what i’m reading

i’m determined to get back into blogging. promising myself (believe it or not) that i’ll write a little something EVERY night so that it becomes habit and i get better at it. i’m feeling like i need to do something different these days, so here i am, new netbook on lap, prepared to become prosaic.

just like with dieting, however, it’s  never good to jump into anything completely. so instead of writing something actually meaningful, i’ll just tell you what i’m reading.

same kind of different is a fantastic true story of a homeless man and an art dealer who strike up an unlikely friendship thanks in part to an inspired dream by an inspired lady named debbie. i’m about halfway through and i adore her. and denver the homeless guy.

i’m into true stories these days. people are cool. thanks people, for getting off the couch. may i follow in your footsteps and soon peel my but off our butterscotch seat of love.

hello blog. it’s me, margaret.

i was determined to actually update this blog when i created it, but then i became a sort-of single parent and that’s when everything went all pear shaped. zoe has actually been a total dream this whole time, but still, i’m busy and what not.

anyway, here are a few post topics i’ve been writing in my head…

     – does satan exist?

     – top 5 things to do on the pot

     – bundt baby bundt

     – what i’m reading (House on Mango Street, A Million Little Pieces, Operating Instructions)

     – family values

more on those later. tonight, i just want to say that this parenting gig is the craziest thing. i put zo’s new toddler bed together last night and she freaked out when she saw it this morning. i had to pry her from her new primarily-colored pillows to change her diaper, and she cried all the way to skool days wailing, “my zoe’s big girl bed…i sleep!” even still, i was prepared for a mini battle after her bath tonight.

but she was great.

we read a few books, turned on the sleepy time tunes, and she was out.

as we’ve been sharing our bed with her since january, i want to dance. but more than dance, to cry.

single motherhood

Af left for Nashville this morning. He’s going to be there for the next three months bringing home a little APX bacon. He’ll be great at the sales thing, and I know he’ll enjoy a change of pace, but I’m going to miss him like a woman possessed. I travel quite a bit, but we’ve never been apart for more than a week or so. Although I know this next chapter will be quite the challenge, I am looking forward to a few things…

 

1) Appreciating everything my husband does for me.

Af’s the laundry guy, is AMAZING with Zoe, takes car of the car and the garbage, walks the boys twice a day, fetches things from up or downstairs when I’m too lazy to fetch them myself, and is just an all around GREAT catch, but I know there’s more. After over six years of marriage it’s easy to take things for granted so I’m thankful for this opportunity to really examine how much easier he makes my life and living it.

 

2) Playing supermom.

Because Africa is so great with Zoe I often take a back seat and let him manage the madness. She’s perfect 80% of the time, and I know it sounds weird, but I’m thrilled to take on that not-so-super 20%. Single mothers keep it together every day, day after day, right? Surely I can keep my cool for 12 short weeks!

 

3) Taking control.

Being married has given me license to let a lot of things slide (gym attendance, budgeting, lipstick application, regular prayer and time with the Good Book, yadda, yadda, yad) and now that I have no one to blame but myself, I’m going to try to get a little better at a few more things that matter.

 

Pray for me freinds and neighbors. And pray for my favorite Africano.

May his butt remain unbitten and his pockets fill to overflowing.

Tall Drink of Water

 

I’ve been attending the local chapter of the National Speakers Association to hone my presentin’ skillz, and I must say that the organization draws a unique crowd. Last night we heard from local Chad Hymas, who is awesome, but had me participate in a random “exercise” to illustrate a point about our need to give more and take less. Chad’s a paraplegic, and talked about our need to change our habits in order to conquer life’s obstacles. Anyway, he asked me to volunteer in this little project where he had me try to take a drink from a water bottle without using my hands.

And suddenly there I was, barefoot on the floor trying to unscrew the lid from a water bottle with my teeth.

I am not the most limber of people, and was therefore praying the whole time that all those Fiber One bars I’ve been eating since joining Weight Watchers would not cause a major flatulation, and that if said occurrence were to happen, former Utah Jazz basketball great Mark Eaton (who is 7’ 4” and was seated right next to my hunched frame) would not hear it. Luckily, the other dude who was also participating in operation embarrassing as hell soon discovered that the best way to drink from a bottle without hands is to simply ask for help. Some little old Relief Society lady opened his bottle and gave him a drink, then the whole crowd turned to stare at me. And Mark. Who then had to pry my bottle from my stinky flats feet and then give me a sip as well.

Too bad it wasn’t Kobe.

What I’m Reading

“I don’t know how she does it!” is an oft-heard refrain about mothers today. Funnily enough, most moms agree they have no idea how they get it done, or whether they even want the job. Trisha Ashworth and Amy Nobile spoke to mothers of every stripe working, stay-at-home, part-time and found a surprisingly similar trend in their interviews. After enthusing about her lucky life for twenty minutes, a mother would then break down and admit that her child’s first word was “Shrek.” As one mom put it, “Am I happy? The word that describes me best is challenged.” Fresh from the front lines of modern motherhood comes a book that uncovers the guilty secrets of moms today . . . in their own words. I Was a Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids diagnoses the craziness and offers real solutions, so that mothers can step out of the madness and learn to love motherhood as much as they love their kids.

Blondes, Boobs, and Beckham’s Balls

That’s right friends… Beckham’s balls in all their photoshopped glory.

 

 

Where, you ask?

Not at the porn shoppe, no.

Thursday afternoon, April 2, 2009, at the ghetto salon where I’m now getting my hair done.

