Cleaning house got me like

I’ve been noticing a lot of people are dancing while cleaning. Who is responsible for this garbage? WHO?!

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This concept is just plain unrealistic and quite honestly confusing to me. Never have I felt emotionally capable of dancing while cleaning.

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And like, did he actually sweep anything up or is he just playing with my emotions?

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Don’t even get me started with this hip thrusting nonsense. It is scientifically impossible to feel sexy while vacuuming. Never the twain shall meet.

Let’s be real.

This is more accurately representative of floor day (aka rage mopping):

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Or wiping up anything in the bathroom (tears have extra scum-removing power):

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All the Windex feels:

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Have you ever asked your kids to help you clean, thinking it would be “a fun way to get them involved while teaching responsibility?” HAHAHAHAHA

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And you’re barely keeping it together as they reap further destruction, but pushing through anyway.

“Great job, sweetie! Mommy’s big helper!”

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Then reaching the breaking point like, “Okay that’s good just go play bye.”

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So then you turn to your honey for help:

“Hunz, can you do the dishes for me please?”

“Sure babe! Notta problem!”

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You find yourself distracted, picking apart his cleaning methods from the other side of the room like:

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Trying your hardest to just be grateful for the help and not micro-manage:

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And then they’re like, “Done! That was easy!”

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So you suck it up and quietly take care of the collateral damage when they walk out of the room like the clean queen. This is just who you are and you’re somewhat at peace with it.

lady gaga cleaning gloves

Until someone utters the fatal words, “When’s dinner, mom?”

It’s all over.

lady gaga cleaning gloves

Domestic Confessions

I don’t know if this will turn into a new series of posts or if I’ll get too embarrassed after this one and never show my face on the internet again, but I have a secret to share. I’m just going to dive on into this pool of humility and tell you about one of the most dumb mistakes I’ve ever made as an adult. So when Justin and I were married, I was 20 and had never lived on my own. To be completely honest, I didn’t know how to cook except to brown some hamburger meat and even then, I burned it because I was terrified to have any pink undone bits and yeah. Don’t feel sorry for me. I eventually sort of learned.

So when I would do our laundry, I number one, hated it because we lived in a little house at the time where the laundry room was actually the garage. Not so bad except number two, there were billions of black widows. Billions. Each with billions of tiny little devil eyeballs I would feel staring me down every time I would step foot in their territory. What I would do was basically run in, throw a mix of clothes in the washing machine, dump in a capful of pretty smelling stuff from a cute jug with pictures of flowers on it and run out, sometimes even leaping out the door because what if a spider wanted to jump on me at the last second before I left? I mean I had to get outta dodge and fast.

Laundry would be finished and I’d go get it, run back in the house and dump it on the floor and go back in maaaaaybe a week later to repeat the washing/leaping process. I never would fold the clothes on the floor. As a matter of fact, I still don’t unless somebody’s coming over to the house. And that someone has to be a “Someone” like a princess or a president who doesn’t know me very well and I want to give them a good impression. Even then, I usually don’t because it’s just like, no. I still hate it and Maddie changes her outfits 80 times a day anyway, so folding is a complete waste of time. And I don’t know any princesses or presidents — that too. This logic may appear flawed, but let me assure you, it is a reflection of magnificent growth in me personally. In the past, I would have taken the pile of clothes and hid them in my closet in trash bags. I actually did that. Frantically shoved all the clean clothes in trash bags instead of folding them so no one would judge me by my homemaking skills. Makes perfect sense.

Anyway, back to the confession. For at least two years I did laundry that way. One day when I was pregnant with Maddie, I had an eye opening experience. I don’t know if it was the nesting hormones kicking in or the fact that I just physically opened my eyeballs in the laundry aisle at the store, but I noticed there was this foreign substance called DETERGENT next to all the cute colorful jugs with flowers on them with the fancy names like Vanilla Passion Oasis that I had been using. To put it plain, my sweet naive adult self had been buying FABRIC SOFTENER based solely on the packaging and scent, then I’d go home and rush through the laundry because it’s the worst. I was basically soaking our clothes in perfume for two years and never really washing them. FOR TWO YEARS. That’s just, I don’t even know. I’m not ashamed, just kind of perplexed and actually a little in awe of how completely ridiculous it all is.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I’m not sure anyone can top it, but you are welcome to try! Maybe I’ll do a follow up post with all your embarrassing confessions in it. Okay yeah, that sounds fun, let’s do that!

Rage Mopping: A Tale of Domestic Insanity

I am woman, hear me roar… Roar in your stupid face if you mess up my clean floor. That was an unintentional rhyme, but let’s just go with it.

I don’t know what it is about a dirty floor that drives me so crazy, except yes I do know exactly what it is about a dirty floor that drives me so crazy.

1) It looks gross.

2) It feels gross.


You are walking barefoot through last night’s dinner, the dead skin cells of every person who has stepped foot in your house, your hair, your husband’s hair, your kids’ hair, your pet’s hair (which gags me more than anything else in the universe) and tiny little bug corpses. I’m not even stepping foot in the disgusting imaginary bathroom right now because you all know more than anyone else what is on that floor, especially if you have men/boys living with you.

(psst… it’s pee!)


