Oh Fudge....

I have been told by many that my son is advanced in his speech.  He is a parrot.  This has always made me proud, until recently.  Last week Little Mans teacher took me aside to tell me the good news: that he went pee pee on the potty and the bad news: that when he missed the trash can with his paper towel he muttered the word shit under his breathe as naturally as you or I would given the same circumstance.  At first,I cringed and felt the need to come up with a story about how we were in a bank while it was being robbed and the heartless criminal with a horrible upbringing must have said that nasty swear in the presence of my precious tot.  Then I saw the smirk cross the face of LM's teacher and I realized the humor of the situation and secretely vowed to watch my mouth from then on. 

Life was good again.  I had a funny story to entertain friends with, of my cute 2 year old and his first swear.

That is until the very next day, and the story of the not so innocent F word.

Little Mans teacher was uncomfortable the minute I walked in the classroom.  She couldn't look at me as I asked the routine question "How was his day?"
Timid Teacher turned crimson as she spoke to the floor "Umm, well......."
My mind starts trotting through possilble scenarios that could be causing such hesitation.  LM has decided to revisit the biting stage; He flushed the class hampster; He snorted a pixie stick. 
I can't take the suspense.
Teacher reluctantly continues, "Um, he has been using the F word all day".

Oh Fudge !

I half expect the Family Court to burst through the doors and arrest me for trash talking in the presense of a minor.  I look at other parents picking up their children and imagine them whispering "Well, where do you think he heard it?"  I wonder what age they start referring kids to reform school.

Tattle Tale Teacher tells me that some other kids have said swears too.  I know she is lying.  I look at the other kids in the class, and I swear they are all in white, with miniature halos floating above their angelic little faces.  When I turn my attention to my naughty little cursor, he is reciting the words to his favorite book.  He notices me and a huge smile spreads across his beautiful face, and I think to myself- naughty or not this two year old is F'ing cute, and he is all mine!

Going To My Head

I firstly would like to apologize for the cockiness that is about to follow.  I take full responsibility for the giant head that has grown accustomed to the top of my neck, and I completely recognize that it is unwarranted. 

Yesterday, as I was walking through the over populated grocery store aisles with a look of empty-headedness on my face, I was recognized.  That's right; a charming older woman approached me and asked me if I was the columnist in the paper.  My blank over caffeinated gaze turned into one of shock and pride.  I quickly scanned the aisle for paparazzi, adjusted my aviator sunglasses on the top of my swelling head and shyly said "Why yes, that is me".  She told me that she reads my column.  I said thank you and she walked away.  I almost chased her down, I wanted to know which article she has liked the best, has she invited girlfriends over to discuss my witty publishing's over coffee and bridge, would she like an autograph or a MorganU Fat Head?  I wanted to ask her if she was going to brag to everyone that she knew that she met a celebrity (I already apologized). 

After regaining my composure and standing a bit taller, I remembered that I had not blogged in 2 weeks and my fans don't deserve that kind of abandonment.  Had I become more like the Tara Reed of Blogging and settled for D list fame (she wishes)?  I can not let that happen, next thing you know I will be getting a botched boob job and throwing my drunken self on one of the Carters. 

I made up my mind, then and there that I would not settle for life as a Tara.  No, I will blog more and spend more time on my columns, perfecting them and getting them in on time ( I swear!).   I will take back the attitude that I started with in May when I began broadcasting my over the top fantasies and inner thoughts to the Facebook, Blogging world.  I will once again imagine that this MorganU memoir is going to get me fame and fortune or at the very least fans in the grocery store.

I dont want to alarm you.  I haven't been diagnosed by a doctor...yet, but I am pretty sure that I have a severe allergy to..this is hard to admit..work.  I have spent the day at home with my toddler who refuses to share toys but happily accepts it when other toddlers share pinkeye and lice.  Today it is the tummy bug that keeps me out of the office and Little Man away from daycare.  Now, with Little Man surprisingly chipper for having recently vomited, it has been an easy day in comparison.  We spent the morning lazily reading and playing in our jammies while sipping coffee/milk.  We slept an hour and half later than we normally do on any given Tuesday, and yet by 12 the thought of his nearing nap causes me to salivate.  It is similar to my days at work.  For the most part, I enjoy my job, the people I work with and my daily tasks, yet around 12 again, I have had enough. 

My sister is allegic to everything cats.  She loves cats, but after a few hours she is itching her eyes, and sneezing.  As painful as this is to admit, although I love my son more than any one can imagine, after a few hours, I too get teary and feel a slight headache coming on...allergy.  I only feel better after I have put him in the other room to rest for a few hours.  The swelling of my brain goes down, my headache diminishes and I am good for another half a day once he awakes.  My allergy symptoms do not come back until around 8:30-which is usually around the time that LM begins showing signs of being allergic to me as well.
At work the symptoms of my allergy are stronger and come on much faster.  It usually begins with a ringing in my ear (the phone).  Next, I find myself shaking (usually after my third cup of coffee on an empty stomach).  I need to eat or I will faint from the constant griping at the water cooler.  My eyes blur just a few hours into staring at my computer screen and by 1 my head ache is usually unbearable. 
Funnily enough the only medicine that eases my at work allergies is the thought and sight of my Little Man at the end of the day.
Once home, I am happy and content until the work must begin again.  Putting a meal together for my family often times brings out my most severe symptoms- the irritability at times is uncontrollable and quite contagious, and dont get me started on the clean up. My only cure for the irritability comes in the form of a wine glass.  If taken before symptoms occur, most often, I am able to avoid them all together. 

The conclusion is that work, and anything that causes me to HAVE to do anything is detrimental to my health.  I think I too need a nap in the middle of the day, a break from anyone and anything that NEEDs me for ANYTHING. I need time to myself to think, read, write, do Yoga, or watch The Hills.  I need to not be needed, for like an hour- everyday...and then I will feel grateful for the rest of the time where I am made to feel like the world will come crashing down unless I am there.

Let Me Explain

I feel like I need to come with some sort of explanation. Like before people meet me, someone should say, "before you meet Morgan, let me explain". Why? you ask (We didn't ask, we know why), well I am sort of normal, I mean there is nothing spectacularly abnormal about me. It's just that I am normal- amplified, normal- on steroids, normal-in a not normal sort of way, and I feel like I should explain. 
The bottom line is, I am a product of my strange, fabulous, loud, Italian family.  The matriarc of the family is my Clorris Leachman- like Grandmother Vee Vee.  Her real name is Velia and according to her, the boys in school used to sing to her "Velia, I wanna feel ya".  She is shockingly uncensored, a little more than slightly senile and an 86 (although she says 80) year old kleptomaniac .  She deserves way more than a brief insert in a modest blog, but 9 o 'clock, I am tired, on my third glass of wine and I require more of an explanation than one crazy grandma, so I will move on.
My father, Velias only son, is way more like his mother than he will ever admit.  He is equally as loud and uncensored but believes the fact that he plays golf as often as the average American spends time in a cubilcle that he is classier than she.  He is not, but don't tell him that.  If you do, he will swear at you, tell you are wrong, make you cry and then ten minutes later sincerely ask you why you are crying and why your wine glass is empty.
My father's wife- who looks more like my sister than the title she holds and hates of Stepmother, is a saint for willingly marrying into the crazy family that I was so lucky to be born into.  She has been insulted endlessly by my unfiltered grandmother for being too thin, her teeth being too perfect and her ironing skills to be less than mediocre.  She has been a part of the family for over twenty years, miraculousy since this was a chosen path for her and not one of blood line like the sad rest of us. At least once a week she loses her cool and calls my father a Dick Head- a name that he has grown quite comfortable with.
I have an older sister that makes a living gallivanting with her British husband all over the world.  She is the rich one that lives in France and vacations in Thailand while I live in Forestdale and vacation in Upstate New York.  She is the quieter, less bold one until she has a bottle of red wine in her at which point my petite, nearly British sister turns into a Truck Driver from the dirty south and puts my fathers foul mouth to shame.  She is the oldest and selfishly used up the organizational skills and work ethic genes, leaving the rest of us messy and lazy.
My little sis we will call Beatrice (a name she gave herself for some god awful reason) is the hippy of the family.  She currently lives in Chicago where she works at a coffee shop where unemployed people that smell like patchouli spend their last pennies on gourmet coffee and faux intelligent conversations.  She has dropped out of a few colleges in an effort to find herself.  One place we found her was in an issue of High Times- holding a sign at a marijuana legalization rally that read: Stop Arresting my friends.  Her father is black, (Im confused) which gave her the most beautiful complexion and the craziest hair which I am sure attributes to her off the wall ways.
My little brother- the baby of the family is 6ft 1 and has football player shoulders.  He could palm the heads of all of his sisters, I am sure.  He is soon to be twenty and living the college life in Boston.  He frequents the gym more often than I visit the liquor store and no one loves him as much as he loves himself.  He has a huge heart which is easily broken and due to the fact that he was raised in a house of all women- we are all convinced that he will one day make the best husband to any girl.  The few girls that he has hung around look like future super models and truth be told my lil bro looks quite like a male model himself...just don't tell him that.
My mother, the woman who gave birth to the above mentioned clan passed away four years ago.  She was the warmest woman in the world, and yet she had a wild side as well.  She never took life too seriously and her kids were the world to her.  She too was a bit crazy like the rest of the fam.  She never got our names straight, so early on she resorted to calling us all Charlie- even the dogs.  She was constantly trying to tell us that she was cutting back on "the wine" but that is hard to take seriously from someone with a worse red wine mouth than Ronald McDonald. 
I will not get into the even more extended family at this point.  I haven't the time and I feel that you might need a few moments (try years) to process the info presented in this post.  I hope that you have a clearer understanding of why I am the Slightly Irrational woman that I am.  Basically, I am pushing the blame.  It is not my fault, I am a product of sheer insanity.