I had to do a video shoot for work last week so I went in for a quick cut and a little color and came out COMPLETELY SOILED. My new hairdresser, Natalie, was clipping away when a blonde with a removable ponytail came waltzing in talking about Organics and a new salon in the avenues. She was a total character from one of the Real Housewives Of series and I was digging her until next thing I know she and Nat have me pinned under the dryer and are forcing me to check out all the nudies on Nat’s laptop. She showed me a full body of Beckham and several close-ups of his member, followed by a heart-shaped, pink-dyed Julie she did for one her clients at Valentines. (Only $40!) Needless to say I was STUNNED and sat there like a complete dork trying to figure out if I should laugh, cry, or run screaming from the building.

My friend Tony says she was trying to hit on me. Strange love indeed.

The Power of Nice

I work in a pretty nice office tower in the booming metropolis of Sandy, UT, where friends, families, and mormons abound. When I first moved to “Zion” back in ‘94 I believed that living amongst the saints would change me for the better…that in all their piety and perfection they’d be the most happy and friendly people on the planet. (I also thought I’d date A TON because these boys would know to look on my heart and not my bounteous wrapping.) Not so much.

Most folks around here act as if they’d rather be shot than make eye contact with a stranger, which brings me back to the elevators in our building. We pile in there, push our respective buttons and then pretend to text or stare straight forward so as not to have to feel bad for refusing to make nicey nice with the other people inside. I hate this, but like a sheep, have followed protocol.

This morning, just in on the basement level from the cold and freaking rain a woman I don’t know actually held the doors for me and then said with a bright and cheery smile, “Good Morning! How are you?” I almost passed out. She was getting off on 5, me on 7, so we chatted about the crappy weather for 6 floors and when the door opened for her to depart she looked me straight in the eye and said,” Have a FABULOUS day,” and I believe she actually meant it. 

And so I will.

In fact, I’ll go beyond having a fabulous day. I’ll tell other people to have a fabulous day too. For one week I vow to say hello to someone on the elevator every time I get on there. And I vow to tell them to have a fabulous day even if they don’t talk back and look at me like I’m a freak from happyville.

What I’m Reading

Amazon Best of the Month, September 2007:

It’s been 11 years since Junot Díaz’s critically acclaimed story collection, Drown, landed on bookshelves and from page one of his debut novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, any worries of a sophomore jinx disappear. The titular Oscar is a 300-pound-plus “lovesick ghetto nerd” with zero game (except for Dungeons & Dragons) who cranks out pages of fantasy fiction with the hopes of becoming a Dominican J.R.R. Tolkien. The book is also the story of a multi-generational family curse that courses through the book, leaving troubles and tragedy in its wake. This was the most dynamic, entertaining, and achingly heartfelt novel I’ve read in a long time. My head is still buzzing with the memory of dozens of killer passages that I dog-eared throughout the book. The rope-a-dope narrative is funny, hip, tragic, soulful, and bursting with desire. Make some room for Oscar Wao on your bookshelf–you won’t be disappointed. –Brad Thomas Parsons

Dr. Odd

 

 

I woke up with a migraine and opted to take the morning (read “I really thought I’d get to work by noon…”) off, rather than subject my team to another 8 hours of my doldrums. (Period next week. Shoot me.) I slept until 1:15 or so , so I missed The View but made damn sure I was showered and shaved by 4:00 for Oprah.

Why is it that EVERY TIME I get the freak opportunity to watch my Beloved (pun intended) she’s holding a liver with Dr. Oz??? Are they getting it on ? I love you O, but you’re killing me. Mr. scrubbie pants HAS GOT TO GO!

Pizza Hut is Hiring Team Members

I don’t know about yours, but my television has magical powers. If I opt to plop in front of it, I’m there for hours. (Yipee, I made a rhyme!!!) Zoe can climb on top of the fridge during Dancing with the Freaking Stars, and I’d have a tough time coming to her rescue. It’s a disease. The uncontrolled tendency to veg.

Anyway, it’s Sunday so we watched Amazing Race and it was in India. After AR, DH. And after DH, B&S.

Noteworthy in AR was a fabulous line from some random dude competing with his 68 year-old father. They were in a cab heading towards a camel project, when random noted all the other cabs with AR hopefuls vying for position in the line up. “Caravan of fools,” he said. Fabulous. Simply fabulous.

Anyway, I found an interesting theme in TV madness this evening, and it’s left me a little concerned. It seems that women who try to “have it all” as Oprah, I’m sure, has said, suffer from drama. Each and every one.

The duo of darling blonds who were unfortunately the “last to arrive” were both motivated to take on the AR because of their children. One doesn’t actually have children, but in the off chance that she might one day, wanted to “do something for herself” before takling  reproduction. And the other “missed her daughter terribly,” choosing both to leave and to lead her; to teach her that life is what we make it.

On DW nut-job Orsen convinced Bree to sell her business because her success was detracting from his happiness and therefore their marriage (and emasculating him SLICE BY SLICE, in case we needed a visual). And on B&S ol’ nasty Holly (who I love to hate) traded planning for an upcoming board meting for a $50 pizza, all to pacify the loser baby-daddy who left her high and dry when doe-eyed Rebecca was in diapers. Even Kitty, now never shown if not canoodling a plastic baby doll with white hands although she adopted an African-American child, can no longer communicate with her husband the would-be president. She now finds fulfillment chatting up a widower about burping and what not down at the neighborhood playground.

I know these people aren’t real.

But we are.

Zobina, I love you. Edwardino, love you too.