This is the part that confuses me. I love a clean floor, but I HATE to actually clean it. I’m talking raw, angryfist, elbow-throwing, throat-punching hatred. There are several reasons why this is so. You may now enter my world of weirdness…

First of all, the kids and husband don’t stop moving all day, therefore leaving me the lovely time slot of 12am – 6am to complete the task. I guess I could literally lose sleep over a dirty floor, but I’d rather not.

Secondly, it requires me to move my arms, which is not such a bad thing except that rapid arm movement produces ample sweat in the pits. I don’t like to amply sweat unless I’m working out because it causes unnecessary shower-taking and hair-washing, which turns into unnecessary blow drying and styling… which I will have you know is the 2nd most hated thing in all of my life. My day just starts to get out of hand with the whole premature arm-moving thing.

I will, however, do the whole “spot mop” thing with a rag under each foot and pretend like I’m rollerblading through the kitchen 8 times a day, but will not take the actual mop out to just get it done all at once.

Also, if I take the time to clean it properly, I just know someone is going to walk through the room with dripping wet hands (JUSTIN, USE THE HAND TOWEL, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY) or a cup of drippy juice, so I guess I wait until there’s enough build up of miscellaneous drippings before I go insane enough to bust out the mop.

So according to all my weirdnesses, I would have to workout at midnight when everyone is alseep, be gross enough after the workout to take out the mop and use my already-sweaty arms to drag it across the floor, then take a shower and wash all the sweat, sorrows and miscellaneous floor drippings down the drain.




So what usually happens is I wait until the floor is truly horrible and gag-inducing, bad enough to send me into mop rage. I’ll put the kids down for a nap/shut them in their room with cookies if they won’t cooperate (a useful bribery tool), clean the floor at speeds reachable only by the Starship Enterprise, occasionally yell down the hall at the kids to STAY IN THE ROOM UNLESS YOU WANT TO SLIP AND BUST YOUR HEAD OPEN, and then sit down, relax and admire my sparkling floors. Then yell at everyone for the next month that they better not drip anything because I just spent a whole 12 hard minutes cleaning that thing. Rinse, repeat.

WHY do I do this to myself?? And to my family? They’re probably all huddled in one of the bedrooms thinking I’m insane. Or plotting some sort of cruel joke to send me into a hissy fit. “Jack, you go crumble up those Goldfish and sprinkle them down the hall. Make it look like an accident. I’m going to go work on the entry with some mud. She’ll flip out and make that crazy face… it’s going to be hilarious!”

Is it really so bad to just mop once a week? I think everyone has their chore that they absolutely can’t stand and will put off until it drives them nuts.

My name is Morgan and I rage mop. What do you do?

Real I [heart] Mopping shirt available at Zazzle, not that anyone in the history of the world has every purchased it because that would just be psycho. Not that I know anything about what it means to be psycho. Do-do-dooo…


G is for Gable. And Grrr.

Disclaimer: The following post is sprinkled with the sweetest bits of rage. I apologize in advance… you will soon understand why.

As of this morning, I still had our Christmas tree up in the living room corner. I know, the horror! The shame! Well honey, that is NOTHING compared to three years ago when I left it up until my birthday. Which juuuust happens to be at the end of the month… of February.

This year, I am on the ball and I happen to be very proud of myself. Today, not only did I rip down the tree plus gazillion ornaments and shove them in boxes in under 30 minutes take down the tree and tenderly store away each and every delicate ornament with care, I managed to squeeze in a little craft and a little sprucing up of the apartment.

I saw this tutorial on one of my new favorite blogs, The Prudent Baby, and decided I needed to make one, all quick-like. I just bought this cute green/white fabric that will soon be covering my $15 Craigslist-purchased dining room chairs (freaking adorable and eeeeeeeeeeeeeee! so excited to have them finished!), and have plenty to spare, so a-crafting I went.



Here’s the after:


Now, it may look really quick and simple, and you may think you could make one yourself while watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother with your husband sitting patiently on the couch, waiting for you to join him. You may be all, “This will only take a few more minutes babe! It’s going to be sooooo cute, omg I die.” but then two hours later, you’ll be sweating profusely and telling your husband to SIMMER DOWN, I SAID I’M ALMOST DONE! while trying to trim the millions of tiny pieces of thread hanging off the edges because you’re OCD and silently cursing the woman who invented this project in the first place because she is a devil woman with super crafting skills that obviously exceed mine. I mean yours.

If you attempt this, be sure that if your last name starts with a G you PICK ANOTHER LETTER FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY. Justin, why did you have to have such a difficult first letter of your last name? Explain yourself.

This project was a little B (New Years Resolution: use better language — I’m doing remarkably well), but after rearranging some furniture and adding a few more things to the walls, I think it was worth two hours in my own personal corner of hell. It’s pretty freaking adorable.

With a few extra minutes…

  • took a shower and managed to wash and condition my hair
  • shaved my legs for the first time in a month (never mind the fact that I only went up to my knees)
  • filed exactly 2 of my nails — only the super jagged ones get my special attention these days
  • slapped some lotion on my neglected old lady elbows
  • tip-toed into the baby’s room to make sure she was still asleep
  • sang the Hallelujah chorus (silently…in my head) when I saw that she was still sleeping
  • ate a few Red Vines, my postpartum obsession
  • flipped through a new magazine and realized how out of touch I’ve been with recent celeb gossip
  • realized that not knowing what LC wore this week isn’t such a bad thing
  • wrote this post

FYI, I have a bunch of new posts lined up… I won’t be neglecting my blog for much longer, I promise!