Resume, Its Ready

Dear Oprah,
Attached please find my resume.  I am applying for the position of Talk Show Host, now that you have decided to retire.  I think you will find that I am highly qualified.  I have absolutely no some experience and a barely there fantastic work ethic.  I have been entertaining friends my whole life and I am very confident that I would be a great Oprah.

Thank you for your consideration,
MorganU

Resume of a Highly Qualified Soon-To-Be Talk Show Host

Morgan U
The Sticks, VT 55555
I cant Give you my phone number because I dropped it in the toilet like 6 months ago and am too lazy busy to replace it.

Objective:  To take over where Oprah left off, and make a bazillion dollars so that I can wear fabulous clothes, go on exotic vacations and finish my house, oh and to fulfill my dream of fame becoming a world renound talk show host.

Experience:  I have been entertaining friends, family, and and strangers that accidentally have come across my blog and for some reason have become loyal fans for years.  I don't have much experience with celebrities, but there was a time when Marselis Parsons (our local channel 3 news guy) rescued me from the middle of the lake when pretty much hubbys boat broke down.  I think my dad has a relative that was in a movie too, Ill find out.  Currently, I work as an Executive Assistant which by no means prepares me for being a talk show host, but has inspired me to want my own assistant, which I could afford should Oprahs job be awarded to me.  I am not good at being poor, however, I have all confidence in myself that I would make a great millionaire.

Skills,Accomplishments and Stuff You Should Know:
In high school, I could funnell more beers than any other girl and most of the boys...thank you.
I was Pumpkin Princess in High School, which proves that I am well liked, or was 10 years ago.
ummmm..
I had a 26 hour labor and an 8.5 lb baby with no drugs which shows that I am stupid tough and can handle anything that comes my way.
I love gay men, and alot of them watch your show.  Oh, and gay men love me too!
I can't balance a check book, but with your amount of moola, who needs to?
I am very good at talking, and I think that Dr. Phil and I will get along great, oh and Robin, I cant wait to meet her!
You can keep Gail.  I have my own friends, and like Gail they will be selfless enough to quit there jobs and move to Chicago to happily live off of me.
I love to give away gifts, but I can never afford them, so giving away cars and houses and lypo suction will be new for me, but I think it is a skill that I could learn.
I promise not to be as annoying as Kelly Ripa.
Tom Cruise can jump on my couch anytime he wants.

The Bottom Line:
Oprah, heres the thing.  I need this job.  If you give me this opportunity I swear I wll do a really good job.  There are a few things that I might change though.  Like, with your amount of money, why have the show everyday?  I am going to make it a once a week occurance so that most days I can lay in bed in my new mansion eating sushi and blogging.  Also, I think that I will take summers off.  People shouldn't be inside watching TV in the summer anyway.  I am also going to serve wine to all my studio audience so that I dont feel bad drinking it alone while filming.  Im also going to do away with the magazine, the book club and the school in Africa because with all that I wont have time to rent luxury yachts and party on them with my friends.
The Bottom line is this miss Winfrey, I am the right girl for your job.  Thank you for considering me.  Could you please get back to me ASAP bcause if I dont get this one, I am thinking about offing Ellen.

Sincerely,
MorganU

Thanks Indians and Pilgrims

It is that time of year that we gather as families, stuff our faces, and share what we are thankful for. I would like to let you all know what I am thankful for since most of what I am thankful for is not appropriate to share at the table in front of my pretty much in-laws. So here is what I am thankful for in 2009:

1. I can’t believe I am saying this, but I am thankful for The Wiggles. The Wiggles transform my usually hyper child into a zombie- thus allowing me time to drink, blog, facebook get chores done.

2. Tinted windows in my vehicle- so that no one can see how filthy my car is. Also, no one can see when I leave my toddler in the back seat all by himself to quickly run into the mobile station for coffee (OMG she doesn’t really do that, does she?).

3. My cleaning lady- for drastically reducing the amount of fighting with me and PMH. Now, when I see smelly socks in the creases of the couch, I take a deep breath and count the days until Friday.

4. Spanx- need I say more?

5. Living in a small town- because in a small town I am a hottie. Move me to LA and I am the frumpy mother of a two year old that drinks too much and over does the messy pony tail look.

6. I am thankful for Bronzer. Without my faux glow- my over indulgent lifestyle is far too evident. I often see out dated women- you know the ones with perms and bangs and long nails and high wasted jeans and I think OMG, don’t they know how out dated they are. And then I remember that Bronzer will not always be in style, and I face the fact that when that day comes, I will be out dated because pale skin and dark circles is not a good look for me.

7. My family (finally, I thought she was going to totally forget her son!). My PMH and son and our cat are an odd little bunch, but we are a family, and I love them. My father, stepmother, sister, half sister, half brother, step sisters, step brother, brother in law and my pretty much mom and her kids- thanks for ensuring that it take me over an hour to answer the question- do you have any brothers and sisters?

8. My girlfriends for making me feel like I am not the only alcoholic  social drinker on the block- thanks girls!

9. I am thankful for my blog readers, for laughing at me when I have yet again a blonde moment, and for telling me that my down falls make your days better.

10. Thank god for the good and buzzed good ole boys that come into the bar when I am working and make me feel like a hot piece of you know what, even when that you know what is a little bigger and closer to the ground than it was last year.

There are many things that I am thankful for, but the rest of them I should be able to share at the Table.

Dilemma!!!

My day started with a dilema...never a good start. I woke up at 7:20 and I had to go to the bathroom...the dilema? I don't have to get up until 7:25. Whats a girl to do? Do I lay in my warm and cozy bed for five more minutes with one eye open while watching the clock- half praying that the time will go by fast so that I can relieve the uncomfortable pressure on my bladder and half begging for the five minutes to drag out slowly so that I dont have to get out of bed and start another day so soon. I better make up my mind quickly, because after all I only have 5..now 4 minutes left to decide and I dont want to waste any of that time actually thinking when I could be peeing or laying staring at the clock. I decide to pee, as I only have 3 minutes left and I csnt lay still or I will wet the bed, I do however let myself close my eyes during the process- half peeing- half sleeping, and not getting off of the throne until 7:25- because that is the time that I wake up. Not 7:20- no that is way to early.

The problem is that I will feel cheated all day. I am owed three more minutes of sleep. I will later feel like I deserve a treat for having been forced to sacrifice sleep. I will reward myself most likely with some form or other of an alcoholic beverage. I will decide that I dont have to count the two weight watchers points that make up my liquid reward, because clearly I burned more calories today, being that I woke up early.

Pretty Much Wife Swap

As you may or may not know, I tend bar at a local watering hole once a week. I have been there for 5(?) years. I started out bartending to make extra money for shoes and booze, and then when Little Man came along my extra money started going toward diapers and noodles (all he eats). I love where I work. I get the same crowd every week and they have become like my Thursday night family.
For the last year or so, two young couples have been coming in like clockwork. The husbands sit together and drink too much beer while the wives chit chat about work and Survivor. They are some of my favorite customers.
Last night, one of the wives D was complaining about her too neat husband. Apparently, he does not greet her at the door until he finishes cleaning their room. I nearly fell off of my three inch heal. To hear a woman complaining about how her husband is obsessed with windex and swiffers, was like hearing a celebrity complain about getting special treatment...it was unjust, is what it was.
I told her that I wanted to kill her and steal him, and then I remembered that I actually do love my slovenly Pretty Much Hubby, I just didn't love his content in living in animal like surroundings. So I suggested a wife (or in my case a Pretty Much Wife) swap. It would be perfect, I would sit in their immaculate living room, watching Survivor, while her hubby cleaned around me. There would be no picking up of flung noodles, no nagging about ice cream bowls left on the coffee table and jeans in the dining room (he actually leaves pants on the floor of the dining room, I **** you not!), I would be left in peace..peace that smells like pinesol and Glade.
D on the other hand would be thrown into a world with no resemblance to the tidy world she is used to. It would have to be a tuesday, so that the hard work that the cleaning lady did on Friday would be a thing of the past. She would remove the toys and tools from the couch to try and sit and watch Survivor. Little Man would not be impressed with her lack of interest in him and would climb on her lap, head, right in front of her view of the TV. He would demand that she read the same book, 15 times. Pretty Much Hubby would come home and take off his work clothes and leave them in a heap on the dining room floor. He would see that she really wasn't watching Survivor (because she is reading the monkey book) and he would change it to the Discovery Channell to watch Ice Road Truckers. At the commercial he would take his socks off and drop them next to the recliner. D would decide that feeding Little Man might distract him enough so that she could check her email, as she gets up from the couch PMH would ask her for a bowl of ice cream that he will later put on the dining room table on his way to the shower where he will use up all the hot water and leave his towel on the floor.
In the meantime, I will ask D's hubby if we can just get take out, because I am not in the mood for cooking. He will gladly agree, offer to pick it up and will stop and buy me a bottle of wine on the way home. We will decide to stay in for the night because of the Rock of Love Marathon on VHI. We will eat take out- that her Husband will put on nice plates for us. He will then clean my plate so that I don't miss the Chick fight that is about to happen in Brett Michaels tour bus.
D will realise that my PMH and Little man have gone to bed. She will look around her and for a second she will think that she has traded places with a house mother at a fraternity house. She will spend an hour cleaning up the frat house, so that she won't have to do it in the morning (yeah right!). At this point the only thing that is on TV is an episode of CSI Miami and the second David Caruso comes on the screen she will pick up a smelly sock off of the floor and throw it at his head, because at 11pm, while cleaning someone elses mess, his acting skills are enough to ensure her a slot on the next episode of Snapped.
All the while, I will go to bed in the hotel like guest room, where her hubby will have placed a chocolate on my pillow. I will not eat the chocolate because I drank my extra weight watchers points for the week, but I will smile at the gesture and turn in. I will sleep 10 hours, without interuptions.
D will get out of bed three times to refill Sippy cup. On her way to the kitchen she will trip on the John Deer tractor sitting on the kitchen floor. She will open the fridge to get the milk and not be able to find it because my PMH will have left it on the counter. She will curse my life and beg for her anal retentive husband back, and I will have to reluctantly give him back.

