All of a sudden, the car stopped and a man stepped out. With both hands in his pockets, he casually strolled back toward my car and stood right at my window. Cocky jerk. I couldn’t see his face, but as I rolled down the window I was fully prepared to rip him a new one. Road rage, much?

The mystery driver bent down, looked through the window and stared straight into my eyes…

Andy Samberg??? Oh. Umm… Okay?

Andy smiled and I immediately melted like butter (???). He politely asked if I’d like to go get a slice of pizza with him (???). Just as I was about to say the words, “Yes! Take me to pizza and then let’s ride on a white horse off into the sunset together”, I woke up.

I seriously don’t know what the deal is with my crazy pregnant dreams. They almost always star a somewhat strange and quirky actor, none of which I find attractive or sexy in any way. I have no clue why they keep popping into my dreams like this. And a slice of pizza? Is THAT the true way to my heart?

Skeet Ulrich… Andy Samberg…  Where is Jason Statham when I need him?

(If you see Jason, tell him he’s welcome to pop into my dreams any night he wants. And that I prefer Chinese takeout over pizza.)

Have you ever been dumped without any warning at all? Without even a hint as to what you did or said to make this person not like you anymore? I have. Many times.

Me: Butbutbut… please just tell me what I did!

Dumper: Morgan, it’s over. Just let it be.

Me: We had so many good times! Remember that one time I made you LOL IRL? I can be funny, see? Just please give me another chance… I can be better for you, I promise!

Dumper: *silence*

Me: Wait! I CAN CHAAAAAAANGE!!

I’m actually not referring to past boyfriends. This pathetic scenario actually plays out for me each and every morning when I check my email. It’s the same thing every time…

I have a new message waiting for me. I go back and forth trying to decide whether to read it or not because I already know how it’s going to end and it’s not going to be pretty. Curiosity always wins the battle. I hold my breath. I read the message. It has a list of  names. I scan through them and am baffled. What? My super deep and exciting thoughts about pregnancy puking, rude co-workers and Starbucks purchases aren’t exciting enough for these people!?

And then I may or may not shed a tear and go write in my diary. With glitter gel pens.

So for those of you who haven’t yet been lovingly kissed atop the head by Satan himself, let me introduce you to Qwitter. It’s a sweet little program that finds out who unfollows you on Twitter and promptly tells you about it FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. I know, isn’t that a great way to start the day? Finding out who would rather read the things John Mayer blabs about than your dull stuff? It’s way better than Wheaties!

I know it’s really not that big of a deal, considering I know about 10% of my Twitter followers in person, but STILL. sads.

Internet, meet 2nd grade Morgan. She likes to ponder the mysteries of the weather, enjoys wearing shoestring hair clips and has no idea how bangs THAT wispy can make her look extremely white trash.

Now you have an idea of what we’re working with here.

Anyway, I remember spending countless hours daydreaming of this one famous boy. I thought he was just SO dang cute and I doodled his name on my school notebooks. I imagined that somehow, somewhere, someday, we would meet and instantly fall in love and he’d marry me and we’d live in a pink mansion. Then I’d be best friends forever with the Olsen twins and have a regular spot on Full House as Michelle Tanner’s friend, because obviously these famous kids ran in the same circles. I’m serious, these were my actual hopes and dreams.

That famous boy pops into my thoughts from time to time, and now as an adult I have to wonder WHAT, PRECISELY, WAS I THINKING??

Oh, JTT, you wormy little creep. You used to make me swoon. You were so dreamy, with your unnatural looking tan and fluffy lesbian hairdo. That was so kind of you to bring me flowers, but I am now going to have to respectfully decline.

So yeah, Jonathan Taylor Thomas was my weird childhood crush. Now tell me, who was yours?

It can’t be any worse.

A bumper sticker from that local talk radio station? GIMME! An ugly magnet from the pizza place across town that had the crappy sauce? Hey, I could stick that on my fridge! An ink pen from the bail bonds place down town? You never know what might happen to someone you love!

This brings me to an experience I had this weekend. Well, maybe it’s not COMPLETELY related, but– umm– just read my stupid story.

