Madge

aka “T” (short for “T-Rex)” aka “MA!” (only when yelled loudly and abruptly).

Fun Facts:

Has freakishly short arms. Not like, you look at her and go “oh god, how does she brush her teeth?” – but proportionately speaking, it’s kind of strange. Has been calling on my combined freakishly long arms + freakishly long-toed tippy-toe boost for “top shelf assistance” since I was roughly 4 feet tall, dragging the ground with my knuckles and relegated to culottes at school due to “the fingertip rule”.

Really likes flowy, lacy stuff, and Asheville; believes this makes her a closet hippie. She is not, in those ways (“Victorian” and “hippie” are not stylistic synonyms; if you don’t like Asheville, something’s wrong with you; actively wanting to be ‘zen’ and actually being ’naturally zen’ are generally mutually exclusive); yet IS a closet hippie in many ways she refuses to admit (ok, mostly just politically. But still, it’s a big one, and it’s funny).

Hates Cantaloupe and all blue cheese (individually, I mean; though I imagine combining them wouldn’t win you any favors either).

Loves wine, like, her-entire-home’s-decor-has-subtle-and-tasteful-but-abundant-wine-related-elements-incorporated-throughout loves wine but basically never drinks it (or anything but water) anymore, because she’s all healthy and worky-outy and faux-paleo and CULINARILY BORING now and has been convinced (probably correctly) that her metabolism grinds to a screeching, sand-in-the-gears halt at nary a whif.

Laughs at her own jokes. And rather than embarrassed becomes that much more amused when others are confused as to what she finds so funny. Keeps laughing. harder. And dammit if she doesn’t ride out maybe 45 seconds of awkwardness before everybody else is laughing with her.

Has a neurosurgeon’s natural meticulous ability with teeny, tiny motor details. My freakish, overgrown manhands rendered the scrapbooking craze of the 90′s a mortal hell of chasm between idea and execution. She, on the other hand – you know that thing, where you carve a radish into a flower? Pretty sure she could do it with her left hand. Drunk.

Felt strongly that “what not to wear” was not an important battle to pick with a strong-willed toddler, barring indecency or a literal health risk due to incompatibility of climate and outfit choice. Conundrum: Also felt strongly that she shouldn’t bear strangers’ judgement for my said toddler’s flamboyancy. Solution: Frequently branded said toddler with very large button loudly declaring “I DRESSED MYSELF TODAY!” Bonus points: Convinced said toddler that this was a means of giving her credit for, rather than disclaiming her wretched, overly-accessorized choices. Button worn with pride almost daily for approximately 3 straight years. Unnamed toddler developed sense of style phenomenally early; toddler-turned-adult still struggles with penchant for over-accessorizing.

In principle hated all things “because I said so” as a first-line parenting response to a genuine question, even/especially to little kids, ~~is how stupid starts~~ dampens a child’s natural curiosity and enthusiasm. Also felt strongly that kids should, actually, be heard, if they were ever going to learn to speak up later. Conundrum: Also felt strongly that Mommy’s sanity is crucial to said child remaining in said Mommy’s home, rather than plucked away by DSS. Solution: Rather than waiting for murderous and/or suicidal fantasies to take over and distract her, she frequently interrupted the 17th question in a given hour, or the 37th clause in a run-on story, with “I really want to hear what you have to say, but Mommy’s ears are tired.” I’m sorry, but that’s fucking golden. “Ears are tired?” GOLDEN. Teaching a kid that they deserve to have their questions answered? Kiiiinnnndddd of bites you in the ass for a good five adolescent years. Still claims she doesn’t regret it.

Sneezes glitter and shits sunshine; wears her heart firmly on her sleeve. Pretty sure she gets her heart broken on a weekly basis. Pretty sure she wouldn’t have it any other way.