Harrassing Blog Readers

So I am truly honored that a few of you readers have taken it upon yourselves to hound me when I have not blogged in a week. I know, I promised more and last week I blogged alot. The thing is that nothing really exciting or blog-worthy has happened lately.
I mean I could tell you about how I dressed as a German Beer Wench for Halloween and partied like there was no tomorrow all the while pretending that my name was Inga. I could tell tell you that I danced up a storm in actual good for your feet shoes (beer wench clogs) and still woke up with sore knees because I am:
a)out of shape and
b) getting old.
But that is not a full blog.
Maybe I should tell you that I have officially mastered the art of mooching- and ended my busy monday with a free facial, but unless you want to hear how I have combination skin and out of whack hormones then again, I got nothing.
If you want me to go on and on about how wonderful my son is one second and how terribly two he is the next, then I will, but I feel as if I have overdone that and you might make a call to child protective services if I over do it.
Most of you seemed to enjoy my diet blog..uhh humm..well my update on that is that I started Weight Watchers and have lost 5 lbs...I am starting to feel sexy again and I just might allow Honey to keep the lights on...if he throws a blanket over the shade and promises not to stare. But my belly is not rumbling, my thighs are thinner and that's all there is too it. Diet blogs are way more humorous when Hungry Hippo can't put down the pizza.
Often times I tell you all about my love affair with booze, but isn't that getting old. I mean, it is winter so I have switched to red...not funny, unless I post a picture of myself with red wine lips..kinda funny, kinda scary. Also, I care about what you blog readers think about me, and as true as it might be, I dont want you to think of me as an alcoholic (I prefer wino). The last thing I need is to show up at what I think is a party and have it be an intervention...unless maybe it was the intervention that is to be televised with Dr Drew and then, just maybe if I am having a good hair day, I will forgive you.
I could tell you that I am bored at work and that my coworkers are lame, but actually that is not the case. I am most content in my job- besides the fact that I have to get up before noon to get there and that I have to be there 40 hours a week...I think 15 hrs would suffice..maybe 10.
I could even go back to trashing Pretty Much Husband for his lack of cleanliness and motivation, but now that I have a cleaning lady, and a working washing machine, not too much there. Although, I still have to remind him that we have a dishwasher, show him where it is and beat him when he doesn't get it right and puts his dishes on our bedside table.
I have thought it would be a funny blog to clean out my car and fill you in on all of the crap that I found in it, but that would intail cleaning out my car, and honestly- not going to happen.
Oh, I just remembered something that you will most likely chuckle at (if you don't give me a break, I am struggling here). I have been washing machine-less for the last year. Actually, I have been under the impression that my washing machine was broken for the last year. After laundromat trips, mooching off of others with washing machine capabilities and breaking my parents machine, I decided that I would plug in my washer and give it another try. It worked..just fine. You see the reason that it had stopped mid cycle about 365 days ago was that I set it on small load and then filled it like a clown car..apparently when you have to sit on the machine to get all the clothes in it- that is considered a LARGE load. Apparently, (ask my dads dead machine) washing machines don't like to be treated like Hot Dog Eating Competitors (was that a strech or what).
That's all I got folks. I am sorry to let you down. I will try extra hard to get myself in to more situations inwhich you can laugh with (at) me. I would do that for you...my blog fans! I love you all!

Yosemite Sam

Actual conversation between myself and Pretty Much Hubby:

Me: What are you looking at?
PMH: nothing…
Me: You’re looking at my lip, do I have a mustache?
PMH: Yeah, actually, you kinda do.
Me: Shut up! Really? Is is it black or blonde?
PMH:blonde
Me: Should I wax it?
PMH: Yes
Me: Don’t tell me that!
PMH: What? I’m just looking out for you.

Great. I have a mustache that rivals Sam Elliot’s. I mine as well go as Sasquach for Halloween. No wonder he won’t marry me!
I mean I have noticed my upper lip peach fuzz, but I just assumed that I was the only one noticing it. Oh my god, do you know how many times I have asked myself “Doesn’t that (fill in the name of an oblivious, hairy person) realize that if she can see it, so can everyone?”
I am that girl.
I am that one that thinks she has eyes unlike anyone else’s. Eyes that see upper lip peach fuzz (It’s called a mustache) that is invisible to everyone else. Please, tell me if I have a spare tire, a unibrow, a club foot…anything that I might be unaware (or in denial) of. But please, let me down easy, I am in a hairy, fragile state.

Pet Peeves

If you haven’t already figured this out, not only m I slightly irrational, but I also am easily annoyed. But, how can I expect the world to follow my rules, if I never tell the world what those rules are. Here are the ridiculous things that people say or do that make me want to push them down stairs (I don’t think she is stable) .
1. Unless you are six years old –in which case it is kind of cute, Birfday is not a word. Really, does it even sound right to you?
2. Webster’s dictionary describes the word berry as : a pulpy and usually edible fruit (as a strawberry, raspberry, or checkerberry) (what the F is a checkerberry) of small size irrespective of its structure b : a simple fruit (as a grape, blueberry, tomato, or cucumber) with a pulpy or fleshy pericarp c : the dry seed of some plants (as wheat).
There is no such thing as a Liberry. There is however, a library- which is no where near a pulpy and edible fruit.
3. The following grammar errors can be grouped as one, and they may only be conducive to Vermont : idear and heighth. As in “I have no idear what the heighth of that maple tree is." You are getting frustrated (some say fusterated AGHHH!!!) with me now aren’t you?
4. When I lay down at night I put my head on a pillow, for those of you that rest your heads on pellows I want to suffocate you with said pillow/pellow.
5. Loud talkers/ close talkers, over talkers and all the Look Who’s Talking movies. These need no explanations.
6. Double negatives- especially when out of the mouths of educated people. "She don’t have a clue." No! You don’t have a clue how Jerry Springer you sound when you talk like a degenerate!
Okay, I actually have more, but I am literally pissed off right now. I worked my self up so badly that I have begun to sweat the sugar free Rockstar that is supposed to be getting me through Monday morning mayhem. I need to go out side and take a breath (not a breaf) and try and calm myself down.

Excuses, Excuses

I have an excuse for everything.  Take right now for example, my excuse for sitting here listening tojazz and blogging instead of cleaning out the smelly fridge is that my feet are cold.  The kitchen floor is cold and so are my feet, so i should blog. 
My excuse for not cleaning out my car today...it is raining, which would be a valid excuse if it weren't for the fact that my excuse last weekend for not cleaning out the car was that it was too nice out..you see the issue?
My excuse for leaving work an hour early yesterday was that I had finished all my work and i was bored.  Again, valid unless you were to peek at the corner of  my desk, spot the ever groing pile and ask me why I don't do something about that.  I would reply, its Friday..I don't want to do work.
I have always had excuses, excuses for being late, excuses for not doing my homework, for having a messy room, for bouncing a check etc.
The ironic part of this blog (which is an excuse to not be doing chores), is that i hate it when other people make excuses, even valid.  For example when Pretty Much Hubby has not had time to work on our house because he is working 7 days a week to pay for supplies for said house because my paycheck is next to nil and I cant help out, I tell him to stop making excuses.  When people at work are using personal problems as excuses for their as of late slackerness I tell them to suck it up (actually i tell other people that excuse maker needs to suck it up).  I even get frusterated when people complain about their weight and do nothing about it! She complains about her weight all the time...and I have never seen her step foot in a gym..Shut up, I have bad knees!
Whats my excuse for my hypocritical attitude you ask? For this, I have no excuse.

Me? A Model?

So, a few unrelated yet related things have happened to me this week having to do with models/modeling. The first was that at a party (where was her child?) I was told that I looked like Tyra Banks. For those of you that know me, go get a tissue clean up whatever just came flying out of your nose. For those of you that don't know me,
a) I am a white girl.
b)I am a white girl that looks more like tired mother of toddler than anything
c)did I mention that I am a white girl?
I decided right then and there that I might, just might have to lay off the self tanner...just a bit.
Okay, on to the second thing. I was judging a talent show recently for a fund raiser and I was asked to pose for an ad for said fundraising organization. The ad will run in the Newspaper through November. OMG...I have been discovered!
The modeling world will never be the same. Move over Gisele because 5 ft 4in and slightly out of shape with hair extentions and a fake tan is the new IT.
So maybe it is the Local Paper and not Vogue, and maybe I was wearing my own clothes and there was no makeup girl in sight. But, I will have you know that in my head, I was Tyra at that moment. I was striking a pose like it was going to get me a reality show, a talk show, and a Swimsuit Edition cover. And you know what, being Tyra is a blast!

