Letter of Truth--Movin' To Cali Edition

Dear Britney,
What's up, Baby Girl!?! It's been a while since we talked, I know you've missed me and my incessant questioning. I've missed you too, my lovely lovepot. But I know we've both been busy--me with the getting married, you with the baby and the cowboy boots and the freeloading husband (oops! I typed it again!). So let's consider this our reunion letter.

Cause see, Brit, I need some advice. Because just like you, I'm moving from the Southland to the Californialand. And since I try to do everything just like you do, with the same amount of grace, aplomb, and cans of Red Bull, I want to know how you did it. Was it hard, Britney? Did it take strength, constant worry and sadness over lost family members? Or just a helluva lot of Pabst?

Because I've seen those pictures of you recently, with your bikini top and your pregnant belly and your wrap arounds and your cowboy boots, and I said, "There's a woman who has succeeded." I see you and I know that all that talk about you losing your fan base and getting depressed and getting divorced and all that stuff is just dust in the wind. You're stable, Britney. You've got your rat-faced fiend of a man and your fashionable little dog, and you're working it! You don't look like a knocked up teenage prosititute from an old episode of Law and Order! No, you look like the American dream, strutting down the street in a tied together dish rag and your grandmother's best drapes and that all-time greatest answer to swollen, pregnant ankles--cowboy boots! Oh, Britney. You send my heart all a-flutter. If only, if only, I could be like you.

Then maybe I could talk my husband out of that whole Phd thing and see if maybe he could shake his ass for a living. Or better yet--do you think he could pump gas? Wouldn't that be glamorous! I'd cut all of his pants off so he could wear manpris, and oh sweet gosh, it would be so fricking sweet! Now if I could just get him to work on that troublesome vocabulary...

But alas, I shall never be that cool. I will slink off to Berkeley, and yawn my way through life as I listen to my husband talk about post-moderism. There will be no dishtowels or cowboy boots for me--just corporate casual. I missed out, Britney. I can only drink Red Bulls and think of you. So don't be depressed about your show's bad ratings--I tried to watch it, really I did--or your future status as the hottest person ever on The Surreal Life. No don't think about that. Think about how you really toast my waffle in all the best ways, and how yours is the life that all us college grads want to emulate. How ironic is that?

Your biggest fan,
Morg

Rank Strangers

So I am listening to a good mix of Ralph Stanley and Bob Dylan and being so non-productive it hurts.

I miss home.

And I am moving 3000+ miles from it.

I am a master of contradiction.

Sometimes I doubt my reasoning skills--they always seem to get me into places that I don't want to be. They got me to Williamsburg, they got me in this apartment, they got me away from giddy youth and well into the cynical world of academia. And now they're taking me to California because it's the right thing to do, because it will work out in the end, because I am not interested in short term fixes, because I am in it for the long haul and should prepare accordingly. Goddamn. Sometimes I believe this shit.

And then there's this guy that I went to high school with. We were friends. Really good friends. But he was the type of guy that you are kind of annoyed with until you get away from them for--say, 5 years or so, and then you think, God, I miss that guy. Wonder what he'd have to say now. So I IM him. No apparent reason, just do it. He's married. He lives with his parents and goes to community college. And I tell him I'm moving to California, and he says he's not surprised, and he's not impressed in the least, and he has to get something to eat and so he says "have fun in cali" and leaves. And I'm thinking--Why are you not impressed? I have a Bachelor's Degree goddamnit!!!!! I have worked my ass off while you did nothing but knock up some fat girl in your bunk bed (I'm going to assume he still has the bunk beds he had all the way through high school and that they now serve as the marital bed), and you don't give a flying fuck and I don't understand it. What the fuck is your problem? But, you know, it's not him, I dare say. It is me and the fact that I am selling out and moving to a place I've seen once and living with someone who is blatantly smarter and more successful than me. It is the fact that I have to leave here and I'm nervous and I'm sad and I want someone to say: "You know, Morgan, moving to California is a good idea. And you're going to have a great time. Now let me help you pack up those books."

