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

Today I...

Today I...

SAW a woman walking in front of me who had a giant splatter of white seagull poop on the back of her black jacket. I said nothing.

HEARD the latest episode of Serial. It was...meh. I am that horrible listener who wants answers and speculation and closure. That's not a complaint; it's a statement.

TASTED cheese toast with Tabasco sauce, the world's most delicious food. Tabasco sauce is the tampon of the culinary world—a bit uncomfortable at first, but after a few tries you never go back!

TOUCHED the first snowflakes of the season. Let's hope they aren't the last. They were big, fat flakes that made Edinburgh look just like Hogsmeade. Andy and I sang "let it snow, let it snow, let it snow" as we packed our bags for work.

Cheers,
Margaret

P.S. I am SO sorry about that tampon thing.

P.P.S. Proof?

Mental dares

I'm gonna tell it to ya straight: I'm tired. Not a complaint! Just a statement. A STATEMENT. God, can't people make statements anymore without getting the third degree?

I've spent the last few days writing about the UK's upcoming pension reforms and my brain hurts. Learning new things—who knew it could be so hard?

Anyway, I'm dying to get in bed, sip some Tesco's Finest Peppermint Tea (in a posh mesh bag) and crack open a pack of purple Skittles. They've been burning a hole in my pocket for three hours.

So I'll keep this short and sweet (kinda like how I like my men? haha?).

The other day I read about a man who was sentenced to six years in jail for punching a hole through an £8million Monet painting. He claimed he fainted and his fist just happened to take a tumble across the lovely 'Argenteuil Basin with a Single Sail Boat'.

But security footage said differently. It showed him walking up to that impressionist masterpiece, looking it square in the eye sailboat, and doing what Manet (I assume Manet and Monet were rivals) had always dreamed of doing. He gave that 140-year-old overrated collection of blurry brushstrokes a knuckle sandwich!

Now, it turns out he did it to "get back at the state" (Ireland, in this case). But I like to think he just did it. No reason. Just wanted to do it and did it. Why do I like this theory better? Because I think of doing crazy stuff like that all the time. It's actually bad. It's a compulsion. I'll walk by a stack of produce in the supermarket and think to myself, just knock all those lemons over! Just do it!

The worst mental dare I give myself is to kiss the random acquaintance/stranger I happen to be talking to. Just lean over and interrupt them mid-sentence with a big, sloppy smooch. I never have and never will act on such an absurd and possibly criminal thought, but I can't seem to shake the recurring "just kiss them, just do it" dare from my head.

I thought I was alone in my madness, but Andy told me that Bill Burr talks about this in his standup.



Would you look at that? Turns out this post isn't as short as I originally anticipated. I guess if you spend the first couple paragraphs complaining explaining how you're tired, the words really start to add up.

Before I forget, the magic eye from yesterday was a rose. But I got it off a creative commons website and it looks like some girl just made it (it wasn't an officially sanctioned 'Magic Eye'). So don't feel bad if you didn't get it. She could just be lying to us and there's actually nothing hidden in there at all.

Love,
Margaret

Unmotivated eyes

As promised, today I will expand on the following blog post brief, as assigned by my past self:

I don't have bad eyesight, my eyes are just unmotivated. Can't focus when I'm on the computer, but when I go to take an eye test, they step up their game. Can you get glasses for eyes that can't be bothered?

That's pretty much the gist of it. My eyes do what they want, and sometimes what they want more than anything is to do nothing. I can relate.

But what can I do to get these peepers back in gear? I went to Specsavers fully prepared to buy some super cute hipster glasses, and I aced the eye exam! When my eyes apply themselves, they score a perfect 20/20. The problem is that they're just lazy a lot of the time.

Dead eyes = rough photo. Tyra knows best. 

Here are just a few examples of when my eyes like to take a lil' break from their ocular duties.

Using the computer 

Sometimes, especially in the morning, trying to get my eyes to focus on a Google doc is a total lost cause. Even reading a Facebook comment is a struggle. That might not sound like a big deal, but my fans rely on me to 'like' their comments within 30 seconds of them writing it. If you had a dedicated fanbase that hangs on your every word, you'd understand.

