who was FINALLY overthrown following massive uprisings and violent protests in Egypt? He's alive. Nobody ended up killing him. I just assumed somebody would have, as that's how these things tend to play out, but nope, he's just in jail on murder charges. He's expected to be released soon. 

Fidel Castro (age 88)

Image by Louis Korda via Wikimedia Commons

Whaaaa? He took office back when Eisenhower was president. His biggest rival? JFK! Still, somehow this giant, cigar-smoking, field-cap-wearing communist beardface who represents all that America stands against is only 88 years old. That's only two years older than Mubarak. Hmm. Mubarak must dye his hair. 

I DESPISE ageism and, as Anne Hathaway would say, I don't mean to be gauche, but I must confess that I typed this post at lightening speed just in case any of these folks died before I finished! It was stressful! My fingers are sweaty and sore. 

YOLO, 

Margaret

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.

Things that really had their day in the sun

The purpose of this post is to make you think:

"Yeah, that thing really did have its day in the sun there for a bit. Ha, funny." 

And then go back to picking dead skin off your feet, or whatever it is you were doing.

Here we go.

Kashi 'Good Friends' cereal

Image by John Carleton via Flickr

The Weakest Link

Image by rickh710 via Flickr

Old Navy

Image by Steve Morgan via Wikimedia Commons

Shrugs

Desperate Housewives

Image by ฿lαcĸouт14* via Flickr

Paris Hilton

Image by via Flickr

Dippin' Dots

Image by Navin75 via Flickr

What else would you add to the list?

Ciao,
Margaret