Some News

Good news: I did not hit a Jaguar in the grocery store parking lot.

Bad news: I did hit a Suburban in the grocery store parking lot.

Best news: It's beginning to seem that people are about as likely to take the time to get a quote on a scratched bumper as they are to burn you a cd or email you that picture they took. And to that I say, cheers.

Can I Get an Amen?

So I missed this, but sincerely planned on participating because it was a great idea, and because I won Livi's Valentine's Day giveaway last year, but to not let a list go to waste, here is a list of things that make me happy*.

Running. I've always had a thing for abusive relationships.

Homeless people. Unfortunately not in the 'I want to help them' kind of way, but in a, 'I like when they tell me I'm pretty' kind of way. Although either result in me handing out cash so I feel that my intent here is irrelevant.

My heater under my desk at work. Sometimes I turn it on full blast and put it on my lap like a puppy.

Twins. Call me a sucker for symmetry. (Important note: not a fetish thing...it's not!).

Good grammar. Ahhhh syntax.

Fine cheeses. as a footnote to this entry, I also enjoy both giving and receiving compliments on at the checkout on cheese selection. If a customer is going to pay over 10 dollars for something the size of a small toy car, it should be congratulated. Unless of course that "something" comes in a zip lock bag, and the "chekcout" is on a street corner**. Cocaine never calls for celebration. This message brought ot you by your older, judgmental sister, Maggie.

And last but not least, well-harnessed efficiency. Now there's an art.

Franz out.

*A six minute YouTube video is a prison sentence.

**Verifying that cocaine is actually bought and sold in zip lock bags and on street corners would have required at least a couple of awkward phone conversations at best, so we're just going to have to take what I'm pretty sure about marijuana, and marry it with clips I might have seen on movies.

Thanks, Livi!

S is for Chick*

Today I went to the DMV to secure my spot among the mighty fine league of Utah drivers.  When I first moved here I thought my Idaho plates gave me an excuse for being such a poor driver.  Then I realized it gave Utah an excuse to resent me even more.  Plus it was bad PR for Idaho.  And I felt bad about that.  I encountered my first problem with the bearded woman at the desk after asking for new plates.

Do you have a title?

-What's that.

Ok... do you have registration?

-Is this it?

That's an advertisment

-Is this it?

That's a police warning... Do you have a full name?

-Margaret Augusta Franz

...data entry... Would you like Centennial or Life Elevated plates?

-Life elevated please! Never skied a day in my life.

I think it was the Augusta that got her in the end.  Here's to hoping that Utah fellowship brings me better luck and more love on the road.

* Title of the blog comes from my friend Chris Jones who said this the first time he saw my Toyota S.

I'll Have a Blue Collar Christmas

Yesterday morning at work, my boss asked if I would take the day to deliver the rest of our firm's Christmas gifts to clients around the area. I thought I'd tell him I'd first have to tie up some loose ends, finish some work and make a couple of calls. But instead I did an internal double fist pump and skipped out the door.

I pictured the rest of the day waltzing in and out of Salt Lake's finest lobbies, being greeted by sweet receptionists I only dream of resembling, while they shower me with chocolate, gratitude and compliments on my yellow coat. What I neglected to realize, however, was that most of our "clients" are inventors, and most of their "offices" are factories. The receptionists weren't exactly "sweet" and I think my yellow coat hurt their eyes. They typically ranged from warehouse wives dressed entirely in gray sweats to teen-aged daughters (or more wives) of foremen. My gifts didn't phase them. But I still tried.

"I brought you a gift!"
--blank stare
"It's for Christmas!"
--blank stare
"Christmas is a holiday season celebrating happiness"
--blank stare
"Happiness is.... Ok, well I'll go move my car so your trucks can get in."
"Thank you."

There it is.

It went on like this for the most part of the day. I got pretty good at handling their indifference, and by the end of the day I began to love my industrial sisters throughout the valley. No chocolate, no receptionist voice, strictly business. It makes sense for them really. If you take time to smile, someone could lose an arm! This sentiment carried me all the way down the road, through a red light and into the heart of Layton City's police chief as he asked me if I was from around there. "No of course not, I went to college, see my vibrantly-colored coat? But I love these people." As Officer Terry left my car with a company christmas gift, and I left Layton City with a verbal warning, I thought I might even have seen a twinkle in his eye, but then again, it was happy hour in Layton City, so I guess I'll never know for sure...

Giveaway

I like winning things. I also like falling into categories of people I abhor (i.e. monopolizing and applying generic, innate human qualities to one's own personal personality traits. I'm Maggie, I like free stuff and being happy.)

Nonetheless, I've been in the business of winning things for most of my life. I usually shoot for things I know I can win. Like a compliment from a homeless person. Or a 'drawing' that turns out to be a 'sign-up'. A win's a win.

When I was 11, I entered my name into a box for free glamour shots 23 times (the number of times time would allow it took for my mom to finish her grocery shopping.) I was 11 and this was before I knew pre-pubescent photo documentation was a bad idea. So I 'won' a free glamour shot, along with all the other gals who signed up*.

I still pine to win things and enter into every blog give away I can get my paws on. It hasn't been working so I'm doing a little karma experiment. I'm giving away a 5x7 photo of this: my glamour shot of 11-year-old winner Maggie.




(Don't worry it's not the original. That still remains in a drawer locked away for my husband's work desk as the only photo I will ever allow him to show his friends/co-workers of me. If that doesn't work out, Dad, it's all yours). All you have to do is leave a comment with your email address, or email me directly at maggieafranz@gmail.com. I'll draw the winner in a week. Or two. Or however many it takes for a member of the Wright family to enter. Or Bradshaw family. Or Franz family (I won't hold my breath).

You can only enter once... Wes... Rachel... everyone...

*I'd like to think that my mom 'won' Mother of the Year when she dropped me off at the Holiday Inn with my best friend, Carmen, two overweight waitresses and a photographer in a room with no beds and a box of feathered boas.

Dear Jane

Ditto

Love, 

Kristine and Maggie

Halloween, Where are You?

I don't especially appreciate being made a fool by anyone or anything, especially a calendar and its annual tricks it plays on me. I try to outsmart time by preping myself well in advance for changes of years, ages and holidays.

This year, in the spirit of unintentional self-sabotage, I went into overdrive and began missing timely landmarks altogether. By the time my 23rd birthday came, I had been telling people and myself I was 23 for so long to get used to the idea, I thought I had turned 24. I'm still trying to get over that one. I'm 23, I'm 23, I'm 24. Oops.

Since my character requires me to continually make the same mistakes over, I have been telling myself it is Christmas season for so long to be sure I not miss it when it actually comes, I keep forgetting to acknowledge Halloween at all. (Put the light sabers on clearance already!)


But since my dad's character requires him to solve all my (and the world's) problems before I even tell him about them*, he sent me this photo from his phone of his and my mom's afternoon walk today (bless them):

If my mom's purple shirt, black sleeves, and orange cardi don't put me in the spirit of All Hallow's Eve**, then nothing will. But don't worry Dad, it does. Happy Halloween.

... it's 2010, it's 2010, it's 2010.

*See also complexes for which I will find myself single at 40.

**Thanks for teaching me about this, Hocus Pocus