The One With the Trophy Wife

In my youth, I thought that I would be happy if I became a trophy wife.  I could lounge about while my Race Car driving husband made all the money and be, you know, rich.  (Yes, I picked a Race Car driver to be my income generating man candy. Due to racing’s lack of popularity among women, and the fact that you can meet drivers before a race, I feel I could actually have a shot.)

But then I realized something.   I am too opinionated to be a trophy wife, and my guess is, that’s not going to fly with my non-existent Race Car driving husband.

 So then I thought, “I could be a stay at home wife, who cooks and cleans!”  Then I laughed at how ridiculous that seemed, because, let’s be honest, I’m not prepared to take on that kind of responsibility. I am skilled at cooking two meals, tacos and those Bertolli frozen bag pastas that claim to feed two, but really feed just one. 

And cleaning?  My idea of cleaning is putting everything in stacks and placing it carefully around my apartment, behind bigger stuff.  Or placing bills and mail in decorative bowls so you are distracted by the bowl and fail to see the disaster of my life sitting inside it.

 

And laundry?  I’ll do it because it smells nice, but I’ll also leave it down in the dryer until it becomes absolutely necessary for me to make the trip to my basement to get it.  And even then, I’ll keep the clean clothes in the laundry basket until all the dirty stuff piles up on the floor, and it becomes pertinent for me to empty the clean stuff to pile in the dirty stuff so my room looks clean-ish.

I don’t want you to think I am a pig.  I keep a clean bathroom, I Clorox wipe surfaces down.  But when it comes to general crap  – it is just going to be thrown on the first available surface I see when I walk through the door.  In my old apartment, it was on a chair that no one realized I had until I moved – today it is the kitchen table.  It is around this table where you can find my shoes, shopping bags, work bag, books, and mail.  It isn’t used for eating, that is what the coffee table in the living room is for, on the off night I decide to make tacos, again.

So all this to say that I am not exactly domesticated wife material.  But based on that fabulous sales pitch I just gave, if any of you men are willing to take a shot, I’d be willing to get married for a teal Kitchen Aide mixer.  I am actually a fabulous baker.  And by fabulous, I mean I buy box mixes and add chocolate chips to them and believe that is enough to tell everyone what I baked is from scratch.

The One With the Walking

People that walk slow. OH MY GOSH!  I cannot mentally FATHOM why is takes people so long to move their appendages.  I will take some responsibility, in that I walk faster than the average individual.  I have short legs, and  the misfortune of having tall modelesque friends, so I have overcompensated with a spritely stride which makes me travel further and faster than the average Homo Sapien.  But that is beside the point. Everyone else needs to be accommodating.

This is what I imagine these sloth like people to be thinking as they clog up streets, halls and alleys, “Ho, hum, what a wonderful stroll on this six inch path with lava on either side of it, making it impossible for kind strangers to pass me.  I think I’ll move as fast as Pangaea did when it broke into 7 continents.” It is so inappropriate and irritating.  Usually there are two of them walking at that robot like pace, holding hands, and it is all I can do not to sprint through them yelling, “Red Rover.”

I used to run into the problem frequently with athletes in college.  Mostly on the brick pathways where on either side were signs that said, “Please Stay of the Grass.” These Neanderthals would carefully place one foot in front of the other, as though it was the most tedious task they had to do all day.  My greatest fear is that it was the only thing they ever accomplished at school.  They were so unmoving that I wondered if perhaps they were statues, erected to block my only way to the dining hall.

Since I am often stuck behind someone slow, I have developed a particular set of skills to try and move around them.  First, I walk as fast as possible to where they stand, stop as far behind as is socially acceptable, then engage in what I like to call “revving.”  I call it this because I equate it to a car that is going to take off full speed.  It involves quick and hurried steps, until I am breathing on their neck, then I ease off, then scamper up again, and repeat the awkward heaving breathing.  I do this in the hopes that they will become frightened of the strange blonde that keeps aggressively moving into their personal space, step to the side, and let me pass.  Athletes don’t catch on so easily, unfortunately. I also engage in the “hand shoo”, where I make wild gestures like people do to dogs when they want them to stop sniffing their crotch.  Occasionally, if I am in a rule-breaking mood, I’ll step into the lava, grass, or busy street to move around these people.  This is done in an angry huff, with arms swinging to show them I am truly irritated in their social indecency.  It is also a warning that I am capable of moving quickly, so if someday I kick them in the kneecap for their sins, I will be able to escape.

Note to all you slow walkers out there: Please do better.  You are ruining the bipedal way of life for all of us.

The One Where I Returned

Obviously I haven't blogged in awhile.  I'd like to formally apologize here and now to all of you who have been bothering me to do this over the last month.  I should have been better.  I did, however, acquire somewhat of a social life, which may be part of the reason for my radio silence. I know, it's odd for me too.  In fact, I found socializing to be exhausting and realized the reason why I choose not to interact with other humans my age.  But here is a quick over view of the highlights that were missed . . .

