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.