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.

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.

As if clowns and garden gnomes and… Chinese rabbit dolls? weren’t terrifying enough!

That’s all.

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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.

Okay, no snot. Everything else though.

Yesterday was one of those days where I actually had something specific to buy, that something being cereal. Justin eats gross kid cereal because it makes him feel young, I’m assuming. He refuses to eat any other breakfast food I buy. Bagels get the stink-eye and remain untouched in the bag on top of the fridge until they grow fur. I don’t even breathe the word oatmeal around him anymore because I just can’t handle watching the dry heaves.

Anyway, I needed to get my wittle husband his milk and ceweal, so I slapped some makeup on my face, packed up the kids and got everyone in the car with the Toy Story soundtrack blaring in 1.5 hours flat. There were zero meltdowns and zero poo-splosions, so naturally I was feeling positive about the day at that point.

Continuing my ride on the crest of happiness, I stopped at Starbucks and bought a latte with my new gold card.

BAM. I’ve been wanting to fit that into a  post somehow for over a week. Isn’t it awesome/pathetic that I go there so often I earned a card with my name on it?

Once at Target, I fell into the usual trap spending $50 on random stuff I didn’t realize I needed until I saw it. Hairspray. Paper towels. A pair of the cute, cheap underwear that make my butt look good. If you’ve been to Target even once in your life then you understand what I”m saying. It adds up quick.

With a cart full of stuff, there was no longer room for Maddie, so I took her out and let her walk next to me. She kept wandering off, tried to hug a bunch of people and honed her klepto skills by sneaking items in the cart when I wasn’t looking. By the time we made it to the checkout line, I fished out a toothbrush, a can of soup and two tubs of frosting (which I honestly considered ‘buying on accident’, but oh yeah, I’m vegan now dang it). The most memorable event was when we took a short cut through the medicine aisle and she made a ridiculous scene while clutching a box of Gas-X. I promise I am not making this up… the kid would not let it go. I started panicking and hoping no one was watching my daughter and I physically fighting over gas medicine while simultaneously trying my hardest to make it obvious they weren’t for me. Because you know, when you have to buy something really personal in a huge store, you think everyone is judging you.

“Mommy doesn’t need those, silly girl!”

Fake smile to other shoppers.

“Put the box back on the shelf and we’ll go look at the toys!”

Beads of sweat. More tug of war.

“Maddie…”

Desperation.

“…handovertheboxandI’llgiveyouacookiewhenwegethome.”

Success.

After all that, I made it home, started unpacking the shopping bags only to realize I forgot the stupid cereal.

Nor am I wearing my hair in a long braid and clomping around in Jesus sandals. I’m just eating better and regulating my poo factory. nbd.

I’ll discuss all this in more detail later on, but for now I just had to tell you that I’m actually having fun! Not eating cheese makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and cry a little because it’s my favorite thing in the world, but my body really is thanking me for it. It’s a whole new way of thinking/cooking and it’s sort of forced me to be more creative in the kitchen, which I love.

Like, today I was all, “Justin, I think I’m going to attempt ratatouille at some point this week. Adventurous, yes?” And he goes, “Like with a mouse?”

He’s not exactly on board, but then again, HIS stomach doesn’t go all Hindenburg every time he looks at dairy.

Peace, love, and soy milk.

Zumba is crazy. I joined a class back in 2009 and almost immediately went down 2 sizes. I seriously don’t think I had been that skinny since I was about four years old. If you haven’t tried it yet, do so immediately, but be warned: white girl dancing skills are really put to the test. It’s a combination of hip hop and Latin with some kick boxing and belly dancing thrown in there, so a healthy amount of booty shaking is definitely involved. You WILL feel stupid at first, but that’s just part of it. Soon enough though, you’ll start feeling legit and like you could be doing the Put a Ring on It dance at weddings and such. The great thing about it is that no matter how little rhythm you have, you still burn calories like a beast.

Now I will be shutting off my infomercial voice so I can tell you about my current class. I joined a new gym and have been taking the Zumba class for the past few weeks with my friend Tara. We sort of hide out in the back of the room so we can shoot looks at each other when that one older lady busts out her jingly belly dancing skirt and have no one judge us for it (she seriously thinks she’s Shakira, it’s hilarious). It’s like our high school physics class all over again, just replace the nice teacher who gave us extra credit and let us eat candy in class with a Ricky Martin/devil hybrid.

Our devil instructor is a guy, which is a new thing for me. I have to be honest… he scares me a mighty bit. I like women teachers because they don’t have wieners. They don’t check out your butt when they’re pretending to ‘evaluate your form’, they don’t make you bounce around too much because they understand how it can be painful in two very specific regions, and if they think your moves could use some work, they are sensitive to your feelings and don’t point out your flaws publicly. This guy on the other hand, makes us bounce constantly. Also, he will stand in front of you and shake his head if you’re not performing to your full potential. He will remain in that spot until you acknowledge him and begin to shimmyshake with more purpose. Basically he shames you in front of the whole class, but with lots of Latino flair and a smile. He’s only done it to me once during my very first class and I was so afraid of making eye contact with him so he stayed there for like 3 days. Ever since then I make sure to really put the effort into those moves so he’ll stay up at the front by Shakira where he belongs.