1.   I went to Vegas for work.  Having never been to Vegas this was an exciting moment for me.  Of course, being there for work meant I had to be on my best behavior.  Several of my co-workers, who had been to Vegas before, knew what they were doing with that gambling business and tried their hand at some tables.  When asked if I was going to participate, I answered, "If I am going to put $100.00 down, I am going to get a pair of shoes back."  My philosophy in life.  I also got told I looked like a James Bond accessory.  Obviously I have the look and intimidation quality of a spy.

2.  I celebrated a birthday.  It was no major milestone, just another year older.  I had a fantastic weekend with my friends from college. One of them brought me a baby. Pretty awesome birthday present huh?  Yeah, I decided for the sake of the child to give it back to it's mother. . . for all of you concerned parents out there, no one ACTUALLY gave me a child.  It was my friend's child, she brought it, for me to see, but not to keep.  Apparently people get very attached when the kid is actually theirs.

3.  I joined a kick ball league.  This is obviously a shock to many of you.  It is mind blowing to me as well.  Having operated the majority of my life without being able to walk without smacking into things, this risk into organized sports was a big one.  As it turns out, I truly excel at this game.  Granted the first time I played I pulled every muscle in my kicking leg, something I was not prepared for in elementary school.  Usually I just wear a Hello Kitty shirt and stand in the outfield singing "She's a Maniac, MANIAC," while doing a little Flash Dance run and hip gyration, but sometimes, I help my team.  All of those years of my sister kicking soccer balls at my head and forcing me to do college-level sprint work-outs with her finally paid off.

The One Where I Was Discovered

But not in a cool, I am going to be famous kind of way . . .

Some of you may remember that I have been working hard at convincing my neighbors that I am older, in order to appear less lame when they invite me to do things.  Well this weekend . .  . my cover was blown.

Friday night, my friend Molly and I were getting ready for an evening on the town, when I heard a ruckus on my back porch.  Upon peeking my head out, I discovered my neighbors were having a small get together.  They invited me over, and instead of respectfully declining in favor of watching a movie, I decided to accept.  Ok, honestly, Molly gave me the "meet new people and stop talking about The Avengers and maybe you won't be so lame," speech.  Ok, Molly is much nicer than that, but those were the implied undertones.

So we went over to play a few . . . party games, and once we got the ball rolling, the conversation I had been dreading came up.  They asked Molly when she graduated college.  Being the well trained and good friend that she was, she evaded the question.  Then the tables turned on me, and one of my neighbor's friends asked how old I was. . .

"27!" Answered my neighbor, God bless him.  My plan had worked!  I seemed mature and over the "going out" stage that I never actually entered.  I was a GENIUS.  I could do anything in that moment, it was like I had a super power.

I said, "Yes, 27 sounds close enough."

"You look 19," said his friend.  Nonsense, what did he know!

"How old are you really?" They enquired.

Here is the thing.  I have never point blank lied to this wonderful couple, I simply said things like, "Oh . . .I'm so old . . ." which, you know, in my defense, I am. . . compared to babies or a 12 year old.  It's all about perspective.

So I told them my real age, which they didn't believe.  Because here is the kicker - they are actually OLDER than me.  It was a shock to us ALL!  OK, not to me, I had expected this.  They were surprised, flabbergasted even, and now, distrusting of my motives.  Thus I had to tell them my whole "brilliant" plan, to which they answered, "This is ridiculous, you are coming out with us all the time now."

Which to be honest, is probably a good thing.  So now my soul is cleansed of my deceit, and I have new friends (we were friends before but now we are better friends . . . and I am not saying all these nice things because we are now Facebook friends, and they can essentially see all the things I have blogged about our interactions over the last couple of months . . .awk. ward.)

The One with the Conversation

Some of my favorite conversations go like this:

Them: Hello Morgan! It is so wonderful to see you!
Me: Oh my goodness you too!
What I am thinking: Oh crap. Who are you?
Them: How are you doing?  What are you doing?
Me: I am doing well.  I live and work in Columbus.
What I am thinking: I know you look familiar.
Them: So are you married?
Me: Ha ha no.
What I am thinking: Wow stranger, you are just cutting to the chase.  I have a job you know.  A good one.  I got promoted once too.
Them: Oh. (sad, confused face) Well are you seeing anyone?
Me: Ha. No.
What I am thinking: Thank goodness! Yeah, the job is great.  I have a lot of area to grow.  Did you know women can work now?  Amazing isn't it?
Them: Oh well, don't feel bad.
Me: Haha. Oh I don't.
What I am thinking: Yep, we can work and buy homes and even go into public without an escort!  I can do whatever I want when ever I want. I can date 5 guys at once, go out on weekdays and stay up as late as I want. I mean granted, I usually just hang out alone and read.  But I could do those things . . . If I wanted to. I have options!
Them:  I'm sure you will find someone soon.
Me: Mmmmhmmm. . .
What I am thinking: I actually really enjoy shamelessly flirting with strangers, so I am pretty content right now.  It's actually a strength of mine. But while we are on the topic, how's your marriage? I heard the divorce rate is declining, that must be an encouragement!
Them: How are your friends?
Me: They are doing well.  So and So is in school and So and So just got married.
What I am thinking: Where is your spouse?  I thought part of getting married was so you could have someone to consistently nag, thereby leaving me in peace. I really wish I could remember who you are. Why can't someone come over here and introduce themselves so I can at least get a name?
Them: sympathetic look.
What I am thinking:  I am going to punch you in the mouth.
Them:  Well it was so nice to see you!
Me: Just charming.
What I am thinking: I almost told you I was a lesbian, just so you'd leave me alone.