And I need to lose 10 pounds, and I don't have an iPod or a cell phone and I am so tragically unhip that it hurts. I have images of myself showing up and hearing about a new reality show entitled "The Berkeley Hillbilly" that portrays me in my attempts to be a better person but falling on my face.

I really need to stop listening to Ralph Stanley. Seriously.

I'm just tired. Tired of having to worry about this. I want to leave tomorrow. I want to get out of here, just so I don't have to think about it anymore.

Oh, and if you are reading this Eric, I am sorry for calling your wife fat. I'm sure she is not. That was probably an old picture I saw. It's just this thing called stream of conciousness that no one really cares about but me and five other people I once had a class with. But you don't care about that--no one does, or I'd have a job that involved getting paid to ruminate on Joyce while drinking espresso con pannas.

I need a nap.

Reclaiming Lost Youth via the Use of Surveys, Part II

if

If I could have any job in the world I'd want to be one of those talking heads on VH1 who says pseudo-scripted things about people/decades/really bad haircuts. Wouldn't that be cool? Because you know I'd be everyone's favorite. I wouldn't be like that one chick with the really bad Brooklyn accent who is always talking about Jews. Hell no.
If I could eliminate one phrase from the English language it would be TomKat in reference to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Just say no.
If I was ever photographed riding a mechanical bull I would spend as much as $5.37 to make sure that nobody ever saw the evidence. Seriously. I don't have the money to pay much, so I best be stayin' away from mechanical bulls.
If I had two retarded children I would name them Bo and Luke.
If I was ever added to list of "blogebrities" I would use it to get a really good table at the Williamsburg Olive Garden. Because I only roll with the best.
If I lost my iPod I would rejoice, because that would mean that I had an iPod to start out with.
If I lost my cell phone I would damn myself for buying one to start out with (that's right--don't have one, don't really want one).
If I found a $100 bill on an empty street I would go to Target and buy a buggy full of shit that I would never need or even really want. And then I'd go to the outlet malls and spend a whole shit load more--all under the idea that it is "found money." What I bought would definitely total more than $100, but believe me, I am weak minded and I can justify any sort of spending to myself if I really try.
If I was ever tricked into eating an olive I would develop a flesh eating rash and then turn into a garden slug.
If I was a professional baseball player, my coming-to-bat song would be "Small Town" by John Cougar Mellancamp.
If I could go back in time and stop myself from buying just one record I would choose Make Believe by Weezer. Sorry Weezer.
If I was ever serving time in prison I would start using all of my knowledge of the criminal justice system honed from years upon years of hardcore Law and Order watching to get my ass out. And I would succeed too. Ain't that right, Jack McCoy?
If I never heard Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)" again I would never sing it again. Because if I hear it, I sing it. It's automatic, like breathing.
If I had to eat a baby I'd pour on the BBQ.
And if I was ever really bored while my intellectual husband played Harry Potter on Game Cube, I'd do a list of things I'd do in other situations. Really. I'd do that.

Channeling Morgan circa 2001

As I have a sore throat and an earache and a husband who rented two video games on 99 cent Tuesday, I have found myself playing around on my computer and eating mass quantities of Jello Instant Pudding (hey, before you admonish me for my preservative filled feast, remember that it is cool and slimey, and thus perfect for a sore throat). In doing so, I have uncovered every email I sent during my freshman year in college, which of course, led me to read (nearly) every email I sent during said year. Yes, my petite filets with mushroom demiglace, I am bored.

But I am also rather enlightened. I have changed. A lot. I have grown. A lot. My writing is quite a bit better. And it is weird. That seems so long ago in a way, but in a way, it also seems very near. I can remember just about everything about that year. What it felt like moving in. Walking into my first class (English 204--Tucker 215). Seeing Prof. Kinnard for the first time (giggedy giggedy). 9/11. Falling for Matt all over again. Feeling truly sleep deprived for the first time. Matt and I going away together for the first time. Taking 17 hours. Taking Anemone for the first time. Going to Anemone's house. Becoming obsessed with all things Anemone. The Secret Six. Getting sent to the Dean. Eating breakfast after visit with said Dean. Laughing. It was a good year for me.