Identifying approaching faces

OK, half of the time I am intentionally ignoring you. But if I completely blank you as we pass on the street, there's a 50% chance that it's just these dang unmotivated eyes! Blame them, not me! When I'm walking, my eyes struggle to focus on faces. There's too much movement, there's wind whipping round my pupils and everything becomes a blur.

Hunting for something in the refrigerator 

Actually, when it comes to the fridge, Andy's eyes can't be arsed even more than mine. He's constantly hollering at me 'Where are the eggs?' 'What happened to the spinach?' 'Are we out of ketchup?' — my answer's always the same: bottom shelf, bottom shelf, bottom shelf. I suspect that he just doesn't want to bend down that far.

Attempting to decipher 'magic eyes'

This could be a case of 'impatient eyes' more than 'unmotivated eyes', but semantics aside, I SUCK at magic eyes. I blogged about it back in 2011, so no need to get into the gritty details again.

But here, let's try one together. Just for ol' time's sake.

Image via DeviantArt

Any idea? I thought it was a train track. I was wrong. Post a comment with your guess and I'll let you know if you got it right tomorrow.

Cheers,
Margaret


P.S. A PayPal commercial just came on TV. It's absolutely terrible. I can't stand the 'Na na na na na, people rule!' part at the end. Seriously—people rule? That's the slogan you've decided to go with? PEOPLE RULE? What kind of 1998 5th-grade-boy backwards baseball cap lingo is that? This isn't a No Fear t-shirt, it's an advert for an online payment platform—a product that requires you to enter your debit card number and bank account details for goodness' sake.

Watch:

Greetings from a bed of sand

When I first wrote the title of this post, I accidentally wrote 'Greetings from a bed of sad'. These blogging fingers must know me better than I know myself, because that typo works. It really works.

You see, I'm not relaxing on a white sand beach, hooked up to resort WiFi and typing this post whilst sipping an umbrella-clad cocktail. Oh no. I'm just sitting on my normal bed in my frigid flat under sheets that are covered in countless miniature pieces of rock. Oh yeah, SAND. Lots of it.

This photo was just to throw you off. And to break up the text, because your 2014 brain can't handle large chunks of words.
Image via Wikimedia Commons

Temperatures are dropping here in Edinburgh, so yesterday I grabbed an old plaid blanket from the linen cupboard and threw it on the bed. Little did I know it was covered in sand from a long forgotten picnic of yesteryear.

What's the lesson to take away? Think about your future self. If I had only thought of future, wintertime Margaret when I was folding that sandy blanket and putting it back into the cupboard, I wouldn't be lying in a bed of sad.

The upside? Finally, a way to exfoliate my legs while I sleep!

The other upside? Today I found a Text Edit document titled 'Blog Ideas' hidden amongst a billion other icons on my cluttered computer desktop. This is what was inside:

Blog Ideas

 - I don't have bad eyesight, my eyes are just unmotivated. Can't focus when I'm on the computer, but when I go to take an eye test, they step up their game. Can you get glasses for eyes that can't be bothered?

 - Air stewardesses and sock buns - who's going to tell them that, like the gaucho pant before it, the sock bun was a fleeting trend.

Ha, proof that I do sometimes think of my future self! That's tomorrow and Wednesday's posts sorted. Stay tuned.

Cheers,
Margaret

My three favourite Christmas films

It's difficult to narrow it down to three. But, with the Celebrity Jungle finale airing in less than an hour and Sainsbury's 'Melt in the Middle, Smoked Haddock, Leek & Cheddar Fishcakes' roasting in the oven, I am blessed by the incentivising power of a tight deadline.

Here they are in no particular order.

Muppet Christmas Carol

This is the best Scrooge film of them all, and I like to think Dickens would agree. As long as you fast forward through the part where Belle and young adult Ebenezer sing to each other in the park, this movie never disappoints. I sing the opening tune ("There goes Mr. Humbug, there goes Mr. Grim...") all year 'round.



Meet Me in St. Louis

People might not consider this a 'Christmas' movie per se, but I definitely do. It features all of the seasons, but Christmas is where the film reaches its climax, and it's when Judy Garland famously sings 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' in the—SOB—most emotional scene ever.

