Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Dear Greek Yogurt,

Listen, I'm really trying here, but I just don't like you. Fage, Oikos, Athenos, the list goes on. I've tried them all and you all taste terrible. You're so chic and hip right now and I consider myself an adventurous eater with a great palate but you're proving to be a real challenge for me. Eating you is like filling my mouth with super thick, gritty, fat-free sour cream. You must know you're not that tasty because you package yourself with a nice little side-car of jam - and even that isn't enough to choke out your overdone yogurtness. I continue to try you because I'm waiting for that ah-ha moment where it all clicks and I'm converted into a life-long lover of the Greek. If someone could just explain to me your great appeal I would appreciate it - maybe then I can find a place for you in my life. Until then, I will continue to buy you sporadically with the intent of conditioning myself to find you enjoyable. I'm not holding my breath.

Not so much,
Leah

Monday, May 30, 2011

The Suck List

Reason #73 why is sucks to be divorced: Moving.

Four days, ten broken nails, one broken toe, 87 embarrassing bruises, heaps of trash, countless trips in and out and a good amount of sweat and tears later, we're moved in. The beds are put together, my kitchen is a disaster of random placement and inefficient use of (less) space, the TV is hanging beautifully - Thanks, Brian! - and most everything is in the room to which it belongs.

Sleep? Minimal. Nourishment? Mostly in the form of coffee and beer. The shakes? Oh yeah, I got 'em. Emotions? Fear, anxiety, excitement, disbelief, anticipation, defeat, pride, exhaustion. Headache? Like you wouldn't believe. Cordless drill? Must purchase...

I was so fortunate to have the help of my sister, brother-in-law, dad, Dara, Cameron, Grace and Derrick. Without them I'd be a messy puddle in the living room of my old life. With their help I was able to move the necessary goods into our new home and start the business of building a new life for my children.

When the last load hit the living room and the moving team departed, the reality of my situation came at me like a freight train. I was sitting, alone, in the living room - a tiny island in a sea of chaos. There was no husband coming along to carry the heavy boxes. No one to cuss the makers of IKEA furniture and then call to me to come check it out - the kids rooms are put together. No one to empty boxes and take the trash out and fall into bed with, exhausted, after a long but satisfying day of hard work. Would I trade the former for my future? Never. Not for anything.

So here I sit, exhausted and not a little overwhelmed but determined as ever. Determined to turn it around for Greyson, Tuesday and Fynn. Determined to make better choices this time around and demand better for myself and my family. I deserve it; I know this now. So give me your worst, IKEA. You're no match for my mechanical aptitude and dogged determination.

It sucks to get divorced and while I don't know what my future holds, I do know without a doubt that it doesn't suck.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Dear O'Neill's Pub & Liquor,

Thanks so much for having a drive-up window. You've allowed me to look every bit the part of a drunk-on-the-go. And with my kids in the backseat, to boot. Day drinker, you say? Nay! I'm simply a multi-tasking, single-mom who hates to leave her kids in the car for a trip inside. The dirty looks, I tell ya.

They say you can't win 'em all. I say picking up an ice-cold 12 pack through a handy little window is a great start.

Love, love, love,
Leah

Sunday, May 15, 2011

The Suck List

Reason #486 why it sucks to be a divorced woman/mother: craigslist goes from being a sort of shady but convenient way to get rid of your shit to being a necessary yet terrifying avenue for disposing of your stuff.

Case in point: I have a bunch of clothes and kid stuff for sale right now as we ready for our move to our new home. I'm literally cringing as I post my home telephone number in my ads on craigslist and saying a silent prayer that I don't hear from any weirdos, sickos or murderous villians.

I lucked out; I got two tweaked-out freaks. They called no less than three times and showed up with cash, but needing change. It took him a while to realize that I couldn't help him and after staring at me for a full 30 seconds he says "Uh, so you don't got change?" Right... I thought we had established that. Another 30 seconds goes by and he comes out with the brilliant "Uh I gotta go to the store I guess." Yep, I guess so.

Meanwhile his friend is hanging his head out the passenger window of the vehicle, bobbing his head much like residents of psychiatric facilities the world over. The music must have been amazing in the rusted-out Cutlass they were rolling in.

Every hair on my head is standing at attention while waiting for this kid to return with correct change and relieve me of my precious baby girls' clothes. It's all I can do to send the clothes home with him. He squeals away from the curb, his co-pilot banging his hand on the door and shaking his head like it's his Job.

Although glad to have the exchange over, I'm beyond creeped out that this duo now knows where I live and how I look in my sweats. Gross. Moving day can't come soon enough.

Monday, May 9, 2011

So, I was thinking...

When I'm looking for a snack my eyes wander over the multitude of nuts in my cabinet, pausing on the peanuts, gazing past the cashews - I should really throw those out - and lingering on the salty, green, mouth polluting pistachios. I consider sitting on the couch with a little bowl of the green gems and a cold beer. My tongue reflexively starts to slip over my clean, slick molars and I sigh at the thought of the work ahead of me. Because much as I like nuts, I dislike their insistence on settling in every, single crevice in my mouth. It's all I can do to finish a handful without making a run for the floss. To be honest, I'd like to floss between every nut but that's just crazy talk. I mean really, mint wax and pistachio aren't a match made in culinary heaven. But today, my little pistachio friends called my name ever so sweetly and the crunchy, tasty little morsels won. I'll regret it in an hour but for now, I'm happy with my nuts and beer. Life is good.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Really, Mom?

