I’ll just back up a smidge and give you all a history lesson. Bear with me through this part. And read the whole thing so you don’t end up hating my husband.
Justin and I had a pretty rough start to our relationship. I’m not sure if I’ve ever told the whole story on this blog, but we met on Myspace back when it was cool. Or was it ever cool? Fine, back when it wasn’t just a wasteland of sixpack abs photos. I was a sensitive and very emotional young woman of 19 and wasn’t exactly what you would classify as emotionally stable. Justin was nearly 5 years older and at first glance, seemed to have had some experience with the tan bimbos of Skankville.
Like a moth to the flame, I was drawn to his comment archives. And okay, I hacked into his email a few times. I went ALL the way back, people. I tried to connect the dots and figure out who was who and which girl was the one he kissed once and why were there 10 others telling him he’s cute and why are they calling him Pumpkin and HOW IN THE HOLY FRICK do they know where he lives and sweet Moses, it was spiraling out of control. In my head I had built up this scary version of Justin that was like a mash up of Dane Cook, Adam Levine and Jon Hamm’s character in Bridesmaids.
So after several years, this Myspace thing has turned into a joke between Justin and I. I can safely say Justin is no playboy. When you hear some of the stories about what happened with these girls, you would laugh at how awkward the situations actually were. My husband is actually is one of the most socially awkward and shy people on the planet. I’ve seen girls flirt with him and he just stands there and acts confused, then usually ends up saying something in an attempt to be witty, but just ends up insulting the poor woman. I love it a lot, actually.
And me? Well I grew up a bit. Not THAT much, seeing as I’ll still hack an email account every now and then, but who doesn’t? This is America. Criminy.
END HISTORY LESSON.
All that leads to this: After joking with Justin the other night about his so-called Playboy years, I suggested we do an experiment. He’s always saying how much more at ease I am in social situations, so I offered up my services to help Justin cope with his awkwardness.
His first test? Flirt with an attractive woman without stuttering.
On Sunday morning while in line for coffee at the Dutch Brothers drive thru, I said, “Okay, here’s your opportunity. Flirt with this girl. Don’t be nervous, you can do it!”
He’s all, “I wasn’t nervous until you said ‘don’t be nervous’! I don’t know what to say!”
I said, “Ask her what DutcH2O is.” (We had previously discussed whether it was flavored water or something somewhat special because $1.50 is too much for plain water.)
After several minutes, he finally worked up the courage. He leaned out his window, smiled and nervously said, “I… have a question for you… what is DutcH2O?” Smooth.
The girl gave him the side eye and said, “It’s water…?” then went back to making drinks without saying another word. SO FANTASTICALLY INCREDIBLY AWKWARDLY BAD. Oh man, I snort-laughed. Though I have to admit, I’m not the least bit disappointed that Justin can’t flirt. If that situation would have gone differently, you better believe 19 year old Morgan would’ve made an appearance and sent that girl some anonymous hate mail. That’s my M.O. and a story for another day.
We’ll continue to work on Justin’s confidence and social skills and keep you informed of his progress. Any ideas for what his next test should be? I was thinking to send him out to buy a box of tampons and some chocolate. You know, for the experience and all.
OKAY. IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN TLC’S NEWEST DEMENTED WEIRDNESS DOCUMENTARY ENTITLED, EXTREME CHEAPSKATES, YOU HAVE TO DO IT NOW. CAPS NECESSARY.
A friend of mine was telling me about this show and how much I would love it/hate it/barf when I watched it, so I set that thing to record and finally got around to watching the horrors last night. Have you seen it? DID YOU GAG? I mean, I gagged, at least 45 times during the goat head segment alone. Okay, I’ll stop being all vague and explain.
The episode highlighted 5 or so people who are extremely consumed with the idea of saving money. I’m not ragging on them for trying to be frugal, it’s just the lengths they go to save VERY little are just… I don’t even know. Watch this clip about a lady who doesn’t buy toilet paper for her family. Keep an eye out for the STAINS.
You saw the stains, right? gaggfaklsdjf;alksdfjgag
There’s also a guy who goes dumpster diving for funsies and collects a bunch of random crap to give his wife for their anniversary. Like, he actually presented the gifts to her while they were out to dinner in a ceremonious fashion, right before he asked the other dining patrons if he could have their leftover food. Classy fella, that one. What exactly would you do if your husband gave you an old tea kettle with mysterious dumpster stains on it? I was asked this same question, and I can honestly say I would first beat him over the head with said kettle, then promptly drown myself in the moldy dumpster water it contained. There’s… there’s just no point.