The other day I was dancing away and I was finally starting to feel a bit of my old skinny, sassy self returning. Remember how I told you that happens? Well Rule #1 to Zumba is DON’T lose yourself in the music. I know Eminem tells you to in 8 Mile, but just don’t. I made this fatal mistake that day when a good song came on and didn’t realize that I had shimmied and bounced my nursing pads right out the top of my bra. They peered out the top of my tank top and said hi to the whole class for who knows how long. Thankfully the devil was busy embarrassing some other poor girl at the time so he didn’t notice and start shaking his head at me. It was his fault they popped out anyway because of all the bouncing!

Didn’t I start this post by telling you the benefits of Zumba? My bad. It really is fun, trust me… just wear a good bra and leave your nursing pads and shame at home.

If I was to try out for My Strange Addiction, I’m not sure which of my nutty pregnancy-related obsessions would win me a 30 minute spot on the show, but undoubtedly one of them would. The episode might go a little something like this:

Dramatic intro music plays and I appear on your screen, wedged in the comfy corner of my couch where I usually get stuck and need actual assistance getting pulled out. A scraggly mass of hair is gathered in a messy bun on top of my head, dark circles pool beneath my eyes, and a bowl of ice cream sits on my round belly. I’m watching What Not to Wear, which is ironic because I’m wearing sweatpants, mismatched socks and no bra.

The addict speaks up:

My name is Morgan and I’m addicted to…

…lifting up my shirt and checking on the state of my belly button. Is it still an innie? WILL IT MAKE UP IT’S FLIPPING MIND ALREADY?

…Googling “ways to induce labor”, followed by spending the day eating fresh pineapple, walking 48 miles and doing jumping jacks. Then laying awake in bed for 5 hours, convinced “the contractions are getting stronger!” while Justin mumbles “mmhmm, that’s nice, honey” and falls back to sleep. Meanwhile, I contemplate doing something especially active, such as punching him in the back of the head in order to bring on more contractions. But in the end, meh, it’s 2am and I need sleep.

…not shaving my legs. I repeat, NOT shaving them. I can’t reach them without feeling like I’m busting a rib so I just don’t even try. Feel free to call me Sasquatch.

…eating hot cheetos with mustard. I know. I’d like to blame the pregnancy for this one, but a friend in high school told me to try it and I’ve never looked back. I’m healthy.

Okay, so maybe I could give some of these addiction show people a run for their money, but isn’t that to be expected at the end of a pregnancy? Nine months of hormones. Nine months of gaining weight. Nine months of WAITING.

I’m normal. I’m like, totally normal.

No but really, I’m on the brink of a nesting-related meltdown. I am sitting at work right now, unable to concentrate on anything because of the list of things I have to do RIGHTTHISSECOND or I may in fact, die.

(Don’t question me on this… I’ve dropped dead at least 30 times in my life due to an ailment I like to refer to as Dramatics. It’s very real.)

I have accumulated so much makeup/hair/beauty-related junk under my bathroom sinks that I can’t think of doing anything but going through it all, tossing the old stuff and neatly organizing my nail polishes by color in a nice little basket. Or quite possibly lining them all up on a several little shelves on the wall like they do in the nail salon.

Actuallyyyyyy… that’s not that bad of an idea—NO, MORGAN! Focus.

Or how about working on those 4 tutorials I have in mind for this blog? Like the yarn wreath I promised I’d do like, a year ago? Or more like a month ago, but whatever? I’ll get to it, I promise.

This weekend I was super productive and I’m trying to keep that in mind right now. I am only one woman after all. I should be proud I accomplished the following in my beached whale-like state:

• Washed/folded/put away 4 loads of laundry, including teeny tiny baby boy clothes (eeee!)
• Went to dinner with friends
• Organized kids’ room & closet
• Made flag pennant to hang in kid’s room
• Decorated kids’ room with new wall art
• Made a cute blanket for Jack
• Made some hair clips for a friend’s baby girl
• Attended a wedding
• Went grocery shopping
• Scrubbed down kitchen
• Dusted/vacuumed entire apartment
• Painted two thrifted frames, hung them up in our bedroom
• Organized Maddie’s 5 billion books
• Organized Maddie’s 5 billion shoes
• Lost 2lbs (Not kidding. There was no time for nacho consumption this weekend.)

I’m a machine… but an extremely exhausted machine.

I do have a little over a month left until the baby is supposed to arrive. There’s time to organize my nail polishes and you know what? If it doesn’t get done before Jack is born, oh well! OR I’ll just do it the day we come home from the hospital. I’ll need that extra space under the counters to store all my mesh-granny-panty-post-partum-yucky-supplies anyway. Priorities.

(HOLY CRAP. Just realized I need to make a list and pack the hospital bag. I don’t even remember what I’m supposed to bring. Something to do with a coming home outfit and nipple ointment. Haven’t I done this before?)

…This isn’t working.