Sunday, December 27, 2009

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!

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

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.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

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  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.

Friday, December 4, 2009

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.