Part of what makes this movie so good is that the stars are H-O-T-T. Not just Judy, but her older sister (Rose) and her love interest (John Truett, the boy next door). They're all stunning, elegant and charming. Also, it's a comedy! The humour holds up to this day.



Christmas in Connecticut (1945)

My mom rented this from Blockbuster one December of yore and we all begrudgingly agreed to watch it. No offence to Nadinski, but the cover looked shite. Old fashioned. Boring. Lame.

Well, it was actually FANTASTIC. As an outspoken 'It's a Wonderful Life' hater, I was thrilled to finally have a black and white Christmas flick to hang my Santa hat on.

The plot: basically, a Martha Stewart/Blake Lively type woman who writes a weekly homemaking column in the newspaper heads to Connecticut to host Christmas dinner for some war hero guy. It's a big PR thing, but the problem is: she can't actually cook! She's a complete phoney who writes all her columns from a city centre apartment. When she attempts to convince the hunky veteran that she's a married housewife who can roast a perfect turkey, hilarity ensures.

The trailer doesn't do it justice (and its pretty sexist), but here it is anyway:

 

---

Runners up:

• White Christmas
• A Christmas Story
• Elf
• National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
• Home Alone
• Miracle on 34th Street (both versions)

Pulled Andy's Santa onesie out of mothballs today and boy is it cosy.
I might have to retract what I said about onesies two posts ago. 

Frohe fast Weihnachten,

Margaret

P.S. When Googling 'Christmas in Connecticut', I also came across a 1992 re-make of the film, directed by Arnold Schwarzenegger. It looks like a real stinker. Don't watch that version by accident.

Wildest dream

Since I was a kid, I've always dreamed of being presented with shoeboxes full of strangers' photos that happen to capture me in the background. Every unintentional photobomb I'd ever done in my entire life. There'd be videos too. And I would spend all day studying the prints and watching the footage of my true self. 

One time Andy's brother was clicking his way through various friends-of-friends' Facebook photos and came across a zoomed out shot of Australia's Bondi Beach. It was packed towel-to-towel with sunbathers, but who did he spot in the bottom left corner? It was Andy! This random guy who took the photo—a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of Andy's brother—just happened to be in Australia, at Bondi Beach, on the same day as Andy in 2006. 

When he sent us the link to the photo, we freaked out. It was CRAZY. Like that time, freshman year, when Barbie and I each said "there's a snake in my boot" at the exact same time completely unprompted and for no clear reason whatsoever. We'd been sitting in silence for about an hour studying, and then we just said it. It was creepy.

It must have been such a thrill for Andy to see himself in the wild like that. He came as close as anyone could to experiencing my shoebox dream. #Jealous

That's all for this Saturday evening. I put up some Christmas lights in our kitchen window, and pushpins + hard wooden window sill = blister on my thumb. But in some positive boil-related news, my zit from yesterday has formed a whitehead! The end is nigh for that sore-nose eyesore!

See ya, 

Margaret

P.S. Now I can't find the photo of Andy on Bondi Beach. I am working on it though. 

P.P.S. This post still needs a photo. This one should do. It's from a controversial gender-defying 'sexy Santa' photo shoot I did with Andy back in 2009. 

Too edgy for Madgspace?
Come on, people. It's called ART.

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

6 alternatives to the ugly Christmas sweater party

Don't get me wrong; I like ugly sweater parties as much as the next gal. They're definitely here to stay, and I'm happy that they're a part of contemporary Christmas culture. However, that doesn't mean there isn't a market for new holiday party ideas. Diversification is always a good thing (prime example: the Papa John's Fritos Chili Pizza).



So, if you fancy having your pals around for a festive soirée, but you're already attending three ugly sweater parties this week alone, then here are some alternatives to consider:

1) A Kompletely Kardashian Khristmas! 
Dress like a Kardashian. Jumpsuits, bandage cut-out dresses, turtleneck crop-tops, airbrushed makeup—the whole kit and kaboodle. Basically, dress as fiercely and glamorously as you would every day if you had the balls and the budget.

Men attending the party can wear socks from Rob Kardashian's sock line. They can put the socks on their hands so they don't have to lift up their trouser hem to show people. See, I've thought of everything!