So after Justin and I watched the show, we were so inspired by all the people who could think outside of the box that we started coming up with our own winning money saving ideas. It’s our new thing now, and our goal is to make our ideas as gross as possible. I’ll be washing dishes and Justin will come in and be all, “I have another good one. Clean all your old hair out of the drains, dry it out, then use it to stuff pillows for the couch!” And I’ll be like, “Why don’t we rinse out that bag the hotdogs came in and I can carry my makeup in it!”
Today I was hanging out with my brother and he came up with some pretty inventive ones too.
Old grapefruit peel as a key catcher on your entry table.
Old shoe becomes the perfect charging station! (Notice the cord running through the hole? I die.)
Soda can vase... a frugal gift for that special someone.
Don't throw away that toothpaste tube! Cut off the end and you have a glasses case. (Thanks for the high fashion model pose, bro.)
It’s all about upcycling, people. Now go find that show and watch it.
I have a slight obsession with journals, notebooks and diaries. If I’m out shopping and happen to see one with even a semi-cute cover, I snatch it up like it’s going outta style.
There’s something fun about the prospect of filling each page with all my thoughts and being able to look back and read it as I grow older. I always imagine sitting down on a bench in a charming little park and being inspired to write all this cool intellectual stuff and being all poetic and deep-thinkerish. And then 60 years down the road, my grandchildren will find a dusty old stack of books up in the attic and curiously open them, read them cover to cover, stopping only to wipe the glistening tears from their eyes as they realize what an amazing woman their grandmother was and how their grandpa should have helped her dust the apartment and let her buy more shoes because she really really wanted that pink pair from J. Crew and she deserved them for all the whiny crap she put up with, dang it.
That’s what I imagine every time I purchase a new one. I have some meaningful goals in life.
The truth is that when my new journal and I come home from the store, we have great intentions, but aren’t usually able to have our long chat at the park for quite a while. One day when there’s a quiet moment, I’ll realize, “Hey, I haven’t sat down to write with an actual pen in months! This is going to be fun!” Then I find a good pen that writes smoothly, sit down with a latte and practice signing my name in cursive for 3 pages.
When that gets old, I doodle a little.
Morgan + Justin = true ♥ 4 eva
I ♥ J.G.
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
Then I’ll perfect my generic 5 petaled flower, draw an intricate cluster of moons and stars and maybe play a game of MASH or two.
I was never a very good doodler.
Next page is usually the grocery list. Then my to-do list for the week. Slowly, but surely, I warm myself up to writing a true, honest-to-goodness sentence.
Somewhere in the middle of the book, I’ll open to a clean page and begin to really write. “I bought this new notebook in an attempt to document my thoughts and feelings and hopefully keep myself a bit sane. Here goes…”
Recent, life-changing events: “I had two babies! They’re awesome.”
Smaller events and confessions: Justin and I went on a date last night and I ate way too much and am still really bloated. It’s gross.”
Large and quite vague personal goals: “I need to do something meaningful with my life.”
Deeper, more specific goals: “After this, I’m taking all my clothes to Goodwill and then I’ll do 30 push-ups. Any maybe I’ll stop saying holy crap so much.”
General Realizations: “There’s not enough time in the day to get everything done.”
Detailed, passive-aggressive realizations that morph into extremely emotional, aggressive ranting: “Our friends are coming over at 6:00 tonight and I still haven’t cleaned this disgusting place. If only I had just a liiiiiittle help from someone I’m married to. Gah, I don’t get any help around this place. No one appreciates me. I should just stop worrying about it because nothing’s ever going to change. Not to mention, this place is tiny and cramped and small there’s no room to breathe with all this junk piled everywhere and no one helps me clean it! NO ROOM TO BREATHE. CAN’T BREATHE. GASPING. Holy crap, I’m stressed. All I want are a pair of pink heels from J. Crew and someone to help me dust all my crap every once in a while. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK!?”
Without fail, I become terrified that another pair of eyes might see these crazy rantings. In order to fix their perception of me, I’ll end the entry with something like, “but I’m just PMS-ing or something, haha! I’m usually very chipper and happy, go ask anyone! No really, go ask.”