The One with the Remodel

So my Landlord, God bless his soul, decided to remodel the apartment below me since the tenant moved out. I discovered this upon coming home from vacation Thursday afternoon to find my garage door open and a bunch of strange men meandering around. Once in my apartment, I was pleased to discover you could hear the work going on below quite well. This thrilled me to no end. I decided not to pitch a fit, since it was a weekday and normally I would be working anyways.

Saturday, 8:30am – Annoying jack hammer sound and pounding as though the contruction-ers were at the foot of my bed. I yelled, I’m sure loud enough for them to hear, “IT’S SATURDAY.” The sound died down for approximately 3 minutes then vibrantly refilled the air around me. I begrudgingly got up, stomped around and flushed the toilet many times, hoping they were working on the plumbing and it screwed up whatever they were doing. I have no knowledge of plumbing, but it seemed like a good revenge since I didn't have my make-up on yet, and I hadn't had enough caffeine to go downstairs and yell at them.

After my flush-a-thon of angst, I went to my kitchen, where I was lucky enough to hear one of the worker's renditions of “Call Me” by Carley Rae Jepsen, through the heating vent. I disregarded judging him for this, as that song is incredibly catchy. I also had the pleasure of hearing one of them belch impressively. In my annoyance with morning, men and construction, I decided I needed something to cheer me up. I entertained myself for the rest of the morning by leaning down next to the vent and whispering, “I can hear you.”

As the day progressed, I kept yelling in my apartment for them to be quiet. It was neither effective nor tactful. But be honest, who was the genius who remodeled a multi tenant building on a Saturday and didn't expect to get nagged through the ceiling by the pain in the butt upstairs? Didn't think that one though did you Landlord? I was just thinking of my neighbors! I mean some people could be hung over and needing to sleep in. Not me obviously, having been in bed by midnight. But my wonderful neighbors were having a party last night, and I am sure they wanted their rest. I have somehow managed to convince them that I am much older than them, therefore, they don’t ask me to come over and play beer pong with their friends. I am almost positive we are the same age, but I always say things like, “When I was your age,” and “I’ve been out of school so long,” and “Oh, to be young again.” I do this so they at least think I got my craziness out of my system in my youth, and that's why I choose a life of solitude now. Though they once commented that I always have people over. I didn't have the heart to tell them it was the same 2 people all the time . . .

Man, I make myself sound more and more cool every day.

The One With the Pictures

Many of you may wonder when you read my blog, "Where does she get her self deprecating humor from?" And for that I have one answer . . .

Which about sums up any questions you may have had.

Now, my sister, is like me in many ways, but also possess the power to attract fame. . . Here you can see her watching Tiger Woods play golf in People Magazine. Yes, People magazine. That's her - clear as day in the glasses. Though I have always openly sought fame and glory, she has received it with no work at all. It makes me gnash my teeth in fury. All I ever wanted out of life was to be on a Disney Channel show . . .

Anywho, the other night when I received this photo of Michael Jordan from my sister in a text message, I can't say it surprised me. Just another one of her famous friends, out on the town. I'm surprised she hasn't been in a TMZ story already, that would be just soooo like her. Apparently she and MJ met and became chums at a bar in Charlotte. Obviously I didn't get an invite.

Though I live in Ohio . . .where no one famous ever visits, and if they do, I'm not out on the town to see them . . .because I never go out.

Immediately after receiving that lovely picture of MJ in real life, my dearest cousin Kalie (not pictured in the seagway photo, but a member of the family none the less) sent a picture of herself, with a Victoria's Secret Angel, whom she apparently met in Chicago. Again, she lives in a glamorous city and engages in a social life, two strikes against me in seeking fame and fortune. (Must work on creating opportunities where I can meet famous people and be discovered. Must get tickets to the next Jonas Brothers' concert.)

Naturally with my family interacting with all these amazing people, I had to text them to let them see what I was up to . .

Which was waiting for a delayed plane at the St. Louis airport. By myself.

Sometimes, even if you are a good person, good things don't happen to you. But just an FYI in case you are all wondering what famous person I want to meet, it's Jennifer Lawrence. I think we could be great friends. I also think, with our powers combined, we could over throw Taylor Swift.