Reitteration of It Isn't Easy Being Me

Today I
1. Woke up late after planning on waking a half hour early.
2. Started a load of laundry, had the washing machine die on me and had to rinse clothes in sink.
3. Guilt tripped friends into babysitting because I had a mandatory training tonight that I had not planned for (I helped organize it)
4. Ran out of cat food- no money until tomorrow night so Banana will be eating tuna fish tomorrow.
5. Learned that my SUV will go 24.5 miles on E....and that
6. The gas station down the road will take my check with a little cleavage persuasion.
7. Got Pretty Much Hubbies friends to leave in less than 5 minutes after my return home by..
8. Bitching at Pretty Much hubby from the minute I walked in the door which..
9. Pissed off PMH which made me..
10. Cry a little and then..
11. Realized that this is an average day in my crazy world and crying aint gonna fix it, so then I ..
12. Blogged which made me...
13. Feel much better.

It Isn't Easy Being Me

When I am finally able to rest my head at the end of the day, I often think "Okay,I survived another day". It's not that I have a death defying job, although I do put my makeup on while driving myself to the office. I don't have dangerous hobbies, but I have been known to stumble down stairs after par taking in my favorite hobbie..wine drinking.
What I am getting at is, it isn't easy being me. I am unorganized, messy, a procrastinator and I have no will power. This makes for long days, full of running around from unfinished task to unfinished task, stubbing half polished toes along the way.
I am the mommy who forgets to bring extra clothes for water play. I am the employee that can't get to work ontime to save my life and the pretty much wife that has everything to make her pretty much hubby lasagna except, well lasagna noodles.
I am constantly making extra trips to the store, to daycare and out to my car for forgottens. I look at people that get up early because they like to, put things in the same spot everytime and have clean cars with envy and disbeleif. What happened to me to make me this way? What vitamin was my mother lacking during her pregnancy with me?
At the end of the week I am tired. I cancel plans with people or forget that I even ever made them. Then I am also, the bad friend that stood you up, and I am too unorganised to buy you a nice card to make up for my oops.
Sigh...Life is difficult for the flighty minded.

Cosmo The Cure All

I have a date tonight. I am so excited! His name is Cosmo Politan and he is the perfect date. He never lets me down. He immediately puts me at ease and he doesn’t care what condition my hair, clothes or ass is in. I feel like a school girl when I am with Cosmo, I giggle and blush, like a pre-teen on a first date. Sometimes I even get clammy hands when he is around.

The best part about him is that he knows that I am not single, and it doesn’t bother him at all. He knows that any young woman with a Pretty Much Hubby needs to have an occasional fling, and Cosmo is just the right guy. I deserve him.

In a sense, Cosmo is my cure all. He makes me feel sexy even when my pants are snug. He makes me forget my problems, and shrug off my stresses and I love him for that.
I only have one complaint about Cosmo, when he is around, I can’t stop myself from wanting more and more of him. Oh yeah, and for some reason the morning after an especially great evening with Cosmo Politan I have a headache and there isn’t enough water in Lake Champlain to quench my thirst. Other than that, if you don’t have a Cosmo in your life, I strongly recommend you find one (he has friends too Bud Weiser, and Jack Daniels to name a few, ladies….take your pick.)

What Id Rather Be Doing

I have been cranky lately. I think that sleeping with an ever growing almost two year old is a large part of the reason. This morning, my favorite morning radio show posed the question, "What do you daydream about?"
I have been sitting at my desk this morning doing just that, daydreaming...

I'm in my beautiful gourmet kitchen that is warm from the stove being on. The smell of basil, oregano and garlic fills the air from the pot of sauce simmering. I have an apron on and am having a great hair day. My family is all there and their loud stories are competing with Frank Sinatra's "You're No Body Til Somebody Loves You'. There is an endless supply of red wine as we laugh, and sip and snack.

But a dream is all that that is. I am in fact, sitting in my office, about to dive once again into the stack of billing that I have ignored for long enough. My kitchen is far from gourmet and my family is even further. So instead, I am cranky.

I Can't make This Shit Up

When I was about 9 years old, I discovered the joy of prank phone calls. There was no one with in my area code that was safe. I was ruthless, impish, if you may. I called married couples, and informed the wife that her husbands Playboy subscription was running out. I called the poor gentleman name Harry Butts on a daily basis, to prove to friends and neighborhood kids that there was in fact, a man named Harry Butts, and I was no stranger to the old "Is your refrigerator running" prank.
The reason that I am telling you this is not to reiterate my last blog post about having naughty tendencies. It is not to prove to you that at nine I had bigger Kahunas than Aaron Carter (did anyone see him cry on Dancing With the Stars?). No, the reason that I am tattling on myself about my prankster history is because I believe that it may be the reason that I have a phone curse on me now.
In the last year, as in 12 months, 365 days, I have lost 2 phones and surrendered one to the Toilet Gods. That's right, I dropped a phone in the toilet.
Because of one phone mishap after another, I have paid for phone services for at least three months in which I was completely phone-less. So, about a month ago, I came to the conclusion that I was not destined to have a cell phone. On days of extreme self pity i even convinced myself that I didn't deserve one. I did however, need to have a connection to the outside world beyond Facebook (teenage girls reading this are bouncing their heads from shoulder to shoulder right now, saying HUH?).
I made up my mind. I was going to step back in time and have a land line installed (older generations it is your turn to have a duh moment. What does she mean by land line?).

How could she go wrong with a land line?, you are asking yourself.

Silly blog reader, have you no knowledge of my capabilities to F something up? Have you learned nothing about me through these pointless rants and raves that I post? If there is a phone out there, be it touch tone, rotary, cordless, cell or i, I will find it. And then, I will F it up.

I am getting to the point. Last night was like any other random week night. I came home, changed into lounge wear (that destroys fantasies), poured myself a glass of wine and began tending to Little Man's feeding time needs. Much like many nights, Honey called to explain why he was not home yet. Putting glass of vino down, to give getting fed up with excuses my full attention, I completely ignored the fact that wine glass was on the edge of the table, dangerously close to motem, in which land line is plugged in. Long story short, or less long than it could be, wine and motems do not go together like peanut butter and jelly. More like, they ruin each other, much like Whitney and Bobby.

I had not even had my home phone for an entire month. The spilled wine destroyed the motem, which left me both phone-less and Internet-less, and that is not a pretty world. I was forced to live like the Pioneers and do nothing but watch high definition television on my flat screen. It is a sad fate that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

The moral of the story is not what you think it is. It is not 'don't prank call people whose parents are jerks enough to name them Harry Butts'. It is not even 'make sure you buy insurance on your phone'. No. The moral of this story is 'Do not underestimate my keen ability to F up the Un- F- up-able.

IMP

My kindergarden teachers name was Miss Vacca (pronounced Vodka), tell me that wasn't foreshadowing. I loved her, and I loved kindergarten. I remember bringing home my very first report card, and feeling like such a big girl. I was prepared for praise and perhaps a small gift, because my older sister had brought home report cards many times and then was allowed to choose what we were having for dinner. Already planning in my head what to allow my mother to feed me that night (macaroni and cheese, for sure) I proudly handed over my pink slip, signed by Miss Vacca.

My mother did not swoop me into my arms and tell me she was unworthy as I had imagined she would on my walk home. Instead she stared at the paper that would determine my evenings fate, with a look of puzzlement.
"Where is the dictionary?", she said allowed.

My sister J leaped into the living room with a small pocket dictionary, and staying true to her first child character, asked my mother what to look up.

"Imp" replied my mother, who at this point was looking at me with a look that I recognised. It was the same look that I got when I pierced my friends ears with one of my sisters earrings. This wasn't going to be good.

"Imp- A little devil or demon, a mischievous devil child."
Uh oh.
My mouth stopped salivating for home made mac and cheese. My hopes of getting to go to Rye Beach Pharmacy and picking out a toy vanished. Miss Vacca my allie, my friend, had written

"Although we enjoy having Morgan in the class, she has a tendency to be a bit impish".

Me? Impish?

From that day foward, I dreaded report card day. One time, I even intercepted the mail so that my father wouldn't see my history grade until after the weekend. I never was a scholar. I was the second child, the social butterfly, the party girl. I am there for you if you need a laugh. I make a hell of a Cosmo and I'm a damn good mom. In a nut shell I guess you could say that I am an always will be, well, a bit of ...an imp.

Diet School Drop Out

This afternoon I had a plan to tackle that extra ten (15) lbs that just wont leave my ass alone. I brought a slim fast shake (that has been sitting in my fridge since the last snow fall) to work with me so that I could sip it while going to Weight Watchers. I was going to sign up, get weighed and leave with my point book in hand. That was the plan anyway.

Here is what really happened. I left the slim fast shake in the fridge thinking that I should allow myself one more take out lunch before sacrificing my self to the diet gods. Armed with a debit card and an empty tummy (for weigh in) I headed to where I thought WW was. Well, shockingly, it wasn’t. Apparently what I thought was WW was a credit union(?).

Frustrated, and with no where to turn, I crossed the street to the fish market and ordered myself a tuna- melt. Do I want to add fries and coleslaw to that for $2? DUH!