I close the journal and hide it in a place where no one will be able find it. If one day, my grandchildren happen upon a box of old dusty notebooks, they’re going to think I was one insane woman with some jacked up personality disorder and an unhealthy pink shoe fetish. But at least I ♥’d their grandpa, even if he didn’t help me dust the living room.
I seem to talk about these adventurous/stressful trips to the store and such pretty often (or maybe it just seems that way to me because I complain all the time), but seriously, this one tops them all. It was one of those days where you swear there’s a camera crew following you around, ready to jump out from behind a tree and yell, “SMILE! You’re on candid camera!”, then you laugh and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that everything was going horribly wrong for an actual reason and you’re able to walk away from it… but then that moment never comes so you just settle into the fact that your day is just all around sucky and ridiculous on it’s own and decide to go whine about it on your blog. SO YEAH. That’s what this is.
The morning started out swimmingly (never actually used that word before and not sure I’m a fan, looks weird, moving on though), with two happy kids in the backseat and a latte in mom’s hand. Err, CUP HOLDER. Cops, don’t shoot. Is it just me that feels like I’m breaking the law any time I’m holding something in my hand while driving? Ever since the no texting law… nevermind. Anyway, birds were singing, caffeine was coursing through the veins, I was about to buy myself a new sump’n sump’n at Target. It was a good morning.
“Say, Jack! Why don’t we put you in the big boy seat in the shopping cart today? You’re able to sit on your own about 2% of the time… THIS SOUNDS LIKE A VERY SMART IDEA!” (was not.)
“Here, I’ll help you balance your gigantic 22 pound body with my left hand, hold my steaming hot coffee in my right hand, keep your sister from standing up in the back of the cart with my silent scary mom glare and push the cart with… umm, my hip! This’ll work!” (did not.)
“Okay. There are 3 clearance racks to look through. Shouldn’t take more than 10 minutes. I’ll hold you, but calm down the drama and stop punching me in the neck. And Maddie: silent scary mom glare.”
You get the idea. I spent a total of 20 minutes in Target, but by the time I pushed through the exit doors I was sweating like I just ran 10 miles. I switched Maddie to the front of the cart, held Jack, switched Maddie to the back again, rocked Jack and fed him a bottle in the makeup aisle while picking out a new mascara. At one point, I had both kids in my arms and was pushing the cart, yes, with my hip. That’s almost 60 pounds of kid… suddenly, all that sweating makes perfect sense.
There was one more stop to make before going back home to rock back and forth in the fetal position. I had to go to Fresh & Easy for a few little things and knew it wouldn’t take long or be nearly as rough as Target had been. Sure enough, the little shopping trip went without a hitch. I ate some chips and salsa samples and saved money with my coupon. Smiles all around. Out to the car we go…
Keys. Keyskeyskeys. Not in the pocket. Not in the cart. Not in the purse. Not on the pavement where I dumped entire contents of the purse. Back into the store we go. Long story short, I had every employee in the place combing each aisle for my car keys. One sweet lady helped me retrace my steps while I held back tears. No one ever found the keys.
The same lady helped me back outside to look around my car again. I circled the car, looked underneath, and just out of habit I tried opening the door. IT WAS UNLOCKED. There, in the freaking ignition, were my keys. I just started bawling and the woman hugged me. I felt SO stupid for making all those people stop and help me when the keys were right there the entire time. I apologized and said, “I was so focused on my horrible morning… I can’t believe I did that to everyone.” She just said, “Don’t worry about it, hun. You’re a mama and need to go easy on yourself.”
As she walked back into the store, I wiped the tears from my face and loaded up the kids and groceries. While I agree that I should be more easy on myself, more than anything I need to be working on not feeling so sorry for myself all the time. Stuff goes wrong. Kids go crazy in public. People get annoyed with you. It’s all bound to happen! But at the end of those crazy days, I need to remember that I’m doing all this because I want to. I’m so lucky to be home with my kids, and even if I end up sweaty and crying and snotty in public every single day, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A 20-something year old mother to the strongest-willed little girl in the universe. Wife to the handsomest geek. Reader of teenage romance novels. Lover of all things Anthropologie. Just gave birth to baby #2 and happy to tell you all about my nutso new life as a stay at home mom.