But in reading, I wondered: How'd I get so damned cynical? The Morgan in the emails believed nearly everything anyone told her. She signed online petitions for world peace and forwarded them to people. She emailed people from high school with the words: "What's up with you? Nothing here." She believed in America, in freedom, in all those big buzz words. She read books with raised print on the covers. What happened to that chick?

How did I become this person who kind of twists everything, who rolls her eyes at CNN the way most people roll their eyes at the Enquirer, who looks at student activists and honestly wonders why they waste their breath? How did I become someone who only read "literary fiction," who didn't waste her time with anything unless it was reviewed by the New Yorker or was heralded by someone with a Ph.d?

How did I get so old?

My name is Morgan and I busted a tunic.

Those of you who love gofugyourself as much as I do know that they recently asked for tales of real life fuggery, even giving out an email address to send these loathsome stories to. This is my story (dong dong).

To the Fug Girls,
You asked to hear tales of utter fuggishness, stories of the
good turned fugly.  So I give you my story.

My name is Morgan and I busted a tunic.

I admit, when I saw the commercial, I thought that it was
quite possibly the most annoying, stupid thing I had every
seen.  But then I started thinking--cute bathing suit
cover-up maybe?  So while at the mall with my unbelievably
cheap husband, I did the unthinkable.  I willingly gave up my
$19.50, and took home a bright green Old Navy tunic with
silver spangles around the neck and sleeves.

Just seeing it here brings tears to my eyes.

Yes, what started out as a good idea--covering up my goodies
at the beach--turned into something else.  I
started--gasp--wearing the thing.  I wore it to school.  I
wore it to the grocery store.  I wore it with jeans, with
chinos, with an equally hideous linen skirt.  I didn't think
a thing about it, even ignoring said husband when he lovingly
reminded me that I looked like a gay Kermit the Frog.  I felt
young and hip--like Sienna Miller, gosh darn it!!!  At the
peak of it, I was abusing the tunic at least once a week.

But then I found myself at the dubiously titled Dirty Dick's
Crabshack, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, silently
weeping.  I was wearing the tunic and a pair of dark denim
trousers.  I had on a pair of brightly colored thong sandals
and big silver earrings.  My hair had been coiffed into a
loose oh-so-bohemian loop.  I looked like a cross between my
crazy aunt who summers at Boynton Beach and one of those
Indian transvestites that dances at weddings.  I looked like
Britney Spears after a three day Cheeto/Colt 45 bender.  I
knew I had hit rock bottom.

So it's been over a month now, and I have to say that I am
clean and tunic free.  It sits in my closet as a reminder of
the dangerous path that cheap clothes can take you on.  I
have new clothes now--ones that fit, mind you--and I've moved
on, but I will always remember my rock bottom, the moment
that I knew the true meaning of the word "fugly."

Now let's all think Jeebus that I didn't buy one of those
super-freak skirts.

Your friend in fug,
Morgan

Get your Morgabilia while it's hot...

For sale: my shitty ass furniture.
Place: my shitty ass apartment
Time: anytime before I leave
Cost: name your own price, bitches

What I've got:
1) faux wood coffee table, purchased at Big Lots while slightly drunk. Has two faux wicker drawers. Neither has a handle on it. Inspires ingenuity as you have to open the drawer with your foot. Drawers are great places to hide phone books, traffic tickets, old Victoria's Secret catalogs (yes, Matt, I know they are there). Missing a couple of screws--hope that's not a problem. Looks like something someone might buy at World Market if World Market had a section catering to homeless men with botulism.
2) faux wood desk, given to me by my father. He thought he was being all nice, but let's all face it, Dad--it was in your junk pile. Two loose handles--ok, the only handles on this thing's drawers are loose. Missing a large piece that covers the top of said drawers. Hideous color--but if you are roughly 1.67 kilometers away, you might think that it's wood. Sadly, same cannot be said for #1.
3) one round dining table. I think it might actually be real wood--you know, from a real tree and all. Has two leaves that are no longer level, so it's a bit sloped. Makes dinner a real treat! Comes with four brown metal folding chairs, if you desire. Very country meets mod. You know, because of the sloping.
4) one broken desk chair, no back. Purchased at Wal-Mart by my cheap ass husband who wouldn't want the leather one that is $10 more and about 80 times more sturdy "because he would want to sit in it naked, and you can't do that with leather." Sigh.
5) one silver gooseneck floor lamp with retina burning accuracy. Works 40% of the time. Eats light bulbs like Southerners eat fried chicken.