Now that my tummy is full of fresh (from vt) fish and greasy fries, I am feeling guilty. Maybe the reason that I don’t fit into my skinny jeans has a little something to do with my ability to convince myself that calories don’t count when:
It’s the last day before starting a diet
Its Friday.
It’s a holiday.
When eaten in pairs (for example 2 pieces of cheese cake cancel each other out)
While PMSing.
While stressed.

Maybe if I stop making excuses my ass will stop expanding!

Dancing With the Stars

For the record, when my blog is discovered and I am offered a book deal and a column in Glamour magazine, I would accept an invitation to compete on Dancing With the Stars.



The outfits, the glitz, glamour and the tackiness of the whole thing excites me, really, more than it should. Beyond the fact that I am not a star (but really when was the last time Melissa Joan Heart was stalked by paparazzi) I would be perfect for the show. I am already a firm believer in fake tans. I wear hair extensions in Rutland VT (who does she think she is?) and if I could get away with wearing glittery suck-me-in pantyhose any other place in the world besides Hooters I would move there. I cant dance- but neither can Jerry Springer, I am too skinny for Biggest Loser (although sometimes I don't feel like it), and my singing would slice wrists- so Idol is out of the question. Really, Dancing with the Stars (should be Dancing with I Used to Kinda be a Star, or Dancing With My Brother Is a Star- in Drew Lachey's case) is really my only option.


I am sure that Bruno will love me, and in his thick (could be fake) Italian accent he will tell me that I am magnificent, and what a beauty! Week after week the judges will score me with perfect tens, all the while my body will be getting closer and closer to resembling Julianna Houghs. I will headline on Entertainment tonight more than the Osmonds (who let's face it..own the show). Okay, maybe I am getting ahead of my self. I have no book deal, no column in Glamour magazine and no DWTS invitation, however I will keep my hair extensions, and spray tan ready for when the opportunity comes waltzing at my door step.

Channeling My Inner Cave Woman

Today, I did man chores..and I did them well. Okay, I needed a man to start the lawn mower, but once started I was unstoppable. Blades of grass were surrendering to me like I was Mussolini. Sweat was dripping down my back as I was circling our half acre lot like a dirt track. While pushing the vibrating, bladed piece of machinery I was thinking of the cave women who wore fox pelts and clubbed small animals to death for dinner. I was channeling my inner cave woman as I carried on with my man chore.

Later feeling like I might just stop shaving my legs and start burning my bra, I got the fantastic idea to build a fire in our fire pit. Every other time I have wanted to have a fire this summer I would make Honey do it. He would offer to show me and I would decline..it was beneath me and I was a lady (stop laughing if you know me). But after my brief affair with testosterone earlier in the day, I felt I had it in me. And you know what? I built a freaking fire!

Later, I went inside and lit my new scented candle. I made the bed with the pretty throw pillows that Honey is not allowed to even look at, and then I made myself a pink frilly Cosmopolitan to sip while watching Lifetime..So maybe I am not ready to throw in the Egyptian Cotton towel yet. But, I just might go out and buy myself a cute little Lawn Mowing Outfit!

Boxers In Branches

This morning I woke up and looked out my bedroom window. There, dangling from the branches of one of my Maples was a pair of black boxer briefs. On My God, I thought.. Am I being haunted by the ghosts of boyfriends past? Then I hear CNN blaring from the living room and realize that the undies in the tree belong to my dear, eccentric Uncle B who is currently visiting us from Brooklyn.

My Uncle B is both the kindest and strangest man that I have ever met. He hails from Brooklyn where he is the only white man in NYC that speaks Haitian Creole. He has never bought anything that did not come from a yard sale or that cost more than 75 cents. He wears a large straw hat year round and washes his clothes every night in the bathroom ( he calls it the baaathroom) sink with a bar of soap and then hangs them to dry all over the house and yard. He refuses to say goodbye in his native English language- instead it is Bonn Voyage- Arrivadercci,- Swasage (I think that is Creole) etc.



Uncle B drinks water with a splash of wine and swears that the french aristocracy did the same. He loves suspensful movies from the 1990s and just about any book ever written. Uncle B's jokes make sense to only himself and maybe Alex Trebeck- and he laughs at them in a cackle that resembles the wicked witch of the wests.



While in VT he spent most of his time reading, watching the news and parading around the house in my pink flip flops, a straw hat, and a glass of french-water-wine. Uncle B is supposed to be coming up again next summer. Next year we are going to rent a lake house so that Uncle B doesn't have to sleep on our couch. We'll play scrabble talk about our family history (snore), and drape our undergarments on the trees that frame the shore line of Lake Dunmore and I cant wait! So until then, Ciao Uncle B...Ciao!

I Have A Dream

I had a dream….and Oprah was in it. The funny thing is that as often as I reference the Oprah show as being the “You know You Made It Moment” I really haven’t watched it since she wore big hair and panty hose. But last night, she came to me.
Apparently, two women whose lawn I mowed (I have never mowed a lawn in my life), contacted Oprah about me. They told her that I was an outstanding young woman ( apparently a heck of a lawn mower), and their/my story moved her so much that she hopped on her Leer jet and headed to the mid west (again, no fricken clue why I was living in the Midwest but my house was right out of an episode of Roseanne). Once there Oprah watched my family eat Christmas dinner (Christmas?) like one would watch starving children fight over a hambone- with pity. All the while my family was going on about me…as if convincing her to adopt me.

I can’t remember any more details (lucky for you). But I have been pondering why Oprah came to me in a dream since I woke up. Is there an episode on tonight about How to get your man to pop the question? Or could it be deeper?

Could this mean that I am destined for bigger and better things? Was the most powerful woman in the world (debatable) coming to me in a dream to tell me that I need to stop making excuses and work my ass off and that maybe my dreams too could come true?

Whether Oprah’s visit was a sign that I will spend my life yo- yo dieting and marriageless or a sign that I need to work hard to pursue my dreams, I am going to think of it as the latter. I am going to put pen to paper, fingers to keys and work on my writing as often as possible- and maybe, just maybe my dreams will come true!

Reasons Why We Missed the Ceremony

Honey and I went to a wedding on Friday and here are the reasons why we missed the ceremony.

1. Until Thursday (day before the wedding) I thought that the wedding was in Rhode Island.
2. It was in Massachusetts.
3. Until Thursday evening (night before wedding) I had no idea what time the wedding was.
4. My Honey (even though it was his friend) had no idea either.
5. Not a clue in the world what happened to that darn invitation.
6. Woke up Friday (day of wedding) and found out that it would take us 4 hours (not 3) to get there.
7. Honey still sleeping.
8. Neither one of us packed.
9. My sexy red satin pumps apparently decided to separate and one of them moved out of my house (the only explination that I can come up with for why I have only one).
10. My sexy red pump was having an affair with one of Honey's dress shoes and together they left the country.
11. TJ Maxx makes it impossible for you to get in an out in 15 minutes...they had so many new things.
12. Honey is addicted to convenient store goodies and there for even though we were running late he stopped three times.
13. Stupid tractor trailer truck driver did not consider our tardiness before driving off the road and causing an hour delay...the nerve!
13.5 We have to get ready in the car, in traffic.
14. The man in the car next to us was from Mass, and therefor would not help us tie Honey's tie...what a Masshole!
15. We get to the wedding and are the only ones there...Lord Have Mercy WE are early!
16. We stop for a celebratory cocktail...we deserve it!
17. We casually get ready at the hotel.
18. We meet up with friends and together decide to take a taxi.
19. Taxi driver is a big fat liar (says he will be there in 12 minutes, 20 minutes later we..
20. ...decide to drive
21. There are a lot of one way roads in Massachusetts.
22. The ceremony started on time.
23. I got a good buzz and flashed the hidden camera at the bar (okay, not a reason but worth noting!)

And that my friends is why we missed the ceremony, even though we were three hours early.

flip flops, levis and a new hoodie

This morning I was being nosy on facebook, looking at everyones photos, imagining what their lives are like. I found myself looking at pics of a semi friend, who lives a Completely different life to mine. Firstly, she is the kind of girl that you don't want to like because not only is she literally, naturally a size 1, she has boobs, great style and ufortunately she is nice too. Her pictures paint the story of a young, beautiful girl, living in a big city and having a social life that rivals Carrie Bradshaws. Her extremely stylish, metro sexual boyfriend and mine, who once asked me where his dressy Carharts were, have nothing in common and apparently beyond having gone to the same high school It girl and I don't either.

I looked down at myself. I hadn't showered yet and I was still wearing my black yoga pants, an old T shirt and last nights make up. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I made a plan. I was going to get my ass in the shower, actually blow dry my hair and take the $30 in my wallet and head to TJ maxx. It girl, I imagined was shopping at vintage boutiques and Neimen Marcus, but in Rutland County VT, TJ Maxx is my only option.

During the 30 minute drive, I was thinking how great It Girls life must be. I invisioned her in a fabulous city apartment kitchen, with Pretty Boy. Most likely ,they were cooking italian food, listening to jazz and sipping expensive red wine from a crystal decanter. Playfully they would stir the sauce together with one wooden spoon, and he would nibble on her ear. Her life, or the one that I dreamed up for her, was right out of a romantic comedy staring Jennifer Aniston.

Once at the store, I picked out a few different tops. There was a chunky cardigan, a lacy button down blouse, a slinky tank, and a LBD (Little Black Dress). I was going to leave the store a new, fashion foward, fabulous twenty something.