My mom and I went shopping at Costco, and as most of you know they have free samples at the end of every aisle. It is usually the most random stuff you’ve ever seen like a tiny little spoonful of lentil soup, or they’re really stingy and only give you like, one potato chip. (I’m sorry, but I’m going to need more than one chip to make a proper assessment of the product, just saying.) Sometimes you’ll get lucky and see one of the employees handing out pasta or chocolate or something good, but most of the time it’s the poo.

Anyway, while shopping there last weekend, I happened to see a little flash of that signature blue box across a few rows of produce and it immediately began calling my name. MACARONI AND CHEESE. My heaven! I started making my way over to the little table set up at the end of that aisle and told Mom that I’d meet up with her later because -Chris Farley voice- LAY OFF ME, I’M STARVING!

As I got closer, the employee who was manning the table announced loudly, ‘THREE MORE MINUTES UNTIL SAMPLES ARE READY!!!”  I wanted to be all, shhhhhhhhh!! They’ll hear you!!, but I waited calmly and patiently. People started approaching the table, one by one. I was nearly shoved out of the way and was annoyed. I watched as the lady mixed some milk and cheese into the pasta, staring at it like it was my long lost love… and drooling a bit. It was becoming a problem.

When the timer had about 30 seconds left (I was paying attention), she did the unthinkable. She added an extra ingredient. Are you ready for this? I’m gagging right now.

SPAM.

Pregnant women dry heave at the sight of spam, did you know that? I wasn’t aware. I just want to know who in their right mind would defile perfectly good macaroni and cheese with some mystery meat in a can? WHO!? The blasphemy!

I slowly started backing away from the table once the lady stirred in these little pink chunks of meat, but I was surprised to see that no one else left. People just filled in the space that I had left open, and fast! Before I knew it there was a HUGE group of people surrounding the table like a bunch of vultures, young and old, waiting in earnest for the Macaroni and Spam to finish cooking. Waiting for a free sample of that!?

It just proves my theory: It doesn’t matter what’s being handed out. If it’s free, people want it. (Unless I’m actually the crazy one and everyone really does eat spam in their macaroni??)

It’s nearly 2 in the A-M and I’m unable to sleep. Well, I take that back… I was actually asleep for a few hours, but something traumatic just happened to me and I know going back into happy-fluffy-marshmallow-dreamland is just not a possibility for this little woman. So, here: you get a story.

I don’t know what it is, but ever since Maddie was born I am able to wake up by the slightest noise or touch. By noise, I mean anything over an ant whisper (would you be able to come up with a better analogy at 2am?) and by touch, I mean Justin stealing my covers/jabbing me with claw-like toenails/rolling his large 6’4″ man body onto me while sleeping/etc. and I usually scream something like GET YOUR NASTY SKANK TOES AWAY FROM ME AND LET ME SLEEP when I am disturbed from my slumber. It’s like a scene from an old cheesy horror movie when the townsfolk announce, ‘The Beast has awoken!!’ — I am not pleasant.

Anyway. Tonight was no exception to the hypersensitivity to noise/touch rule. I woke up when I felt something tickle my arm and instinctively smacked it with my other hand. I was honestly expecting it to just be my hair, but oh holy night, it was NOT A HAIR. I smacked my arm and something big, round and wiggly went fllllpttth (or whatever sound a HUGE FREAKING BUG MAKES WHEN YOU SMASH IT IN YOUR BARE HAND).

omg. SO sick. Well, as soon as I realized what I squished, I threw it on the floor by the side of my bed and tried to wipe off my arm all fast and crazy-like. And what did I find on my arm, you ask? A skanky bug leg. Or two, I can’t be sure… it was dark.

I summoned Justin to wake the eff up and protect me from these bugs crawling all over the place and he replied with this heroic little treat: “Ohhhh, sorrrrry……………..” and immediately went back to sleep.

In the morning when he wakes and finds me on the couch, huddled into a terrified little ball with a can of Raid in one hand, he won’t even remember what happened. I guarantee you.

Is it so wrong? DON’T HURT ME!

Edit:

(To be clear for those who have never seen Jersey Shore, Snooki is the little trollish brunette on the right, who is quite notorious for being the loud, ridiculous girl no one wants to look like. Do you see my dilemma now?)

You’re a woman. Of course you have.