I also have lots of home accents that are equally as hideous that I will describe later. But for now I have to sit on my shitty ass couch and watch my TV which may be the only nice thing in this godforsaken shithole.

Why am I selling these lovely things, you ask? Because I am not going to pay $2095 a month for rent in Berkeley and have it covered with this shit. Seriously. That's too ironic even for me.

Dear Miss I'm-Too-Educated-for-this-shitty-job,

I'm telling you this for your own good...

You're insane. Seriously. Yeah, you've got a bachelor's degree. Congratulations. So do I. So does over a quarter of this country. It's an accomplishment, I guess, but seriously, you're not a Nobel laureate. So get over yourself. Look. I'm sorry that the economy sucks and you have to work a job in the service industry. It's no fair, I know. I don't have the greatest job in the world either. But you don't have to make everyone's life a living hell because you're not fulfilling your potential. We feel mildly bad for you, but we want our coffee/new Nick Hornby book/cheap artwork without seeing your eyes rolling, or hearing your dramatic sigh, or feeling like we just whipped you and called you "boy." Is that too much to ask? I don't think so. And I didn't have to have a bachelor's degree, or 2+ years experience to figure that out.

You see, work is all in what you make it. You can seriously do anything--it won't kill you (unless of course it involves carcinogenic materials, or working with swords or something). So just smile and have a good time--you're making money, aren't you? It's not hard. Unless you work in an insurance company or something, you can probably find a compatriot who hates the job too, but can at least spice it up for you.

But for, crying out loud, don't be a bitch. I'm aware that you would rather be writing movie scripts or novels or something. But for God's sake. Get used to it. Writing takes talent, and well, let's hope your milk frothing is better than your forced metaphors.

With all the luck I can give,
Morg

Lifestyles of the Ultra-Modern Housewife

As it is now post-graduation, post-wedding, and pre-job, I have found myself with an alarming lack of stuff to do. Seriously. It is odd. I seriously LIVE for the moment Matt comes home, as tonight I prepared a wonderful three-cheese fondue, with chocolate kahlua fondue for dessert, and didn't think a thing about it until I realized that I spent about 2 hours slicing apples, grating cheese, and dusting confectioners' sugar over a panoply of fresh fruit delicately arranged in a flower shape. I shit you not. I did that. For no real reason except that I have hardly anything else to do.

What I Did Today: (keep in mind I am not joking, nor am I copying out of the Feminine Mystique's chapter on Housewife Syndrome)
8:00: got up, showered, put on a skirt and slutty shirt for reasons that escape me now
9:00: went to Ukrops, tooled around for a while because it just seemed like the right thing to do. Sniffed fruit to see if it was fresh (fool me once...). Spent $1.69 on one bottled organic tea/juice beverage. Talked to myself in the grocery aisles.
10:00: came home, put groceries up, called mother, made strange conversation about my aunt's addiction to prescription pain killers and how this was somehow funny
11:00: put on strange stretchy pants, exercised to excercise video, openly cheered for myself
12:00: watched City Confidential, ate huge bowl of pasta and in doing so, totally negated said exercise video
1:00: sort of halfway watched American Justice, called volunteer places in Oakland to check on opportunities, made a point to say "my husband" at least 4 times per phone call, pulled up resume documents and changed my name on them
2:00: washed dishes while listening to The Futureheads
3:00: folded laundry
4:00: went to Target out of sheer boredom, purchased Father's Day card, a new tube of lip balm, a jar of face cream, a new wallet, and a cooler (once again, Target sinks its French manicured nails into me and forces me to buy something I would never need in five million years)
5:00: Matt comes home, cheered excitedly, worked on fondue while talking excitedly about my boring day, fidgeted with slutty shirt
6:00: consumed mass quantity of fondue and half a bottle of Chardonnay, laughed about the incredible excitement that food brings me
7:00: Matt goes to Target to buy soap and Father's Day cards, I sit here and write this list while watching the first of many episodes of Law and Order