Sounds good right? Here's what actually happened. I didn't like how anything fit. The neon lights in the dressing room emphasized my need for a dye job and a personal trainer. The cheap knock off's looked like well...cheap knock offs. My son wouldn't sit in the cart and i nearly lost him twice. On my way to the door, feeling defeated and hopeless, a bright jungle green hooded sweatshirt caught my eye. It was $14.99 and it looked comfortable, and practical. Green is a good color on me, I was telling myself as I shelled out half of the money that I have to my name for my purchase. My defeated feeling started to lift, and was quickly being replaced with a new comforting sense of self.
After shopping, I went home and put on my new sweatshirt and took Little Man to the park.
It was a beautiful day, and with my favorite pair of Levi's some worn in flip flops and my new green hoodie that brings out the green in my eyes I felt perfectly stylish. Besides, I thought, as fabulous as It Girl looks in the photos, she would stick out like a sore thumb here, in the sand box.

They Didn't Send Me a Letter....

I got pulled over on Wednesday. As soon as I saw the blue lights I knew that my running from the law had caught up with me...quick..game plan..Dumb Blonde..got it!
Before Officer Bubble Butt has a chance to open his lip-less mouth I peek out the window and put on my best "frightened child" face.
"What did I do?" I say, in a voice just slightly higher and raspier (aka sexier) than my god given.
Leaning on one foot to tilt his head in the direction of my inspection sticker, he says "Your inspection sticker expired on the last day of June."
Faking shock and bewilderment, I bight my lower lip and say "It did? I didn't get anything in the mail." Even I am trying not to laugh at my own obvious attempt at utter stupidity. Waiting for a response I start to ponder..should I break down in sobs, should I tell him that I am a widow whose husband used to take care of everything?
"Well, yeah...they don't send you anything in the mail, you are supposed to read the sticker" he says, and I breathe a bit, realizing that Dumb Blonde is working like a charm.
As if on cue, my wonderfully trained son pipes up from his car seat "Hi". Officer BB smiles at him. I am golden!
"Let me take your info and I will be right back."
While the nice man sits in his patrol car, I sit awaiting my fate. I turn to Little Man and slap him five. He was the icing on my cake of deceit just minutes ago.
Officer Bubble Butt comes back to the car with a ticket! You have got to be kidding me!
"I am going to give you this ticket", he says as my eyes actually start to well. "But, I will give you 2 days to get it inspected and bring me proof and i will tear it up."
Welling up eyes quickly dry. I thank him in my soft and raspy voice and leave. You know what? Sometimes, It doesn't hurt being a babe!

Gone Bananas

As if my life were not as crazy and hectic as it is, I decided it would be a great idea to add a family member to our unfinished house. No, Thank the Lord above, I am not pregnant, I got a cat.
Last week on my way home from work, in an attempt to do something exciting with my son, I thought we would stop by the Humane Society and play with the animals. Little Man loves animals and he has just mastered both the words "cat" and "dog". What he hasn't done is figured out that little, ankle biting, long haired dogs are in fact "dogs" and not "cats" but the kid isn't even 2 so I am far from worrying about this (I shouldn't worry right?, some dogs look like cats, easy mistake).
Any way, I should have known that it was not going to be that simple. I should have known that LM would walk in there, and recognise the opportunity to torture something smaller than he. And so he did.
"LM, we have to be gentle to the kitties", LM drops the calico that he is holding up by the tail and smooshes his face in it's long fur, planting a nice wet kiss on this poor stray. You see, as Catholics can confess and wipe away their sins, my child can kiss and wipe away his. This goes on for minutes, one helpless, furry, victim at a time. The friendly workers are looking through the glass nervously as my toddler abuses their babies, and then makes out with them.
Why, you ask at this point did I think it a good idea to say "We'll take that one"?, I am not sure. I pointed to the teenager cat, with long, buff hair. He was resting quietly, with no knowledge that Tiny terror was going to be his new keeper. I promised them that my toddler was in need of a nap, and that her really isn't violent.
And that is how we came to have Banana. Banana, is the name of Little Man's feline brother. We named him this because LM says the word banana by jutting his tongue in and out of his mouth while humming...so entertaining, that I make sure to always have bananas in the house so that when guests come over we can have our son perform party tricks...what? Is that wrong?
Banana is fittting in well. He seems to be taking a liking to LM's heavy petting and sloppy kisses. He sleeps with us every night, because I really needed to add to the amount of bodies in our bed. Together, the four of us are a family: Daddy, Mommy, Little Man and Banana

Closer to the Couch

Firstly, I apologize for not having blogged lately..but I have a really good excuse. You see, I have been working on co writing a book with my sister...and thanks to this very blog, I have a friend at a publishing company who is quite interested in this book. Are you choking on your morning coffee, like I was when publishing friend contacted me? All of a sudden I am spun into a world of "I need an outline by monday" and "blah blah blah...present to the editors blah, blah, blah". Is this really happening? Could we be the next big thing in the literary world?

I try not to get to excited, but c'mon, how can I not already be planning how I will balance motherhood, partnership and a book tour? Is it jumping the gun a bit to start looking at real estate on the lake, and dream vacations? Is it too soon to quit my job and spend my days with a mug of hot coffee, my ideas, and my (new) laptop?

Is there a chance that I will no longer just be viewed as the funny one in the family? The one that will keep everyone laughing with all of her mishaps, but never really be taken seriously...

A friend of mine said to me "If you make money from this, what will you have to write about?"
Hmmm.....I agree that bouncing checks, and having grahm crackers thrown at my head while driving does make for good material, but I think that spending your life doing something that you love, while being supported by a wonderful Pretty Much Hubby and being able to provide for my beautiful baby boy will give me plenty of inspiration as well.

So forgive me if the blogging gets a bit more sporadic, hopefully when I do take time to fill you all in on what is happening, that something is REALLY happening.

The Perfect World Club

Occassionally, for reasons unknown, the female species will gather in groups will the sole purpose of tearing other members of their species apart....one love handle, squeeky voice, and inappropriate outfit at a time. This unusual gathering can happen at anytime however, most frequently this ritual occurs between the hours of 5-7pm a time often referred to as Happy Hour.



In my circle of female friends and family we refer to this gathering as a meeting of The Perfect World Club. Let me just tell you that no one is safe. Many times the words and phrases ridiculous, give me a break, and who does she think she is can be heard from the mouths of the members. We discuss brown nosing co workers, nosy neighbors, slutty sorta friends, miserable marriages and bratty kids. We forget all of our own imperfections for the length of the meeting and focus on everyone elses.



There is no real explination as to why we feel better at the end of the session, but we always do. Maybe it is that we like to imagine others lives more chaotic, and disfunctional than ours. Maybe the fight we had with our hubby over dishes seems miniscule in comparison to the husband caught at an orgy (actually happened!). For some reason we feel better about the family that seems so perfect when we hear that their teenager is gay or that they haven't had sex in 6 months. Hey, I am not saying that I am proud of feeling comfort in others misfortunes...Im just owning up to it.



Whatever the reason I have to point out that at the end of the day, no one is harmed. Members of the club feel revived and stress free. We feel as if we really are living in The Perfect World....compared to the crazies we are surrounded by anyway! In reality, none of our lives are perfect, and if they were life would be boring and breeze by. So please, forgive the female human species for their natural tendencies to gab and gossip. It could be worse, we could eat our own young or bite the heads off our mates after we are through with them.

Some People Disgust Me

I find jokes about penises hilarious, I laugh uncontrollably when someone farts unexpectedly, and I find humor at others expense. I can bait my own hook and play in the dirt with my son. Wha am getting at is that i am not easily disgusted. Recently, however, I was utterly and undeniably stomach turning disgusted and I wasn't even watching The Biggest Loser. No, I was watching a middle aged married woman sitting at a bar across from the very man that she had had an affair with in the bathroom of said bar. It is not the blow job in the mens room that has me holding back the vomit, it is the fact that this revolting woman is sitting with the mans unsuspecting wife. Not only is she sitting with her, she is chatting to her like old friends. She is sharing her pizza for F's sake.

They are chatting about their kids and how school is starting soon and how summer went by to fast. They even at one point discussed the fact that the Cheating Man and his Unsuspecting Wife are high school sweet hearts...isn't that touching.

I couldn't believe it. Who does this want to be Cougar think she is? It is of no shock to anyone in our small town that this Woman and her husband cheat on eachother more often than Brittney Spears has a melt down, but come on. She could have at least decided when Unus Wife and cheating Hub walked in to leave. She could have stayed, and not beckoned UW to come and sit with her. She could have not made a mockery out of this poor woman, who good wife or bad wife does not deserve to be humiliated by the actions of her unfaithful husband and his pathetically unhappy harlot.

It is none of my business what goes on in peoples marriages. I am not naive to the fact that many marriages don't work, many peope have affairs, and many unsuspecting wives sit next to their husbands drunken hook up in a bar and carry on conversations about kids, and seasons.

When this sort of thing goes on out in public, it becomes everyones business...small town or not. I know what happened, and now I am forced to look at Usus Wife sitting with Town Bicycle and I am suppose to just carry on as if i dont know that weeks earlier Town Bicycle was giving Unsus Wfes Unfaithful husband a rim job mere feet away.

I am pretty sure that Town Bicycle was aware of my disgust as I shookmy head at her any time she looked in my direction, she didn't tip me ( I am the bartender). Well, she did'nt tip me monetarily but she did give me a tip, when an unhappily married middle aged woman is akwardly friendly to you antd offers you a slice of her pizza slap the bitch and call a divorce attorney.