2) Christmas Halloween!
OK, this is just like Halloween, except instead of dressing up as Halloweeny stuff (vampire, ghost, pumpkin, etc.) you dress as something Christmas themed (snowman, candy cane, reindeer, etc.). Call it 'Christmas Halloween', because it's just confusing enough to work!

3) Santa Party!
Everyone, be they a man or a woman, dresses as Santa. Simple.

4) Winter Solstice Party!
Gather your friends around a backyard bonfire and embrace your inner pagan. Wear some crazy costume inspired by nature. Paint yourself blue, put leaves in your hair, drink wine out of a dried yak esophagus—anything goes!

5) 'Christmas Morning PJ' Party!
You know how Santa used to get everyone in your family a new pair of matching flannel pyjamas for Christmas? Nope, me neither. But that was part of my cousins' Christmas tradition and I always thought it was brilliant.

Tell your friends to wear their comfiest Christmas PJs, but also set some ground rules:

• NO "onesies" allowed. If it's marketed as a "onesie" or found in the novelty/costume section of the shop, it doesn't count as pyjamas. You want proper PJs. Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap type stuff. None of this Miley Cyrus rave-chic "look at how quirky I am" bullroar (sorry Miley). 

• Keep it PG. "Pyjama party" doesn't translate to "lingerie party". Someone should have told that to the Real Housewives of Atlanta last year. 

6) Retro Ski Lodge Party!

Dress like you're lounging around a ski lodge in the 70s. Tell everyone to bring a retro appetiser and serve eggnog in moose mugs. 

Cheers,
Margaret

P.S. If you're British, you can just ignore this entire post and go to the pub with your mates instead.

Meta

I'm babysitting for Char and William tonight, and you know what that means: pizza party for one!

As I sit here pressing the refresh button on Domnio's Order Tracker, I am desperately trying to think of something to blog about. And then it occurred to me, make the brainstorming process the blog itself! Genius! Two birds, one stone.

OK, my conversation with myself, as it just unfolded:

• Write about flu vaccines, and how you're going to get your first ever this year.

• Write about how, at least in some cases, refusing to engage with anxiety is the best way to overcome it. For example, instead of losing sleep over an important business meeting and telling everyone who asks that you're nervous about it, just don't talk about it or even allow yourself to think about it. Kick those negative thoughts sky high into another dimension. Every time the cause of your anxiety pops into your head, ignore it. Think of something else. Drink a glass of water. Distract yourself. Pretend the anxiety isn't happening. Lie to yourself! Is this terrible advice? 

• Write about how it's so hard to do anything when you're hungry.

• Write about how you can't think of what to write about. YES! That's it! You've definitely done this before, several times, but woops, too late, you're already writing. You're screenshotting the pizza tracker. We're doing this. Buckle up. 

Aaaaand there's the buzzer. Pizza's here! 

Until next time, 

Margaret

P.S. 

1) Scarf scarf scarf (my version of 'Nom nom nom', which I loathe)
2) I like jalepenos, but not in every dang bite.
3) Think of how many gallons of garlic dipping sauce Domino's must waste each year. 

OK, so that's what an infected tooth canal smells like

Vomit, rotting flesh, cat urine, raw sewage, fish guts, skunk anus, post-Italian dinner morning breath, garbage, stagnant water, wet dog, spoiled milk, burnt hair—that's what the inside of an infected tooth canal smells like. 

How do I know? Because today I smelt it (and dealt it) as I lay in horror on the dentist's chair.

The dentist: "And that smell is telling us that there is indeed an infection in there!"

Me: "Ah, uh huh."

She carved out my canal and squirted it with disinfectant. Then I sat up, rinsed and said goodbye as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

But I was shaken. How could my body turn on me like that? Why, it's not my body at all, but just a complex congregation of cells that act purely in their own self interest. 

GOOD HEAVENS IT STANK. Shamefully, appallingly, dry-heavingly bad. I knew teeth were a problem, but I had no idea they were capable of such carnage. 

Actually, you know what, I can't write anymore. I'm too disgusted with myself to carry on. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take a hot shower and then lay completely still under the covers contemplating the meaning of life. 

Toodle do, 

Margaret

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