Isn't that sad? Not long ago, I was sitting in a classroom saying witty things about Milton. Now I'm...not. Part of me cannot wait to get started at work. It is so wierd this housewifery. I don't know how people do it. I mean, you have stuff to do, in a way, but it's all pithy and sort of boring. Right now, my entire world is Matt and food. That, my friends, can't be healthy.

I should go. I am reading White Teeth (again, I know I am totally behind on reading, but please remember that I have been boning up on the "classics" for the past four years). Right now, the book and my diploma hanging on the wall is the only reminder I have of what I was not two months prior.

You May Now Refer to Me as "The Missus"...

because I'm a married woman ya'll!!!!

I am a married woman home from her honeymoon typing on a working computer! With access to the internet! In my own home! Holy fuck shit yeah!

So now I am concentrating on moving, making sure that I am wearing my big, hunkin' wedding ring at all times, and smiling a lot. It's a good life.

To tell you the truth, it's not that different, apart from the fact that I can't remember my new last name about 3/4 of the time, have a stunning inability to make an uppercase "K" in cursive script, and can't remember the pin number on my new joint checking account. I still refer to Matt as my "boyfriend" which is something I doubt I'll ever shake, and I still use the term "Well, fuck me!" if the situation presents itself, which, if you think about it is, is not very wifelike. Oh well. Oh, and I still adore Britney and Kevin, even though I gave up on Chaotic, and I want my marriage to be just as splendiferous as theirs!!! Pass the PBR, Kevin! Yee haw!

So, my little sesame chicken bites, here's the round up:
First week of marriage: excellent
Honeymoon: rocked
Weezer's new album: not so much
Chaotic: sadly unviewable
Computer: a sad little fuck up, on its last legs
Wedding gifts: keep em' comin'
Washing dishes: Hell no!

Have a good un!

Wisdom Garnered from High School Dropouts

I have so much to do right now that I really shouldn't be taking the time to write this, but here it is at any rate. Sometimes writing stuff down is the only way I can really tell how to feel or even if feeling is necessary at the time. So this is it:

I am getting married on Saturday and my grandmother is laying in an ICU ward in a coma with her kidneys shutting down. This is problematic.

I feel so totally helpless, being up here in Williamsburg, so I'm heading out to Sweva, three days before my wedding, eschewing all hope of the pedicure and manicure that I was getting ready to spend every last red cent of my graduation money on. And that's selfish. My grandmother is dying, and just like in her life, I fear that no one really cares. We had all left her, off to our own selfish little lives, while she tried to live and catch our attention every once in a while. And I'm the worse. I'm the one who cared while I was there, but was all to ready to leave and never come back when the time came, who was all too willing to sacrifice a sense of home for some illusion of finding what I believe and learning some arbitrary things about literature. I'm the one who could have made a difference, but instead chose to head off to California to find some stupid dreams which escape me now.

And the worse thing is, I'm sitting here, my grandmother dying hundreds of miles away, and I'm thinking about my stupid wedding, and what this will do to it. How awful is that? I'm lamenting my lost pedicure and the fact that I'm not going to be able to make it out to J.Crew to buy some things to wear on the honeymoon. I don't want my grandmother to die, of course, but I fear that what I'm really worried about is me. I feel like such a troll.

Maybe there is a reason that families stick together in most ancient societies. Maybe it was a way to show everyone that they mattered, and then no one had to feel guilty and stupid because they went off on their own in a sad attempt to be the well-dressed, accomplished cousin and ended up forgetting about everything that really mattered.

I'm such a bad, selfish person.