The Real Me

The whole point of a vacation is to really not accomplish anything for at least 4 days, and I can say with gusto that I aced vacation. Technically, I probably only got a B+ because unbeknownst to me, while lounging on the beach without a care in the world, I actually did accomplish something. I began to daydream about the life that I wish I had, the woman that I want to be...The Real Morgan U. The real me is not a glorified secretary who goes to work because the mortgage payment needs to be paid. No, that is not me at all.

The real me, that I invented and spent endless hours dreaming of wakes up every morning to the smell of fresh brewed coffee (the real me is organised enough to set the coffee maker each evening). I wrap my self in a plush hotel like bathrobe, pour myself a cup of coffee and open my laptop to check for letters from my editor and publicist, and to answer some fan mail. I wake up my child and get him ready for the day. I drop him at daycare and take my beloved laptop (which I do not own), and head for the coffee shop.
For some reason in this ideal world of mine it is always fall, and I am dressed effortlessly elegant in skinny jeans, knee high boots and a chunky cardigan and scarf. My hair is held in a sexy bun by a pencil (never happen), and I have a glow to me because I spend my days doing what I love, therefor the dark circles that have made themselves a lovely home under my eyes are gone.
I spend my days either at the coffee shop, the library, the lake or the comfort of my own home...writing. I write a column in a well known magazine while working on my novel and keeping everyone up to date through my blog, because after all if it weren't for the blog I wouldn't have realised that the real me is a writer.
I pick up my son from daycare, and head home to make a fabulous dinner for myself, my son and my husband (the real me gets proposed to) while listening to Billy Holiday and sipping red wine.
Besides the sexy hair that stays put with a pencil, all of this is possible....I have the wonderful son, the hopes that my pretty much husband will pop the question and make it official, I have a cozy home....I just need to find a way to ditch the dead end job that is slowly sucking my spirit and make a career out of writing. Any thoughts?

Okay Diet Nazis, Here is Your Update

Seriously, you blog readers are doing a great job of checking in on my diet..thanks alot (typed with obvious underlay of sarcasm). Couldn't you have just ignored that I haven't reported massive weightloss and extreme sexual harrassment...Noooo, you say "enough about your messy house and naughty child, I want to hear more about you love handles and double chin".
So here you go diet Nazi's....
Today is day 5 of Operation Envious Body. Monday I jogged, tuesday I did pilates and wednesday, thursday and friday I did jack shit.
I have been really good about eating small meals of obviously healthy foods though (audience applause).
Cutting down on the vino....not so good.
I am not quitting. I promise to do pilates tomorrow and go for a long walk on Sunday. That will still be working out 4 days this week...not too shabby (or flabby). I will continue to make smarter choices about what i (devour) eat and drink, (red wine with fresca and lime...low cal and fabulous!).
So my journey to emaciation is just going to take a little longer than initially intended, which will give you all the more time to check in on my progress (die Nazi's die!), and all the more time for me to update you.
Inner thought: When I reach fame and fortune and am interviewed by Oprah, I will say these words, and they will one day be carved on my (very narrow) coffin; "If Psychic Sylvia Brown, told me that I would have the body that all others would kill for, by doing one thing- cutting out wine, I would pour myself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and toast to being chubby."

Better Material

So, I know that you are expecting this entry to be about my diet- but I have better material today than my malnourishment and sore muscles (really, it's going well).
I am sitting in my 95 Degree kitchen right now- waiting for potatoes to boil (not for me you diet nazi!)- and I just need to vent.
It's unfair really, that after a night of barely sleeping due to cranky child that both cranky child and now cranky parents are forced to coexist. It's also not fair that my crasnky son is anything but cranky at daycare, but the minute, literally the minute that I am left alone with him he turns into Chucky.
Chucky doesn't want to hold my hand across the busy street. Chucky thrusts his hips in the air (similar to a yoga pose that I tackled this morning) as I am trying to get him into his car seat all while screaming at the tippity top of his lungs. To the unsuspecting population walking and driving by I must look like I am abducting this innocent little boy...As if I would at this point! infact, if it weren't for the tell tale signs of motherhood that I so eagerly possess- like the bags under my eyes, the unkept hair and the few extra pounds around my middle I am sure that someone would call the police.
we have one stop on the way home- the grocery store. Most often my adorable little child who is everyday a bit closer to the terrific twos enjoys the sights and sounds of the market. He usually lasts about 10 minutes without bribery and another 10 with unpaid for crackers being shoved i his face. Mothers, you know that shopping for 3 weeks of food in 20 minutes is doable and has become the Price Chopper Ritual with Me and Little man.
But not today....Today I dont even get Chucky in to the cart.I am livid that I don't get to purchase my shitty diet food, mortified that strangers are witnessing my son so rudely acting his age in public and am embarrased that these Perfect Little Childless Grocery Getters are feeling sorry for me...and they don't even know that I am dieting!
After a repeat of the car seat submission I try again at the much more expensive Mom and Pop shop on the way home. A little more successful- in that a brat is not the only thing that I leave the store with...i manage to get dinner and a cookie to lure my child who refuses to sit in the cart out of the store....Always reward bad behavior.
Now, as I my anger and exhaustion by putting pen to paper, I have parked my son infront of the TV- chocalate chip cookie remnants covering his face like zit cream. and sorry, diet this mommy is having a cocktail!

Thinking Thin

Okay, Day one of the new skinny Morgan...going pretty well. I woke up early this morning and jogged for 20 minutes (well it was supposed to be 20 minutes, felt like an hour was really only 14....), did squats (those totally suck by the way), managed to pump out 10 push ups, and all this before coffee.
I didn't have a chance to go grocery shopping this weekend so I had a packet of oatmeal out of my snack drawer at work, then went to the grocery store and got a yogurt (low fat), high fiber english muffin -type doo dads and a banana. I have had 2 of my 6 glasses of water and I feel full! No shit, I really feel full!
Not sure what I am going to do for dinner but I know one thing, I am not going to have a cocktail tonight.........I swear.
Getting skinny is going to be so easy! I look foward to flaunting my high and tight buttocks in a bikini. Shopping will be a breeze because everything will look good on me. I will have to fend off all of the pawing men, but after bartending for 5 years I have had a lot of practice in that department. Oh yeah, and I will trade in my worn out yoga pants and wholly T shirt for cute skinny girl jammies... that match. I will carry a pocket book the size of a cocker spaniel and sunglasses that look like they would fit Mickey Mouse, all for the sake of showing just how small I am in comparison.
People will try and get me to eat a cheeseburger, because they will worry about me...and I will love it!
Check in tomorrow........

I Morgan Solemly Swear.....

Ok, enough is enough. I am sick of suck me in panties, love handles and sex with the lights off. I am going to do something about the 15 (used to be 10) lbs that I bitch about as often as Nancy Grace says the word Pervert . It is time to do something about it, before I am forced to retire my bikini for a one piece skirted lycra moo moo, and just in time for my second chin to convince the third one that is about to move in, that I am a slumlord.
So, here it is. I Morgan solemly swear to go on a diet and fitness plan, and blog about it for the world to see. I have printed out a 4 week plan, that seems simple enough. This weekend I will do my grocery shopping for high fiber crackers, lowfat yogurt, edimame and card board. I will look at my schedule and plan my work outs accordingly. I will begin this new lifestyle on Monday July 27th and will keep you all posted.
Here is what I need from you....encouragement. Please feel free to grab my soon to be tiny ass and say "Rock solid". Tell me that my clothes are baggy and that I look emaciated. Comment on my blog, about how well I am doing and how I should rethink my career and become a personal trainer/ super model. Can you do that for me?
Ipromise to be honest, to work hard and to keep you laughing through the whole journey from grocery shopping for fat free food, to sweating my love handles off. Wish me luck!

The Evolution of the Friday Night

When I was 8 years old, Friday night meant Sleepovers. My friends and I would ride our bikes to each others houses to pack over night bags. We would throw the remnants of a hard weeks worth of graded papers, unfinished homework and half eaten boxes of raisins out of our book bags and stuff the bag with sleepover necessities- (in order of importance) Tape Recorder (for spying on people), Scary movie, Ramen Noodles, Bag of marshmallows, stickers, tooth brush and jammies. We could hardly contain our excitement for the night to come.

By the time I was 16, Friday nights meant spending 2 hours trying to find the perfect outfit for a party in a sand pit, another hour coming up with plans to fool parents into thinking that we were spending the evening being upstanding young citizens and then FINALLY a few hours to drink as much beer as possible, with out being caught by parents, cops or the unfortunate people that lived near the sand pit.

21 was much like 16 minus the having to lie to parents and avoid the cops. Still spent hours getting ready, hours drinking as much as possible (getting a headache just thinking about it), and plenty of time either being consoled by friends or consoling friends about some sort of drama that most likely involved “the love of my/her life”.

Now I am 28. Today is Friday. Tonight I am going to a 4 year old’s Hannah Montana themed birthday party. I will spend the evening multi tasking, trying to socialize with my infrequently seen friends and trying to make sure that my son doesn’t seriously hurt himself, another child or any of the family’s pets. Most likely I will leave around 8 with an exhausted toddler in arms. I will get home, catch a glimpse of my Honey, bitch at him for something, and turn in.

TGIF- Happy Friday To You!