Well lately, there have been buckets o’ rage over in these parts. We’ve had a lot of steam coming out of ears and stomping of feet and thoughts of Scream masks and rope and butcher knives…

Wait. Um. Hahahaha, I’m just kidding! You thought I was being serious! I mean, I’M NEVER JEALOUS!! I’m secure enough with my womanhood to let other attractive ladies flirt with my husband without a care in the world! Especially those hot older women who have suddenly decided to throw themselves in his direction, with their surgically enhanced cleavage spilling out all over the place and practically smacking him across the face! I LOVE WHEN THIS HAPPENS! Flirt on, ladies! Flirt on, I say!!!!!!

-_-

I swear. Out of nowhere, it’s like I was transported to straight-up Cougarville, USA and let me tell you… these broads have no shame. I can’t take Justin anywhere without some hot 40-something flashing a big, perfectly white smile and/or inappropriate amounts of tan boob in his direction. The kicker is that it usually happens when I’m not only standing next to him, but carting around our 18 month old daughter. I’m sure my expression and body language speaks volumes.

Fellow wives and girlfriends, what do you do when you see other women checking out your man? HOW DO YOU DEAL!?!?

I can’t remember where I first saw them, but it’s been quite a while since they’ve been on my GIMME list. The only thing is, I’ve never seen them for sale anywhere in my town and I don’t really feel like spending a crap ton on them online… they’re freaking expensive!

Lucky me, as I was making my weekly craft store run I happened upon some little bags of little yellow ball things that look pretty similar. My sister in law was with me and I’m pretty sure she thought I was a mental case by the way I snatched them from the display, said MINE! and started petting them. (only slightly kidding.)

They didn’t have any stems, so I used some wooden skewers and improvised.

Not bad for $3, right? My night stand is much more cheery now.

You can find them at Joann’s… that is, unless you live here in Fresno where I already bought them all… MINE!

And the thing is, that is probably true for a lot of my readers. Not all of you know-know me and would probably ‘mark as read’ or unsubscribe if I was only talking about my personal crazies all the time. I COMPLETELY understand that and agree that not everything needs to be aired publicly.

Or maybe you wouldn’t shun me, but that’s just been my fear. I don’t want to annoy people. I don’t want to bore people. I don’t want to be the one who’s laughed about after she shared intimate things about herself. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I fear criticism.

DO YOU SEE HOW EMO I AM?? Isn’t this ridiculous already? The trend in that last paragraph is pretty obvious… I’m letting others rule me.  As much as I love you all (and it’s borderline creepy how much I do), I can’t let the fear of what you’ll think of the real, true me intimidate me to the point where I can’t be myself on my own silly blog.

It’s no one’s fault but my own and I realize it. God knows I’m imperfect and insecure.

You all have been nothing but sweet, encouraging and uplifting. I thank you for that. The reason I’m about to finally come out of my little shell is because of the relationships and connections I’ve made with everyone throughout this little adventure. I could have never imagined meeting so many lovely, genuine souls when I first started writing and I’m confident opening up a little more won’t be a huge mistake.

I need to stop apologizing for being me and this is where I start. It’s just a little terrifying.

Hold me.

* shows you a knife * TELL ME I’M RIGHT.

Anyway, I was talking to one of my lovely, glowing pregnant friends earlier today and she wanted a little help finding some maternity clothes. I started browsing through some online shops and before I knew it, the fever had struck with full force.

Those bellies! OMG, those bellies. They’re so dang cute. I kind of sort of want to be pregnant again… it really wasn’t THAT bad, was it?…. yyyyeah, it kind of was, but OMG PREGNANT BELLIES!

I personally blame Nicole Richie, by the way. Who looks this cute while pregnant? WHO!?

So I emailed Mom:

Snap me out of baby fever RIGHT THIS SECOND. I’m talking to Becca right now and she’s 20 weeks. We’re online shopping for maternity clothes and I want to wear some. This is getting bad.

Mom says:

Me too!  Just kidding.

You hated your butt while you were pregnant.  You can’t wear heels.  You have a 2 bedroom apartment.  NO!  Just enjoy the babies all your friends are having.   Your time for a 2^nd baby will come at the right time.

Alright, Mom. YOU WIN.

(Since this happens every 2 months on average, there’s no doubt I’ll be emailing Mom again soon. Or I’ll just buy that one cute maternity top I bookmarked 10 minutes ago.)

(What??)