I was sitting at the dining room table with my mom one afternoon during my last trip home. It was almost noon and I was still in my pajamas, braless and in need of some floss and a bit of face-time with my toothbrush and the shower. I absentmindedly scraped some dried-up goobers off my shoulder while spooning squash into Fynn's mouth.

"So, do any of your girlfriends have someone in mind that they think you should meet?" Mom asks innocently, almost as an afterthought. I stop short, squash landing in Fynn's lap, and look at her out of the corner of my eye. "Seriously?"
"Well, I was just wondering. I thought it would be nice for you to meet some new people."
"Right. Well, no one has mentioned anything to me. I'm not sure I'm not ready to date yet."
"Why not? You're a beautiful woman and you have a lot to offer. And you're so young!"
"Yeah, mom, what gorgeous, successful, mid-30's, never-married-no-kids guy wouldn't want a piece of this. Allllll this." I gesture around to Greyson and Tuesday, him shooting a nerf gun at her forehead and her stripping her clothes off and singing Naked Girl at the top of her lungs. Fynn has taken control of the spoon and is now smearing squash all over both of us. "Yeah, they're lining up around the block for a chance to get in on this mess."

My mom looks over to my gaggle of babes and laughs, as if picturing the hilarity of her statement for the first time. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Someday you'll be ready."

"Probably when they graduate."

Dear Fynn Maxwell,

I'm watching you play in your exersaucer today as you chew voraciously on a crinkly toy you got from your auntie. You are babbling on about your short nap and how you're just so happy to be up and playing with me while your siblings nap. I realized today that you are almost six months old and it nearly brought me to tears. How did this happen?! When I think back to all that has happened in your short life I am amazed.

You were born into chaos and uncertainty, an unstable home at best. Within mere weeks of your birth you'd been to Disney World, had your first two airline flights and witnessed (?) the separation of your parents' marriage and subsequent divorce. Horrific as it sounds, well, it was. But you, along with your brother and sister are thankfully (hopefully) young enough that you won't have memories of the Before and I'm working hard to make sure the After is a wonderful, stable and happy life.

You are the sweetest, happiest and most easy-going little lovey. You were a suprise gift from God and my life has been enriched in countless ways because of you. You brought a sense of balance to our otherwise chaotic life and gave me a new sense of direction and a renewed purpose. I wake up every day with the goal of making a better life for you and your brother and sister; the three of you are the reason for all that I do.

I love you, Fynn Maxwell. Thank you for giving me the courage to change our lives. Please don't hurry to grow up, you're already moving much too fast for me.

All my love,
Mommy

Dear Vicks Baby Rub,

I purchased you with the expectation that you are the Real Thing, toned down for the wee ones. Imagine my disgust when I opened the package and was not assaulted at all, but welcomed by the kindly fragrance of lemongrass and lavender. Really?

I buy Vicks Vaporub because I want it to burn the congestion out of my entire head. I expect it to hurt, that's how I know its working. But this? A small layer of this rubbed gently into my congested baby's chest did nothing but make me want to fire up my tea pot and have a cup of English Breakfast. Baby was none for the better nor was I because he Still Couldn't Sleep.

I love the original, but this baby business is crap.

Still Congested and Sleeplessly yours,
Leah

Moniker Musings

I've been watching a healthy dose of Food Network lately, one of my favorite channels. And one of my favorite chefs on the network is Ina Garten, of Barefoot Contessa fame. I love watching her cook and her recipes inspire me to think about being rich and living in east Hampton with a home that necessitates a Staff. Her home and gardens are stunning and I'm fairly confident that someday, dinner with me will be the subject of one of her shows.

All that aside, I get truly preoccupied when I watch her show. My elementary-school maturity level comes bubbling to the surface, in tune with her pasta water and I can't help but wonder this: did kids call her Ina Vagina when she was in school? I got my fair share of Leah-Pee-a-Diarrhea and Leah-tard so I know how cruel kids can be. My other question is this: did her parents not consider Ina Vagina in naming her? I'm rather certain my parents couldn't be bothered to trouble themselves with such innane details while naming their fourth child, and yet another daughter at that.

And where did the vagina get its' name from? Did Dr. Vagina make the discovery, thus branding it forever with his name? And what came of his ancestors? I've never met a Vagina, but that's not to say they aren't around. Perhaps it's more of a western-United States, regional thing. What do you say, Oregon, Idaho? Maybe it's a European thing. I wouldn't put it past the Welsh or Irish to have a whole band of Vaginas scattered about, spreading their name and family ancestry across the countryside.

My name is Leah, and I'm a Chocoholic.

My chocolate bowl (a thing of legends) is woefully lacking: it contains only white chocolate Kit-Kats (don't even get me started on white chocolate). All I'll say is this: IT'S NOT FRICKING CHOCOLATE. The brownies I made yesterday tasted old, right out of the oven (I actually threw them out!) and I scraped the bottom of the Nutella jar to within an inch of its' life on Saturday. That means I haven't had any quality Chocolate Time in almost two whole days. A trip to the grocery store is in my immediate future and while there I shall spend an embarassing amount of money on all things chocolate. In fact, I may not even buy a single item that doesn't contain cocoa of some sort. That's right, the single life isn't all bad, ladies.