Jane’s Daughter

When I was born my parents were living in a little farm house in Shrewsbury VT. Its bucolic setting, sheep in the yard and pond across the street was a far cry from the upper middle class neighborhood in Scarsdale NY that my mother grew up in. She and my father were young hippies, and moving to the country in Vermont was the hippie thing to do at that time.
By the time my mother died she hadn’t lived in Vermont for over 20 years, but she had always said that it was where her heart was.
My love for the simple life in Vermont is not the only likeness to my mother that I have. For one, I have an uncanny physical resemblance to her. I was once approached at a grocery store by a complete stranger the said to me “You must be Jane’s daughter”. The stranger had worked with my mother when my mother was in her twenties. She said that it was like she had traveled back in time and was seeing my mother. To this day, that has been the best compliment that I have ever received.
My love of wine paired with hor derves and good company is another trait that my mother passed down to me. My fondest memories of my her are sitting at the big kitchen island with a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet, cheese and crackers, telling funny stories that got retold every time our family got together. My mother would start crying from laughter, her mascara would run, she would whimper and then pour herself another glass of wine.
Jane was a lover. She was a true romantic and yet she never really mastered the art of Happily Ever After. I sometimes think that she wanted to love, more than she actually did…and at times she loved more than she was loved. I worry that this might have been passed down to me. I am a romantic person, and I never thought that at 28 years old that I wouldn’t have yet had my special day in white.
Mom had few careers in her time, finally settling on Real Estate Sales. She was very good at it, having such a great personality. I always felt though, that my mother was put on this planet to be a mom. It was the one thing that she put in front of everything else, and she did a stellar job of it. I remember a night gown that she had, that I loved. It was flannel and blue and worn. It smelled of her and felt so good to cuddle up to.
Flighty is a word that has been used to describe my mother (and myself). She once came out of a convenient store and got in the wrong car. She was about to put the car in reverse when she heard a clearing of the throat. The woman sitting in the passenger seat expecting her husband to get in the drivers seat was a bit startled when the 5ft 4in petite blonde woman took his place. This sort of thing happened all the time. In fact, Janie blonde moments were often the stories being served at the kitchen island along with the cabernet and brie.
At Moms funeral, the church was full and there were people standing up and spilling to the outside. We opted to leave out the hymns and instead played the soundtrack to The Big Chill along with a few songs by The Moody Blues. Pretty sure that was a first for the church. We told funny stories, laughed and of course cried. At the end of the service, my mother’s body was carried out to the song My Girl. To many of us she was our girl.
Mom was cremated. The following summer the family got together and we spread some of her ashes in a lake here in Vermont, where her heart remains.
I will always be Jane’s Daughter. I hold that title proudly, as it deserves to be. To me it means that I am beautiful, warm, charming, sensitive, a great friend and that I am somebody’s everything.

Tis a Sad Day

There is a dark cloud over many heads in Rutland County today. Today, the news broke that a dear member of our community Madeline Sherman had passed away. Mrs. Sherman, often referred to as just Sherman was my hard ass, high school history teacher. She called me Megan the entire time that she knew me. She handed out detentions for minor infractions. She commanded the room with her deep, loud voice. The sound of her high heels coming down the hallway caused fear for both teachers and students, and yet we loved her.
We loved how she had a way of getting the slackers to complete work on time. We loved how she would tell us that our skirts were too short (they were). We loved how her slip was always showing, and that she was allowed to eat in her classroom..but we weren't. We loved how she had a way of making the bully feel like a complete ass, and the victim feel uplifted. We loved how nothing was done properly if it wasn't done the Sherman way.
We will miss the New York City trips that she spent endless hours organizing and carrying through. We will miss her face at all of the PHS events, because she was a dedicated fan.

I will miss being Megan.

Mrs Sherman you will never be forgotten.

Nap Time Ahhhh

I haven't decided wether or not I believe in god- but everytime my Little Man takes a two hour nap, midday- right before I am about to abandon my family and move to a third world country where they are sure not to find me, I get a little closer to Catholicism. LM is creeping dangerously close to the terrible two's. His favorite word is "No", he bahaves well for everyone but me, and he fights sleep like his father and I fight waking up.
After what seems like hours of entertaining LM in the morning, feeding him, convincing him that putting toys in the toilet is less fun than quietly reading a book, I am about to pull out what little hair he has allowed to stay in my scalp. Then, miraculously I notice the tell tale signs of a tired toddler. He falls 6 times in 2 seconds, rubs his eyes with his grubby little hands and starts mummbling to himself in what sounds like Cantonese. I see a light at the end of the tunnell. But it is not a short tunnell. First, I must convince LM to stop whatever it is that he is exhaustedly attempting to do. Next, I must wrestle him like I am Steve Irwin and he is a rabid alligator and pin him down long enough to change his diaper. Lastly, I leave him screaming while I loudly promise him that i will soon be returning with Sippy of milk in hand. The more tired LM is, the longer I have to stand above his crib, patting his back and singing the ABC's all the while my arm is going numb from the crib rail that is jammed in my arm pit.
After one failed attempt to leave the room and about 20 minutes, I hear the best sound in the world....Silence.
I have at most 2 hours. That should be enough time to sweep (can't vaccuum due to napping tired toddler), unload the dishwasher, take a shower, put 300 books back on the book shelf, blow dry my hair, fold laundry, mop, clean out the fridge, empty out my vehicle and pluck my eyebrows.
But, today is Sunday, and I am tired. Today, I thank the god that I am unsure of, recline in the chair with a Glamour magazine that has been in the plastic wrapper for two weeks, waiting patiently for the appropriate time to rescue me from Domestic Torture. Today, I will do nothing at nap time. I will allow myself the luxury of a daydream, a half hour reality tv show, and a 1 O Clock cocktail. Tomorrow, my laundry will still be there, along with the stale food in the fridge and the unibrow...but what won't be there tomorrow is 2 hours to myself.

S-T-R-E-S-S

I have decided that the word stress is actually an acronym that can be personalised. Today my stress is;

S- Shitty nights sleep.

T- Ten pounds to lose.

R- Really tired of asking PMH to pick up after himself.

E- Endlessly being called a nag for endlessly having to ask PMH to pick up after himself.

S- Son still sleeping with us

S- Sex life non existant due to all of the above!

What is STRESSing you out?

Hanging Up on Elbow

Little man and I have a 32 minute commute to daycare/work. Without a doubt even after hearing Chicken Fried for 25.5 minutesstraight, by minute 26 Little Man has had enough of the rat race. He is hungry, most likely uncomfortable, and surely even he is sick of that stupid song (once my favorite). At this point in the journey I have heard the same song six times in a row, most likely spilled coffee on myself or my seat, am running late and now must come up with a distraction for LM because 6 minutes of an unhappy toddler is actually the leading cause of fatal car accidents (probably).
One particular morningwhile sipping my coffee, dodging a pot hole and restarting Chicken Fried, I use my Go Go Gadget arm to search around the backseat like a blind man. BINGO- the Elmo (LM calls him Elbow)phone. Actually the Elbow phone is really an Elmo remote but my son sticks everything smaller than a shoe box up to his ear and says Hello, so we call it a phone.
LM is screaming and tearing at his car seat straps as if they were holding him under water. I put the toy remote to my ear and say, Oh hi Elmo. What is that? You want to talk to Little Man? The monster in the car seat has quieted but has yet to remove his scowl. Little Man its Elmo, do you want to talk to Elmo?
No
Talk to Elmo I plea.
LM squints his eyes and looks at me in the rearview in disgust. But I push on.
C'mon, Talk to Elmo
I thrust the Emo/Elbow, remote/phone at my cranky little guy. He snatches- literally snatches the toy from my hand, puts it up to his ear and in his infamous Lauren Bacallish voice growls-
Bye. The toy is then launched half way across the car. I am shocked. My son has just treated his dear friend Elbow like a foreign telemarketer. I pull up out front of the child care center and begin to unstrap the little guy from his car seat. He looks at me and smiles, that gorgeous innocent smile that melts me instantly. As I am pulling him out he hugs me. He is happy. Hanging up on Elbow mysteriously morphed him into the beautiful, good little boy that I am proud to call mine.

Wedding Season

If you are between the ages of 22 and 34, Summer time means one thing; Wedding Season. Every spring Honey and I start receiving endless amounts of wedding invitations. Our summer calendar fills up before all the snow has had a chance to melt. What does this all mean? I'll tell you. It means endless trips to Bed Bath & Beyond, Rehearsal Dinners, finding a babysitter, and all of your spare cash being shelled out on dresses and suits, gifts and drinks, even strippers. Don't get me wrong, I love a good wedding as much as the next guy. The good old American Wedding tradition can not be beat. The white dress, the blushing bride and the bouquet toss are just a few of the guarantees at any good American wedding. And here are a few more.
You will have a discussion on the way to the wedding regarding wether or not you think the marriage will last and why.
You will stress over what shoes go best with your little black dress, only to get to the wedding and kick them off ( in my case I actually left with out them!)
You will order the beef option because three months ago when you had to chose, you felt like beef, but inevitably the night of the wedding you will wish you had ordered the chicken.
You will break your vow never to dance to The Funky Chicken, The Makarena, or the electric slide.
If you are anything like me you will forget one of the following; the card, the gift, the time of the ceremony.
There will be someone there that you don't like.
There will be someone there that you only see at weddings and yet for some reason at the weddings you will be best friends.
You will drink too much, but guaranteed, the guy who caught the garter will have drunk more than anyone else.
You will call someone by the wrong name....twice.
And if you are anything like me you will voice out loud that you are glad that it is not your stressful day, while secretly wishing it were.

To all of my readers, I would like to propose a toast to a Happy Wedding Season! Cheers!
PS Congrats B&T we had a great time!